Wonderfully Made: Being Pro-Life and Pro-LGBT

One of the phrases from Scripture that comes back to me with some regularity whenever I talk with people who are suffering is one that many of us know well from Psalm 139, “For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; that I know very well.  My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth.”

How many of us need these words at various points in our lives?  How many of us need the reminder that we were formed by God before consciousness – that we were loved before our biological parents even knew we were stirring to life?

I have friends who are all over the political and theological map.  They come with a range of experiences, views, and doctrinal interpretations and I value their faith, intellect, and integrity.  I find myself physically ill when those who are more “conservative” are called bigots because they are wrestling with Scripture faithfully in light of social change.  I find myself deeply frustrated when more “liberal” friends are disregarded because their faith is second-guessed as they try to remain active in the Church even as they see it re-enacting sexism, bigotry, or homophobia they long to see left behind.

What I am seeing emerge, particularly in new generations of clergy and believers, are interesting blends of conservatism around some aspects of faith and liberalism around others.  For example, I see theological conservatives active as voices for social change.  I see theological liberals coming to the most traditional of liturgical churches.  I see a combination of pragmatism about the work of evangelism in which ideological differences are set aside for the sake of Kingdom building.  Yet, I also see a zero-sum mindset at times in the Church in which one side sees the need to “win” on a given issue while ensuring the ostracism of the “losing” side.

Yet, in all of this, I see a longing for the Church to be that which gathers people from all over the map (literally and figuratively) and gives them a shared home and hope.

I write this with an eye toward a theological dissonance that has emerged with greater clarity for me over the years.  I find myself returning to my pro-life roots.   I also find my sense of the need for greater welcoming of LGBT folks being strengthened.  Politically, this is a challenging place to be.  Our national political dialogue makes enemies of these positions.  Yet, theologically, the Venn diagram has come into focus for me a bit and it rests, in part, on that promise of Psalm 139.

life“You knit me together in my mother’s womb.” Reading this one line of Scripture (and it is difficult to read any one line in isolation of course) I find myself challenged to think more deeply about what it means to be pro-life.  A God who knows us and inspires our creation and who guards us in the womb must be a God who longs for our protection when we are most vulnerable.  Yet, that vulnerability does not end when we are born.  Indeed, to be pro-life must mean that life is absolutely precious and must be tended and cared for in all the ways a civilized society can manage.  This must mean robust care for mothers and children before and long after birth.

The vulnerability we all share as human beings is particularly acute among those who are LGBT.  They find their worth questioned and their dignity undermined in ways that I never will.  The God who knows us in the womb must, I assume, know wherever we may find ourselves on the gender and sexuality spectrum.  The many people in the congregations I have served who are LGBT are not people who chose “disordered affections” at some decisive moment in their lives or were recruited by wizened gays and lesbians.  They were born this way and long to live as God has called them into being.  They were known in their mothers’ wombs.

The God of creation – the God of new birth – imparts an inherent and inviolable dignity as we are made of the very likeness of God.  The conferral of God’s love cannot, I believe, only happen at the second of physical birth.  The intricacy of God’s working in and through us begins with the Word – in the beginning.  Our longed-for birth comes out of a creation that is, like Christ himself, held in the heart of God from the beginning of time.  We are in the beginning – we are with God – at rest in the fullness of Christ’s own being as heirs of an eternal promise that stretches before our consciousness.

I believe that people make poor decisions across their lives.  Some will drink.  Some will smoke.  Some will hurt others.  Some will try and fail.  Some will never try.  We will sin, we will fail God, and God delights in our salvation.  There are choices we all make that God counts as part of our growth – part of the process of turning toward God in hope and for healing.

I do not believe that being gay is one of those choices.  I do not believe that being born is one of those choices.  The God of grace knows us as part of his created order from the very beginning and calls us good.

The Church’s call is to protect the vulnerable – to protect that which God has called into being.  Of course, through our own fault and through the fault of others, we will be drawn into a web of sin and sin-stained choices.  War, poverty, famine, and more are all part of sinful cycles in which we are caught up.  Yet, through it all God calls us to be faithful witnesses that his mercy endures.  That his love is made manifest.  That the Body of Christ can heal a broken world.

There are a host of policy options that must be considered when thinking about abortion – any realistic person knows this.  Yet, it seems dangerous to pretend that legal abortion is somehow an anodyne or sanitary policy choice.  It is the ending of life.  Camille Paglia, the noted scholar, who is very much pro-choice (she would even say pro-abortion), noted recently that, “Progressives need to do some soul-searching about their reflex rhetoric in demeaning the pro-life cause. A liberal credo that is variously anti-war, anti-fur, vegan, and committed to environmental protection of endangered species like the sage grouse or spotted owl should not be so stridently withholding its imagination and compassion from the unborn.”

I suppose this is where I find myself – trying to do soul-searching about what it means to hold in tension all that which is held in many quarters to be diametrically opposed.  I am not much of a theologian really – I have no advanced degree work in theology beyond a basic degree in priestcraft (an M.Div.) so I do not know how any of this squares with neo-Platonism, Barth, natural law, Radical Orthodoxy, or the like.  I have almost written this piece a few times – never quite sure how or what to say – or what might be theologically tenable.  I do know though that God keeps stirring me to think and pray more deeply about these things and to have the humility to know that I might be wrong.

By his holy Incarnation Christ entered the world as a child in the loving arms of a mother – he entered with vulnerability and relying on the care of a Mother and a guardian.  For God so loved the world, he gave his only Son.  I firmly believe that it was because God so loved the world that you and I were given to it too.  We are here for the love and through the love of God to be that love for those who find themselves broken, lost, and bereft.

Whether still in the womb or whether struggling with what it means to be both gay and Christian – God has given us a greater, deeper purpose and promise than we can ask for or deserve and he has called us into being to be for the most vulnerable a word and witness.  We are known in the womb.  We are wonderfully made.  May we have the courage to share that news with many.



Communion? The Fracturing of Shared Reality

An article floating around about our political culture talked about the fracturing of shared reality which makes political compromise or progress nearly impossible.  Our political reality seems to be one of subjective perception and a denial of objective truth which informs and forms our ability to find consensus around critical issues.  The article focuses particularly on the use and acceptance of scientific findings and the politicization of science as a primary example of the breakdown of our willingness and ability to allow fact or expertise to stand in the way of our opinions or emotional responses.

fractureThe phrase “fracturing of shared reality” struck me as a potent one in considering the role of liturgy, theology, and formation in the Church.  Sometimes small things strike me as interesting – for example in a Facebook group recently an Episcopalian commented on the use of the term Blessed Sacrament and tabernacles.  The comment was “I thought Anglicans did not believe in that.” Whatever parish this individual calls home has not reinforced the shared doctrinal compromises and commitments that define us as Anglicans.  The shared reality of the Anglican (and ultimately Christian) experience is fractured at the individual and local level when core doctrinal truths are underplayed, ignored, or dismissed.

