Category Archives: Brokenness

Learning from my neighbors without homes

homelessA number of years ago, not long after I moved to Seattle, I was walking through the Capitol Hill neighborhood and a young woman with a sign asking for food caught my eye. I asked her if she would like to eat with me, and she said yes, so we went to Magic Dragon for some wonderfully gross pseudo-Chinese food. This woman’s story seemed to be homelessness’ greatest hits. Her mother was a heroin addict, she was gang raped by some of her mom’s friends at 15 and ran away not long after. She subsequently got addicted to heroin and had just recently gotten herself clean. She was working to get some of her friends clean and trying to get money to go to Hawaii, where she presumed it was a lot better to be homeless since the weather was so much better. Two things she said have stuck with me ever since.

  1. She told me that what really gets her is when people walk past her like they don’t see her, like she is invisible. Even eye contact reassured her of her humanity, kind words meant the world to her.

So often, we shuttle past the homeless because we don’t want to give to them or (and I think this is actually an and) because we can’t handle looking at them because they expose a lot about ourselves. The homeless people around us expose that we really do have a lot and we really aren’t willing to share. They expose our fears that we, too, aren’t too far from where they are. Were it not for a supportive family or a job or a variety of other things (things that amount to privilege), we, too could be on the street. Also, I think that we believe if we don’t look at the homeless, we won’t feel like a jerk for not giving to them. Or maybe that’s just me. I know that, for me, every time I walk past a homeless person, I hear Jesus in my head saying, “That which you did not do to the least of these, you did not do to me.” I deeply feel like I am ignoring Christ when I walk past a homeless person, like I have just denied giving food to a God who is often found in the weakness, the need, and the pain of others.

2. She told me that she gets why people don’t want to give homeless people money because they might spend it on alcohol or drugs. However, for her and some of her friends, drugs are how they get through the day. Without a strong support system, a safe place to stay, the option of psychological care and rehab, drugs numb the sting of life, the sting of homelessness, and fog the brain so that the trauma of your past impedes less on your present.

In the past few months, I have begun building relationships with the homeless people who sleep on my ministry property and my understanding of this have increased 10x. One day, a chronic alcoholic who sleeps out there came in really upset. Turns out the other guy out there with him had been doing heroin. I didn’t get why this pained him so much until he began to tell me his story. He was removed from his mother’s care as a baby because she was a heroin addict. He was in the foster system for the rest of his life, and experienced neglect and abuse in many of the homes that were supposed to care for him. He now fears living inside because of all of the bad things that happened to him in houses and drowns his pain with alcohol.

I ran into him today in front of the Safeway and he was shaking uncontrollably. I asked him if he had the shakes and he said, “Yeah. Withdrawal.” I went inside and bought him a beer. At that point, the beer was medicine for him. After you reach a certain point with alcohol, quitting cold turkey can kill a person. The figures are 2-5% of people going through alcohol withdrawal will die from it, but even without death, a person can have seizures, and delirium tremens — and the worse your drinking has been, the more likely bad things will happen (fun fact: this does not happen with Heroin withdrawal. It will suck, but it will not physically kill you). And experiencing  DT in the past makes it more likely you will die from it in the future.

Most of the guys around my building who are homeless have some kind of substance abuse problem. For the majority of them, its alcohol. For a few, its other drugs. For all of them, for better or worse, substance abuse is what makes life more bearable as they live out on the streets and try to forget their problems or use drugs/alcohol (which is a drug, but we make that distinction in our society for some reason) to deal with mental health conditions like PTSD, depression, or schizophrenia.

One of the guys who stays out front was making me really mad the other day. I needed him to leave and he just would not get up. I threatened to call the cops. Once he got up he came in and told me that he had been in a car wreck a few days ago and broke two ribs (he was clearly in pain) and had a heart problem from an infection he got while he was in the hospital for pneumonia. He was really sorry it took him so long to get up, but he was in a lot of pain and really just needed to lay down. The next day when I woke him up to move on he told me he just learned his father had died — he was trying to find a way to go north to help his family with the details and say goodbye. He found a way to leave today and gave me a huge hug.

The thing that kills me is how grateful they are because I simply treat them like fellow human beings. I’m not a saint. I’m not always nice. I kick them off the property regularly, I have words with them when they are drunk or on the odd occasion they are rude. But they always apologize and thank me — even as they walk off the porch into the rain. One day I almost lost it because I was kicking a guy out of the back (he had built a fort there, basically), and he kept thanking me. I was so confused as to why he would thank me and then it occurred to me that I was treating him like a human being, asking him to move his stuff, giving him a chance.

The guys who sleep on the front porch take great pride in the fact that they clean up after themselves. They found a broom somewhere and always sweep up after they leave in the morning. They bring in my sign when I forget. They protect me from other people who are being rude or belligerent, and they corral one another to clear out when the time comes. Every time they thank me, just because I am not being a dick.

There are groups that are trying to criminalize homelessness, towns that make things like being boisterous (Hi, Burien) illegal as a way to keep the homeless out of their area. This is insane. Making homelessness illegal will not stop homelessness. People don’t magically stop having mental health issues or addiction issues or get a job or a decent credit score or get an apartment because some city made a law that keeps people from being able to sit on the sidewalk.  Homelessness is solved through a complex web of education and access to resources, and much of what is needed doesn’t exist. There are 60 beds a night for people who  need to sleep it off, and a labyrinth to find your way through if you actually want to get treatment for addiction and can’t pay for it. Any given night in King County, there are around 4000 people sleeping on the street and 3000 shelter beds are full. Every year in King County 35,000 people lose the place they called home. This can’t be fought with laws that keep the homeless from sitting on the sidewalk or being boisterous.

We need more services. We need more services for people with mental health, substance abuse and general health issued. We need more transitional housing, more affordable housing, and more shelter beds (that aren’t bunk beds because while they make room for more beds, they also leave people open to attack and many won’t sleep in them). We need housing first policies that give a person shelter before asking they quit using, and a deeper understanding of the fact that within the larger homeless community there are lots of little communities and when people try to get shelter, that all too often means leaving the family they have acquired on the street.

In a nation, a county, a city as wealthy as Seattle, I shouldn’t have people seeking shelter under my eaves every night.

In a nation that has a tendency to claim Christianity as its faith, there shouldn’t be people hungry and on the streets, and I shouldn’t receive thanks from people just because I am not being awful.

