Into the Night

I have a tendency to keep good company. I'm privileged to serve as the pastor of remarkable people who tend to often make more of me. I'm constantly amazed by the ways in which these individuals live out their faith - practicing radical hospitality, embodying forgiveness, and living lives of constant generosity and grace. While it might not be wise for me to admit it, there are many times when the people who belong to our church are more like Jesus than their pastor. I'm privileged to be the pastor of so many amazing disciples.

Craig and I chose not to go home this year for Thanksgiving. Influenced by high airfare and Craig's work schedule, we opted to stay home this year. We were tempted often by the idea of feasting on a turkey breast by ourselves - perhaps even coming to the meal in our pajamas. But, we instead were led to accept an invitation to share Thanksgiving with several church members.

We arrived at their home a few minutes after the appointed time to find eight people waiting for us. All but one are church members. They are all twenty and thirty somethings who have come to Mount Vernon Place in the last three years. They are individuals in whom I have seen the face and felt the hands of Christ often. They are people who live their discipleship in real and abundant ways. The other individual who had gathered at the house is someone I have met a couple of times. I met him first on a Tuesday morning when I decided to join the already mentioned saints of the church at our shower ministry. We shook hands that day. He then joined us for Wednesday night dinner last week, and he was at the house today. He had been at the church earlier today to take a shower and then enjoy a Thanksgiving breakfast prepared by other saints of the church. While waiting for a shower or enjoying breakfast he, along with several others who were waiting to take a shower, were invited to the same home where we feasted today. He is the only one to accept the invitation. I sat next to him at the dinner table. We talked about everything from scripture to purgatory to jobs to politics. We laughed. We filled our plates with second helpings of turkey and stuffing. We took delight in pecan pie and milk. When it came time for each person at the table to make a dish of leftovers, he asked for plastic silverware. When it came time to go, Craig and I offered him a ride home.

We dropped another member off first, leaving her on a sidewalk outside a quaint row house on Capitol Hill. I then inquired where this individual wanted to be dropped off. "At Mount Vernon" he said. We then drove towards the church and he asked that we leave him outside an old Carnegie Library - the same place where our congregation worshipped when our building was under construction. We pulled over to an empty building without a single light burning. We let him out onto the sidewalk and watched as he got out of our car and hoisted his backpack upon his shoulders. I then watched as he walked into the night and we returned to the warmth of our home.

If the truth were told, I suppose I should admit that there are many thoughts going through my mind. I realize that I have never taken the time to invite any of our unhoused neighbors to my home for a feast. I realize that I am often pissed at the homeless around the church who piss all over the church more than I am led to show the emotion of empathy. I realize that I cannot in a million years figure out why this person is unhoused - why this twenty-something person who could talk about anything under the sun today and then sit down and play the piano does not have a place to call home. And, I realize that I'm sad tonight. I don't like watching someone walk into the night.

I believe with all my heart that the table fellowship I shared today was a sign of God's inbreaking kingdom on earth. When I sat and ate with people who have so much and people who have so little, I realized that this is the way it is supposed to be - that Christ calls us to be one body - Christ calls us to get rid of our divisions or our 'us vs. them' mentality. But, I also believe that the ending of the day is a sign of why we desperately need God to come again. We need Christ to come again and make all things right.

We're on the cusp of Advent - this season of waiting and watching for the coming of Christ. We think of him being born as a humble babe in a barn. And, this image is perhaps more comforting than us thinking of him coming again. We don't always want to think about him coming again because we don't want to think about being judged. But, I need him to come again. I need him to come again and push through the fullness of his kingdom - that place where all of God's children have a place to call home, that place where the poor have good news given to them, where the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the blind receive their sight, and all is made well. I need to know that a different reality will one day take over and cause my heart not to ache as it does tonight but to instead celebrate because all is finally right - all is finally aligned with God's ways.

I'm grateful for this day. I'm filled with deep and profound thanksgiving for so many things. I rejoice for my church family and the people who show me how to live a life centered upon Christ. But I am especially grateful for Christ - for his presence in our lives and for that day when he unrolled the scroll and said, "The kingdom is at hand."

Come, Lord Jesus. O come, O come Emmanuel. I need you, Lord. We need you, Lord. Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Amen.

Defined by Generosity

Our fall stewardship season concluded yesterday. For the last four weeks, we have journeyed together through Adam Hamilton's book titled "Enough: Discovering Joy through Simplicity and Generosity." It has been a great experience to gather with all kinds of people from all walks of life to talk about what it means to live a life of simplicity and generosity. The conversation has pushed me to second guess many purchases while also forcing me to stand inside my closet, looking at the many things I have accumulated. I counted my purses for the first time, for example, but have not yet had the courage to see how many dollars I have invested in these bags of all shapes, sizes and colors! (Seriously, does anyone need more than a dozen bags including two pink ones and one green one?)

Our sermon series ended yesterday as I preached on being defined by generosity. Having been the presiding pastor at a graveside service for someone I did not know this past week, the thinking about the kind of legacy I want to leave behind was fresh on my mind. The thought of having a pastor stand and describe an empty or busy life when referring to me was a terrifying thought. I had been thinking all week about how I want to be described when my obituary is written one day. I concluded, along with many others, that I want to be defined by generosity. My mind is now creatively engaged in a process of discerning what this life looks like.

How can one be defined by generosity? The possibilities are rather endless.

One of the individuals in our study shared last Wednesday night how when he was 17-years-old and a rising high school senior, he learned that one of his classmates might not be able to finish high school in their private school. Her family did not have the money to pay for her tuition and she was being forced to finish at the public school instead of at the small Christian school she had attended for more than 10 years. My friend shared how at 17-years-old he came to the decision to use his savings and secretly pay for his friend's tuition. Generosity!

One of the defining practices that has shaped and transformed Mount Vernon Place UMC is the act of sharing coffee, snacks and conversation following each worship service. Every Sunday, more than half of our community gathers in the Narthex and lingers over a cup of coffee and something yummy to eat. For almost a year, the same person came early to prepare the large pots for coffee and hot water. She then patiently cleaned the pots following each time of fellowship. Not many people offered to help. I'm not sure how many people even acknowledged her gift. She simply did a job that needed to be done - a thankless job that made all the difference in the world when it came to our being formed as a community. Generosity!

I worked in seminary admissions for four years prior to returning to Washington. While at Duke, I got to know so many amazing people all around the nation. One of these individuals is a pastor in Florida. He has written many books. He is responsible for a large church with hundreds and hundreds of people. He is a busy person with a full life. Yet, in all the years I have known him, he has stopped often to name my gifts. He has the uncanny ability to make more of me by pointing out the gifts God has given to me. He makes time for me whenever he is in the area. He wants to read what I am writing. He has been a sign of God's abundant love cheering me on. Generosity!

From the place I sit in our church, I have a wonderful view of people coming in for worship. Two weeks ago, I watched as one of our greeters did not just say, "hello" and hand a first-time visitor a bulletin but instead actually led this individual into the sanctuary and sat her next to a church member who was also by herself. The greeter worked hard to establish an immediate connection for this person. When worship was over, I watched as another church member introduced himself to this visitor and then personally accompanied her to coffee hour where he introduced her to many other people. The greeter did not have to lead her into the worship space and find someone with whom the person could sit. The church member could have gone first to people he knew and catch up with them. But, both of these people went out of their way, going the extra mile. When I had coffee with this visitor last week, she told me how these two actions made all the difference in the world. Generosity!

