Strengthened by Diversity

Revelation 7:9-12 (New Living Translation)
After this I saw a vast crowd, too great to count, from every nation and tribe and people and language, standing in front of the throne and before the Lamb. They were clothed in white robes and held palm branches in their hands. And they were shouting with a great roar, “Salvation comes from our God who sits on the throne and from the Lamb!” And all the angels were standing around the throne and around the elders and the four living beings. And they fell before the throne with their faces to the ground and worshiped God. They sang, “Amen! Blessing and glory and wisdom and thanksgiving and honor and power and strength belong to our God forever and ever! Amen.”

No matter how many times I watch the video of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr’s “I have been to the mountaintop” speech, no matter how many times I read the text, I cry.

Every. Single. Time.

Because it breaks my heart to hear Dr. King talking about seeing the Promised Land, but knowing that he might not arrive there himself. Just hours after his final speech was filmed, he was shot while standing on the balcony of his hotel room in Memphis, Tennessee.

But, even knowing all that, I still find it such a powerful image: Dr. King, standing on the mountaintop like Moses, looking over into the Promised Land, seeing the potential and the beauty and the sheer loveliness of freedom and equality for all. I love that image, the mountaintop.

Have you ever been to the top of a mountain? There’s a mountain I love in Maine: Mount Agamenticus. That’s really hard to say, so the locals just call it “Mount A.” It’s not a long hike, and you can actually drive almost to the top of it, but from the peak, it is an amazing view. Green fields below, small towns dotting the landscape, the Atlantic Ocean a strip of blue-gray on the far eastern horizon.

Being up on a mountain gives you a very different perspective on the land around you than when you’re doing in the midst of it all. There is a feeling of peace that comes with that lofty perspective, looking so much farther into the distance than we usually do.

The last time I was up there, quite a while back now, I was standing on a rock outcropping amongst tall trees, looking down the mountainside, with a sense of awe at the beauty before me, and I thought, “How amazing it would be to be able to bottle this feeling, this perspective, and to take it with me when I head back down.”

Because, sadly, we can’t stay on the mountaintop forever.

I was talking with someone the other day about the deep sadness that so many people report feeling about the state of our world right now. We talked about what is basically the opposite of the “mountaintop” experience — the claustrophobic, frightening feeling of being down in a tight valley, hemmed in on all sides.

It happens on a personal level, with family dysfunction, challenges at work, disagreements with a spouse, addictions, illness (your own or someone you love), grief over a devastating loss.

It also happens in a culture, when it feels like the world is pressing in on us, holding us down with all of its distrust and fear and violence and anger.

This friend and I talked about how when you’re in those moments, it feels like you will never get out of the valley. You’ll never be freed of those fears and doubts and pain. This valley, it is all that there is. End of story.

But as Christ-followers we know that the valley never — never! — has the final word. Just as the story of Jesus did not conclude with his death on the cross, or his being placed in the tomb, so our story — as individuals, as a community, and as a world — does not end in a valley of confusion and chaos. It does not.

Coming out of the valley, standing on the mountaintop, we can see the Promised Land. We can see a vision of the world that Jesus came to save, full of people beloved by the God who created them.

But the “valleys,” the “downs” we experience are not necessarily evil. Because it is only when we’re in the valley that we can truly understand what needs to change.

In that final speech of his life, Dr. King said this: “… I’m happy to live in this period… We have been forced to a point where we’re going to have to grapple with the problems that men have been trying to grapple with through history, but the demands didn’t force them to do it. Survival demands that we grapple with them. Men, for years now, have been talking about war and peace. But now, no longer can they just talk about it. It is no longer a choice between violence and nonviolence in this world; it’s nonviolence or nonexistence.”

Standing on that metaphorical mountaintop, Dr. King saw a vision of a world where all people were loved and accepted, where differences did not cause fear.

One of the ways we can capture a vision of the future, is simply this: by taking a good, hard look around our world, and recognizing the places that are not in line with what we learn from the life, teaching, sacrifice, and resurrection of Jesus. We look at those places, we name them, and then we name their opposite.

Where we see hatred, the Promised Land is love.
Where we see corruption, the Promised Land is justice.
Where we see distrust, the Promised Land is reconciliation.
Where we see judgment, the Promised Land is compassion.
Where we see abuse, the Promised Land is freedom.

When you see something that makes your blood boil, your spirit cringe, name what it is that has made you so angry. And then name its opposite, as well. That is a part of the Promised Land.

And when we have been to the mountaintop, when we have scanned the horizon and have seen the Promised Land, we know the direction we need to head to reach that world of hope.

One of the “mountaintop experiences” of my life happens just about every Sunday at the church I serve at Plantation United Methodist Church. It happens in meetings and events and classes. It happens in the church office and in counseling sessions and on our schools’ playgrounds. In other words, it happens quite often.

That mountaintop for me,
where I can look into the future with hope,
comes from looking at the faces
that make up this family of faith.

You see, the people of Plantation UMC have been gathered in from across our world, from the Caribbean, Europe, South and North America, Africa, Australia, Asia. Native-born Americans and immigrants. Different accents and skin color and hair texture and customs.

Gathered in from across the political spectrum, republican and democrat, conservative and liberal, politically active and politically ambivalent.

Gathered in from across the theological spectrum, as well. Traditionalists and progressives, conservative and reformist. Life-long Methodists, brand new Christians, spiritual but not religious.

The scripture we used in our services this morning from the Book of Revelation this morning said this: “… I saw a vast crowd, too great to count, from every nation and tribe and people and language, standing in front of the throne and before the Lamb. They were clothed in white robes and held palm branches in their hands.”

Every nation and tribe and people and language.
Standing on the particular mountaintop that is
the pulpit from which I am privileged to preach,
I can see a glimpse of the beauty
and joy of the Promised Land.