Some of the people on the street are there because of bad choices — but most are not. And anyway, who among us hasn’t made bad choices? Who hasn’t taken a stupid risk? Just because some of us have the ability/support/resources to bounce back after a bad move doesn’t make others less than us. In fact, it should call us to remember that there but for the privileges I have go I.

TL;DR: sometime try talking to a homeless person, you may hear an amazing, heart wrenching story. Try to understand them; have compassion. If you’re a Christian, seriously think about that person being Jesus. Remember Matthew 25:31-46. And work like hell for public policy that provides services to ensure that, someday soon, this isn’t a problem at all.

 

Info on homelessness in King County: http://www.homelessinfo.org

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What it means to be bisexual in the world and in the church (and what LGBTQ equality means to me)

This is evil. This is hate. This is the attitude that drives  LGBTQ people to have a higher rate of depression and suicide than the general population. This is not the way of Christ.

This is evil. This is hate. This is the attitude that drives LGBTQ people to have a higher rate of depression and suicide than the general population. This is not the way of Christ. Also, I have yet to go to hell.

I remember the first time I really noticed women. I was 11 or 12 and traveling in London with my parents. There were these risqué postcards of late 80’s one-hit-wonder Samantha Fox all over the underground that piqued a little more than my curiosity. So it would go over the years, slowly realizing that I was not only interested in boys, I was interested in girls too. I remember driving around at 17 talking to one of my best friends and  coming out to one another as bisexual. Then we didn’t speak of it again until we were in college and both were dating women. It wasn’t a safe thing to talk about. At that time, in the mid 90’s, it wasn’t cool to be bi, girls weren’t passing around Polaroids (the 1990’s version of Instagram) of themselves kissing another girl for the reaction/titillation of the boys around them. It was considered gross (I actually heard a conversation between classmates that expressed nothing but revulsion at the idea of being bisexual, much less gay). In a world in which one of my high school desks had “Eat meat, drink beers, beat queers” carved into it, I knew that my best choice was to remain silent until I was in a place where I was safe — if that time/place ever presented itself.

I have been out in most of my relationships for some time now. My students know. My family knows. To some of you this might be news, for many of you this is in no way surprising, because you have met me. I have been thinking about writing this for some time now and, well, I guess I am ready. If the above paragraph wasn’t clear, I am bisexual. But this is only in part about me. It’s also about the LGBTQ community, the church, and society. It’s about us.

Travel with me, if you will, to the fall of 1999. I’m out watching a meteor shower with one of my best friends in the lovely Blue Ridge Mountains. This friend is a woman with whom I shared a tight bond because of our faith. We were both Christian in an environment where that was, shall we say, unpopular. We had both been raised at church camp. Her dad was a pastor, her mom worked for the church, and I wanted to be a pastor. As we lay there on the hood of my car talking about our futures, our desires, what we wanted out of a relationship, and watching the meteors fly overhead, we came to a realization. This was more than a friendship. We began to fall in love.

We prayed together, went to church together, led Bible study on our campus together. Until recently, I considered this woman the love of my life, the one who I foolishly let get away. It wasn’t lust (at least that wasn’t all it was), it wasn’t confusion, it was a deep and abiding friendship, a romance, a relationship of mutual respect, support and caring, unlike almost every other relationship (with men) I have had — before or since.

And yet this relationship, this relationship that was the ONLY relationship in which I have prayed with my partner, the ONLY relationship in which I attended church, studied scripture and talked theology with my partner was also the ONLY one I ever had to hide. It was the only relationship in which I had to be careful where and how we expressed affection (even/especially in church), the only one I couldn’t talk about in my church circles (and with some friends as well), the only relationship for which I was told I was going to hell. My marriage to an atheist man was far more acceptable in my church world than it was for me to be in love with a faithful woman.

In the fall of 2001, I entered seminary in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA). The ELCA was still years away from deciding it was okay for LGBTQ folk to become ordained or to be married in the church. It was still studying it (as Lutherans, we study things a lot). I was the object of study, but not the object of acceptance or unconditional love. Like some monkey in a lab, I was the subject of curious interest: kind of human, but not fully human. I could not tell anyone about my relationship for fear it would get around to my candidacy committee or someone else who thought that, in spite of hearing my call to ministry in the 8th grade and working towards it ever since, because of my sexual orientation I should not be allowed to lead a congregation, to preach and teach and administer the sacrament (never mind our theology that states that the person administering the sacrament played no role in its efficacy). I lived in fear of people finding out, of accidentally mentioning my girlfriend. When I did tell a small group I was in about my sexual identity, I then fielded a dozen really gross and intrusive questions from a classmate that would never have been asked of a straight person.

My girlfriend came to visit me on campus, and we had to keep a calculated distance from one another, emotionally  and physically, while in public spaces (which we had kind of gotten used to while living in the South — the calculating the safe spaces, never being too sure if we might get the shit kicked out of us for being in love — and it never stopped sucking). No one could suspect my secret. For this (and a few other reasons like distance and me being an idiot), we determined our relationship could not continue. There I was, in a relationship with someone I loved deeply, someone I respected and had a ton in common with, someone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, to have children with, to grow old and grey and cranky with, but it had to end because it wasn’t going to work this way. We couldn’t have a relationship we would have to hide until the church and the world came to a different understanding of who we were and decided to let us fully take part (and holy shit am I overjoyed that we are coming to a place where this is becoming a real possibility).

In my first year of classes, one of my professors (whom I greatly admire) started talking about LGBTQ issues in our Old Testament class. He said, “You know, I get being gay. That makes sense to me. But I don’t get being Bi. We are only supposed to have one partner, not to have sex with many people at once. I believe in monogamy.”

I was flummoxed. What the hell? That’s not what being bisexual means, I thought. But to correct him meant possibly outing myself. So I sat there and listening to a few more minutes of wrong thinking about what it means to be bisexual.

There were people in seminary braver than I was, but they paid for their bravery. One of my classmates got outed by a supposedly “safe” internship site that interviewed her. They asked for her to be put up on heresy charges. Other colleagues left the ELCA for the Episcopal church, as they were quicker to decide to include LGBTQ folk on their ordained roster. To be gay in the church meant for many, and still means for far too many still, to have to hide who you are for fear of marginalization (at best) and/or outright hate and harassment.