We have countless opportunities to practice generosity. Imagine what it would be like if we all started to see what we could do to live a more generous life? I invite you to try a few things this week:

• Pick out someone in a restaurant where you are eating - a couple who appears to be having a dispute or a woman eating by herself who appears to be lonely. Tell one of the servers that you want to secretly pay for their meal without them knowing who paid for it.
• Call your pastor and ask who makes the coffee at the church each week. Ask if you can sign up to help. If there is a person who does this every week, tell your pastor that you'd like to give that person the month of December off so that you can make the coffee each week.
• Write a note of gratitude. Think about someone who has made a difference in your life and then take time to write them a note - a handwritten, stamped note - letting them know how thankful you are for their presence in your life.
• Rather than getting caught up in the consumerism of Christmas and the need to buy, buy, and buy, think about how you can give, give, and give. I know one pastor who tells his congregation that they can spend as much as they want on Christmas as long as they bring an equal gift to the church - a Christmas gift that is then invested in a clinic in Africa where lives are being saved through much needed medical treatment. This church has actually built an entire clinic with their Christmas gifts!
• Rather than buying gifts only for your family, imagine a person in your life who makes all the difference. It might be the person who cleans your office at night. It might be the person at the gym who greets you in a way that makes you glad you came. It might be the person dressed in red who you see picking up trash in the streets of the city. What about surprising that person with a gesture that shows them how much you value their work.
• When you go to church next week, work extra hard to find someone sitting alone. Sit with that person, introduce yourself, tell them how glad you are that they came. If you cannot find such a person on your way in, do whatever you can to find them on your way out. Your greeting them could make all the difference in that person's day and even their life.
• Walk through the streets of the city with your head held high and say, "Good morning" to everyone you pass. Try it on the Metro, too. People will look at you with strange looks but it will be fun to see a few people smile, too.

What else comes to your mind? What are your thoughts on a life defined by generosity - on going out of your way to share with others what you have been given? I'd love to hear them! Comment away!

Evangelism 101

Craig and I were on vacation last weekend which afforded us a rare opportunity to worship together. While in Washington, Craig has his church and I have my church. But when we are on vacation we always try to go together. It is a gift to sit in the pew together from time to time. It is an even larger gift to sit next to my husband in the pew.

While in San Diego, I checked out a few church websites in Pacific Beach. I knew that Craig wanted me to go with him to the Catholic Church but I was tempted to go to a place where I, too, could be welcomed at the table. When the investigation was over, I discerned that worshipping with my husband was more important last Sunday than being in a Protestant church, and I gladly obliged.

We arrived at the church ten minutes before the start of Mass. We made our way to the restrooms, passing a few people along the way. We then returned and entered the sanctuary where we took a seat in a pew about halfway back from the pulpit. We were greeted by no one during the journey to the restroom or the sanctuary. Not one person spoke to us. No one said "Good morning." No one said, "Welcome to our church." No one said, "hello." We entered as strangers who were hungry for hospitality and left as strangers who were hungry for a different worship experience. And, I'm still reflecting on the priest's central message of the sermon. He said over and over again, "Actions speak louder than words."

Indeed they do!

I visited a church where no one seemed ready to welcome a new person. I visited a church where no one seemed prepared to offer information or assistance. I visited a church where I was eager to find the presence of Christ in people since I would not experience this presence at the table, and I left with a void. Sure, I loved singing the hymns and I thoroughly enjoyed holding my husband's hand during the homily. But, I expected so much more.

Why is it that our churches cannot get the basics right?

From church, Craig and I traveled to Vons Grocery Store where we picked up a few things. When we walked in the door, two employees immediately greeted us. When we were looking for the perfect bottle of wine to give as a gift, the person in charge of the wine section immediately greeted us, asking how he could help. When we were still in the aisle five minutes later, he asked again, "Are you sure I cannot help you with your selection." As we left the checkout, the cashier called us by name, getting the information from our Safeway Shopping Card. I was not in my ordinary grocery store. I was a first-time visitor in this store. Yet, everyone made me feel more than at home.

What if we were to take a few cues from the local Vons and always have someone standing at the doors of our churches on Sunday morning, eager to say, "Good morning" and "Welcome?" What if we were to take note of the names of people who have signed the pew pad and are sitting next to us so that we can call them by name as we leave? What if we were always looking for a visitor, never taking a first-time visitor for granted? What if we were always prepared to offer radical hospitality to whoever walked in our doors?

Our sign out front says, "All are welcome. Come as you are." But our actions speak so much louder than our words.

I know we do not always get it right. But I hope and pray that no one ever gets out of the doors of Mount Vernon Place without being warmly welcomed.

Our actions speak louder than our words.

Keeping Connected

I should start this post with a clever list of all the reasons I have not kept connected through my blog. There are many excuses and many items on the pages of past calendar days. But, I'm not feeling creative enough to come up with that list. Rather, I'm pondering what it means to be connected to something else.

For the past 30 days, I have been connected at all times to a heart monitor. Four electrodes have been attached to my body, all stemming from the same sensor. This sensor has been in constant contact with a cell phone that has been (at most times) within 10 feet of my body. I've carried the thing around with me for a month. I have scars to prove that the electrodes have been attached to me as my skin developed an allergic reaction to the sticky substance that attaches them. I have been connected at all times.

There are times, however, when it was impossible to stay connected. I had to un-attach all the wires at shower time. There were other times when I mistakenly failed to bring the battery charger with me and the hours of the day ticked past the hours allowed by the phone. There were other times when my body moved too much during the night, forcing the electrodes to become unattached. And, there was another day when try as I might, I could not get the sensor and the phone to communicate with each other.

I was to be connected at all times. When a connection failed, I was alerted. My phone beeped. My sensor beeped. The company who administers the test would call leaving messages on my voice mail. Every effort was made to keep me connected - to keep me in contact at all times.

And it was hard. It was downright difficult. I hated the monitor by day 10. I was counting down the remaining days by day 5. My skin was a mess at day 15. I wanted to do whatever I could to flee from the presence of the monitor - to un-attach everything and send the unit back to the company who mailed it to me. But Lifewatch would not let me get too far. The beeping captured my attention. The phone calls continued. I could not get away from the monitor and the instructions I had been given on how and when to wear it.

In the 139th Psalm, David speaks of an inescapable God. There is no place we can go that is outside the boundary of God's presence. "Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence? If I ascend to heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there. If I take the wings of the morning, and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast," state verses 7 to 12.

There is no place we can go to escape God's presence. God is with us at all times - whether we are running towards God or running away from God - whether we are embracing God's call or pretending as though we can no longer hear.

I tried to run last week. I put my hands in my air and sought to tell God that I was no longer going to do something God wanted me to do. I threw my fist in the air and shouted at God, asking why God would make me stay in something I deemed not worthy of my time and attention. But, God won. God sent people into my life to tell me what a difference I had made in the exact situation I was seeking to flee. God reminded me through powerful voices of who I am and what I have been called to do - even if I don't like it. God met me in the exact place I was trying to get away from. And, I now am praying for an opportunity to redeem myself - for a chance to do over again what I sought hard to escape last week.

The heart monitor was a pain - it was a nagging presence that I could not get away from. And yet, that little machine has the capacity to help me. It has the potential to show physicians what might be causing me pain and discomfort - what might be pushing me to pass out. The pain might actually be filled with a blessing. Only time will tell.

God's voice can also be a pain. I don't like everything God tells me to do. I cannot figure out why God does not seem to listen to everything I say - why God is seemingly absent at times. I have not yet figured out how to mold God into the God I want and think I need. Still, God keeps nagging. God keeps speaking. God keeps affirming. God keeps calling. And somehow, in the midst of it all, I have grown to love this voice - to see the blessing that comes from this still small voice.

Thank you, God, for searching me and knowing me. Thank you for being with me whether I sit down or rise up. Thank you for never allowing me to run too far. I am grateful for the ways in which you always lead me back. Amen.

Never Walk Alone

I sat a bad example for my congregation this week: I went to the hospital alone. I downplayed the weight of the tests with my husband, allowing him to go to his own doctor's appointment instead of with me. I turned down an offer from a church member who offered to take me to the hospital and/or sit with Craig while I was being tested. I walked alone, and it scared me.