This is playing out in ways across our Church and the Anglican Communion.  The breakdown of a shared story – or at least a shared way of engaging the story of God in Christ – has had serious ramifications for our life together.  An example in the Episcopal Church might be the acceptance of Communion without Baptism in some parishes out of a sense of radical hospitality or welcome.  Divorced from the deep theological and traditional understanding of the link between receiving life in baptism and having that life nourished in Communion we find parishes and priests engaging in a practice that breaks the common bonds that have formed us as both Catholic and Reformed in the name of a subjective perception of what constitutes welcome.

That bond, given voice in the ordination vows of priests to uphold the “doctrine, discipline, and worship” of the Episcopal Church, is one that forms us and defines us.  It is a bond that is a gift of the Spirit which has moved over the ages and given us a shared sacramental reality by which we are given life and through which our very reality is formed and framed.  Our spiritual and theological dissonance triggers two questions.

Is it Jesus?  Are we alone?

If we believe that Christ is coming into the world freshly and powerfully in each celebration of Communion we are then confronted with a host of other questions which are not pedantry but are crucial to our whole selves meeting Jesus in his rise self.  Do we sing?  Do we kneel?  Do we come with joy or with trembling – or with trembling joy? All of this is to say that the question of whether it is or is not Jesus then triggers in us a deep and ongoing dialogue around how we engage the reality of the claim and the truth of the Presence.  Only the agnostic can look away untouched by such a reality.

Are we alone?  Do we alone approach the throne of grace by ourselves, in sinful or altruistic isolation?  Is it me, myself, and my God?  Or are we coming as a community of grace – a community in the throes of the Holy Spirit – to find ourselves ever more deeply in Communion with one another in the reality of our lived experience as a community and in the reality of the Present Christ?  The lonely and alone find ample reason to doubt and to undo the past burdened by the fear of isolation and an uncertain future.

A community of faith, however, approaches the Altar with faithful assurance that just as Thomas touched the wounds so we are being invited to touch the bare reality of an ever-given salvation.  This is not ours by right or by entitlement but by grace alone and it is found only in the Body of the Church.  Gathering along with us, as we say at Communion, are angels and archangels – and we are joined too by the long dead and the recently mourned.  We are joined by those of ages past who live in the greater presence of the ageless one.

Communion is the shared reality formed by the Fracturing of the Body on the Cross.  The nobility of the Incarnation, the inhumanity of the Cross, and the promise of the Resurrection are laid bare on every Altar and given to be the food of every Christian.  To this we respond in the only way we can – with adoration and a great thanksgiving.

As parishes and individuals decide for themselves what they believe or what they feel we find ourselves ever more broken – our shared reality ever more fractured – to the point at which we are no longer able to call ourselves one body.  The atomization of the Body is a broken response to a broken world.  We too often find that Church does not suit us or that the bonds of canon and collegiality simply do not allow us our full range of creative expression.  In those moments our need to be special, to make a statement, contributes to the fracturing of our shared reality.  The virtue of authority is not that it keeps us all in line but that it keeps us humble – checking our sense that we know best with the wisdom of a wide body that has prayed and wrestled through the ages.

Some things are simply unchangeable – immovable fixed points of faith.  Yet in a cultural context in which every person feels the need to get it their way and right away and when a consumer mentality drives nearly our whole range of daily experience, the simple statement that the Church (the deepest reality of which is the very being of Christ) holds and shares Truth is a dangerous statement of spiritual defiance.  Yet that Truth – that we are not alone and that we adore Jesus made Present – creates a particular set of burdens on the faithful.

We are formed by the patterns of reception and obedience that a real engagement with truth demands.  When confronted by the reality of God our first thought must be of salvation and transformation – this requires obedience and faithful witness as stewards of Good News not the pride of crafters and creators of that news.  We receive this Good News as a faithful family of belief and witness that stands across the ages and inherits not cultural artifacts of empire but the living foundations of Kingdom.  We stand alongside and in dialogue with the voices of past faith not as interrogators and prosecutors but as heirs and guardians.

There are many who will claim that what makes Episcopalians and Anglicans special is our tolerance and diversity of belief.  Yes and no.  What we think makes us special is our tolerance and diversity – what truly makes us special is the shared inheritance of grace and a way of being together that allows diversity of perspective to flourish.  That shared inheritance is a framework and foundation that still makes bold claims on the faithful – it is not our creativity that makes us unique but our fidelity to our heritage and witness to the Living God – our shared reality.  While there are many traits, markers, and practices that make local communities vibrant and attractive there is an ultimate source from which we draw that is deeper than Church or denominational affiliation.

Ultimately we are the Church’s to be shaped.  The Church is not ours to shape.

This is a harsh reality for many of us and yet it is not ours because the Incarnation is not ours.  The mystery of the Trinity is not ours.  The changing of bread and wine is not ours.  The Virgin Birth, the Transfiguration, the Ascension, and the Resurrection are not ours.  The metaphysical realities that guide and break and reform us are a shared reality which we marvel at and share.  The Church is bigger than us because the shared reality of the Living God is bigger.

What then do we do as practices, doctrine, and more are atomized and reduced to the subjective experience?  How do we begin to contemplate our fractured shared reality?  I suppose we gather together and stand with Jesus as we are asked, “What is truth?”  Standing before Pilate was the very answer.  Standing before us, on every Altar, is the same answer – the same truth which will defy the ages and forge our common identity if we will let it.

Do we believe it?


Refrain from Anger: On Anglican Bigotry

In the wake of the Primates’ meeting and the subsequent decision by the Primates to ask the Episcopal Church to withdraw from voting in international bodies for three years, there has been no shortage of commentary.  From Facebook to Twitter to blogs, the Anglican social sphere has been awash in opinion.  My concern at this point is less about the decision itself than our reaction to it.

We have taken an action that runs contrary to the deeply held convictions of Anglicans worldwide and is a frankly dramatic shift in an understanding of marriage that was embedded in human social relations before Christians called it a Sacrament.  To deny that fact – that this openness is an innovation – is to engage in creative myopia.

Now, acknowledging that fact does not mean that it is an innovation whose time has not come.  There are good and even holy impulses that are leading to this discussion.  I do not believe that this change is Satanic as some have charged nor do I believe that it is simply a capitulation to the spirit of the age.  As more is revealed to us of creation and human nature through the reasoned observance of science, sociology, and more, one can begin to see where a case can be made. When paired with faithful prayer and the attentive reading of Scripture, an acknowledgment of the holiness of loving same-gender relationships may be a thing to be embraced, even among the tradition-minded.