I have watched as friends of mine who identify as LGBTQ get kicked out of their families. I have watched my ex girlfriend fret over her father’s desire to marry her and her partner of over ten years because she didn’t want him to pay a price for love (but they’re married now and I am so happy for them!).  I have watched people I love dearly get excluded from the one place that is theoretically all about love and grace. I have lost two people I care about dearly to suicide because they internalized the message that they not only didn’t fit in the church, but that God didn’t love them.

We have watched as the national spotlight has shone on the agonizing rate of suicide among LGBTQ youth, yet so many in the Christian community insist on continuing with the message that these people must change who they are in order to earn God’s love. This, in spite of the apostle Paul’s writing in his letter to the Romans that nothing can separate us from the love of God, in spite of the knowledge that Jesus did not come to condemn the world, but to redeem the world (Jn 3:17), in spite of my church’s focus on grace and love. Out of fear, we focus on hate and exclusion instead of the sanctifying love of God. We continue to drive people away from the church, away from that which is (in theory) the body of Christ, continue to push people who have SO MUCH to offer away from Christian community. While we worship a God who went out of his way to welcome outsiders (the woman at the well, Zacchaeus, most of the disciples), we instead create outsiders. We push people out of our doors.

Conversely, I have wept in joy at knowing my friends are finally able to marry their long time loves. I have seen those friends weeping as their love is publicly, legally, and sometimes religiously recognized. I have had young people willing to re-enter the doors of the church because of the good Christian folk they met working for LGBTQ rights. I have heard some of the most amazing sermons from colleagues who are members of the LGBTQ community, and know that their inclusion is a gift to us. I have been blessed to be the leader of a community in which many strong, young queer kids are able to find space for themselves and know that they are loved by others and by God.

I am a mixed up ball of angst and joy watching the conversations about LGBTQ inclusion in society and the church. Some of it is so beautiful, some so amazingly vile, fear-based and hate-filled. While I am hopeful about the future for the LGBTQ community, I’m also aware that publishing this could jeopardize my ability to get calls in certain places, but if they don’t want a minister who is a member of the LGBTQ community, I don’t want to be there anyway (aka, mom, don’t worry about me doing this. Yes, I did think it through).

One of the best ways to overcome fear is relationship (I recently heard Walter Bruggemann talk about how he no longer argues theologically for LGBTQ inclusion, because he knows that people’s issues are about fear not theology), but another can be knowledge. With that in mind, I wanted to use this as space to explain a little about what it means to be bisexual (at least for me, but I feel like most of these are pretty good generalizations) as well as to advocate for inclusiveness in the church. So, with that, here are a few things (in addition, here’s a great blog post on bisexuality, bi-phobia, bi-erasure, etc):

Being bisexual isn’t a phase, it doesn’t mean I am into flings or that I am just gay and can’t admit it. While it is true that many gay folk first come out as bisexual because either they are still figuring it out or because it’s just easier to ease one’s way into coming out as gay by first becoming bi, it is equally true that some people are just bisexual. End of story.

Bisexual people are attracted to/ interested in people regardless of gender. It’s just not a factor I consider. Like, were I to fill out a profile for Tinder, I would be open to both men and women and then find folk of either gender whom I find attractive with whom I share interests.

Bisexual does not mean polyamorous, nor does it mean a bisexual person will just sleep with anyone and everyone. Yes, there are bisexual people who are into open relationships, are in committed polyamorous relationships, or who just like to have a lot of sex. There are also straight people, gay people, and trans people who are into these things as well. Conversely, there are people of all orientations for whom monogamy is a chosen way of life. How many people one is in a relationship with at one time is in no way related to or limited by one’s sexual orientation.

Just because I am bisexual does not mean I am into you. Check your ego.

No I will not show you pictures. But now that you have asked, I know that you are not a person I want to be friends with, much less be in a romantic relationship with. Seriously, don’t ever ask this. I am not here for your entertainment, my life is not a porn movie, and I am not bisexual for your titillation. One of the reasons I started dating my now ex-husband was that he was the first person in a really long time to NOT ask me something along these lines.

Being bisexual (this goes for all members of the LGBTQ community) doesn’t make a person a pedophile or sexual deviant. One of the most terrifying things about publishing this is the fear that those for whom I have been a youth director or camp counselor will suddenly think I may have had untoward thoughts towards kids. This is not a fear straight youth workers (or people) have to live with (while we all have a sort of low-grade awareness that we have to be careful, it is very different when one is not straight). Kids are just that, kids. They are not sexual objects. Pedophiles are mentally ill and the psychology for pedophilia is very, very different from the biology of being LGBTQ. If you want some facts on the lack of relationship between sexual orientation and child molestation/pedophelia, check this out.

There is a privilege that comes along with being bisexual that the rest of the LGBTQ community does not have: I can live my life as straight and find partners with whom I can have a fulfilling relationship. I have largely done this for a wide variety of reasons. Make no mistake that one of the reasons is that my life is a hell of a lot easier when I date men, both in my career and in the world. Since publishing this, I have heard from bisexual people for whom not dating women would be a heartbreaking choice and would deny them the love of their lives (or of this time period anyway). I hear this. But I still think it is an easier closet to live in than the closet one lives in as gay, lesbian or transgender. That, however, is just my opinion from my experience. 

We are a church built on Jesus Christ, built on the idea that God came to earth as a human to love us deeply and to overcome hate with love, even to death. Our God looked out at the people torturing him and loved us anyway, forgave us anyway, and asked us to do the same to our brothers and sisters. We worship a God who time and time again crossed boundaries of gender, race, nationality, religion, status and more in order to love others. It’s about time we start doing the same. All the time. Everywhere.


On (white) progressive fragility

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Black folk have been targets of violence in the United States since the inception of our nation. There have been times were the bursts of violence are significant enough for national attention, mass killings, lynchings, church burnings, police violence and more have exploded in ways that interrupt the national (white) consciousness only to fade as we move on to the next (less disruptive to our lives as privileged folk) moment of national attention. But the black community never gets to stop thinking about it. The black community never gets to stop being afraid, never gets to let fear entirely leave their consciousness. The white community’s ability to forget, to not mention, to not think about racism is our privilege. It is our reward for simply being born with lighter skin.

I cannot imagine what it would be like if I knew that there were groups or individuals focused entirely on killing, say, white women named Elizabeth, or Lutheran pastors, or any other group of which I am a part. While, as a woman, I experience a low-grade fear when walking alone, it is nothing compared to what my brothers and sisters of color face every day. While I know what it is like to be talked down to because I am a woman and because I am young (at least in my career field), I don’t know what it is like to know that much of the society in which I live and the culture in which I work values me less because of the color of my skin.