I realized as I was signing the forms that I had no one to watch my belongings for me if I were to lose consciousness. I realized that my husband would be in Fairfax and my other point of contact, my mother, would be in Colorado - far away from where my test was being conducted. It would take them a long time to be near me if something were to go wrong. I realized that I resisted the very thing the church should be - a community that walks together on mountains and in valleys no matter what. And, I left the hospital praying for a different reality.

I left praying that no one in my congregation would ever have to go to the hospital alone. I left praying that no matter the weight of life that no on would be forced to carry it alone. I left praying that no matter how sad circumstances might be that someone else would always be allowed to the inside. I left praying that my example of being so stubbornly independent would not be followed by others in our church or community.

Last night, as we gathered for our Wednesdays @ MVP to start the study, "Enough: Discovering Joy through Simplicity and Generosity," we talked about the role of savings and money. We shared around a table about how it is scary to think about

whether there will be enough for the rest of our lives. How much are we to save? How are we to invest for tomorrow? Where is God in the midst of this saving and investing? What is God's will for our money and resources?

As we talked around the table, one member of our church, the same member of the church who repeatedly offered to take me to the hospital and sit with me and my husband this week, shared what it is like to be a single person without children. He shared out loud his questions about who would care for him when he got older. The answer seemed clear to me as he shared. My mind was immediately filled with an answer, "The church will care for you. Of course we are called to care for you."

Can you imagine such a church? What if we really did pool some of our resources, welcome people into our homes who could no longer live alone, purchase a house where more people could live together, and take seriously the vision of the early church that is captured in Acts 4 where we read how the disciples brought all of their possessions together and ensured that there was not a needy person amongst them? What if we saw all that we have been given as not ours but as God's and really sought to be the community God calls us to be? What if we then extended this vision into the entire community, allowing our hearts to be awakened often each time we passed a homeless person, realizing with each passing how they are our brother and sister, too? What if we worked passionately until all people were cared for, until no one was walking alone?

Seriously. I never want you to walk alone. I never want you to be in any situation where you feel like you are all by yourself - no matter what the situation might be. I want to be with you, and I want our church to be with you.

I've been reading a friend's book. Enuma Okoro has just written incredible reflections on her life in a book titled, "Reluctant Pilgrim: A Moody, Somewhat Self-Indulgent Introvert's Search for Spiritual Community." I commend it to your reading, and she'll be in DC on Tuesday night to read from her book (email me for more information).

Listen to what Enuma writes, "I think that's what grace is, that God is sort of stalking us and preparing us in small yet significant ways for the shock of becoming church and trying to live into the absurdity of church. Really it's not normal. We do not naturally group ourselves with strangers who are different from us in so many visible and not so visible ways. We do not readily give up the things we want in order to provide for people we don't know or even necessarily like. We do not give our time, resources and privacy to just anyone. But that's what church calls us to do and that's why I have such a hard time with it..." (48).

I have a hard time with it, too. I am perhaps the most independent person I know. I am not naturally inclined to lean on others or to accept their offers for help. I am not naturally inclined to living community to its fullest. But, I'm letting you in on a secret today. I need you just as much as you need others.

Please promise me one thing.

Promise me that you will never walk alone.

Warning Signs

I was admitted to the hospital yesterday, branded with a white bracelet that stated my name and birth date and another red bracelet that branded me as one with an allergy. Each step of the branding process brought about different words of warning, caution and comfort, letting me know that the tests I was about to undergo were serious tests. It was not a casual procedure conducted in a doctor's office. Rather, I was a patient - a patient who was admitted with rights and responsibilities and countless things to think about.

I arrived at 7:00 for the check-in procedures. I was ushered over to a kind woman's desk. She entered the information on my insurance card and then asked me a series of questions before inviting me to complete different forms. The first form asked for who to contact in the event that I became unresponsive during the procedure. I carefully printed my husband's contact information along with that of my mother. She then handed me a form that encouraged me to leave all of my belongings with a loved one. "Please do not take any valuables with you into the hospital. The hospital is not liable for any lost belongings." Right, I thought to myself as I looked at my large work bag packed with my calendar and sermon books and my purse sitting next to it. She then asked me what my religious preferences are. "I'm a pastor," I said. "I don't really need a chaplain," I shared before thinking about how ignorant the response was. Everyone needs a chaplain while in the hospital! Then she asked if I wanted to be added to the visitation list, allowing others to know where I was so that they could visit me if given a room. "Of course," I said, thinking of how much visitors meant to me when I was in the hospital this summer.

When the admitting process was over, I gathered my large bags and was given a pager like the ones assigned at the Cheesecake Factory when all the tables are taken. I went to the bathroom and had not even finished my business when the pager started to sound. I reported back to the main desk and was told to go to the 4th floor where I encountered a gentleman waiting for me. He led me into a room, made me as comfortable as possible, and then carefully applied all kinds of goop to my head for my EEG. He explained each step and when the EEG was over, I was escorted to the 3rd floor, sporting a head full of wires along the way.

Once on the 3rd floor I was ushered into the tilt table test room and given another form to complete. This form had much more serious consequences. It alerted me to the fact that some people (could have been only 1 or 2) had died because of the procedure I was having. She made sure I had not eaten anything that day and then asked me to sign.

I signed my life away.

I was told not to worry about anything.

I was encouraged to leave my possessions behind.

I was assured a community surrounding me.

I was told to let go and trust that everything would be okay.

I was informed of the importance of what I was doing even though there could be consequences.

Sounds a lot like discipleship to me - discipleship at its best.

Sounds a lot like church to me - church at its best.

I don't think our commitment to follow Jesus and to be part of a church community is a casual commitment. I believe it is a commitment that is designed to demand our very best - one that is designed to change us, transform us and lighten our load as we let go of some things in order to embrace a heavy cross. We are encouraged to sign our lives away - to offer them into the hands of the potter who will shape and reshape us until we molded into the people this potter intends us to be. We are encouraged to let go of our possessions - the disciples were told to take nothing for their journey. We are called to let go of anything that is not really necessary (don't worry, like you I am still working on this one). We are called to surround each other with a community that will be present no matter what - which means that we can count on this community despite the circumstances of life we are enduring but also means that we are called to be present and part of the community despite the circumstances of life we are enduring. And, we are informed often of how there may be consequences to following Jesus - we may lose friends, we may discover that we're surrounded by wolves when we feel like a lonely sheep, we may see just how heavy the cross is, and the road may not be an easy one to travel even with Jesus leading the way. But, we may also see the power that comes when we trust in God and gather as a community - something extraordinary might happen. Healing may be made manifest before our eyes. The lame may walk. The lepers may be cleansed. The blind may see. The poor may have good news brought to them. Something remarkable happens when we are branded and have the courage to actually live out our baptism.

Annie Dillard offers what continues to be one of my favorite words on the church and discipleship. She writes,

"On the whole, I do not find Christians, outside the catacombs, sufficiently sensible of the conditions. Does any-one have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear ladies' straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping god may wake some day and take offense, or the waking god may draw us out to where we can never return." (Teaching a Stone to Talk, Harper & Row, 1982)

Give me a helmet. I'm ready to sign my life away. What about you?

A Powerful Essay and Letter

A friend of mine shared a blog with me today. The beginning words are powerful. The letter to her son made me laugh and cry. I commend it to you here. Seriously, take time to read this post, please.

Open for Change

My 20th high school reunion was last weekend. Several hundred people gathered in Columbia, Missouri to celebrate and remember their time at Rock Bridge and Hickman High High Schools. I received the invitation along with an email from a Facebook friend who encouraged me to go, but I never intended to go. I don't think much about high school. I keep in touch with high school friends only via Facebook. Rather than thinking about high school, I seek to keep those memories locked in a box that is rarely opened.

High school was a painful experience for me. It seemed as though there were two choices during high school - I could try hard to keep up with the Jones - the kids who had great clothes, drove fancy cars and gathered at the local swim club or country club for fun. I could try to keep up with a select group of people who were always invited to the parties even though I rarely made the list. I could put myself in a place of pain and disappointment. Or, I could coast on the sidelines and engage my time and energy in other places. I chose the later.