I love what the people of Plantation have built over the years, and I never want us to take it for granted. What happens in worship and in service, it is still the exception in our world, not the norm. Even in the community directly around us, it is not the norm. And so this beautiful community of believers — strong in unity because of our diversity — I believe we have something powerful to offer to the people around us.

From that last message of Dr. King again:

“It’s all right to talk about ‘long white robes over yonder,’ in all of its symbolism. But ultimately people want some suits and dresses and shoes to wear down here. It’s all right to talk about ‘streets flowing with milk and honey,’ but God has commanded us to be concerned about the slums down here, and his children who can’t eat three square meals a day. It’s all right to talk about the new Jerusalem, but, one day, God’s preacher must talk about the New York, the new Atlanta, the new Philadelphia, the new Los Angeles, the new Memphis, Tennessee. This is what we have to do.”

God’s promise is not just for us, some day, by-and-by when we’re in heaven. God’s promise is meant to make a difference here and now. For the people right here, around us in Plantation. In Tamarac. In Sunrise and Lauderhill and Fort Lauderdale and Davie. Wherever you find yourself as you read these words… God’s promise is meant for that town or city.

We are called to be God’s workers
right in the community
in which God has placed us.

Yes, I have been to the mountaintop, many times, and have seen the Promised Land of God’s people coming together in unity, learning from our differences.

But… I have also been to the deep, dark valley where the vision of that Promised Land is occluded and where it seems so very, very far away.

We are in a valley time right now in our country. A time when diversity and differences are feared instead of celebrated. A time when instead of “us together” it is “us” against “them.”

Conservatives VS Liberals
Black VS White
Republican VS Democrats
Straight VS LGBTQ
Native-born Americans VS Immigrants
Rich VS Poor
President-Trump Supporters VS President-Trump Opponents

I could go on.
But you get my point.

I am not afraid of conflict. That is, I am not afraid of healthy conflict: disagreements of understanding which are worked out in respect and love and compassion for each other. Because of our diversity, because of the large number of deeply held convictions among us here, we will have conflict. It’s inevitable. And… you ready for this? It’s not just inevitable. It’s necessary.

Without conflict, without differences, without diversity, we will never be able to move from where we are now. Surrounded only by people who look like us, think like us, live like us, we become stagnant, proud, and self-satisfied.

Conflict — our beliefs, our convictions being challenged and pushed in a new direction — conflict opens our spirits and minds to new ways of thinking. It helps us to see more clearly what the Promised Land might look like. A Promised Land with room not just for you or for me, but for all of God’s children.

Galatians, chapter 3, verses 26-29:
For you are all children of God through faith in Christ Jesus. And all who have been united with Christ in baptism have put on Christ, like putting on new clothes. There is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male and female. For you are all one in Christ Jesus. And now that you belong to Christ, you are the true children of Abraham. You are his heirs, and God’s promise to Abraham belongs to you.”

Standing on the mountaintop, looking out into the future, we can see the Promised Land. From the view on the mountaintop, we can see a beautiful vision of the wild, wide diversity of God’s people, working together, challenging each other, unafraid of conflict, rejoicing in God’s guidance, supporting each other, embracing our differences in a bond of unity only possible in God’s love.

One last word from Dr. King:
“Let us rise up [this day] with a greater readiness. Let us stand with a greater determination. And let us move on in these powerful days, these days of challenge to make America what it ought to be. We have an opportunity to make America a better nation. And I want to thank God, once more, for allowing me to be here with you.”

Thanks be to God.
And amen!

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Fisher Price Jesus

My niece Emma was born after I escaped the snowy northeast for the palm tree and stripmall-studded warmth of South Florida. But, through the miracle of the internet, I’ve been able to see her little face and hear her sweet voice just about every week as she’s grown.

I especially love FaceTiming with Emma on Christmas morning. Every year, as the days grow closer, she seems about ready to keel over from anticipation. The snow, the lights, the parties, the tree, and all those presents! From the first moment she learned to spell E‑M-M-A, new presents appearing under the tree became a source of unalloyed joy.

By that wonderful live computer video, I get to “play” with Emma in my mother’s living room. She shows me all her toys, and tells me stories about them. For Christmas many years ago I gave her a Fisher Price nativity set. The cutest little roly poly Mary and Joseph you’ve ever seen, with a little baby Jesus. I love the fact that she and her little brother William still play with the nativity set almost every day. If you look closely at the photo below, there’s Jesus, tucked away in his cradle in the second row.

Emma and Aunt Hedy

Baby Jesus, in his little straw-filled cradle, has been on the little Fisher Price yellow school bus. He has slid down the Hot Wheels race car track. (He doesn’t do too well on the turns.) Baby Jesus has been dunked in a glass of milk (“He’s swimming!” she said excitedly before her Grammie rescued him from the drink).

Over the years, Emma has asked me lots of questions about Baby Jesus:

“Baby Jesus was in his Mommy Mary’s tummy?”
Yes, that’s right. (Well, sort of, I didn’t think it was the right time to correct the biology of that question. She was three.)

“When was Baby Jesus’ birthday?”
We’re not really sure, but we celebrate his birthday on Christmas, December 25th.

“Did Baby Jesus cry a lot?”
We don’t know, but I would guess that he did.
(Her then newborn brother was apparently going through a screaming phase.)

“Did Baby Jesus’ Daddy have to go to work every day?”
Yep! He was a carpenter, which meant he worked with wood to make it into chairs and tables and beds and maybe even built houses. (I didn’t get into the possibility that he might actually have worked with stone instead of wood. Again: she was three.)

Not too long ago, though, she had me stumped. She said, with the sweetness that only a small, adorable, long-eyelashed child can muster:

“Aunt Hedy, this is baby Jesus. 
He’s a little baby. 
But he’s a grown-up, too, right? 
He’s a baby and a grown-up?”