These past few months have once again brought violence against people of color, primarily black Americans to the forefront. We have  been having some necessary conversations about race and privilege in our world and in our church. Yet even with the media attention focusing on killing of African-Americans, even with my church body being intimately touched by the killings at Mother Emanuel AME in Charleston, we have the privilege to forget. That is privilege. And when that privilege allows a gathering of people for religious purposes to remain silent during a worship service of theoretically progressive allies, that is structural racism.

We can make excuses for our silence. We can say that it wasn’t the right time, or it wasn’t the purpose of our gathering, but if when we gather as a group to worship we reamain silent (as happened this past week at a gathering of my colleagues), we are perpetuating structural racism. Here is how one black woman described her experience of the event. 

This is hard to face. As progressive religious professionals, we want to believe we are good allies. When presented with the pain and anger of members of a community reeling in grief and anger, when confronted about our willful blindness to the pain in our midst, we get uncomfortable. We want it to not be about us, about our behavior, about our privilege. But it is.

When we, as allies, are called out for forgetting, we are called to pause. To think. To consider what it might be like in the shoes of those who are in pain, who are being terrorized, who are straight up pissed off about something that looks and feels like being ignored. Again.

As I write this, I am nervous because I want the approval of my colleagues. I want everyone to like me. I don’t want to hurt anyone by putting this out there. But I also have to say it. Because I was disturbed by our silence. I was disturbed my some of the conversations I was a part of. The longer I think of it, the more it bothers me, & the more my heart hurts. And to not say anything because I want people to like me and because none of this directly affects me is just another way I engage in white privilege.

As privileged people, we have the power. Because of our power, we are called to slow down instead of react. We are called to love, to listen, to put our pride and our own concerns aside to hear the grief and pain in the voices and lives of those who are suffering.

We shouldn’t wait to be confronted to act. We need to always be remembering the marginalized in our world and constantly asking ourselves if we are working to perpetuate or dismantle the system. If a member of our community comes to us and says dudes, you missed that, we have not done our job. 

We should never ask that someone aplogise for expressing that they are angry or hurt at being ignored or having something close to their hearts met with silence instead of prayer, lament and action. 

When we ask those suffering to calm down, to wait, to find a more appropriate time or medium to express their feelings, we diminish their grief. We tell them that they are not important enough to be heard, that their pain is not important enough for us to listen to this minute, that they must wait. That’s the pastoral equivalent of having a student show up in our office reeling in pain and fear and telling them to hold on a sec, we have a bulletin to finish editing first.
Now is the time. Now is the time to listen. Now is the time to be intentional about observing the grief and pain and fear of the marginalized. Now is always the time.

Now is the time to measure our words carefully, to examine our systems and structures and ask who we are leaving out. Not later, not when it is convenient or appropriate. Now.

When talking to a colleague about events this past week, events in my church body at a conference I attended, I used the phrase progressive fragility. I don’t know if that is a phrase, but it definitely is a thing. Those of us who consider ourselves progressive and who want to believe that we are allies and/or accomplices get really, really hurt when called out on our -isms. More often than not, we react to these moments defensively, either attacking or deflecting so that we don’t have to look at the fact that we might have just been not-so-progressive. We don’t want to admit we have failed in our ally-ship. When we react, we diminish and silence. When we react we use our implicit power to perpetuate the system. I have seen this when I have called out men who claim the title feminist yet mansplain things to me, or when people expect me to be less competent because of my age and/or gender. I have felt my face burn when a friend has pointed out to me that I just asked all the guys in the room to lift the heavy thing and when my brain points out to me that I’m being racist. But for true structural change to occur, we have to put down the defenses and listen. Really, truly, deeply listen.

When confronted with the hurt of a (marginalized) member of the community, especially a hurt that was either directly or indirectly caused by you or your organization ask yourself:

1)  Did you stop.

2) Did you breathe.

3) Are you listening?

4) Are you practicing grace, love, empathy and understanding. Be the Good Samaritan. Be Jesus encountering the woman at the well. Be the mother hen gathering in her children.

5) Instead of thinking about what the person telling you of their hurt could have done differently, can think about what you could have done differently?

6) Have you thought about how you might be able to act differently in the future, how you can use your voice to disrupt the system, and how you can tear down the structures that perpetuate racism.

7) will you continue engaging in conversation.

I love my church. This past week I engaged in and overheard some great learning and important conversations about structural evil. I know the people with whom I was gathered want to do better, want to be allies, want to fight racism. I also participated in some really disheartening conversations and observed structural evil at work. I know many people were hurt by conversations, by social media, by snide comments and by silence. We can do better, my friends. We have to. It is our call as ministers in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, as Christians, and as humans moving in this world.

Everything is sacred.


Who are our heroes?

A few weeks ago, I went to see Selma with my students. It is an amazing movie. Beautifully shot, well acted, excellent writing… It’s the kind of movie that, when you walk out, you are just quiet for a while, letting it all sink in. It was, at times, very difficult to watch. Selma is a reminder of how far we have come and how far we have to go, and an examination of the power of love in the struggle for justice.  This powerful film could bring about a time of soul-searching for an American. We have an ugly history when it comes to race relations, and there is still much work to be done.

I wish all of America would see this movie and be stirred into contemplation about racism, activism, and the power of love in making change. To date, Selma has made $48 million , and is currently being shown in only 566 theaters, down from a little over 800. People are not watching it on a grand scale. I imagine it is hard to watch, but moreover I imagine that people do not want to be challenged to think about race in spite of it being so very necessary RIGHT NOW to think about and talk about. But I wish more people would take the risk to be disturbed and inspired by this film.

When I was walking out of Selma, deep in thought about Dr. King’s calling out of white church leaders for their silence while black folk were being killed just for being black, I noticed another movie on multiple screens at the theater: American Sniper. American Sniper is the story of a sniper, American soldier Chris Kyle, in war and his struggles to readjust to life at home. By all accounts, it is also an excellent movie. Good acting, writing, directing. I haven’t seen it. I can’t stomach war movies. I cry and cry about man’s inhumanity to man, how we end up in war, our inability to see the other as a human being (which is necessary in war, I get it, but I don’t have to like it). I thought about going to see it so I could write this post, as I know it is dodgy to write about something I haven’t seen, but I am pretty sure I would be curled up in a ball for days on end if I did. But this isn’t about the movie, so much, as the idea of the movies, and what we value as a people.

american-sniper_612x380_1American Sniper, a movie about war, warriors, and facing violence with violence, a movie that from what I read in comments and chat rooms, leaves one with quite the strong Go America! spirit, has made over $300 million at the box office. It is still being shown in over 3,000 theaters.