High school was a painful experience for me. I was surrounded by people who I grew up with from the second grade - the same people who picked on me while riding the yellow school bus while never picking me for their teams in gym class. I was in class with the same individuals who had teased me for most of my life for being the kid who weighed the most. I grew up with the people who always reminded me of how I was out while they were in.

I now have several Facebook friends from Columbia. I take delight in discovering where we are in life, becoming familiar with where our life journeys have led us. I have so enjoyed seeing pictures on Facebook this week from the reunion. I keep wondering how much people have changed. Had I traveled to Missouri last weekend, would I still feel like an outsider? Would anyone have worked any differently to make me feel included? Would I have arrived in a way reminiscent of my prom night - with only one friend and a date from the outside because no one on the inside really seemed to make a genuine connection?

What really changes in life? Are people and institutions open for change or are we all the same?

I was visiting one of our church members this week who resides in a retirement home where I have gotten to know the chief administrator. On my way to visit our member, I stopped to say 'hello' when I noticed the administrator's office door was open. We caught up on life and talked about the member I was going to see. She then asked me about the church, and I shared what was happening. I then asked her about her church.

"I don't go to church," she said. "I'm a relapsed Catholic who has not been to church in years." She then continued, "But I have heard that there are a few churches open to people like me. A lot of my friends tell me to go to the Unitarian church." I responded by telling her how she was welcome at our church. I shared how our church was different - how we had intentionally made a decision to welcome all people - especially LGBT people. She looked at me in disbelief and then said, "Well maybe I'll make it down there one day."

There are hundreds of people all around us just like this woman - "hurt-churched" people. There are countless individuals who have been told that they are outsiders from those who are inside the church. There are people who have been told that they are of sacred worth but not fully accepted unless they change. Our church buildings are less than half full while thousands of people walk by on their way to something else because the church has told them that they are not fully welcome - sometimes with words and oftentimes with actions. We have thrown a party each Sunday morning at 11:00 but have so often invited only the people who are like us - the people who live like us, dress like us, love like us. Oh how much the church has in common with painful high school days!

There are churches that are changing. There are communities of faith that are saying they are not going to continue with church life as we know it but instead make bold steps to change - to welcome people no matter what and to fill old wine skins with new wine. I have tasted some of this new wine. I love savoring its sweetness. But I am reminded all the time that we must go to great lengths in order to show people the change. Putting words on our sign might work for some people - but the best messages are the ones told by our lives.

I'm open for change. I'm part of a church that has changed and is changing in bold, daring, beautiful ways. I hope people believe me when I tell them of this change.

Perhaps I should have gone back to see what changes 20 years can bring.

There's always 2020.

Empty Church

I had the joy of worshipping this week in one of my favorite places. Duke Chapel is the place where I have experienced some of the most memorable preaching. It is a space where my heart has soared as I have listened to their choir. It is a space where I preached on the Sunday after my ordination. It is also the place where I was married. I love Duke Chapel.

On Monday evening, I gathered in Duke Chapel for worship along with some 500 or 600 other pastors attending Pastor's School and Fall Convocation. We gathered at the end of a day filled with wonderful lectures. We gathered to hear an inspired, renowned preacher. We gathered to worship. But, as hard as I tried, I had a hard time settling my mind and my spirit. I could not worship.

The space that is filled with so many memories did not speak to me. I was surrounded by hundreds of people, more people than I have worshipped with in a long time, but it seemed so empty. I stayed for the sermon and then quickly snuck out before the prayers. And, in full disclosure, I was checking status updates on Facebook during the sermon. I just could not make myself be present.

I've been thinking a lot about my reaction this week. How is it that the place that once spoke to me the moment I walked in the doors seemed so empty on Monday? Why is it that the preacher who has so much to say to millions of people could not get past the doors of my ears? Why is it that I could hardly wait to get out of the space instead of journey closer to the altar?

As I have wrestled with my emotions, I have realized that worship is so much more than the liturgy, the preaching and the music. These three things are vitally important - they are what mold us and shape us, drawing us into the presence of God and allowing us to see the beauty of God in different ways. However, I realized this week that I am unable to worship God without somehow being connected to a community of people who are worshipping with me and who will continue to keep me accountable during the week. I am not able to worship God on Sundays without knowing that our worshipful work will continue at different points during the week.

I had the opportunity to visit different churches this summer. One church sat on a beautiful spot in the middle of an incredible oasis. The worship was quaint and lovely. The congregation was diverse. However, there was nothing happening in the life of the church other than worship - the people were only coming together for an hour each Sunday before dispersing until the next Sunday. I kept hearing my mentor Peter Storey saying over and over again, "These people are just playing church."

Monday's service was designed to touch my soul, penetrate my heart and replenish me as a preacher. Yet, I could not get there. I wanted to escape - I wanted to run home fast to the community that is my church.

I might not ever see this community contain 600 people. It might be years before there are even 200 people in the pews of my church home. I have never had my spirit soar because of music in the way that my spirit has soared at other places of worship. Yet, there is something about this community that I would not trade for anything.

We worshipped together today for an hour and a half but I could have easily stayed another hour. I could have stayed until each person had an opportunity to share - until each person had spoken and been listened to. We gave thanks for a new baby today and prayed for a couple struggling with infertility. We gave thanks for a new job and prayed for someone who is grateful to go through another day without drinking. We gave thanks for for someone who is home from visiting family in the Sierra Leone and prayed for people whose temporary storage site went away when bulldozers tore down a fence across the street yesterday. We came together - this beautiful, diverse group of people - and when I witnessed our community again, I was able to worship.

I would not trade this community for anything.

Dear Mr. Phelps

Dear Mr. Phelps:

I took time to walk by the Supreme Court today. I went out of curiosity to see if your church was picketing your very own trial. But I also went to pray. I went to pray for you, the members of your church, and the Supreme Court justices who are now charged with discerning whether or not you are liable to pay the family of Matthew Snyder for the hurt you caused them. You are in my prayers often, Mr. Phelps. I pray that somehow God will change your heart - that somehow you will be led to love people instead of hate people.

It was actually a gay person who told me how I needed to love you. He brought me an amazing picture taken near a place where you had been holding your signs filled with hatred. The picture was of a woman who was draped in a rainbow flag. She was holding a sign that read, "God loves fags, trannies and even Fred Phelps." Yes, Mr. Phelps, while I despise your actions and the way in which you cause so much harm to the church of Jesus Christ, I believe God loves you. And, I believe I am called to figure out how to love you, too.

Mr. Phelps, your daughter argued before the court today that Matthew Snyder died at the age of 20 because of gay people in our country. She then continued to add how God punished Matthew Snyder and his family because his parents had divorced. Mr. Phelps, who exactly is your God? We both call ourselves followers of Christ but we seem to have met a different Jesus.

Jesus changed my life. The one who is my Lord and Savior taught me to love instead of hate. He told me to love my enemies and pray for those who persecute me. He told me that all of the commandments boil down to two things - to love God with all my heart, soul, strength and mind and to love my neighbor as myself. I am reminded often that we do not get to pick our neighbors. Our neighbors are whoever come near us - like the man who was beaten by robbers and saved on the road by the Good Samaritan. Jesus told me that I cannot possibly judge another person because I have specks in my eye, too. Jesus taught me how to love all kinds of people - especially the people who seem to be lonely, lost or left-behind. Jesus calls me to love. Where, Mr. Phelps, do you get permission to espouse so much hatred in the name of Jesus?

Mr. Phelps, I do not believe God punishes people. I believe we sometimes have to lie in the beds we make for ourselves but I do not believe that God is a God of suffering and revenge. God does not test us. God does not kill our loved ones because of something we have done. We might see glimpses of this kind of a God in the Old Testament but I just don't see these actions or characteristics in Jesus.