However, all good reasons on the table, it is an innovation that is moving with remarkable rapidity when situated within the context of the arc of Christian history.  I have a number of LGBT friends who are saying that they are not sure about this shift – not yet.

I have many friends of all sides of these issues.  They are all faithful people who strongly desire to follow the will of God and the guidance of the Spirit.  What troubles me deeply though is that those who do not hold the same mind about this as the majority of the Episcopal Church are being called bigots and worse.

I looked up the definition of bigotry, and found this, “Intolerance toward those who hold different opinions from oneself.”  We might, indeed, feel that a certain intolerance (a bigotry) has been expressed toward the Episcopal Church (and towards LGBTQ Christians) by the Primates.  Yet, I fear many are now engaging in pernicious bigotry by assuming the direst of motivations and machinations of those who disagree with the direction that The Episcopal Church has taken.

The Episcopal Church – this supposedly high-minded and elevated form of rational Christianity – has succumbed to the nastiest abusiveness of fellow Christians.  Whether it is the veiled racism of referring to “the Africans” or the copious use of various forms of the word “bigot” or casting the acts of the Primates as devious and underhanded – we are reacting in ways entirely out of proportion to the sanction that we have received.

We are reacting in ways that actually imperil communion – in ways that are more dangerous than a sanction or reprimand from the institutional arm of the Church.  The Church is the Body.  It is a mystical union as well as an institutional entity.  Our reactions – our words and deeds – have the potential to undermine the mystical union we share for we are literally saying to one part of the Body, “We have no need of you.”

It is difficult to remain in communion with someone when he or she is saying that you are a bigot.  I would hasten to add that I hope that those who are on the more traditional end of this conversation would also work hard to curtail and contain those voices who denigrate and deny the faithful witness of LGBTQ Christians around the world.

There might be hurt over this reprimand but, look closely, we were not ejected, nor were our orders declared null and void, nor was Bishop Curry thrown out of the meeting.  I understand that many are angry over the rebuke– yet we walked away from them – not the other way around.  Anglican brothers and sisters gave repeated and clear statements that pointed toward an outcome like this if we moved ahead and yet, we did so.

Now that we have received a rebuke (not an ex-communication or expulsion), there is comment after comment from fellow Christians talking of bigotry, promoting schism, and advocating financial retribution.  As a friend of mine used to say when the Church got twisted up, “Jesus is so lucky to have us.”

If this is prophetic work – then do what prophets do – bear the disapproval and move ahead.  This caterwauling is beneath us as a community of Christians.  Should we ferociously decry the abuse, murder, and torture of LGBTQ people across the globe, particularly at the hands of fellow Christians?  Absolutely!

elizabeth-eckfordHowever – to act as if every Episcopal and Anglican blog is another forum where we can cast invective against those who disagree is beneath dignity.  More dangerously, it is against the expressed prayer of Christ for unity.  The image I have of a prophet is of Elizabeth Eckford, in the midst of a screaming crowd at the height of school desegregation in Little Rock.  Amidst anger and rage – she held her head high.

If you are in the majority in the Episcopal Church (and the minority in global Anglicanism) who supports this opening of our understanding of marriage – then feel free to hold your head high if you are feeling persecuted.  Don’t scream back.  And for the sake of all that’s holy, let’s stop calling someone a bigot because they read Scripture, pray, and reason differently than we do.  Among these “bigots” are friends who disagree, family who are still praying, parents who are trying, and Christians looking for signs of hope in a divided and divisive world.

Perhaps, though, there is also something that can be learned in this – even among those who feel themselves to absolutely be on the right side of this.  How can we be patient in difference and encourage one another in the fundamentals of the faith?  How can we seek the will of God together in such a way that we never again doubt one another’s motives and faithfulness even if we come to a different sense of where God is calling us?

There is much that unity teaches as we bear with one another.  The news before the Primates gathered was all about the impending dissolution and collapse of the Anglican Communion.  Yet, gathered together, they committed themselves to unity and reaffirmed our connection in Christ.  They did not, however, say that one part of the Communion could act without regard for another part nor act without ramifications.  This is simply the cost of being accountable to one another in any system.  So now is our chance, as Episcopalians, to be an instrument of unity – to be an instrument of Communion.

There are so many moments in my own life when I have been so sure only to meet someone with whom I disagreed – someone whom I might even have castigated at another point in my life – and they changed me.  Grace has a way of doing that.

So let’s take a breath and heed Psalm 37, “Refrain from anger, and forsake wrath! Fret not yourself; it tends only to evil.”


Behold, Your Son: Loss, Love, and Family

It’s strange how the religious imagination works.  In August, we adopted two boys who have, as young boys are wont to do, become the center of our lives.  Very quickly, their schedule becomes yours and you suddenly find that each conversation, where once you might have talked about work or the weather, becomes about the intricacies of one boy’s behavior or the other’s rapidly expanding vocabulary.

Since the day we heard that this adoption might be a possibility – indeed almost from the first moment – I have had a verse from Scripture echoing around in my head.  Off and on again – at rather random moments – I hear John 19:26-27.  “When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, ‘Woman, behold, your son!’ Then he said to the disciple, ’Behold, your mother!’  And from that hour the disciple took her to his own home.”

If one does morning prayer regularly one hears, repeatedly, the godly reminders of the blessedness of the fruitful family.  For whatever reason, it was always Psalm 127 that annoyed me the most.  “Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward.  Like arrows in the hand of a warrior are the children of one’s youth. Blessed is the man who fills his quiver with them! He shall not be put to shame when he speaks with his enemies in the gate.”

While enemies might not be gathering at the gate – the notion that one would not be put to shame because of some number of righteous offspring naturally engenders an amount of shame when offspring are not on the horizon.  Over and over in Scripture you get fruitful vines, Rebekah conceiving, and Elizabeth in her old age bearing John.  Zechariah’s vision – the promise for Elizabeth – felt a bit like a rebuke when I heard it.
Christmas Card ImageYet, I had really made peace with the whole thing.  Our family was perfect in my mind.  It was my wife, my cats, my dogs, and me.  I put up with the annoyances of the lectionary and chalked up these occasional reminders of the blessedness of fecundity to the agrarian, atavistic notions of a threatening and dangerous epoch when security could only be guaranteed by fortifying one’s line.  As I had no fortress to pass along and no gates which would be besieged, I counted us as immensely blessed in so many ways that I would not begrudge God this slight.