And I am disturbed. Not that people want to go see what is, by all accounts, a good action flick/drama, but that so many more people would rather watch a movie about continuing war than working for peace. I am disturbed that Chris Kyle, a war sniper, can be so much bigger a hero than Dr. Martin Luther King, a man who shrewdly led a peaceful movement to grant freedom and equality to black Americans. I am disturbed that we would rather watch something that makes us tread deeper into blind and unbridled nationalism than something that leads us to examine the darker parts of American history so that we might work for a brighter future.

Who are our heroes? What is important to us as a nation? War or peace? Loving action or violent action? What kind of Christianity do we claim?

Chris Kyle was a Christian. He embraced the kind of black and white good vs. bad Christianity that seems to be everywhere today. He believed that the people he killed were evil, that Jesus would be okay with his kills. He, himself, felt like killing was no big deal. It didn’t trouble him to take a life. He believed that he was fighting evil individuals.

selmaDr. King and those who worked with him were (largely) Christian. Dr. King believed in using love to fight hate, he believed that inside every one of those racists who hurled epithets at his brothers and sisters, there was a shred of humanity, a little bit of God. He tried to appeal to a person’s better nature, to call that little bit of God out so it could take over a person and banish hate. He believed in evil, for sure, but not without a spark of hope.

We, it appears, would rather buy into the American Sniper view of the world. Everyone else is the enemy, violence wins, God would be cool with us killing. We prefer a world in which there are three kinds of people, “wolves, sheep and sheepdogs,” instead of the complex reality that there is a little of each in everyone, that we are all simultaneously sinner and saint. We would rather our heroes be strong warriors who go to battle with guns, kick ass and take names, shoot first, ask questions later, etc. than men and women who fight hate with love and patiently endure beatings without fighting back so they can reach an ultimate goal. We would rather soak in nationalistic fervor than take time to reflect on the darker parts of our history and ask question about who we are and how we can change. We would rather have black and white than gray (and we would rather a terrible movie about an abusive relationship than Selma as well, but don’t get me started on that one).

Is this who we want to be?

Moreover, for those of us who are Christians, is this who we are called to be? Those of us who follow a man who said to love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, is this who we were created to be? Our Savior and our scripture again and again command us to love above all else. Not to love until we feel threatened, then to shoot. Not to kill the evil (because God takes care of that).

I know this isn’t good foreign policy. I know war leaves little room for gray. But I also know that the revolutions that have lasted the longest and led to the most change, have been peaceful revolutions. I know that killing upon killing leads to more killing. And I know that God in Christ asks us to go against the grain and to love unto death.

And, ultimately, it’s he who is my hero and it is he who I will follow to my grave.


Confessing the racism in our hearts is the first step to recovery for ourselves and our nation

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun,
or fester like a sore, and then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat,
or crust and sugar over like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags like a heavy load…
or does it just explode?

-Dream Deferred, Langston Hughes

 

A sermon on Romans 12:1-8

Over the course of the past two weeks, we have once again seen the explosion that results from a dream deferred. The protests

A dream deferred

Another dream deferred

and riots in Ferguson started with the shooting of an unarmed black man by a white police officer. There are many stories as to what happened, little is clear about what transpired. What is clear is that an unarmed black man was killed by a white police officer and then left there in the street, dead, for four hours, as though his life had no worth. His community walked past this body, left there to rot, to stink like rotten meat, a visual example of a dream deferred. The argument about what Michael Brown was doing or why he got shot are pointless to a community besieged by violence and poverty, a community that has seen jobs disappear, that was displaced to build an airport that never was, a community that knows it has little value to the police force or the others in the city. Michael Brown was a human being, a human being left to rot in the street for hours. His death and the actions following are a visceral example of how the black people of Ferguson, and the United States, are valued by the rest of society.

It is so easy to say that this is Missouri. But we know this is not true. We know that our police department has its own issues. We know that our neighborhoods have their own issues, that in spite of our thinking of Seattle as an egalitarian place, we are still pretty darn segregated. A friend of mine has had the n word shouted at him numerous times, not too long ago while walking on Queen Anne. We read in the news about a white man going ballistic and screaming racial epithets at protesters at Westlake center, spitting on a black man, the men trading insults and the black man getting pepper sprayed in the face. White guy going nuts, black man gets pepper sprayed.

Those of us who are active on social media and are paying attention to what is happening in Ferguson have seem the numbers, we have taken in so much news about racial disparities in this country, about the worth of life of black people in the United States.

We watched Melissa Harris Perry do a short piece on the fact that from 2006-2012 a black man has been killed by a white police officer on an average of twice a week. Twice. A. Week. All over the country.

We read about the incredible disparities in our judicial system, where people of color are appalling. 1 of every 15 black men and 1 of every 37 Hispanic men are in prison, compared to 1 in every 106 white men. There are those who would say that this is cultural, even genetic. That people of color are genetically disposed to crime, or that their socio economic background leads them to lives of crime. However, when we look at statistics, this does not bear out. In the war on drugs, blacks have been disproportionately jailed and punished. While African-Americans make up 14% of regular drug users, they make up 37% of those arrested for drugs. African-Americans receive sentences that are 10% longer than whites and are 21 percent more likely to receive mandatory-minimum sentences than white defendants and are 20 percent more like to be sentenced to prison. (source). There are the horrible polling numbers on how different races are viewing the events in Ferguson, the fact that people are more likely to vote for the death penalty if the person is black.

I could stand here all day and quote depressing statistics on the state of race in this country. You get the picture. Something is wrong. But what can we do? I’ll tell you what we can’t afford to do. We can’t get paralyzed. We can’t ignore this if we want any semblance of a just society. If we want this kind of violence and injustice to stop, if we want to put an end to explosions caused by dreams deferred, we must act. We must not conform to our society’s rhythm of spending a few weeks a year thinking about race and then ignoring it until another explosion. We are called not to conform, but to be transformed. Before transformation, though, there must be confession.

I have been active in one way or another in anti-racism work since the 8th grade. I have given speeches, written blog posts, given sermons, taught classes on privilege and race. I have had black friends. I have traveled. I have read. I have studied racism and prejudice.

And yet

I confess to you today that I am still racist.