Uh. Okay. … You see, it all happened a long time ago. So, yes. He’s both. And he’s neither.

And, there, in a nutshell, is the weirdness of the Christian calendar.

Poor Jesus. As we approach the end of every year, we wait in anticipation for him to be born. Mary and Joseph yet again make the trek to Bethlehem, even though we know what awaits them there: serious dearth of hospitality, the grudging offer of a backyard animal shelter, the pain of birth so very far from home, a child’s first entry into the world amidst the smell and dirt of a stall.

Then — hurrah! — the angelic choir breaks open the skies to the abject terror of the shepherds minding their own business below. Just a few days later, we celebrate Epiphany with those mysterious travellers from the east, the Magi, showing up with gifts generally considered by mothers everywhere to be fairly useless: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Celebrations ensue, too much eggnog is drunk, family fights break out over politics, Christmas wrapping paper is recycled, and, eventually, all the guests go home.

The next major church-going holiday isn’t until months later: Easter. For the ramp-up to that celebration, we remember how Jesus was betrayed, beaten, mocked, tortured, hung until he died on a cross, and his body respectfully stowed away in a temporary tomb.

Then, in the darkness of Easter morning, to the surprise of his despairing and grieving followers, Jesus is joyfully restored to the world, resurrected. He continues to teach and guide, then is taken up to heaven while his friends watch with gapingly dropped jaws.

A few more months go by, the weather turns cooler, and that resurrected Jesus is back in Mary’s womb, again awaiting birth in that stable in Bethlehem.

Birth … Death … Darkness … Resurrection … Darkness … Birth … and on.

“Aunt Hedy, this is baby Jesus. He’s a little baby. But he’s a grown-up, too, right? He’s a baby and a grown-up?”

Baby Jesus on the Laptop

The lectionary’s calendar of scripture readings for today (December 11th) include these opening verses of Psalm 126:

When the Lord brought back his exiles to Jerusalem,

    it was like a dream!

We were filled with laughter,

    and we sang for joy.

And the other nations said,

   “What amazing things the Lord has done for them.”

Yes, the Lord has done amazing things for us!

   What joy!
Restore our fortunes, Lord,

    as streams renew the desert.

Those who plant in tears

    will harvest with shouts of joy.

They weep as they go to plant their seed,
   but they sing as they return with the harvest.

Like our Christian calendar, the psalm begins with joy — worshippers returning to the holy city — then quickly turns to weeping and a need for restoration. But even within that darkness, there is a promise that the weeping will not last, and singing will return.

Joy … Tears … Joy … Weeping … Joy … Tears … and on.

That’s kind of the way it works in life, isn’t it? Not just in the Christian calendar, or in the Psalms, but in our real, walking around, everyday life. In our country, in our world, in our families, in our spirits, we cycle through. We go through times of darkness, times of uncertainty and fear and doubt. We go through times of light, times of clarity and certainty and hope. And back and forth. And forth and back. And back and forth again.

Our cycle of remembrance in the Christian year helps us to acknowledge both the darkness that still swirls around us, but also to recognize that we live in a post-Christmas, post-Easter reality, where God is constantly making things new.

Joy from the tears.
Singing from the weeping.
Light from the darkness.

We remember that on that first Christmas morning, God became one of us, coming right down into our darkness, into our confused, messed-up world. In spite of the consequences of that decision, in spite of all that would happen to Jesus as he lived his too-short decades as a human being. In spite of all that — the birth, the joys, the tears, the weeping, the death — in spite of all that, on Christmas morning, God came down to earth.

This is baby Jesus.
He’s a little baby.
But he’s a grown-up, too.
He’s a baby and a grown-up.

Yes, he is.
Thanks be to God.

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It’s About Grace


[Week 1 in the GRATEFUL sermon series at Plantation United Methodist Church]

Psalm 100 (New Living Translation)
Shout with joy to the Lord, all the earth! Worship the Lord with gladness. Come before him, singing with joy. Acknowledge that the Lord is God! He made us, and we are his. We are his people, the sheep of his pasture. Enter his gates with thanksgiving; go into his courts with praise. Give thanks to him and praise his name. For the Lord is good. His unfailing love continues forever, and his faithfulness continues to each generation.

One of my first jobs after college was in the non-credit programming office at a local community college. On my first day there, my new boss called me into her office to pass on what she, no doubt, believed was sage, wise advice. She told me, her newly minted program assistant, that I should never, for any reason, in any circumstance, say “thank you” to someone.

In her office, thank you’s were forbidden, prohibited, banned. No verbal thank you’s, definitely none in writing.

“If you say thank you to someone,” she advised with a very serious expression, “you’ve admitted that you are obligated to them, that they’ve done something for you that you couldn’t do for yourself. Don’t ever put yourself in that position.”

(Needless to say, it wasn’t a super happy place to work.)

I’ve never forgotten her advice though, and have thought back to it many times over the years. Saying “thank you,” admitting gratitude, is putting yourself in someone else’s debt.

What she was so against was creating a “benefactor/beneficiary” relationship.

Benefactor BeneficiaryIn this, the benefactor gives something to, does something for a person, the beneficiary. When the beneficiary receives that something, he or she is now obligated to the benefactor. There is a difference in power here, you see. The more powerful benefactor, the one with superior resources, has condescended to use his/her power to assist little needy me. And now I have to — am required to — show gratitude for their kindness.

In this scenario, the benefactor, that powerful giver of gifts, gives expecting something back in return. It’s not a free gift. It’s a gift with some serious strings attached. I now owe the benefactor.

You may have heard this relationship referred to as quid pro quo, from Latin, meaning “something for something.”

I think one of the best examples of quid pro quo is the little plastic card I keep in my wallet. This card represents a contract between me and a credit card company. That company allows me to borrow money from them to buy stuff.

