What’s The Bottom Line?

I can’t say I was surprised, but I was mildly concerned. Here we were, twelve members of the same UCC church engaged in a class on the history of the traditionally “orthodox” understandings of Jesus only to discover that our beliefs were all over the map. Some participants confessed that they were struggling to accept the assertion of Jesus’ divinity while others felt it was absolutely central to their faith. Still others found the whole discussion somewhat unsettling because they had always assumed people in the same tradition would believe generally the same things. At one point, one of the participants asked the question: “Jed, what’s the bottom line? What must we believe to be called a Christian in the United Church of Christ?”

I sat with the question for a good half a minute as I considered the freight of her question and felt the weight of anticipation in the room. Fortunately, in that moment, the words of Sam Solivan, a former professor, came back to me: “In the end, what counts more than orthodoxy is orthopraxis.” In other words, “right practice” is more important to the Christian life than “right belief.” So I replied, “I suspect Jesus might answer your question with two short sayings: ’Love one another as I have loved you; ‘ and ‘Come, follow me.’”

A week later, the evaluation forms rolled in and I opened them with a hint of trepidation. Had the class helped people grow in their walk with Jesus, or had it only unsettled them? To my relief, the responses were filled with gratitude. Apparently, the very act of coming together and engaging our questions and hungers in an atmosphere of love and non-judgment was not only eye-opening: it left them hungry for more. They wanted to continue the journey together.

For those of us seeking to follow Jesus, Frederich Beuchner wrote, “You do not come first to understand a person fully and then to love him, but love comes first, and then it is out of the love that understanding is born.” (The Magnificent Defeat, HarperCollins, pp 98-99.) It’s as true with Jesus as it is with one another. Love comes first. That is the genius of moving beyond the question “what must I believe?” to the question, “what must I do?” The answer isn’t complex: love your neighbor as yourself, and strive in all you do to follow the way of Jesus.

What a gift it is, to call the United Church of Christ home. Here, we are called beyond the black and white of creeds to the color of deeds, beyond the anxiety of passing tests of faith to the joys of sharing our testimonies of faith. What a gift to have as our guide these words: “In essentials unity; in non-essentials diversity; and in all things, charity.”

On the Cusp

Today on our ride home, my daughter remarked, "I'm trying not to grow up too fast, Dad, but it's hard." She's on the cusp between child and young adult, between self-awareness and self-consciousness, between free agent of the Holy Spirit and product of the world's expectations of her. As much joy as it gives me to watch her mature so beautifully, I find myself wishing the scales of her life would tilt a little in reverse, too...back toward her carefree days. But the wish is a vain one. As the hymn puts it, "time, like an ever-rolling stream, bears all its sons (and daughters) away." We are perpetually on the cusp of that which our journey has in store for us, and while change can be promise, we can all be forgiven the occasional glance in the rear-view mirror. That mirror, after all, can be one of life's greatest repositories - and reminders - of the wonder we have experienced.

Prayer: "God of the journey, help me to linger here on the cusp of tomorrow, just for a moment. Help me not to grow up any faster than I have to. Amen."

Foreseen in Joy

“I am about to do a new thing;
 now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?” Isaiah 43:19

My friend Ignatius has foresight, but with a twist: he likes to prepare himself for events which have yet to happen. I’m reminded of this every time we go on a mission trip together: I pack for one, while Ignatius packs for many. Buried in his suitcase among the socks and the toothpaste are the items he can’t wait to give away to people he hasn’t even met yet: silly string and balloons for kids in San Salvador, McDonalds’ gift cards for hungry, homeless men in Boston. Even before he’s out the door, he is preparing for joyful moments of encounter long before they happen. Which, I’m convinced, is a big part of why they inevitably do.

It’s precisely that kind of foresight to which Isaiah invites us: that spiritual readiness to see beyond the stranger to the friend, beyond the lump of clay to the chalice full of wine, beyond the conflict to the reconciliation. It is that kind of vision of which Wendell Berry spoke when he wrote, “That which is foreseen in joy must be lived out every day.”

This afternoon I passed by a homeless man sitting alone on a remote city bench. His walker was sitting beside him, and in his hands, raised to his lips, was a flute. At first I thought it odd that he was playing without an audience. Then it dawned on me that perhaps he, like Ignatius, is gifted with foresight, and that his flute and he were simply announcing that there is more to God’s realm than sometimes meets the average eye.

Prayer
Visionary God, give me eyes to imagine what you have already seen, and to live it out every day. Amen.

A Poem for Sue Ann Martin

We’d wave at you, and you at us,
each morning as kids piled off the bus,
my daughters and I would walk past your window,
fleetingly mindful of flowers and Crypto.