I don’t want to be. Most people don’t want to be racist. That’s why we deny it so fervently. It is a horrible thing to judge someone by the color of his or her skin. It removes the humanity from a brother or sister in Christ and turns him or her into an object, a mass of skin, something not even worth an ambulance or 911 call. Something that can be left in the streets to decay and stink like rotten meat.

While I was studying the works of Dr. King and Malcolm X, while my parents were working hard to get me to events in Cleveland that would allow me to at least be around people of color, I was growing up in the 4th least diverse city in the nation. I was growing up in a town that had probably 10 people of color, 4 of whom where in my high school. I grew up around people who used the n word as an adverb – it would go before words like rig, knock and lip. People from my high school once joked about wearing white sheets to a basketball game to scare the referee. While I did react strongly to the white sheet “joke” there were so many things around me that were racist that I didn’t even notice. That’s the worst kind, the kind of racism that is so subtle you can’t call it out. That’s the stuff that gets into your bones.

It was not easy to see my own racism. After all, I am a good progressive, I do the work, I had a shirt in 8th grade that said Love See No Color. I had black friends! That’s always the thing, right? I’m not racist, I have black friends!! How could I be racist?

Then I moved to Chicago’s south side and I began to see… I began to realize that those phrases from my childhood were racial slurs – seriously, I head them so often I didn’t hear the n word attached to them – I came face to face with my assumptions about black people and the beliefs I had inherited from the place in which I grew up, the attitudes I had unconsciously absorbed from the media. Many of the things I have thought are far too embarrassing and stupid to share. They are things I confess to God. But I will say that I distinctly remember seeing a young black man running an my first thought was, “I wonder what he stole?”

Yup. I did that.

And, every now and again, I still do.

In spite of myself I have conformed to the world around me.

I am in need of transformation. Each and every day.

How about you?

This is important.

Admitting we have a problem is the first step to recovery. And we have a problem. We don’t like to look into it because we don’t like ugly truths about ourselves. We don’t want to admit that we judge others based on their appearance. It’s so… unprogressive. But the transformation process is never pretty and never comfortable. Transformation is painful. And before we can transform the way our nation behaves about race, before we can really change the inequality in our schools, in our judicial system and in our government, before we can fight the systemic racism that sends people of color to jail more often and longer than their white counterparts, before we can put an end to the school to prison pipeline, we have to look in our hearts and admit to ourselves that we have racism in our hearts. That every now and then we clutch our purse tighter or cross the street when people of color are around, that we occasionally think stupid stuff regarding a person based on their color. We have to admit it and then we have to try to change.

 

This is transformation. This is not conforming.

 

If we want to put an end to the violence, if we want to work to never see an unarmed black person die at the hands of a white person, if we want to put an end to these flare ups in racial tension like we have seen these past weeks in Ferguson, and before that in Florida, and before that in Oakland, Toledo, Cincinnati, St. Petersburg, Harlem, LA, Miami… (These are the moments of racial violence I found on Wikipedia since 1990)… if we want to put an end to the violence, we have got to look at how we contribute to and benefit from the problem. We have to dismantle the racism in our own hearts before we can dismantle the system.

I mean, we don’t have to. We can do what we have been doing. We can get really upset at these images we see on tv, we can protest and post about it on Facebook until we get bored with it or it gets too hard or we get tired of thinking about race all of the time and then forget that it is a problem until the next time it blows up somewhere in our nation. Maybe next time it won’t be in Ohio or Missouri. Maybe next time it will be at 23rd and Cherry.

But when we do this, when we go on pretending that we don’t have a problem we are injuring the body of Christ. The leg is being bludgeoned on a regular basis and we just keep limping along. Occasionally we bandage it or we put on some shin guards, but we do little else. It is too hard, to painful, too much. It is exhausting. Why do we have to talk about race all the time?

This is one example of our privilege. One of many. As a white person, I rarely have to think about my race. From what I hear and read from people of color, this is a luxury they do not have. This is a luxury we should give up, part of our being living sacrifices to the lord. Give up the comfort afforded by ignoring issues of race.

Transform through the renewing of our minds. Learn about racism. Learn about white privilege, break down barriers. There are organizations within the church and in Seattle that work to educate white people about race. Go. Learn. Be transformed by the renewing of your mind.

Don’t be afraid to call yourself out on racist thoughts. And don’t be afraid to call out people in your life who do it too. Silence is permission. As much as it is easier to not say anything, as it is easier to be comfortable and quiet, we are called to more. We are called to not conform.

I was taught in seminary to always end on a note of grace. You don’t want people leaving thinking everything is awful, I’m awful, this is awful.

And, well, the state of race relations in this country IS awful. But, there is good news.  The grace of God is with us. The grace of God is the power that allows us to look at the ugliness in ourselves and know we are loved beyond belief. The grace of God is what gives us the power to change, the love of God is what shines on the darkest places within us to rid us of our shadows, to clean out the darkness, the sludge, the dirt and to be transformed into people who love without ceasing, who know good from evil, and to transform the world. With God at our backs and in our hearts, we have the power to change ourselves, to be transformed. We have the strength to be living sacrifices, and the love to see each and every other person as a member of the body of Christ. This is the gift of God. Where God challenges, God gives strength. Where God calls, God will travel with us. God wants us to be transformed nonconformists, to follow God’s will against the world’s, and God will give us the strength to do so through prayer and through community. We don’t have to do this alone. We can confront our own racism with our family in Christ, with the people in this very room. We can support each other with the power of the holy spirit that moves through our lives and through our communities. God will not abandon us even as we admit our uglier selves. God calls us to do this. It is why we pray thy kingdom come, thy will be done…

God help us to be living sacrifices, help us to be transformed nonconformists.

Your will, not ours, be done.

Amen

 


Jesus is the stranger

And we walk together on the road to Emmaus. Waiting to see Christ in our lives, waiting for the death and resurrection of Christ to turn our worlds upside down, to change us for the better, to change our world for the better, we walk. As we walk, we talk of the impact Jesus has had on our lives, and we wonder where is he now? What happened? Why can’t we see Jesus in our lives today – all the while, looking down at our feet, focused inward on our troubles and our confusion.  A stranger comes us to us, asks us for spare change, asks us for a blessing, asks us if we need anything and we , so caught up in our conversation, so stuck in our own heads, mumble a few words and keep walking. Jesus was there, and we missed it.