You have come close enough to our church once. You stood outside, across the street at the Convention Center. Watching members of your church, especially children who are being taught to hate at such a young age, made my heart weep. I'm not eager for you to return, but I wish you could see the beauty I see each time I stand in our pulpit here. Every Sunday, I am blessed to see an extraordinary array of people, and I would not trade the diversity that is so apparent in this place for anything. My gay brothers and sisters have taught me how to love and how to offer so much grace. The fact that they are here in a denomination that often says something else humbles me to my knees regularly. They are Jesus to me - Jesus with arms wide open saying, "I'm willing to forgive and give you another chance."

Mr. Phelps, we lost another child of God way too early last week. Tyler Clementi died because he was bullied by people who took part of his life and exploited it. He was led to a bridge where he believed his only option was to jump because of people like you who choose to espouse judgment and hatred. Mr. Phelps, will you please stop? Will you please silently go into the hills of Kansas and be silent? Stop protesting. Stop espousing hatred. And if you cannot stop, then please do not call yourself a pastor of a church. Please, I beg you.

The justices have a hard case on their hands. Like many of them, I would be so cautious about limiting one's ability to speak. The First Amendment is what allows me to write this letter and to speak in many other places and formats. The freedom of speech is a precious gift. But, you are not only accountable to the court. You are accountable to a higher power - one who calls you by name, one who formed you in your mother's womb, one who loves you and calls you to do the same.

Mr. Phelps, I really cannot stand you. But, God loves you, and because God loves you, so do I. Will you please, please, please stop shouting, stop hating and try to love instead? Let go of the shackles and chains in which you have placed yourself and so many other people. Come to the other side and experience the goodness of Christ. Come and meet the Jesus I know and love.

Again, you are in my prayers,
Donna

P.S. If anyone else is reading this letter and wondering if all churches are like Westboro Baptist, let me assure you that they are not. I am grateful to serve a church where all people really are welcome - where we celebrate the diversity amongst us - where we are working hard to make sure that LGBT people are not only welcomed but affirmed and given access to every other blessing the church can offer. There are different churches that exist. Please do not think we are all like Westboro Baptist. Please!

Keys, Please!!

I filled up my car with gasoline for the first time today since the beginning of August. The price was rather high at $2.71 a gallon but I did not complain. Rather, I gave thanks for the ability to drive again.

It was on August 16 when I was told not to drive for a while. I left the hospital with a certain diagnosis that was anything but certain. In fact, three doctors have since told me that I was misdiagnosed at the hospital - that the doctors were too quick to draw a conclusion with no substantial evidence to back it up.

I grieved for several days at the thought of not being able to drive. I spent a lot of time pouring through train schedules and bus schedules trying to figure out how best to get around. I bought new shoes and a weatherproof coat. I purchased an iPhone, getting a smart phone for the first time. I woke my husband up early on Sunday mornings, eagerly accepting his offer for a ride downtown. I inquired of a couple of people if they would be willing to drive me somewhere. And, I cried. I cried a lot.

I saw a neurologist a few weeks ago who first told me how he thought I had been misdiagnosed. He referred me to a cardiologist affiliated with the same hospital, and I went to see this doctor last Wednesday. Prior to my appointment, I asked several people to please pray for me.

I had a specific prayer, "Please pray that the doctor will tell me I am okay to drive again." I did not ask people to pray that we would find a specific diagnosis. I did not ask people to pray that I would be healed. Rather, I asked people to pray that I would have control again. I asked people to pray that I could be in charge of my schedule again with me behind the wheel instead of on a bus, train or in the car of another. In all honesty, the hardest part of these last six weeks has not been knowing that something might be wrong with my heart but rather losing control. I like to be in charge. I prefer being independent instead of dependent. I don't like relying on others. I hesitate asking for help.

The doctor granted me my wish. When I inquired, "Can I drive again?" he immediately replied, "Of course you can. There is absolutely no reason why you cannot drive." I rejoiced. I literally went skipping out of his office. I got what I asked for - but we're not anywhere closer to discovering what exactly is wrong with me. I got what I prayed for. Yet, there still could be something wrong with my heart.

We're good at asking God for control. We are rather proficient at telling God exactly what we want. We tell God how God needs to provide us with a larger house, a new job, a baby in our womb, a new best friend, control over a certain situation, a way out of some relationship, a winning lottery ticket, a better working environment and the list goes on and on. We tell God exactly what we believe we need. We're good at treating our relationship with God as though we are the ones who are in control - as though we are the people who know what's best for our lives. We know what we need. It does not matter what God thinks. And even when God gives us what we ask for, we so often fail to express thanksgiving. Rather, we continue the illusion of control.

But I realized last week that I may have gotten it all wrong. I've thought a lot about how I may have missed the mark in my prayer request. Perhaps I fell short of asking for what I really need - a clean bill of health and not the keys to my Jeep.

In Jeremiah 29:11, God tells Jeremiah, "For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future filled with hope." God continues, "Then when you call upon me and come and pray to me, I will hear you. When you search for me, you will find me; if you seek me with all your heart, I will let you find me, says the Lord..." God is working with Jeremiah, trying to get Jeremiah to trust God again. God wants Jeremiah to know that God has a plan, that God is in charge, and that God will bless Jeremiah. Jeremiah simply has to trust. God does not tell Jeremiah that he will get exactly what he wants. Rather, God tells Jeremiah that God will be with him and that the gift of God's presence will be enough.

Proverbs 3:5-7 reads, "Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own insight. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths. Do not be wise in your own eyes..." The wisdom of the Proverb is found in trusting God's ways and not our ways. The blessing is discovered when we let go of trying to control things, trying to figure out things, trying to solve each puzzle placed before us.

God invites us to trust - to let go of the control. God beckons us to turn the keys over and see where we'll be taken. God invites us to offer our full lives into the hands of God.

I have so often believed that I knew what was best for me. I have told God regularly what I need. All the while, I have often failed to pray, "God show me what you believe is best for me. Help me to relinquish control and trust in you fully. Show me your way, your path, your plans."

I'm driving again - but I'm praying each day that I can continue to relinquish some of the need to be in control.

My Friend, Mabel

I stood on holy ground today. It was not the ground I was expecting. I was expecting to be doing a regular pastoral visit, stopping into say 'hello' to my parishioner, Mabel, who has been growing weaker each day. I expected to sing a couple of hymns with her, laugh with her, and then pray with her after telling her how special she is. Instead, I was ushered into that thin space where heaven and earth collide.

I did sing, "Amazing Grace" to Mabel. I tried to make her smile by telling her how I had just come from Bible study and that Lois and Howard had asked about her. I told her how much I appreciated her and how much she meant to our church. I stroked her head, combing my fingers through her beautiful gray hair. I then invited her children - three of them were there - to come in and pray with us.

We gathered around the bed and praised God for Mabel. We thanked God for the things she had taught us and the joy she had brought into our lives. We thanked God for all 102 years of her life. We praised God for the ways she made us laugh by telling us that she is the one who had discovered President Obama. We also prayed for her children, that God would journey close to them in the days ahead. When we said, "amen," her son stayed in the room and assured her that the Lord was with her. Everyone then left, and I returned to say good-bye. It was then that Mabel entered the Church Triumphant, breathing her last breaths.

I stood on holy ground today. I stood in the presence of angels - a 102-year-old angel named Mabel and a great company of angels who came to welcome her to her eternal home. A colleague just reminded me that there are times when we do get to meet people who have been made perfect in this life. Mabel is one of these individuals.

I have written about her before in two different posts. I told her how special she was today and said "thank you," again. But, this is what I really wish I could have told her.

Dear Mabel:

Thank you for allowing me to be your pastor. You were chair of the Staff Parish Relations Committee when I first arrived at Mount Vernon Place, and I remember the first time I met you. You were so striking - tall, thin, dressed in a beautiful suit, walking with a classy cane, hair styled just right. You told me on that day, "You are about to have the best job in Washington." I believed you on that day. I was so excited about coming to Washington to be the pastor at Mount Vernon Place.