Do they make that money available to me
out of the goodness of their hearts?
Do they do it because they love me?

No, of course not.

They give because they expect something in return. And what they’re actually hoping is that I won’t be able to pay it all back right away, because then they get more out of the relationship — they get to charge me interest. For some cards, a really, really high interest.

The credit card company has the resources, the power. Entering into a contract puts me in that lower position of beneficiary.

I can see where it would be very, very easy to see our relationship with God in this way. After all, can you think of a situation where there is a bigger difference in power? God, the Creator of the universe, and… us?

For God to give to us, to care for us, to guide us, that is a pretty big deal. But this relationship? It’s exactly the kind of thing that would have terrified my old boss, that she would have deeply resented. This relationship puts us in serious debt. And it’s a debt we cannot possibly repay.

Our scripture today is from Psalm 100. In it, there are seven commands, seven orders or instructions:

Shout with joy to the Lord, all the earth!
Worship the Lord with gladness.
Come before him, singing with joy.
Acknowledge that the Lord is God! …
Enter his gates with thanksgiving;
go into his courts with praise.
Give thanks to him and praise his name.

I have spoken with many people over the years who view their relationship with God as an obligation, a duty, a solemn commitment to which they are bound. It is a serious deal, somber and sober.

What then do we do with a scripture like today’s?

Come into worship “shouting with joy” we’re told. The underlying Hebrew word means to call out jubilantly at the top of one’s voice. Enter into the sanctuary yelling out a bold


“Worship the Lord with gladness,” we’re commanded, with joy and mirth! “Come before him with joyful singing,” the Hebrew meaning to come up to God’s face with our voices ringing aloud.

“Enter his gates with thanksgiving,” the word for Thanksgiving, todah, meaning to throw, to cast, as an arm outstretched in praise.

“Give thanks to him, and praise his name.” Here the Hebrew, barak, means to kneel in reverence.

Come in to worship God,
we’re commanded,
with voices shouting out our joy,
arms thrown open in glee,
falling to our knees in gratitude.

I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t sound a whole lot like quid pro quo obligation or duty to me. It sounds like a whole big parcel of fun and rejoicing!

Because this relationship between us and God?
It’s about grace.

something given or done,
simply because of love,
a gift freely given with no strings.

That is how God gives to us.

“For the Lord is good,” our scripture reads. “His unfailing love continues forever, and his faithfulness continues to each generation.”

That word translated as “unfailing love” here is one of my favorite Hebrew words: hesed. It means steadfast love, kindness. But my favorite rendering of it is this: covenant loyalty. God’s consistent faithfulness to the promises made to God’s people.

Hesed is really important for us to truly understand what God has done for us, and what God desires our relationship to be!

God, infinitely more powerful than us, to whom we owe our very existence, came down to our level, right down into our messy world, our messy lives. God didn’t stay far above us, distant and cold and calculating. Jesus lived among us, teaching and healing and challenging and, with every breath, demonstrating God’s commitment to us.

And then Jesus
did the unthinkable,
the unimaginable.

Jesus, the Divine Son of God, went to the cross
to die for us.

On the night before he was arrested, Jesus met in a room in Jerusalem with his closest followers, and they shared a meal.

From Matthew 26:26-28: As they were eating, Jesus took some bread and blessed it. Then he broke it in pieces and gave it to the disciples, saying, “Take this and eat it, for this is my body.” And he took a cup of wine and gave thanks to God for it. He gave it to them and said, “Each of you drink from it, for this is my blood, which confirms the covenant between God and his people. It is poured out as a sacrifice to forgive the sins of many.”

“This confirms the covenant between God and God’s people.” God’s hesed — covenant loyalty — so strong, so complete, so absolute, that God was willing to come to earth, to become human, and to die to fulfill the terms of that covenant.

For you.
For me.
For people all around this world.
For people stretching back into time
and forward into eternity.

That is grace. Beautiful grace. God’s love, freely given.

Although I do remember and sometimes think about the advice of my old boss to never say thank you, I am deeply grateful that other people came into my life to teach me the exact opposite.

People whose lives reflected God’s love, and through whom gratitude shown forth in their lives, their words and actions. I am grateful to the people who taught me, so patiently, about God’s love, about Jesus’ self-giving sacrifice, about God’s purpose for my life. It’s quite likely that without their witness and example, I wouldn’t be here today.

And so, on this All Saints Sunday, as we give thanks to God for God’s grace, as we remember and celebrate the lives of those who have passed, we also remember that we are here today because people — from generation to generation — have passed on the knowledge of God’s love, of God’s steadfastness and kindness.

We are here today because we were taught, shown, that God offers us freedom and forgiveness and peace and joy in the midst of whatever circumstances we find ourselves.

And what God wants from us in return is simply this…

For us to accept that freedom and forgiveness and peace and joy, and to allow it to work within our lives.

God desires us
to accept God’s love,
not out of obligation or duty,
but as a freely given,

That acceptance is what leads to better, healthier choices in our daily lives, it leads to healing in our relationships, to peace in our spirits regardless of what the world throws at us. And that acceptance is what naturally leads to the kind of rejoicing gratefulness we see in our scripture:

Shout with joy to the Lord, all the earth!
Worship the Lord with gladness.
Come before him, singing with joy.
Acknowledge that the Lord is God! …
Enter his gates with thanksgiving;
go into his courts with praise.
Give thanks to him and praise his name.

And so, this morning, with the saints whose lives we celebrate, with our hearts full of joy and gratitude, we say…


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Tree of Life

Tree of LifeWoke up this morning thinking about the shooting at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Another shooting. Another place of safety violated. Another community rocked to its core. More families in pain and grief.

Yesterday, before a funeral, a church member came up to ask if I had heard about the shooting. He asked me, “What is wrong with our world?”

What is wrong with our world?
I’ve thought about that
… a lot.