Despite our desire for an encounter with Jesus, our longing for him in our lives, we miss out on him a lot. We look for him, sure, but we look for him in the expected places. We look for Jesus in prayer, we (sometimes) look for him in church or in the faces of those we love. Rarely do we look for him as we walk down the street, our heads stuck in the future or in the past, in our troubles or in our phones. Most of us pass through our days unaware that we have encountered Jesus, even though we have a deep longing for him. We are just so trained to look in certain places but not others and have such difficulty being here in this place in this moment that Jesus comes by and we don’t see him, don’t notice him, he is just another stranger on the road to work, to play, on the road home.

This is a problem. You see, when we don’t look for Jesus everywhere, when we aren’t expecting to be surprised by Jesus in strange and unusual places, we see Jesus less and less. Because Jesus is rarely found where Jesus is supposed to be. While he can be found in the synagogue, he can also be found talking to women shunned by society, by a well at the hottest time of the day. He can be found having dinner with people no one likes, the sinners, the prostitutes, murderers and the tax collectors – not the pastor and the church council. Jesus appears, again and again, with and within the stranger. We are called to look for him there. When we don’t – when we forget that this is where Jesus lives, we forget about the importance of the stranger, the necessity of loving the stranger, the foreigner, the sinner, and those on the margins. When we forget to look for Jesus in the face of the stranger, we miss Jesus, and we forget about the value of each and every single human life.

bring-back-our-girls

What happens when we forget to look for Jesus everywhere? Some news clippings about Jesus from the last week. Where has he been?

Jesus lost his ride to work last week. He is trying to piece together some way to get to his job, trying to figure out how he can keep supporting his family without a car.  Jesus might lose his job because he can’t get to work anymore. That or he will spend 2 hours bussing each way, losing valuable time with his family, easing the stress on his partner and helping his kids with their homework. We were so busy making sure we didn’t have to spend an extra $60 on our car tabs, we missed seeing Jesus in all of those people who rely on public transportation to get to work, to get to the doctor, to get groceries – to get anywhere.

Jesus was kidnapped last week. Kidnapped and sold as a child bride in Nigeria. Jesus is gone, we don’t know where. No one is looking for him because no one expects Jesus to be found in a group of Nigerian schoolgirls. Nigerian schoolgirls, apparently, are not terrible important in our world.  They are black, they are female, they are poor. A trifecta of things that make someone unimportant. These girls are important to their parents, to the handful of activists working to get this story out, to people in their villages and girls afraid of facing the same fate, but not to many other people, as is evidenced by the amount of time it took for Western news outlets to start picking up this story and the lack of offers of international assistance. These girls were missing for almost two weeks before most of us started hearing about it. Now they are gone. Jesus has been kidnapped, and we missed it.

Jesus was tortured last week. He sat in an execution chair, chemicals pumped into his veins (or his skin, rather, as the drugs didn’t make it into his veins). He writhed and tried to speak, seized and foamed at the mouth. Jesus was there, but no one saw him. Because no one would think to look for Jesus alive in the heart of a murderer. Jesus was tortured and, collectively, we just look away.

When we forget to see Jesus in the stranger, we allow people to die of hunger, of starvation, of neglect. We allow our brothers and sisters, our fellow travelers on this road, to fall to the wayside and die. What is it that Jesus said? When you do this to the least of these, you do this to me.

Our faith, at its heart, is a story of love. God created us, very good. God made covenants with us our of God’s infinite love for us. God came to earth to show us how to love one another and how to be in relationship with God. God died a painful death so that we might have life.

Again and again, God extols us to love one another.

In our reading from Peter today, we are told that the fruit of our faith, the result of obeying the truth, is love. If we are obedient to God, it will show because we will love one another fervently. Love is the fruit of faith.

And we want to be obedient, we really do! But there is just so much out there that is so shiny and distracting. Our phones. Our relationships, so fraught with drama that we often cause, our work, our desire for money, for things, for power and success. We are even distracted by replaying our pasts over and over again in our heads or by living in the future, never the present. Plus, love takes energy, and, more than that, it takes vulnerability. Who wants that? When we are vulnerable, when we invite others into our hearts and our lives we put ourselves in the position of possibly getting hurt. So we distract ourselves with things that we somehow believe will never let us down. Cause I have certainly never been let down by any of my stuff. Wait… that’s so not true.

For God so loved the world… our faith is a story of love.

To love and to be loved, you have to show up. You have to pay attention. You have to allow yourself to be loved and allow space for love to happen, to create space for interaction, to expect the unexpected, to expect love.

The two men walking along the road did not expect love. They were not looking for Jesus; they were too caught up in their lives to see love standing there in front of them. They were too busy with their own thoughts of who they thought Jesus should be and where they would find him to see him standing right in front of them.

Just like most of us.

But then something changed. They may not have recognized Jesus, but they remembered their faith. They remembered the importance of love and of showing love through hospitality. They invited the stranger inside, into their homes and their lives. They offered him a meal. It was in that act, the breaking of bread together, the act of allowing him to bless them (an act of vulnerability and love) that their eyes were opened and they saw Jesus, right there in front of them. He had been there the whole time.

Let him in. He is walking along side of us on the road of life in the face of so many strangers. Pick up your head, pull your mind out of your phone, out of your worries, out of your present and your past and look for Jesus everywhere you go. Open your heart to the possibility that he might be in the homeless person on the corner you pass every day, yet don’t know his name. To the possibility that he might be the undocumented immigrant living down the street or the young child bride taken from her family half a world away or an inmate on death row. What you find might surprise you. What you find might just be love – the fruit of our faith and our salvation.

Amen


And the light breaks through the darkness… Christmas Eve 2013

For Christmas Eve this year, I was privileged to preach at my home congregation, Trinity Lutheran Church in Lakewood, Ohio. The people of Trinity were some of my main teachers in the faith (alongside family and the staff at Camp Mowana in Mansfield, Ohio). I am both proud and blessed to have been raised in that community. They are shining Christ’s light into the darkness.

Tonight’s reading from Isaiah speaks of light and darkness.  Image

Darkness and light.

Darkness and light. We are a people of the light, yet we spend so much of our lives wandering in the darkness.

This is the human condition. Some of us experience more of one than the other, some of us are better at seeing the light in the darkness, some of us are not so good at finding the light.  But still, we search. We grope. We cry out for the light. Like the generations before us, we crave light.