In fact, my wife and I were enjoying one of the fruits of a life unencumbered by children, travel to far-flung places, when we got word that an adoption might be possible.  She woke me up from a deep sleep to read me the letter from the agency.  I listened and immediately the verse from John’s Gospel sprang to mind.  Behold, your son.  Behold, your mother.

Yet, I really did not want to admit that this might happen.  Not too many months earlier, I had gotten my hopes up about another adoption – of three boys – and I had been fairly devastated when it had not gone through.  So, I humored my wife even if I bristled a bit as we started to look at adorable outfits and panda-themed sleepwear.

When we returned to the States – it was a whirlwind.  Fairly rapidly we were meeting birth family, meeting the boys, and then, just like that, they were in our home.  Behold, your son.

I suppose that passage comes to me over and over because it would have been easy for the disciples to be lost – for a mother to be lost – in grief.  In that moment it would have been entirely understandable for loss and pain to have defined all around Jesus.  Yet Jesus, in that moment, does not leave those who might grieve bereft – he redefines how they relate to one another because of love.

Family becomes rooted in the deepest and richest source of living gift – in Christ’s own self-offering.  In that moment, at the nadir of his earthly ministry, Christ still makes a promise.  They would see greater things.  They would see out of the shared experience of Christ’s love the blossoming of a new family whose center would be the risen life to come not the shattered body before them.

In my own life there have been moments at which it would have been easy to be defined by loss.  And for long stretches of my life I have let loss and grief define and delineate the boundaries of my hope.  Yet each time, when I make peace with loss, I find that God then takes what seemed like an empty plot cleared of the weeds of anger and resentment and plants something fresh and breathtaking.

Behold, your son.  This is what I am endeavoring to do.  To behold the Son revealed in acts of hope in my own life.  Family – in that moment of generous compassion – was defined as something more than blood and body.  It was defined by Blood and Body.  It was defined by love and loss, compassion and generosity, and by self-offering and welcome.  It was defined by the weaknesses and frailties of this mortal life and the unbounded promise of the one to come.  It was given new life by a last breath.

I still marvel.  Tonight I went into two boys’ rooms and I heard that voice again, “Behold, your son.” I wept because God can take imperfect human lives, once so far apart, and weave them together in perfect love.  Behold, indeed.


It Couldn’t Possible Matter, but It Does: The Superficial and the Silly in Liturgical Life

One of the perennial discussions that comes up at this time of year is a discussion of the liturgical color of Advent – should we don the traditional purple or move to using (what some term Sarum) blue.  There have also been the seemingly requisite complaints that such a discussion is a waste of time and steers us away from more pressing concerns.

I have always thought that liturgical churches and particularly those with a robust Sacramental life do a disservice when they avoid discussion of those external markers of parish identity.  The forms and manner with which we engage in worship necessitate a considered and well-thought-out approach to each aspect of our worship life.  A robust life of worship and adoration is one in which gestures, movements, colors, hymns, and more each have a defined part of the whole fabric of common life.

It is easy to make an idol of such things – I have watched with a mix of amusement and horror as discussions of where and when a sub-deacon holds the paten during mass went into a toxic overdrive.  Yet, to not have some understanding of the form and function of varying aspects of liturgy creates a scenario in which a group of people gathers with only a vague sense as to why they are gathered at all.

Worship is first and foremost worship – it is the lovingly rendered adoration of God.  Worship that is attentive with out being pendantically punctilious gives space for all to enter the space with both a sense of their first purpose for being together as well as the grace to focus on the essentials when things seem to go wrong.  It is often when things go “wrong” that the character of a worshiping community is revealed.  Are people gentle with each other when mistakes are made?  Can the congregation see the error yet not be distracted from their focus on God?

This grace comes with practice – great musicians can “go with the flow” when they have made patient study of source material and have practiced again and again.

When we study and seek to understand the forms of the rite we are better able to understand the deeper teachings of the shape of the liturgy.  In a tradition in which we believe external things (bread, wine, and water) communicate essential deeper truth we are bound to the study of the externals of our common life.  While a discussion of color might go deeply awry when its primary concern is the attractiveness or lack thereof of the choices that same discussion might become profound when its focus is on the deeper revelation of the choice.

Might a discussion of purple or blue for Lent not rest so much on what an individual or a congregation likes but on what the deeper meaning of Advent is?  Could a congregation benefit from a discussion of the themes of repentance that purple might communicate with its obvious connection to Lent?  Could the same congregation be enriched by a focus on the Marian themes of Advent (and the frequent use of blue for Marian feasts)?

divine_liturgy_serbian_monasterySo much in parish life is not so much about the conversations themselves but about the way in which we engage the conversations.  In a tradition that spans broad, low, and high (whatever those might mean nowadays) practice and theology there is enormous value in establishing and understanding those elements of our common practice (or where we diverge).  These external markers help shape and mold parish identity and congregational ethos.  They also mark in particular ways both the shifting of the Church year and those things which are so essential that they never change.

This year, our interim dean, Fr Patrick Malloy has been leading a parish-wide discussion on Sunday mornings about liturgy, tradition, and Sacramental theology.  The parish hall is jammed with people every Sunday who are yearning to learn more about the tradition and our Anglican identity within the Catholic spectrum.  They are coming for discussions that range from the biggest of big pictures (what is a ritual) to the most focused of topics (why do we chant).

This focused attention on the externals of our common life has given people a deeper insight into the core mysteries of our faith.  For example, a discussion of the use of the lavabo leads to a discussion about the connection between our ritual and the temple rituals of the Jewish people.  This leads to a discussion about the Jewish elements of our faith more broadly and those things which we find in our faith that are direct inheritances from Judaism.

A discussion of the commixture and the placing of the fermentum in the chalice after the consecrations leads to a discussion of the nature of bishops and the connection of each celebration of the Eucharist to another – and to a discussion of the role of a Cathedral in the Sacramental life of the diocese.

Patient attention to our rites is a rich engagement with the mysteries of our faith as we find points at which we can more deeply enter the respective ways in which Christ continues to offer himself for us and is present with us.  This is an ongoing process of deepening our engagement with the worship of the ages – with those who have come before and to whom the Holy Spirit gave inspiration.  We enter the realm of holy mystery and immerse ourselves in the seemingly superficial so that new insight might be found at a deeper level.

The trappings – the décor – can be a distraction if we see them only with the superficial eyes of the faithless.  Faithful people are trained to see more at the heart of everything.  This is a sacramental imagination that finds divine promise ready to come forth from the most common of moments.  Meaning-making happens at a number of levels and a well-executed liturgy can be like a dance or any other work of art in which something of the Creator is revealed in the lovingly crafted work.