A couple months later, I arrived. I arrived with so much anticipation and excitement. I had a list of ideas to be implemented and could see how God was about to transform this church. It did not take long, however, for my joy to be robbed. The moment that I started to make some changes is the very moment the criticism started. Perhaps it preceded my arrival as people talked about my age and my gender. But, it got louder after my arrival. So many people questioned why I was here. So many people wanted nothing to do with the changes I was suggesting so that our church could grow again. But you, you kept looking me straight in the eye saying, "You have the best job in Washington. Mount Vernon Place is in the center of the city. Our city needs Mount Vernon Place. I believe in you. You are just what is needed. Keep up the good work." Everyone else seemed to be criticizing me. Your voice was one of a handful of voices that were filled with affirmation and support.

Mabel, I am not sure I would have ever made it through those first couple of years without your voice. It was your voice that I heard when I was ready to throw my hands in the air and apply for a different job. It was your voice that I heard when I was questioning why I was here. Your voice is a precious voice.

Our church started to grow. I remember the first time a group of young adults came to your home to sing Christmas carols to you. It was such a gift to bring the new members into your home - for you to see what God has done in this place. It was priceless to watch you look at the people who were joining your church - the church you gave so much of yourself to for some six decades. You told them what you told me, "Mount Vernon Place is needed. Washington needs our church in the center of the city."

Mabel, I came to your house often. I came most often because I believed that you and Holland needed a visit. You needed prayers. But, I also came because I needed your prayers. I needed to hear you tell me that I really could do what needed to be done here. I needed to hear you say again, "You know, you have the best job in Washington." I always loved walking into your living room, reaching over and kissing you in your chair, and then sharing time with you. And, I always left more excited about Mount Vernon Place than I was before. I'll treasure those visits for a lifetime.

I also remember Wednesday Bible studies with you. You were almost 100 and still taking a cab downtown each week in order to study the Bible. You got after people who left church early in order to go to a football game. You told us how much God loves us. You shined God's light so brightly and abundantly.

When Barack Obama was elected President you wrote in your Christmas letter how you were grateful to be alive at a time when all God's children could make their dreams come true. You were always fighting for what was right - always looking out for everyone - especially the people who were not yet noticed. Mabel, do you have any idea how incredible you are?

I promise to do whatever I can to continue to work as though I have the best job in Washington. You asked often about Wednesday nights, and I think you'd be so excited to know that Wednesday night suppers and studies are starting again in just a few weeks. We're reclaiming a tradition that meant so much to you. Like you, I believe that these evenings can be transformative for people who will come. Like you, I believe that one's relationship with their church can be the most significant relationship one has. I promise to be faithful to my call to Mount Vernon Place. Your church is growing again. We're attracting new people each week, and we will continue to seek to bring new people into the warmth of God's love and this community of faith.

We'll celebrate your life next week. My heart will be aching but my soul will be rejoicing. Your life - all 102 years of your life - is a rather wondrous life to celebrate. I'm so thankful to have been a part of it.

Mabel, thanks for all you taught me.

You're right, I really do have the best job in Washington.

I love you dearly. Rest in peace, my friend.

Your Pastor and friend,

Donna

A Call to Prayer

My commute into Washington is now done on public transportation. I board a bus in front of our house, and the bus takes me directly to the Pentagon where I board a Metro train. Twice each day, I see dozens of people in military uniforms. I pass hundreds of people running to catch a train or bus. I sometimes see protestors hoping for peace. Today, however, I saw a call to prayer.

I took the escalator to the top where my eyes were immediately captured by the image of two military police carrying huge assault rifles. The two men stood there examining each person as they came up the escalator. I then went down another escalator where I saw a third policeman with the same weapon watching as two very well dressed men questioned a Middle Eastern man.

It's not the Monday morning I was expecting. I hate weapons. I despise guns. Seeing these huge guns on my way to work on a Monday is not my idea of peace. I would have rather avoided the sight as the images ring fresh in my head. But I soon found the images calling me to prayer. I could not see the guns, the people carrying them, or the man being questioned without being led to pray. I found my prayers being offered to God rising like incense as I waited to board the train into the city.

Let there be peace on earth, God.
Let the day come when war will no longer be an option.
Let weapons be beat into plowshares and war be no more.
Let there be peace on earth, God.

Each day we are surrounded by things that trouble us. We see people and places that cause our hearts to weap. We are exposed to situations that cause us to ask what went wrong. What if we saw each troubling situation as a call to pray? The homeless person sleeping on a grate and the girl being prostitued on the corner of 11th and K can be a call to prayer. The man with a sign asking for money can be a call to prayer. The Pentagon can be a call to prayer. The Capitol can be a call to prayer.

Who or what is calling you to pray?

A Second Look

I have seen more doctors in the last five weeks than I have seen in the last five years. I have experienced being a patient in a hospital for the first time. I have watched as doctors have come in and out, trying to figure out what is wrong with my body - what is causing my body to faint. After a weekend in the hospital and a battery of tests, I left with a prescription. Craig and I went to the local pharmacy where we had the prescription filled, and I purchased a small plastic box in which to organize my medication. I then started to research the drug I was ordered to take every twelve hours. I looked at the long line of possible side effects and realized that this was a serious medication. Two weeks into it, I found my body absolutely exhausted, unable to do many of the things I am accustomed to doing.

I then went for a second opinion. I made an appointment with a neurologist who came highly recommended and who is affiliated with one of our teaching hospitals. The doctor listened to my words detailing my experiences. He then read the hospital records and immediately said with an expressive tone in his voice, "I cannot believe they immediately slapped you on this medication." He proceeded to share how there is nothing conclusive in my story or my records to conclude that I am suffering from seizures. He ordered me off the medication immediately and quickly connected me with a cardiologist to continue to explore what is known about my heart.

I have spent the last four weeks thinking that I am prone to seizures. I have spent the last four weeks on a medication that was wrecking havoc with parts of my life. I have spent the last four weeks dealing with what it means to not be able to drive before being told that I should be able to drive very soon - as soon as we fully discern that it is my heart that is causing my fainting. I now wait for another appointment in ten days and then a table tilt test scheduled for the middle of October.

A second opinion revealed a very different reality. A second opinion changed almost everything. A second opinion restored pep in my step and increased my hope. I needed someone to look at me and my records a second time, and this second look has possibly changed my life.

As a pastor who is seeking to bring about change in our church, I spend many moments hoping that people turned away by the church will offer us a second look - a second chance.

Pastor Terry Jones captured the attention of the world last weekend as he threatened to burn copies of the Koran at his Florida church. He claimed to be representing Jesus Christ, one who proclaimed love, peace and forgiveness. But his words made me weep. I have never experienced Jesus as one who would call us to cast judgment on another religion. I have never experienced Jesus as one who would tell me to burn another's holy book. This is not the Jesus I have grown to love and follow. As I watched Pastor Jones on television, I prayed for the people all over the world watching his actions and listening to his words. I prayed that all people outside of the church would give the church a second chance - that somehow they would be led to offer the church a second look.

Each morning when I get off at the Gallery Place Metro stop, I take the escalator to the top of 7th and H Streets where I am greeted by a man shouting that "Jesus is Lord." He stands and faces the escalator, positioning himself in a spot where he believes his voice will carry, and seeks to make sure that each person riding the three escalators will hear that "Jesus is Lord." I have been tempted to stop and engage him in a conversation many mornings. I have not yet done this, but I keep thinking about his actions. I personally do not know anyone who has come to know Jesus by someone shouting at them that "Jesus is Lord." I am convinced that our actions speak louder than our words.

As I walk up 7th Street towards K, I pray each morning that all who hear the words of this man will somehow give the church a second look. I pray that people who hear this voice will not be led to believe that people who follow Christ have only one task - shouting at other people as they get off the Metro.