So here it is. In a nutshell, this is what is wrong with our world: us versus them. The belief that the “other” — ethnic group, nationality, religion, party affiliation, gender, whatever — the belief that “they” are somehow less than “us.”

There is no them.
Only us.

Because we are ALL messed up, broken people, just trying to live in this messed up, broken world. And, at the same time, we are ALL beloved children of God… the God who finds actions like this shooting appalling and heartbreaking.

Fight Hate. Live Love.
And don’t stop.

May the Lord bless you and protect you.
May the Lord smile on you and be gracious to you.
May the Lord show you his favor
and give you his peace.
(Numbers 6:24-26)

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River of Life, Bread of Heaven


Message for World Communion Sunday, October 7, 2018
For a video of the sermon, click here:

Luke 22:14-23 (NIV)
When the hour came, Jesus and his apostles reclined at the table. And he said to them, “I have eagerly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer. For I tell you, I will not eat it again until it finds fulfillment in the kingdom of God.” After taking the cup, he gave thanks and said, “Take this and divide it among you. For I tell you I will not drink again from the fruit of the vine until the kingdom of God comes.” And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me.”  In the same way, after the supper he took the cup, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood, which is poured out for you. But the hand of him who is going to betray me is with mine on the table. The Son of Man will go as it has been decreed. But woe to that man who betrays him!” They began to question among themselves which of them it might be who would do this.


Two years ago
standing on the bank of the Jordan River
on a path worn down
by the passage of centuries of feet
Looking out at the water rushing by

I wondered
Could this be where
it all began

Hundreds of miles of shoreline
so the likelihood wasn’t high
somewhere along those shores
somewhere along that river
Jesus had stood
looking out at the water
rushing by

And so
I wondered

Could this be where Jesus stood
Could his feet have rested where mine
now made an impression in the muddy bank
Could this be where he walked
down the slope
his feet entering the cold water
wading out to where his cousin John waited
Could this be where it all began
Could this be where Jesus was baptized

Standing on the bank of the Jordan River
on a path worn down
by the passage of centuries of feet
Looking out at water rushing by
and thinking

This beautiful world
populated by beautiful people
made in the image of God

Daily I am amazed by the
beauty I see
in the world around me
in the kindness of strangers
in the laugh of a child
in a smile set amongst deep wrinkles

That beauty, though,
that image of God
all too often
seems overlaid
with a sharp patina
tainted sullied

This beautiful world
created by God
filled with beautiful people
created by God

and yet
we see
and experience
callousness and care-less-ness

where human beings
become less than we are
less than we could be
less than we should be
where the image of God
is covered over
with something
quite else entirely

While this spirit inside me
longs for something pure
and holy and spotless
and joy-filled
while it longs for what is
clean and good and true

All around us the world
seems to clamor loudly for
clear-cut divisions
analyzed and judged
and neatly wrapped up into
unambiguous categories
of “us” and “them”

Nevermind the damage done
to the people placed
so firmly
on one side of the dividing line
or the other

Nevermind the damage done
to relationships
to communities
to countries
to the world

The lines are drawn
The sides are taken

The image of God
in each other
no longer recognized
no longer looked for
no longer seen

Standing on the bank of the Jordan River
on a path worn down
by the passage of centuries of feet
Looking out at the water rushing by
I pondered

Jesus came willingly
into that ancient, 2000-years-ago world
a world that was deeply divided

divided by politics
divided by religion
divided by financial status
by ethnicity
by race
by language
by gender
by ability
by age

And I wondered
would Jesus
born into that ancient world
in a distant land
would he
recognize his world
in ours

We who are
so deeply divided

divided by politics
divided by religion
divided by financial status
by ethnicity
by race
by language
by gender
by ability
by age

Jesus’ world
in many ways
not so different from ours

Jesus came willingly into that world
to show a different way
an alternative way
a better
life-sustaining way

He came to challenge
the self-sufficiency of the time
He came to disrupt the complacency
to confront the cruelty
to oppose the callousness
to expose the injustice

He poked and prodded and provoked
He risked scandal and censure

Without a thought
for his own comfort
for his own preferences
his own safety

In Christ’s family
In this family
There is no one in
No one out
No insider no outsider

In Christ’s family
In this family
There are only
children of God

In the deepest place in me
in the truest part of who I am
I long for this
I long for a place

where the divisions of the world
are put aside

where each person
is known and valued and loved

where flaws are seen
and challenged
but never judged

where cruelty is replaced
with compassion

where judgment is replaced
with understanding

where corruption is replaced
with justice

where difficult truths are told
in deeply embedded love

perfection is never expected
but always sought

which is only
only possible
through Christ

In Christ’s family
In this family
we are a church for all people

I long for this
I long for this place
this water
this table
this forgiveness
this joy
this peace

Standing somewhere
along the banks of the Jordan River
on a path worn down
by the passage of centuries of feet

As Jesus walked down to the river
As his feet entered the cold water
As he prepared to be baptized
As he began his public ministry

In that moment
Did Jesus pause
Did he look out at the water rushing by
and think

about all that lay ahead
about all that that moment
would set in motion
Moving as inexorably forward
as the water
in that never pausing
Jordan River?

Did he think about
his life
which would be given
for us

and healing
and challenging
and forgiving

Jesus would spend his life
for us

leading up to a meal
shared with his friends
on the last night
of his life

This meal
which we celebrate
this day

This meal
which we share
with Christ-followers
across the world
on this
World Communion Sunday

A meal
which took simple bread
and declared it to be holy
“My body,”
he cried,
“Broken for you.”

A meal
which took simple wine
and declared it to be holy
“My blood,”
he declared,
“poured out for you.”