This kind of revelation does not happen by happenstance – though some may come and be transfixed by unfolding beauty.  There is a kind of deeper learning that happens though when we have taken the time to investigate and dwell in the mysteries to which we are heirs so that we find fresh life in the well-worn habits of the heart.

Perhaps we do lose focus when we get caught up in endless discussions of superficial markers of our common life – yet when approached with grace and joyful reverence we might find ourselves taken anew with the passion of a God who reveals himself in the mundane and the routine.


Waiting on God: Advent and Violence

A sermon preached at the 8:00, 9:00, and 11:15 am Masses at Saint John’s Cathedral, Denver on the Second Sunday of Advent.

Sermon audio may be found here.

When I was growing up, I stayed at my grandmother’s house quite a bit. She was a Roman Catholic of the old type – there were paintings of the Last Supper and of Mary around the house. There were copies of religious tracts around and she had pictures of Jesus with children, of Jesus with his disciples, of Jesus doing all manner of things – surfing and snowboarding I think.
What I remember most though about the décor was the crucifixes everywhere. In every room there was a least one and usually more than that. Her theory was that no matter where you looked you should see a crucifix and be reminded of the Passion of Christ. This may explain my fondness for Lent.
crucifixionAfter a while though, each of those images of the crucifixion blended together – you just didn’t see them anymore because there were so many. Jesus’s suffering became a kind of generic wallpaper and the overwhelming power of God’s self-offering was lost in the clutter of the repetitiveness of the image.
As I sat down to finish my sermon for today, I had all of my notes in order, a sermon full of sound teaching and theological rigor was just about ready to print. I took a short break and opened my Facebook page and there, at the top of the page, was the following headline, “San Bernadino gunman shoots 20 people.”
This, of course, comes on the heels of the shootings in Colorado Springs which came just after the Paris attacks which happened after the downing of a Russian jetliner and the attacks in Nigeria and Mali.
On and on the news seems to go. One day follows another and one mass tragedy follows another.
These tragedies, one after the other, have become part of the wallpaper of our society. Those many images of the crucifixion in my grandmother’s house did not lose their power because of their ubiquity. The crucifixion never loses its power.
It was just so common that I was no longer shocked by it.
Now, as daily tragedies unfold, I wonder if we are losing our ability to be shocked – to be horrified – by the violence of the day.
It has become so common that it is the macabre Muzak of our culture – the background noise of a nation at play that is too distracted to be shocked and too stimulated to be aroused by daily horror.
Over the last 1,004 days there have been 994 mass shootings in America. Repeat. There have been more mass shootings in the United States this year than there have been days in the year.
A mass shooting is defined as four or more people shot in one incident. 994 mass shootings in 1,004 days resulting in 1,260 deaths and 3,606 injuries. This is all according to the Mass Shooter Tracking website – that such a site exists is an indictment of our whole culture.
This does not count the general level of gun violence in this country. So far this year, guns have claimed 12,183 lives. 24,654 people have been injured.
The crosses are hanging all around us now – bodies broken, lives taken, and dreams shattered. This is not an exercise in statistics. Each of those numbered from the first to the twelve thousand one hundred and eighty third is a beloved child of God.


What number would Jesus find acceptable?  When would there be one too many for Jesus?
Perhaps Shannon Johnson, who died protecting Denise Paraza in San Bernadino would have been one too many?
Perhaps Nicholas Thalasinos, who just renewed his wedding vows with his wife Jennifer would have been one too many?
Perhaps Bennetta Bet-Badal who fled Iran in the face of religious extremism only to be killed in San Bernadino – perhaps one too many?
Perhaps Garrett Swasey, a campus police officer, who arrived early on the scene in Colorado Springs. Perhaps Victoria Soto or Anne Marie Murphy who both died saving children at Sandy Hook elementary. Or perhaps one of the twelve girls or eight boys murdered there.
Which one of them would have been one too many for Jesus? When would he have said, “Enough?”
It would be easy to look away – to believe that we, like Pontius Pilate, are not guilty because we do not do the deeds ourselves.
I’m not a politician – I don’t know the political answer. I’m not a law enforcement official – I don’t know the enforcement answer. I’m not a mental health professional – I don’t know the psychological answer.


But I am a Christian. I am baptized. And I know this – there is no collateral damage in the loving embrace of God – God counts none as dispensable thus he sent a son who would be a ransom for a captive world – for a lost and sinful people.
This Advent we wait. We wonder at the coming of Christ.
The first line of our first reading today could not be more appropriate as the prophet Baruch cries out, “Take off the garment of your sorrow and affliction, O Jerusalem, and put on for ever the beauty of the glory from God.”
Sorrow and affliction have staked their claim on us in the midst of so many tragedies. Yet we look with longing eyes toward the beauty of the glory of God revealed under a star in a manger.
Facing the chaos and rage of a fumbling creation – Christ enters not taking up arms to defeat the enemy but lying in the arms of his mother disarming hatred with love. Undoing anger with mercy. Releasing the hold of death by triumphing over the grave.
The way to the revelation of the glory of God was paved by the call to repentance as John the Baptist cried out in the wilderness. The path was being made straight and the rough ways made smooth as John called the people of God to follow him so that all might see the salvation of God.
He called those who would know God to repent and to be baptized into new life. We have pledged ourselves to this work of repentance and reparation. The coming of Christ among us was not only an act by which the Son of God looked like humanity – but an act by which humanity might more closely resemble the Son of God.
This is the heart of baptism – that we become children of God and heirs to the promises of Christ and are welcomed into his ministry.
In our baptism we promise a number of things.
We promise first to renounce Satan and all the spiritual forces of wickedness which rebel against God. We promise next to renounce the evil powers of this world which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God. We also promise to strive for justice and peace – to persevere in resisting evil, and to repent and return to the Lord.
Now is a time when we must renounce Satan – when we can say with boldness that the violence which is destroying the beloved of God is a work of the Devil.
Justice and peace are not soft words that we use to indicate the mildness of a baby in a manger – they are God’s claims upon the hearts of the faithful, the children of God, that we might have the courage to stand firm even as the Devil marches toward us as remember our promises, when we said over and over again, “I will with God’s help.”
It is with God’s help that we are called to name, renounce, and reject the works of the Devil – to stand firm in love.
At a funeral this past Friday, I listened to a reading from Romans which read, “I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us. For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God.”
The Creation waits with eager longing looking for the children of God to stand up – to let the glory of Christ shine forth in our lives and witness.
This is Advent – a season of waiting. We wait. Our communities wait. Our states wait. Our nation waits. Those who weep, those who mourn, and those who fear wait for they have had enough. Enough of blood. Enough of tears. Enough of Death. Enough.
Advent is here. It is a season of waiting. We wait for God to take action for the healing of the world – we wait for God to say, “Enough!”
God is waiting for us to as well. He is waiting for us to say, “Enough.” He too is waiting for the revealing of the children of God. He knows that this is Advent – and He waits.