In Washington, I know more people who are not connected to a church than people who are connected to a church. I am blessed with incredible friends - some of whom love the church and others who cannot see why anyone would want anything to do with the church. I pastor in a community where there are thousands of unchurched and dechurched people living all around us. I hope and pray that they do not allow Pastor Terry and the man at the Metro to shape their opinions of the church. I pray that they will come inside our church and take a second look.

Who are we? We're young and old, lifelong church goers and people new to the church, people filled with faith and people struggling to believe, former Catholics and lifelong Methodists, gay and straight, housed and unhoused, liberal and conservative, employed and unemployed, government workers and students, single and married, parents and grandparents, and so many other things. What unites us is a sincere desire to figure out what it means to be faithful - not in the shadows of sanctuary stained glass but in the streets and neighborhoods of our city. We preach love and acceptance of all people no matter what. We proclaim that all are welcome and that it does not matter what you wear. We have taken a stand to radically include all people, especially people who have too often been turned away from the church. We're trying hard to be church - a different kind of church.

And, you're invited.

You're all invited.

Come inside, offer us a second look.

Campaigning

The race for mayor in the District of Columbia is heating up. When I got off the Metro today and made my way to the church, I passed some eight different individuals holding a sign, campaigning for a particular candidate. They were all along the intersection of Massachusetts and Ninth Streets. I passed five different people holding a sign before one of them spoke to me.

"Good morning," he said. "Are you a registered voter in the District?" I explained to him that I am not a resident of the District but still own a home here. He then told me to have a nice day. I decided not to leave it at that, however. Instead, I shared a few thoughts.

"You know, you are the first person holding a sign to speak to me today? I have passed several people holding the same sign but no one else even said, 'Good morning.'" I then told him that him saying "Good morning" to me meant more to me than the sign he was carrying. I then said something that I should not have said. "None of your volunteers seem to really care about the people who are passing them. Are they like the candidate you are representing?"

Again, what I said might have been too much. But, I was so struck by so many people who did not even speak to me - so many people representing someone but relying only upon a sign without even offering a word of greeting.

The church has many signs. We have two crosses in our front yard - crosses that stand some seven feet high. We also have a sign that lights up at night - one that announces how all are welcome in this place. We put out additional signs on Sunday mornings, inviting others to come in. There are signs all around us. Still, these signs mean nothing if the people who put them up are not willing to go the extra mile to welcome someone. If our signs say that all are welcome but our actions speak otherwise, then the signs should have never been ordered. It does not matter how many crosses we have hanging around our necks. If we are not willing to act like Jesus, then the sign around our neck means nothing.

So often, particularly as United Methodists, the marks of a successful pastor are how many people are coming into worship. The fruits to which we are held accountable are how many people worship with us each Sunday and how many new members join each year. Yet, we could have a church filled with people - all 499 places in the pews filled - and if no one goes out into the world to be like Jesus, then it does not matter. What we do on Sunday is not nearly as important as what we do Monday through Saturday. And, the messages printed on our signs in the church yard are not nearly as effective as the messages conveyed through our lives.

I had my mind made up about the mayor's race before walking downtown today. I cannot vote in two weeks but I know who I would vote for in two weeks if I were still a resident of this city. Still, the people who I passed today could have swayed me. The way they interacted with me could have easily propelled me to tell others why they should vote for a particular person. Their lack of engagement spoke volumes instead. Their preoccupation with carrying a sign while failing to say anything convinced me as to why I would vote for the other candidate.

We are the body of Christ and individually members of it. What do our actions say about the one whom we represent? Can others see more than a cross around our necks? Can people see Christ living and breathing in us?

I pray so.

Happy Hour

We had a plan when we set out yesterday. After saying good-bye to Craig's mom and step-dad, we took the bus into Hamilton with the full intention of making it to Somerset Village. We boarded the ferry to the Dockyard, took the 30 minute journey across the waters, got off and took note of when the next bus would come. With 25 minutes to spare, we decided to walk to the local craft market.

We walked through the bustling market, taking note of Bermuda made goods of all kinds. When we stopped to look at some different jellies, a woman encouraged us to step outside. "You can taste it for free today," she said with delight.

We walked outside where we were greeted by many Bermudians eager for us to sample their goods. One person offered us Rum Cake with a huge smile. Another offered us a taste of Bermuda's main drink, the Dark and Stormy before giving us a shot of the oldest rum made by this particular company. We never made it to the jelly table as we were soon summoned inside a pub where the Dark and Stormy drinks were on special and a delightful person, Wayne, was entertaining with his keyboard. We got a table, ordered a drink and started to communicate with Wayne.

Everyone was in a good mood. Everyone was being offered an opportunity to taste something new. Everyone was being welcomed to come inside. Everyone was offered a true taste of Bermuda. It was happy hour, a time that started at 2:00 in the afternoon and ended at 4:00.

And, it did not take long to understand the timing of Happy Hour. The Dockyard is the place where large cruise ships are anchored. The ship right outside the location of the craft market was scheduled to leave at 4:30. Happy Hour was planned at a time when the visitors to the island would be most likely to enjoy one more final taste of Bermuda, buy one more bottle of Rum, take home one more Rum cake for an office mate, or buy one more Christmas ornament made from Bermuda glass. The samples were not for the locals - they were for visitors. The pub specials were not created around the schedules of the locals - they were designed specifically for the people who would be visiting. The atmosphere was carefully choreographed with the visitor in mind.

When Happy Hour ended, Wayne, the musician, came over to talk with us. He shared a part of his story and then asked why we were on the island. I shared how I was here to preach for two Sundays, and he immediately said, "I'm an Atheist." When we continued to talk, he shared how he had been all over the world and observed each religion of the world. He told us how he had read the Koran and read the Bible, how he had worshipped with Buddhists and with Catholics. "When I examine the way people live, however, I realize that the people who are Buddhists live a lot more like Jesus than the people who claim to be Christians," he shared. He continued to talk about the hypocrisy of the church and how he does not see many Christians being kind and loving, generous and hospitable, caring and gentle. When our conversation had ended, we all concluded that Wayne really has not given up on God - but on the church. As a result of the church, he wants nothing to do with God.

What if our churches spent time doing whatever we could to prepare for Wayne's arrival? What if each action and time of worship was prepared not for the people who always come but for the person who has never come? What if we created an atmosphere for the visitor like the one we encountered in the pub yesterday - where the very best was offered without price, where the locals were all eager to welcome and greet the newcomer, where excitement and anticipation filled the air, where everything was perfectly planned and executed for the visitor?

We gather around a table in our sanctuaries where all are welcome and no one is turned away. Wine is shared - wine that represents the very best poured out so that all might have eternal life. We break bread that is the bread of life. We pass peace as we celebrate our reconciliation made possible through Christ. We hear the story of how we are to care for the people around us - especially the individuals who are too often forgotten. We are welcomed - no matter who we are, where we have been, or what we have done.

I wish Wayne lived in Washington. I'm pretty sure I could get him to visit Mount Vernon Place sometime. And yet, I am quite sure that there are people like Wayne all around us - all around each of our churches. What will we do to prepare for his arrival?

In the Eye of the Storm

I've never been in the eye of a storm. When I lived in North Carolina, there were times when powerful winds blew. I have survived snow storms. I have been caught in a thunderstorm without an umbrella. But, I have never before been in a place before that is the target for a hurricane.

Yesterday, all that changed. Throughout the day, I kept looking at the Weather Channel, wondering what would happen if Hurricane Danielle were to hit the island of Bermuda. I called US Airways to inquire about the status of our flights. I talked with the lay leader of the congregation where I am serving for two weeks, asking if they ever cancel church. I have done everything I can to increase my sense of anxiety and anticipation.

All the while, no one around me is really worrying. None of the Bermudans seem worried about the storm. Everyone assures me that the houses have been built to withstand any storm. "Church will go on as planned," I have been told.

The above map lightens my load. The island is no longer in the center of the storm. The Hurricane is moving to the East at a pace I much prefer. I am thankful.