Why would Jesus do this
for us
Why would he give so much
for us
Why would he give
it all

for us
for you
for me

Why would Jesus do this

Jesus saw
a people
not defined by politics
not defined by religion
not defined by financial status
by ethnicity
by race
by language
not defined by gender
by ability
by age

Jesus saw
the image of God
in you
in me
somewhat sullied
not quite luminous

But Jesus saw
that image of God


It cannot be taken away
from you
It cannot be put aside
I cannot be lost

And for that
Jesus was willing

to give it

My body, he said, broken for you
My blood, poured out for you

And so
we come here this morning
recognizing the brokenness
of our lives
our families
our community
our church
our world

We come here knowing
that we have a God
who meets us here

at this water
at this table

along the banks of the Jordan River
on a path worn down
by the passage of centuries of feet
Jesus walked down to the river
for a baptism meant to
cleanse from sin
not his sin
not his mistakes
not his

Jesus walked down to the river
for a baptism meant to
our sin


Standing here
coming forward
on a spiritual path worn
by the passage of centuries of feet

Together we come
with the children of God
stretched across this globe

Together we come
to surrender to God’s care
to accept God’s forgiveness
to rejoice in God’s love

Thanks be to God!

Posted in Pondering Scripture | Tagged , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Writing Writing Writing

Batch of Letters

Ever since the high school shooting in Parkland, Florida, on Ash Wednesday/ Valentine’s Day this February, I have begun writing letters. Lots of letters. Letters upon letters upon letters upon letters.

Frankly, up until then, I had thought writing to our government’s leaders to be a fairly futile exercise. But, in the disheartened grief of that horrible day, I realized that I had to do SOMETHING.

If we do not make our voices heard,
there will be no change.

Now, whenever something shakes my spirit to the core and I’m tempted to rant cathartically, but impotently, on Facebook or Twitter against the violence, the hatred, the cruelty and injustice and just plain old evil … I stop and write letters to people who, through the positions of power they currently inhabit, can make a difference.

So, even though it has been a loooooong time since my last post, I wanted to with you the text of the letters going out in today’s mail…


June 20, 2018

President Trump:

As I read more and more stories about immigrant children being forcibly removed from their families and placed in bleak, frightening detainment facilities, my heart breaks. Regardless of where you stand on immigration issues, I pray that we all would agree that the lives of innocent, vulnerable children must be protected. The damage that is being done to their young minds and spirits through this policy will have long-lasting consequences — for them and for all of us.

As a nation we can do better. We must do better. It is deeply shameful that we have not done better.

Because God created us to be better than this! Jesus was clear about God’s concern for the smallest among us. He said, “Beware that you don’t look down on any of these little ones. For I tell you that in heaven their angels are always in the presence of my heavenly Father” (Matthew 18:10).

As a clergyperson in The United Methodist Church, I look to our Book of Discipline, which clearly states our position on this matter: “We oppose immigration policies that separate family members from each other or that include detention of families with children” (¶162(H)).

As a citizen and taxpayer, I urge you — the President of the United States of America — to take full and immediate responsibility for the well-being and safety of vulnerable children and infants. As President Eisenhower stated: “The President — whoever he is — has to decide. He can’t pass the buck to anybody. No one else can do the deciding for him. That’s his job.”

Our nation has a moral responsibility to protect children, all children, regardless of immigration status.

I know you know all this. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.

We are praying for you as you lead. The people of this country are counting on you.


Hedy Collver


I encourage you to write your own letters! Let your government’s leaders know how you feel about the issues most pressing on your heart. If you’d like a place to start, click here to visit the Fight Hate + Live Love site for a list of addresses to get you started.

Posted in Random Thoughts | Tagged , , , , , | 3 Comments

No More

HeaderThe church where I serve as Senior Pastor is just a few miles south of Stoneman Douglas High School, where yesterday seventeen people were murdered, many others injured, and countless more deeply traumatized.

I am heartbroken. Again. And I’m just so damn tired of being heartbroken. This is the eighth school shooting in the United States that resulted in death or injury in 2018 alone. We are only forty-eight days into the year, and already eighteen incidents have been reported of guns going off inside schools.

Yes, I am so very, very heartbroken.
We need to pray.
We need to seek God’s guidance and wisdom.

But it doesn’t — it can’t! — stop there.

We need to fight hate (taking actions that confront hate) and live love (taking actions that demonstrate God’s love). We must take what we say with our lips and believe in our hearts… and DO something with it!

So… what action am I taking this day after February 14 2018, after Ash Wednesday, after Valentine’s Day, after the shooting at Stoneman Douglas? I am letting my government’s leaders know where I stand. It’s one thing I can do, right now, as I also look for more ways to help.

You can, too.
Let your voice be heard.

Write to your government leaders

#fighthate #livelove

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Dreaming of Peace

[Transcript of a sermon delivered at Plantation UMC on February 11, 2018.]

A Dream Unfinished


Up there with a cure for cancer and winning the lottery, it is one of the things people pray for the most.

Peace for our world. Peace for our country. Peace for our communities. Peace for our families. Peace for our spirits.

And, at the very same time, it is one of the things that seems most distant from our grasp. Unattainable. Impossible. Peace.

We know — we know — what it should look like: a world where no one looks down the end of a gunbarrel, knowing that life is about to end; a world where no one faces starvation; where no one is abused by those who should love them. A world where all people are known, cared for, valued.

There are nights when I, quite literally, dream of peace. In the space between wakings, my imagination, my subconscious, my longings, take me to a vision of a world where all is right, where we are all tender and caring and kind. Where sin is no more and where peace reigns.

And that is why it is so difficult and painful for me to wake up on those mornings, when I’ve dreamed of something so beautiful, and to stumble out into the living room to turn on the television. Because in that half-hour of news I watch as I wake up, sipping my morning tea, I see visions of a world where peace does not reign, where so much seems wrong; where hatred overflows into the streets and seeps into the homes; where we are cynical and uncaring and even cruel.