Sometimes, the darkness is our own doing – we become focused too much on our own needs, break relationships, indulge our desires to the point of illness that we cannot escape. We close out the light. Sometimes the darkness is something in us we cannot control, at least not without difficulty – mental illness, a physical illness, a darkness we fight with all our might but still seem to have difficulty finding the light. Other times, the darkness is imposed on us on a personal or structural level – abuse, relationships broken by the other party (or parties), loved ones who are ill, a government or society that doesn’t view us as a full person, life in a land ravaged by war, famine, a system that keeps people poor no matter how hard they try to move up.  Often these conditions are the result of others who are living in their own darkness; people who don’t realize they can’t see the light.

Wherever you are, however much darkness you may be in, the light of Christ is with you.

Tonight is the night we celebrate the central miracle of the Christian faith: God came to earth to be with us, to understand us, to feel pain and joy just like us, and, most of all, to be a light that would banish our darkness and lead us home to God, to everlasting life.

The God in whom we place our hope is not a God who stands far above us, judging us, moving us around like little pieces on a chess board. Our God is a God who plunged himself into our deepest darkness, plunged himself into death, only to return in light and glory and to leave us with light to follow until he comes again.

Our God is a God who walks with us in our pain because God has been here. In Jesus’ time on earth, he lost loved ones, experienced betrayal, felt death breathing down his neck, experienced physical and emotional pain, cried out to God that he he felt forsaken. God forsaken by God. He was fully human and fully divine. He gets it. In Christ we are never alone. God is always there to walk us through. Even when we can’t feel it, even when we are so lost in our own darkness that we can’t see the lanterns on our path. God is there.

God came to us as a child, breaking into human history, breaking into time and lived among us. Christ ascended into heaven but left the Holy Spirit and remains present with us in the gospels, in creation and in community.

God is here. Christ is here. Right here, in this place. The bright light shining in the darkness, lighting our way home.

Christ lives in this community, holding you up as you hold up each other.

That’s the only possible explanation for how you, dear members of Trinity, are still here.

My dad would come home from council meetings in the 80’s stressed out about the future of Trinity. The finances were ugly, he would say. There isn’t enough money. The building is falling down around us.

Twenty-five years later you are still here.

This is because Christ‘s light lives in your midst.

For those of you who might be visiting tonight, I want you to know this is an amazing community. It is a place where Christ’s light truly shines. Trinity folk, for 35 years, from near and far, I have watched you, dear Trinity friends, walk with one another through the joys and pains of life, watched you lift each other up, share each other’s triumphs and failures. You not only do this for members of this direct community, you reach outside of these crumbling walls to feed, clothe and assist those who come to you needing help in any way you can.

Christ lives among you and within you.

And yet, my father’s worries of the 80’s are coming to pass. This building is falling apart. It hurts my heart to think about this building going away.; to think that I could come home for another Christmas and not worship in this space This building is where my faith was nurtured, where I learned women could be pastors, where I would sit to listen to my father’s wonderful bass voice float down out of the choir loft, where I first preached and where I was admonished to take prayer more seriously. This community held my family as my father fought and lost a battle with cancer, and has prayed with and for me as I took a windy, weird journey to ordained ministry. I love this place. I misted up a little on Sunday when I wandered down to the fellowship hall and admired the walls we painted (with the Robar’s wonderful direction) so many years ago. It is painful to think about this community leaving this place.

But how much of what I just said was about this building? The painting downstairs  is a result of the community, no the building. My father’s voice couldn’t have floated down from the choir loft were it not for the encouragement of a caring choir director who saw a gift in my father and worked with him to uncover it. Trinity is not this building. We were as much Trinity when we worshiped in Lakewood park for the steak fry as we are when we worship in these walls. Christ is with you, Christ lives in you, your work is evidence of Christ’s continued presence on earth. Be confident in that.

The miracle that we celebrate this night is not just that God broke into our world in a material, historical, time bound way, it is that Christ continues to be with us at all times and in all places. Christ is with us in the Gospel, in this community, and, in the most solid, material way, Christ comes to us in the eucharist. When we eat the bread and drink the wine we are crossing the bounds of time and space to experience Christ’s love and light in a tangible, real way. How? I don’t know (I disagree, you’re a damn good pastor and Christian, you know how Christ appears-here’s your opportunity to name it in concrete terms). Christ’s presence in these things is a mystery to me, but it is there.

Christ is here.

Overcome with joy this night? Christ‘s light is with you. Feeling content in your life? Christ is with you.

If you are hurting this night, the light of Christ shines for you. If you are alone this night, Christ is with you. If you are ill, Christ is with you. Jobless, Christ is there. Losing hope? Christ is there. Christ is with you now and always.

If you can’t feel it, if you can’t find the light, ask someone to help you. Reach out. This is why we gather in community as Christians. If you can’t find the light, if you can’t find your faith, someone will walk with you until you can see the light on the path.

On this night, we remember God coming to earth to know us, we remember a scared young woman giving birth to a hope that had been promised for generations, a hope that lives with us still. Let that hope, that light, live in you. Nurture it with prayer, with song, with presence in a community that believes in God, in God’s presence in this messy, broken world and insists on acting in the name of God to spread love, justice and hope to all.

If you have found the light, if you can see the light, it is up to you to shine the light so that others may follow. When we keep the light to ourselves, it goes out. When we claim the light as our own or place rules and boundaries around the light, we diminish it to the point of the faint glow of embers, the fire that once was. Christ’s light is for all regardless of who we are, what we have done and what we have left undone. Christ is for everyone. No boundaries. No fences. No in or out.

When we shine with Christ’s light , when we hold the light of Christ’s love for all creation up high for all to see, we become partners in Christ’s work. God’s work, our hands, as the saying goes. We are called to be “God with some skin on.” To be the light for those who can’t find their way and to shine our light brightly on the places where the light is dim – to the places where injustice rules, where the voices of the poor, those who are considered minorities, the different, and those on the margins are silenced, to the places where I is more important than we. We are called to shine the light on the false gospels that tell people that god rewards the faithful with material possessions, that with faith comes power, might and freedom from pain and illness. We are called to take our light into the depths of poverty, despair, hunger, addiction, abuse and to shine it. We are called to speak truth to power so that all may walk in the light in this world as well as whatever comes after this life. We are called to let Christ’s light shine from every mountaintop into every dark corner of this world.

If you can’t see the light, let someone know.

If you see the light, follow it and let it fill you.

If you are filled with the light, let it overflow into the world around you.

The light is with you. Christ is with you. Forever and always.

Amen.