But why is it that we worry so much? Why is it that we allow one little thing to cause us so much anxiety?

As I continue to reflect on the last couple of weeks, I see the places where I have automatically assumed the worst instead of trusting in the best. When a staff member accepted a new position in another city, I immediately thought of everything that could go wrong instead of looking at the window of opportunity being given to the church. When doctors told me two weekends ago that I am not allowed to drive for a while, I immediately started to think about all the ways this limitation will impact my job instead of thinking about the wonderful ways in which I can share parts of pastoral ministry with more members of the church. When a Hurricane started to get stronger in the middle of the ocean, I called my airline instead of praying that all would be okay.

Why do we worry so much? Where is our faith?

In the 14th Chapter of Matthew's Gospel, Jesus has sent the disciples to the other side of the water. While they are in the boat, Jesus goes away to pray. We're told that when evening arrives, Jesus is still away praying when a storm comes. The boat in which the disciples are traveling is far away from the land and becomes battered by waves with a wind blowing against them. The disciples, who surely know that Jesus is close by, fail to recognize Jesus when he starts to walk towards them. They become terrified and conclude it is a ghost. Jesus then quickly responds, "Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid."

With these words, Peter, preposterous Peter!, pushes his luck a bit and dares Jesus to command him out of the boat. Jesus invites him to come, Peter steps outside, discovers that he is walking on water, gets afraid and then starts to sink. He is then immediately admonished for his lack of faith.

I have been frightened so many times in the last two weeks. I have been frightened by health issues that I have never experienced before. I have been frightened by needles stuck inside my veins. I have been frightened by medical bills even though I have insurance. I have been frightened by a hole in my heart. I have been frightened by being put on a medication that could have major side effects. I have been frightened by being told that I am not allowed to drive. I have been frightened by a storm - by a real storm in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean and by the storms of life.

Yet, I have also seen Jesus inviting me to step out and trust him. I have heard his voice telling me to not be afraid. I have been assured that he is with me no matter what. He has allowed me to come to this place of beauty in order to discover rest, renewal and extraordinary hospitality. He has surrounded me with church members who have assured me that no matter what, it is going to be okay. He has allowed me to spend this week with family - with some of the people I love the most. He has held my hand, invited me to get out of the boat and trust him. He is with me.

"Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid." Thanks be to God. Amen.

The Hole in my Heart

One of the things the physicians discovered last weekend is that I have a small hole in my heart. I have something that is rather common in individuals, a Patent Forament Ovale (PFO). Typically, individuals are born with these small holes that typically close after a year or two. However, some individuals discover later that the flap never closed, allowing small amounts of blood and other particles to travel from one part of the heart to the other. This passing through can actually lead to heart attack and stroke.

While hospitalized last week, I watched on a screen as one health professional created bubbles with my IV, forcing fluid through the veins so we could see if there was an opening. Sure enough, a tiny opening was found - the same opening already discovered and fixed in the hearts of my mother and a cousin - and I watched as the bubbles filled the other side of my heart. The doctors are not convinced that my PFO is large enough to be the culprit for my dizziness and fainting. Yet, I cannot stop thinking about this hole and its implications. A really small hole in the heart can wreck havoc. A really small hole in the heart can be the reason for major health issues.

In the 51st Psalm, David writes powerful words about the heart. He begins the Psalm by praying to the Lord, "Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; according to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin. For I know my transgressions and my sin is ever before me. Against you, you alone, have I sinned, and done what is evil in your sight." He then continues later, "Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me... Restore to me the joy of your salvation, and sustain in me a willing spirit."

Create in me a clean heart. These words are the prayer of David. A contemporary song invites us to sing, "Change my heart O God." The heart is a powerful vessel, and all it takes is one small hole to make the heart unclean. All it takes is one little ounce of impurity or hatred to cause the heart to be unhealthy.

Think about all the impurities we allow into our hearts - hatred of others, an unwillingness to forgive, being anti- this or that, our tendency to be judgmental, our preconceived notion of the other, an unwillingness to hear another's story, and the list goes on and on. All it takes is one little thing to get into our heart and cause it to not beat the way God designed it to beat - and the impact is the same whether we are speaking of our physical hearts or our spiritual hearts or perhaps even the heart of our churches.

What about your heart? What's the condition of your heart?

I'm praying for a clean heart. If the PFO is what is causing my health issues, then I want it fixed quickly. But, I'm also praying for any other ounce of hatred in my heart that is pushing through to be cleansed, to be withdrawn, to be healed.

Gracious and loving God, touch my heart once more. Cleanse it from any impurities. Block any holes that allow hatred or other impurities to pass through. Give me a heart that beats like yours. Make my heart large enough to love like you. Give me a beating, understanding, overflowing heart. Amen.

Touched by the Church

I spend most of my days trying to figure out how God can use me to be a blessing. My vocation as pastor is one in which I seek to be poured out for others - visiting people who are sick, comforting the lonely, offering a word of hope to those who mourn and being present when people need me. Providing pastoral care is a large part of my assignment. But last weekend, I was not providing pastoral care. Instead, I was the one receiving it.

The weekend started rather normal. I had a relaxing Friday morning and was getting ready for the rest of the weekend. I was starting to dry my hair when I noticed myself becoming dizzy. A few moments later, I was getting up from the floor with a huge knot on my head that happened sometime on the way down from fainting. I got up, placed some ice on my head for a few minutes and then went about my day. It was unusual but not that unusual. I have passed out several times so did not think much about it... until Saturday when it happened again with my husband watching the entire thing.

We called the cardiologist and drove to the Emergency Room. The ER doctor performed a few routine checks and an hour later I was being informed that my "room upstairs was ready."

"Excuse me?" I asked. "I cannot stay here. It's Saturday. I'm a pastor. I have to be at church tomorrow." The doctor looked at me with patient eyes, shared how I could spend the next week going in and out of physician offices or I could stay in the hospital and get whatever was happening to me treated as aggressively as possible with a series of tests. I obliged very reluctantly. And the church started to act.

I placed a call to a member engaged to one of our newest members who is a seminarian. I invited the two people to lead worship the next day. At the same time, my husband called one of our longtime and active members. When we hung up the phone, this person started calling people. He worked hard to make sure that every aspect of worship would be cared for. He must have made close to 20 calls. He invited a variety of different people to help with worship. He did whatever he could to make sure that worship would be faithful and inspiring.

When Sunday morning arrived, three different people showed up ready to preach. Three people came prepared to be used by God. The sermon was given by an 88-year-old saint of the church. Mary Elizabeth told the story of the Prodigal Son in such a way that blessed many hearers.

Following church, I was visited by three people. The church came to me. Jerry, Mary Lou and Christine came to provide care to me. I cried in their midst. I expressed anxiety about my current reality and some of the changes coming my way. They held my hand, comforted me, and cared for me. They were the church to me.

Calls continued through the week. One of our members left a message and then called back to leave a prayer on our voice mail. Cards have come with scriptures that I would normally read to others. Rides have been provided. My 102-year-old friend, Howard, had a rose ready for me when I showed up to Bible study. Hugs have been extended. Prayers have been lifted - countless prayers.

I have experienced the church - I have been touched by the church.

Mount Vernon Place is filled with so many remarkable people. Many of them have been coming to church for eight, nine or even ten decades. They know how to be the church. They know the words of James - that if one member suffers we are all called to suffer together and we are called to pray for one another. They care for each other. And, they are teaching our younger, newer members how to care for each other. They embody the Body of Christ with their actions, and their actions are teaching others how to be the Body of Christ. It is really quite beautiful.

My church carried me through last weekend. My church touched me with the hands of Christ. My church anointed my head with oil. They reminded me that no matter what happens, my cup overflows. It was a pure gift to receive the blessing of the church.

I desperately needed the church last weekend, and the church showed up in ways more powerful than I could have ever imagined.

How do people live without the church?