And that is why it is difficult and painful for me to walk out into our world, knowing that the world around us is not in reality that dream world of peace. It is not, in reality, what God desires for us.

And that breaks my heart.

We see stories of anger and abuse and alienation, division and discord, vilification and violence. We watch people whom God created and loves doing great harm to people whom God created and loves. All people for whom Jesus died.

And that — routinely now it seems — breaks my heart.

But that is why it is not difficult and painful for me to walk into this place, this family of faith, where I see in you a glimpse of that dream world of peace, right here on earth. Not just in the varied hues of your skin, or the melodies of your accents, but in your tenderness toward each other, in your caring, in your kindness. I see in you a glimpse of that dream world of peace as together you strive to understand God better, learning from each other, being patient with each other, spurring each other on, encouraging each other.

I see in you a glimpse of that dream of peace.

And that is why it is difficult and painful for me
to realize just how fragile
what you have built here really could be.

“Blessed are the peacemakers,” Jesus said to a people who had gathered on a hillside to hear him speak. “Blessed are the peacemakers.”

From two Greek words: eirēnē (peace) and poieó (to make). Eirēnē. Peace. But not just an absence of war, of bloodshed, of conflict. Eirēnē. Peace. Meaning wholeness. When all the essential parts are pulled to work together. When what was so deeply divided is brought together in love. When brokenness is healed. Peacemaker. Eirēnē. And poieó: to make, to construct. Poieó: to act, to cause, to commit, to do.

Jesus calls us to be
makers of completeness.
Constructors of wholeness.
Doers of peace.

In our scripture reading today, the psalmist asks this question in verse 12: “Does anyone want to live a life that is long and prosperous?” Now, that’s a question with a pretty obvious answer, right? If I were to ask you this morning, “Does anyone here want to live a life that is long and prosperous,” how many of you would raise your hands? Seriously, would any of you not raise your hands? A life that is long and prosperous? Sign me up!

The Hebrew word translated as “prosperous” is tov. If you’ve ever heard someone being congratulated on a significant life event by the phrase “Mazel tov!” it literally means “good fortune.” Tov means beautiful, the best. It means goodness in all its fullness and variety.

And then, as a way of living that prosperous life, we hear the command in verse 14: “Turn away from evil and do good. Search for peace, and work to maintain it.” That word for peace in Hebrew — shalom — has the same rich meaning as eirēnē in Greek: the unfinished made complete, the divided made whole.

And I see in you a glimpse of that dream of goodness and peace.

Because… right here, in this sanctuary we have people with different perspectives, different deeply-held views on just about every subject imaginable. All worshipping together, learning together, serving together.

Sitting here with you today are Republicans and Democrats, Independents and Libertarians, so many flavors of political party. You may be sitting next to someone who has voted in every election since they were first eligible, or someone who hasn’t ever registered to vote.

We are diverse, not only in politics, not only in ethnicity, but in theology, as well. We have brothers and sisters in faith here who are theologically conservative, theologically liberal, theologically right-in-the-middle, theologically just not sure and pretty undecided.

We have, in this family of faith,
people who feel deeply, strongly
about social issues facing our world today,

and the conclusions to which they have come
through study and prayer and thought,
have led them to hold positions

which might well be very different
from the conclusions to which you have come
through study and prayer and thought.

But I have witnessed firsthand the ability of people in this family of faith to have a real, honest conversation about difficult, challenging subjects — with respect and care and grace.

Which is beautiful and amazing.
As you are beautiful and amazing.

But that is, again, why it is difficult and painful for me to realize just how fragile what you have built here really could be.

Because peace? It isn’t something that occurs naturally in our world, in our country, our communities, our families… or in our church. It’s something that we have to want, to fight for, to work for.

Because peace? It can be shattered in an instant.

There are many nights when I wake up in the middle of the night in a panic, thinking of the challenges that lay ahead for us as a church. And I’ve thought how ironic it is that the pronunciation of that Greek word for peace — eirēnē — sounds so much like our English word “irony.”

Because we talk about that peace — that shalom, that eirēnē, that wholeness, that completeness — in the midst of the reality of the world that is anything but.

And we live in a world that is pressuring us to join in the brokenness. Now hear me: I’m not talking about the world pressuring us to enter into the brokenness to offer healing and hope. We’re called to do that.

I’m talking about the pressure to become broken ourselves. To break this family of faith.

And it could happen so frighteningly easily. It could take one scandal. One dispute. One act of violence. One controversy. And that glimpse of a world of peace we see here, it could vanish.

Here’s just one example. And it’s one of the things — not the only thing, mind you, but one of the things — that wake me up in the middle of the night. By now you may have heard about the Methodist Church’s “Commission on a Way Forward.” At the 2016 General Conference (the worldwide gathering of UMC leaders), this Commission was created to examine what the Book of Discipline (our church law book) says about human sexuality and to make a recommendation for any possible revisions.

This Commission’s discussions have already led to news headlines like: “Schism threat has some churches caught in middle” or “Will the Methodists Split Over Homosexuality?” or “Could LGBT debate split Methodists?”

And here’s the thing. No matter what the Commission eventually recommends, no matter what the called General Conference next year decides to do, no matter what, this issue… it’s coming. It’s here already.

I hadn’t actually intended to talk about this today. Originally, my sermon was going to go in a very different direction. But, right here and right now, I can see the potentiality for cracks forming in the peace. And because I love you all so very much, I can’t not address it.

This Thursday in our weekly E-News email blast, we included a notice about a gathering initiated by the Florida Conference, called “A Point of View Conversation.” It’s also in the bulletin this morning. I didn’t know about this gathering until I received an email about it last week, which was sent to all the District’s pastors. We were asked to let our congregations that it was being offered, as a place to talk about the Commission on the Way Forward.

Almost immediately, I started hearing back.