We Believe? On the Limits of Inclusion

There is a discussion going on in a couple of places right now about whether or not it is appropriate to omit the Nicene Creed at Sunday services – setting aside the rubrical and historical notes for a moment the most troubling thing to me about the discussion is the notion that it is “inclusive” to omit it.  There are those who have gone so far as to call its use “bullying.”

This is where the notion of inclusion loses all fixed reference to reality.

In order to be included in something then something must have some sort of definable shape, belief, boundary, norm, or pattern.  The notion that if we recite the Creed on Sundays then we are excluding someone somehow misses an essential point – excluding them from what?

For all the talk about inclusion in the Church the sad thing to me is that this has become a cheap thing – we are too often not including people in anything more challenging, life-changing, or controversial than a New York Times subscription.  The only thing the Church includes anyone in is in the life, death, and Resurrection of Jesus Christ – the mystery at the heart of the Creed.

We are going to have fewer and fewer people enter our churches over time who have any formation in the basic teachings of the faith or exposure to the claims we make about Jesus Christ.  For those who have questions – ask away.  For those who doubt – doubt away.  For those who have trouble believing – please do continue to wrestle.  Yet, there are those coming through our doors, aching in our communities, weighing whether to accept an invitation – and they are not weighing an invitation to stale cookies and bad coffee.  They are weighing an invitation to something that upends who they think are, who they know others to be, and has reknit the very essence of Creation.

We are welcoming them to the joy of salvation.  Whether we recognize its lyrics or not – the Creed is a salvation hymn that expresses the movement of the Spirit over generations of the Church and lays out the shape of God’s interplay with humanity in past, present, and future.  This is a salvation that has been proclaimed from cave to cathedral through tragedy and triumph.  It has been sung of and whispered about.  It was fought over and debated.  Word of it is handed to us to pass on to those who come afterward.

Do I believe every word?  Do you?  Does every visitor?  It doesn’t matter.  I am not an ecumenical council.  I am not the canons.  I am not the Prayer Book.  I am not any of these things and neither is any one church nor any one visitor.  We can only be clearly, openly, audaciously honest about what we proclaim as the inheritance of faith – an inheritance wrestled over and debated over time and through the ministry and working of the Holy Spirit.

Part of belonging – being included – in an institution that finds its pattern and being planted before the foundation of the world is that it is bigger than us.  It claims things that we do not comprehend.  If it did not then I don’t suspect that it would be terribly compelling.  This mystery is what we are being included into – not into our local church.  Not into a denomination.  Not into a coffee hour.  We are being called to find our place in salvation history – in the unfolding power and promise of Christ.

So we say, again and again, “We believe.” It is an aspirational statement.  It is a claim.  It is a hope.  It is even a lament – a lament because we lose part of who we are when we say it even as we know that we are being caught up in a new identity that will shape and mold our being.  It is beautiful in its binding simplicity and its ever-unfurling complexity.

We say it together because we hope it’s true.  We long for it to come to pass.  We know its promise and yet we still ache.  We hope, and long, and ache and we believe.


For a good, thoughtful look at this I recommend Fr Chris Arnold’s blog http://www.fatherchristopher.org/blog/on-the-nicene-creed-in-the-liturgy/

The Gift of Joy and Wonder

Recently, Karrie and I adopted two young boys.  We have been in the adoption process for some time yet the news still came as a surprise (which we received while on vacation in Tibet).  We got home and two days later were meeting the amazing birth family.  Our life has been a bit topsy-turvy since then – yet in a wonderful way.  I have not really had the chance to write or even time to reflect it seems as this rather dramatic change in our life has unfolded.  Yet, over and over again, I have found myself touched by one particular thing – the fresh joy with which children view the world.

There is a tiredness to life that sets in over time.  Perhaps it is jaded-ness or perhaps it is ennui – whatever one calls it the result is the same.  Life looks less like living and more like enduring.  Having these two boys come into our lives has reawakened some sense in me of God’s redeeming work – has opened the eyes of faith.

Those of us who work for the Church professionally often find ourselves caught up in its turmoil and strife.  We become fix-it men and women – rather like those political hacks who get hired every four years to handle some problem or another.  We are expected to fix things and to get things done so that the Church or our church might persevere for a time longer.

This is all well and good, I suppose.  There are real problems that need tending and significant issues to be fixed.  Yet, I find myself wondering, if Jesus called children unto Himself so that new eyes and fresh life might come into the midst of those too weary to behold the life and light of the world.

I am perpetually amused (and even sometimes a little annoyed) by the barrage of questions the boys have.  Why are we going this way?  When will we be there?  Did you see that semi-truck?  It’s blue.  Why is it blue?  Where is it going?  Isn’t it neat?

On and on the questions and amazement go.

When did we stop asking questions?  I suppose we wanted the questions to stop because they annoyed us so we began making proclamations instead.  I think God would rather that we ask amazed questions rather than make exhausted declarations.  I think He would have us wondering aloud at the beauty of it all.  I think Jesus welcomes children because we adults get too tired.

If the Church is not the home of wondering questions – of even annoyingly persistent ones – then I am not sure what it is really for.  Those new to us will have questions.  Those who suffer will have questions.  Those who lose and who are lost will have them.  We will all have questions and we will all long for a place of new hope and new life.

Children see the potential of the world and of life.  They understand that what is spread before them is limitless horizon – they are ever on the cusp of revelation’s promise.  We adults, trained in scientific methods, enlightenment notions, and rational discourse are supposed to find firmness of purpose and possibility in what we see and know.

boy-wonder-1Yet, children know the world is suffused with possibility and its seams are pulling apart because latent grace is yearning to break free.  They see within tree and grass and tide and even within terror that more is there – more is just waiting to be held and beheld for the first time.  They step forward boldly because they are aware that something is calling and that love will hold them fast as they reach out for more.

At baptism we pray for children baptized as follows:

“Heavenly Father, we thank you that by water and the Holy Spirit you have bestowed upon these your servants the forgiveness of sin, and have raised them to the new life of grace. Sustain them, O Lord, in your Holy Spirit. Give them an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and to love you, and the gift of joy and wonder in all your works.”

It is only in a world of wonder (a world where true joy may be found) that Jewish carpenters (and us along with Him) are raised from the dead.

Crucial to the life of the newly baptized is the hope that they will receive the gift of joy and wonder.  My prayer for the Church is that we can recapture wonder – that we can live with such joy in our salvation that those we love and those we meet might find us asking questions, delighting in discovery, and ever on the cusp – at the horizon – of God’s unfurling and unending love.  May we be convinced that Love is holding us fast even as we are drawn to reach for more.