I’m remembering a Sunday not long ago,
that Sunday piled high with new fallen snow;
folks said, "close church," and I said, no, if you please;
and you showed up ~ one of a dozen ~ arriving on skis.

I remember many things, and truly, we all do,
your faithful following is a large, devoted crew;
your teaching and your life were masterful art;
borne witness by the fact that even when you sweat,
the stain made a heart.

That stain will cling to us, we will wear it with pride;
and we promise to engage the world with our curious side;
as you taught, we will not shrink from running the extra mile.
Your class, Mrs. Martin, lives on in us, and with it, your smile.

And so with sadness, and with joy, we salute every one of your 50 years;
the end of your class came much to soon, we confess, and with tears;
but we stand here today to say we love you, even more than you loved to run;
and we declare to you, well done, good and faithful servant, well done.

The Change We Seek Lies Within

Lent is a bit of a paradox: it is, on the one hand, a cyclical invitation "back to the center," back to harmony with God and with others, back to what is essential. At the same time, it is an invitation to venture forward, a pilgrimage through the shadows of Holy Week and the rebirth of Easter - in other words, an invitation to change. Today I found myself wondering about change, and how real change happens.

In an ancient story of the desert fathers, Abba Lot seeks the counsel of the older, wiser Abba Joseph. Abba Lot seeks something more in his life, but has hit a dead end: he does everything he can by way of prayer and good works, but senses that these things alone are not helping him on his spiritual pilgrimage. "What more can I do?" he asks the older man. The older man raises his hands skyward, and his fingers become like flame. And he says to the younger man, If you will, you can become all flame."

I confess: the image appeals to me. So does the response: " If you will, you can...." Which is to say, the answer to new life - to real change - always lies within. It's not "out there" in the externals of the moment. It is not, as Elijah discovered, in the earthquake, wind or fire. It is a matter of being still enough to pay attention to what is going on in our soul; still enough to what it is that our heart wills. What does your heart will? Listen well. If you follow, change will come, and with it, new life.

Holy No

Someone recently invited me to take on a leadership role in the community. Her request was simple enough, but it took me three weeks to ponder because of the ensuing internal wrestling match that went in in me. To begin with, she had invited me to a cause that was "right up my alley." The people I would have worked with are people of integrity. As I pondered the invitation my mind would wander down the path of imagining all the wonderful, exciting, meaningful things we might accomplish together. All of which, I soon realized, would entail more meetings, more planning, more work, more time....more than I literally have to offer. The "external" sense of calling was strong indeed ~ even seductive. But somewhere inside, I knew that saying "yes" to the invitation would pull me further off course.

In those moments when I allowed myself the quiet time to sit with that invitation in prayer, another voice....a stiller, smaller voice, began to speak from within. A voice which was quietly eager to remind me of the long list of things I've been wanting to do and have been putting off over and over because there have been too many other important things competing for attention. And over and over I kept hearing in my mind a refrain from a poem that was given to me more than twenty years ago. The author's name has long since vanished, but the essence of the poem has remained with me: "to live well, build only one barn." In other words, choose carefully and simply. Invest yourself in fewer things so that you may invest yourself in those few things more fully.

There are those scintillating times in life when the internal sense of call and the external work together as one. And then there are those dissonant times when they do not. This was one of those times when saying "no" to something good is the only way to say "yes" to something holier and better.

When Jesus came out of the wilderness, he gathered up those who would follow him. "Come, and follow me, and you will be fishing for people." He invited them to a mighty "yes!" But the only way to get there was through a thicket of "no's." Perhaps this kind of "no" is akin to blowing the ashes off a coal: we remove the suffocating crust clinging to our lives in order that the embers within might burn anew.

So I'm beginning this season of Lent with a couple of "no's." I'm beginning by brushing off the ashes of those things which pull me away from my inner compass. Not only have I turned down that person's kind invitation, but I'm saying no to a few other things as well. It is, perhaps, a form of confession and repentance. It is a first, small step in turning yet again from death to life.

Prayer of Confession

God of life, God of love, God of joy: I come to you today like a thirsty traveler to a well. In this age of overload, I thirst for life; in these days of animosity, I thirst for love; in this time of struggle, I thirst for joy. But you, O God, are the source of all these things, and I confess that my thirst must in part be a result of my having wandered from you. Forgive me for not taking the time to be with you more often. Forgive me for failing to nurture my own spirit, so that the life, love and joy I find in you might also flow back out of me. Guide my steps again toward the well of eternity, and there quench my thirst. Set me free from my sins, that I may once again dare to dream audacious dreams, extend audacious love, and be a little bit of light and life in the world, in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.