Considering Abortion: Dialogue and Dignity in the Episcopal Church

One of the inescapable and salient truths that comes across in Laudato Si, the Pope’s recent encyclical, is the powerful interconnectedness of the created order that is imprinted into the very fabric of creation. A loving God calls us to respond to his generosity with generous love and care for the whole order of creation not only as a way of passing on creation to those who come after us but because an inherent dignity is conferred on that order through God’s self-giving. We are to see in the world around us something created for delight which is to be delighted in and not simply exploited. Creation is an expression of God’s love that is to be received with reverence and treated with grace. This interconnectedness demands something of us.

I have read the work with a mixture of joy, shame, and awe. I take joy in this Pope’s willingness to put the moral force of the Church behind an issue with global and historic ramifications. I am awed by both the simplicity of his approach and the clarity of his thinking. I have been shamed in contemplating my own complicity in the degradation of creation and in pondering my own too frequent lack of action.

Yet another piece of the encyclical triggered complex feelings. A little acknowledged portion of the encyclical reads, “Since everything is interrelated, concern for the protection of nature is also incompatible with the justification of abortion. How can we genuinely teach the importance of concern for other vulnerable beings, however troublesome or inconvenient they may be, if we fail to protect a human embryo, even when its presence is uncomfortable and creates difficulties? If personal and social sensitivity towards the acceptance of the new life is lost, then other forms of acceptance that are valuable for society also wither away.”

Like so many, I have long been conflicted over the Church’s response to abortion. I once found myself in the company of those from one side who would use terms like “holocaust” to describe abortion. At other points I have found myself vigorously defending the right to choose and decrying the incrementalist encroachments on that right that have become so routine in so many places.

Yet, just when I think that I have settled what I believe, some deep seated unease returns. I have been generally unwilling as a priest to broach this issue. I know people who have terminated pregnancies. I know they do so for reasons that are complicated, painful, and distressing. They are people of faith and goodwill who long to follow Christ in an imperfect world.

I have had few qualms about speaking openly about my belief that the death penalty, torture, and exploitative labor practices are crudely and cruelly sinful. Yet I have come short in talking openly about abortion except with close friends and colleagues. Reading the Pope’s clarity has made me question that reticence. I can’t comfortably not have the conversation when the fundamental theological question is one of interconnectedness and our care for the vulnerable.

Many have been quick to praise Francis for his forthright declarations on the dignity of creation. It seems that we must be just as willing to hear his message with regard to the dignity of the unborn as well.

This is not an easy proposition in the Episcopal Church. We theoretically have taken Bill Clinton’s maxim of “safe, legal, and rare” to heart. Yet there is a general assumption that being pro-life is primarily the province of the retrograde and the reactionary. I’m simply not sure that clear division can exist in a Church that takes strong positions on dignity in many forms. When we speak so clearly on the fundamental dignity of LGBT folks, on labor rights, on environmental justice, on immigration policy, and countless other issues, we may need to welcome the voices of those who would call us to consider the unborn among those deserving of our commitment to their protection.

Interconnectedness and dignity may call us to be open to voices that speak for those without a voice.

This may take a wide range of forms and we would be ill served if we allow a zero-sum mentality to dominate our dialogue on this. For example, here in Colorado, many conservatives vehemently opposed the open availability of contraceptives to teens. Yet, from 2009-2013, there was a 40% drop in teen pregnancies and a 35% drop in abortion statewide. This was a success from a public health point of view. It was also a success if one goal is to reduce the overall number of abortions.

We cannot separate public policy and effective sex education from these questions. If we are going to deepen an understanding of human dignity we need to open the conversation up as widely as possible. Our primary concern can’t be the control of women’s bodies but for the kind of thorough public education and policy that makes abortion a rarely needed option. Legal solutions are not the only ones available to us nor is dualistic thinking going to help us arrive at a place where abortion is considered only as a needed option in extreme cases.

If we are going to take interconnectedness and dignity to be firm foundations in our public theology then we are going to need to have an honest, open dialogue on abortion that breaks open our desire for simple answers. A comprehensive, consistent ethic of life – of care and compassion from life’s first stirrings and beyond – should make this conversation one that we are humbly determined to engage.

I can’t say what my thinking about the legalities of abortion will be in five years or in ten. I can say with confidence that I will be disappointed if we haven’t engaged the issue with the eyes, heart, and hope of faith. I don’t expect us to find clarity any time soon but I do hope that our openness to ask the questions and to listen to voices we might rather ignore may help grow in faith, hope, and love. This is one challenge of interconnectedness – we need one another to ask hard questions, seek faithful answers, and to hear the still small voice speaking freshly.


One Lesson from China: Belief in a Post-Something Society

Sometimes I get asked what I would do if I was not a priest. In all likelihood there are two options – the first is an academic path in which I imagine teaching modern Chinese history – teaching post-Mao Marxist ideology or the like. The second option might be for Karrie and me to run a bed and breakfast or hostel in the foothills of the Himalayas, Yunnan province, in China. We’d serve a range of staple backpacker foods and meet folks from all over the world through the day. Having spent a good bit of time over the last decade or so visiting, studying, and traveling in China and talking with experts and cab-drivers alike I have developed a sense of what living in a post-something society looks like.

In China, there is a palpable sense of the desire for more. For some it is more money, for others more stability, for others it is more connection. Yet, across the country more is longed for. The old spiritual and philosophical infrastructure was torn apart by the Great Leap and the Cultural Revolution and the ascendancy of the economic pragmatism of Deng Xiaoping. A century or more of instability, starvation, and humiliation led to a country that was ready for a little pragmatism after the paroxysms of revolution, war, and more.

The Cultural Revolution, in particular, laid waste to much of the essence of Chinese culture. Old thought, old ways, old architecture, and more were destroyed, purged, and burned in a decade of psychosocial and political upheaval.  It’s difficult for us to imagine the costs of the Cultural Revolution. The Chinese economy and education ground to a standstill and countless cultural artifacts, religious sites, and historical treasures were destroyed.  

It was a complicated period but perhaps no more complicated than McCarthyism or the Draft Riots or other points in our own history when we needed to find enemies and conspiracies.

Yet, as Deng Xiaoping came to power after Mao’s death, he came with a simple premise. The government would maintain order and provide economic growth. Its legitimacy would rest on results not ideology. What happened next was an almost unbelievable economic miracle that continues to change China from day to day. Each year I go back and it feels as if another decade of economic change has gone by. Yet each year something else happens too – I talk with young people who wonder aloud, more and more frequently, “Is this all there is?”

When Mao purged Confucianism, Buddhism, and Christianity from the public consciousness it primed a reinvention of Chinese identity.  As material progress unfolds and the emerging generations are further and further removed from the political chaos of their parents’ generation and the mass starvation of their grandparents’ there is a desire to reconnect with what is most essential to human identity and specifically Chinese identity. 

Temples and churches are full of young people asking the most basic questions and even Chinese propagandists are talking of the Chinese Dream – something deeper than ideology or practical economic gain. 

Christian history in China is bound up with particularly cruel violence and conflict: the Opium Wars, the Boxer Rebellion, and the Taiping Rebellion all shaped the way Christians are viewed in China. After the second Opium War, the Summer Palace was burned and looted. Cultural treasures were hauled off from across Beijing by a force of British and French troops. The great French novelist Victor Hugo, writing to a friend, was unsparing in his report: “All the treasures of all our cathedrals put together could not equal this formidable and splendid museum of the Orient. It contained not only masterpieces of art, but masses of jewelry. What a great exploit, what a windfall! One plundered, the other burned. And back they came to Europe, arm in arm, laughing away. Such is the story of the two bandits—before history, one of the two bandits will be called France; the other will be called England. ”

The complex feelings many Americans have toward Islam now because of 9/11 resemble the emotions that some Chinese have about Christians. For the Chinese, the events of the 1860s are present in their collective memory in much the way that Americans recall the Civil War.

Yet Christianity thrives in China. “By my calculations,” writes one Chinese scholar of religion, “China is destined to become the largest Christian country in the world very soon” (Fenggang Yang, Religion in China: Survival and Revival under Communist Rule). “It is going to be less than a generation,” Yang writes, “Not many people are prepared for this dramatic change.”


Chinese Christians kneeling outside South Cathedral during a standing room only mass.

I truly believe that a similar, if less ideologically orchestrated, shift is underway in the United States. We are witnessing in a generation the erasure of a host of assumptions about what is or is not essential to our identity. Assumptions about racial and gender identity are superficial manifestations of the unseating of cultural norms and conventions. The place of religion in our society is changing as well – its norms and conventions are being undone. Fundamental shifts are happening at a pace that is jarring because it is happening at the new speed of communication – change is happening at the pace of rapid-fire text messaging rather than that of lovingly crafted letters.

A cultural revolution is underway here that is being powered not by a centralized authority but by our collective acquiescence to technological and consumerist desires.  The impact, however, will be long felt and devastating.  There are pockets of resistance and a general sense of unease yet I suspect that the harm will be done before we realize it has happened.  Look at the way education is being treated now as a commodity and students as consuming customers for some insight into what is happening broadly in our culture.

In some ways the change is barbaric in its pace and intensity. When the walls of Rome fell I wonder if those watching saw it as simply one more incursion in a series of them? I doubt there was there a decisive moment when they said, “Oh, we’re in the Dark Ages now.” I tend to think that little by little dramatic changes in succession are lost in a wave of significance and insignificance alike. There’s a shifting of the terrain and you look about and realize that the world moved as you glanced away.

The world is moving around us.  There is no shortage of blog posts, books, and essays on what manner of post-something society in which we now find ourselves.  Yet the fundamental search for truth and identity remains fixed.  We are a people who seek pattern and meaning even as our sources of stable authority and measures of validity change.  We still search for fixed points though even as we distrust meta-narratives.
One noticeable thing in Buddhist temples in China is the discomfort with proper ways to show respect in religious places. Some Chinese enter them knowing exactly what to do – they bow and offer incense and prostrate in precisely the right ways. These are older folks who learned these things in a way that was deeper than memory and outlasted the petty virulence of the Red Guards of the 60s.  Custom and meaning are inhabited in a way that lasts beyond change and revolution.

Younger Chinese come in with less certainty but more earnestness – they arrive hoping to find something there. They are not sure what to do, they bow and look out of the corner of their eyes and wonder if they’re doing it right. They offer incense but aren’t sure how much to offer. They prostrate but can’t quite figure out how many times is the right number of times. Yet they are coming. They are coming because they know there is more in a culture that longs for more. It’s counter-cultural and it’s counter-intuitive and yet it’s happening across China.

Unfolding around us in the United States is a great leveling – a cultural revolution.  Things which had been raised up are being cast down and yet I truly believe that all things are being brought to their perfection. We are being called to offer something ancient to a culture that is losing its accumulated and inherited sense of depth, beauty, and meaning. Fascination with self, celebrity, and status are going to wear thin though and we are going to look up from screens.  We are going to look into the mirror and ask, “Is this all there is?”

It’s happening now – it’s happening all around us. People are nervously coming into our churches, unsure how to act, uncertain as to why they are there, and yet they know there is more. In so many places we are a Church built for the generations of the certain – built for those who know the stories yet who disagree on the moral or the authorship or the details.

Many of our churches are places that reinforce the story as we like to tell it – massaging details for those who found the story lacking punch or promise at another purveyor. Yet the generation that is coming will not have heard it at all. They won’t come with preconceptions or the like – they’ll come with faint stirrings or with dreadful certainty that there is more. Are we equipped and ready to tell the story wholly anew?

Can we be the place that stands with faith and hope in the desert as the oasis when the thirst sets in?  What looks like collapse now for the Church is not really collapse – it is a return to nomadic faith – a faith that preaches to those outside the walls who find that living within them comes at too great a price. We are being given the chance to drink and offer living water as hosts at the well. 

The Church’s stability of the last fifty years has been bought at a high price as we have too often leased integrity for political collusion and social comfort. Our home won’t be the security of civilization much longer for the civilized world will have little use for us. An empire of distraction can’t really abide a source of truth.

As surely though as young Chinese are finding their way back after the leveling of Maoist excess and the apparent triumph of economic determinism – so too will we be asked to explain who we are and why we exist. We will be asked about our great promise – and we can really only have one answer.

We are the Body of Christ living, loving, and learning in such a way that people see more in us. I believe that is the moment for which we are being readied. We are being prepared for a time of wandering, a time of gathering, a time of story telling when we will gather not reflecting on where we were, where we once called home, but relishing the journey together as Jerusalem beckons again. 

 Along the way, people will come. They will hear songs of faith and see acts of compassion and they will come. They will see miracles and simple signs of love that will be remarkable for they will be real and not cropped on screens and filtered.  They’ll see our imperfection and our hurt and our questioning and they’ll come because they will hurt, and question, and be tired of Instagrammed perfection. 

They’ll be sure there’s more and we will be wise, in our camps outside the walls, to receive them with open arms for they will change us and they will be our future and hope for they will call us to share Christ anew.