Some members of our family of faith — who I love and respect — shared with me their concerns that the church was heading in the direction of condoning sin, and not living out the truth of the gospel.

Other members — who I love and respect — shared with me their concerns that the church was heading in the direction of excluding and harming people, and not living out the truth of the gospel.

I have spoken to people in our congregation who feel strongly, passionately about this issue. On both sides. People who love God, who love the people around them, who are committed to following Christ, to growing in faith, to serving in love… and who believe the exact opposite of someone who might be sitting right near them.

And that is why it is painful for me to realize just how fragile what we have built here really is.

Because “searching for peace and working to maintain it”? It is not easy. And we have to want it. And we have to believe that it is possible.

With that in mind I’m going to admit something to you that may make you uncomfortable, or perhaps even mad. There are times when I am super tempted to give up, to throw in the towel.

Times when I look at all that is happening in our world, when I look at the challenges facing the church, and I think, “I can’t do it. What difference can I possibly make?” I wonder, “How are we going to walk through this together, with the division and brokenness we’re already seeing in our denomination?”

Although I love what I do, and so love where I do it. Although I love you all, although I love you and your incredible hearts, I still occasionally feel like giving up.

I do.

Then at those lowest of moments, I hear a small voice in my head. No, not God’s still, small voice. It’s the voice of a little girl on YouTube named Ryan Ramirez…

Don’t stop! Don’t give up! That is what being a peace-maker — an eirēnē-maker, a shalom-maker — means. Never stopping. Never giving up.

“Search for peace and work to maintain it,” the psalmist tells us. It is not easy. And we have to want it. And I DO believe that it is possible. Even in the midst of the toughest, most painful, most divisive issues. And we cannot give up.

If you hear nothing else from what I’ve said here this morning, please here this: peace — completeness, wholeness, healing — is possible. It is possible because we have a God who loves us, and who desires peace for us.

The author of Psalm 34 starts out with these words: I will praise the Lord at all times. I will constantly speak his praises. I will boast only in the Lord; let all who are helpless take heart. Come, let us tell of the Lord’s greatness; let us exalt his name together. I prayed to the Lord, and he answered me. He freed me from all my fears. Those who look to him for help will be radiant with joy; no shadow of shame will darken their faces.

Facing the challenges in our world on our own, we will fail. Working for peace purely relying on our own strength, our own wisdom, our own courage, we will fail. We can have a vision of peace, we can have the strength to struggle, to cry, to learn, to stretch ourselves, because of God’s promise to work with us.

“I prayed to the Lord, and he answered me. He freed me from all my fears. Those who look to him for help will be radiant with joy; no shadow of shame will darken their faces.”

I am dreaming of peace, praying for peace — for our world, our country, our community, our families, our church home.

And that is exactly why we are starting this Fight Hate Live Love initiative just three days from now. On Wednesday we begin our season of Lent — the 40 days leading up to Easter — a time of introspection, contemplation, and repentance. It’s a time for taking a deep, hard look at ourselves, at our lives, at our world … and coming to terms with where we’re broken.

And many of you have already committed to praying for God to guide us through these turbulent times, to show us the way to go, to grant us God’s strength, God’s wisdom, God’s courage.

“Blessed are the peacemakers”, Jesus said. Blessed are those who do the hard, long, intensive, heart-rending work of reaching into the brokenness, and seeking God’s peace in the midst of it all.

Don’t stop. Don’t give up.
Don’t stop seeking God’s will.
Don’t give up on what God has planned.

I see in you a glimpse of that beautiful world of wholeness, of peace.
And that is why I am here this morning.
And that is why I have hope.
And I thank you for that.

Posted in Lent | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

A Dream Unfinished

Esther 4:12-17 (New Living Translation)
So Hathach gave Esther’s message to Mordecai. Mordecai sent this reply to Esther: “Don’t think for a moment that because you’re in the palace you will escape when all other Jews are killed. If you keep quiet at a time like this, deliverance and relief for the Jews will arise from some other place, but you and your relatives will die. Who knows if perhaps you were made queen for just such a time as this?” Then Esther sent this reply to Mordecai: “Go and gather together all the Jews of Susa and fast for me. Do not eat or drink for three days, night or day. My maids and I will do the same. And then, though it is against the law, I will go in to see the king. If I must die, I must die.” So Mordecai went away and did everything as Esther had ordered him.

A Dream Unfinished

“I say to you today, my friends, though, even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream. I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up, live out the true meaning of its creed: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.’”

Standing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington DC on August 28, 1963, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., spoke those words in his speech at the “March on Washington.” That was the centennial year of the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation, when President Lincoln had signed the document into law, declaring the end of slavery in the United States of America. On a hot summer day, one hundred years later, over a quarter of a million people came to the nation’s capital to protest segregation and racial discrimination.

That march and Dr. King’s powerful speech were powerful catalysts for the signing of the Civil Rights Acts less than a year later, in July 1964. Title VII of that Act, made it illegal — specifically in employment practices — to discriminate because of race, color, religion, sex, or national origin.

This day in January 2018,
I, too, have a dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up,
live out the true meaning of its creed:
“We hold these truths to be self-evident,
that all men are created equal.”

Equal, meaning “considered to be the same as another in status or in quality.”

A dream of equality.

Equal, regardless of the color of our skin,
whether we are black or white or brown or pale or dark.
Equal, regardless of our gender, whether we are male or female.
Equal, regardless of where or whether we choose to worship.
Equal, regardless of who we love.
Equal, regardless of our physical abilities or disabilities.
Equal, regardless of our intellectual strength or weakness.
Equal, regardless of the contents of our bank account.
Equal, regardless of our age.
Equal, regardless of what nation we have come from.

It is,
I firmly believe,
a dream that is within our reach.
But we have to be willing to reach out for it.

There is in our Bible a fairly short book — just ten chapters long — about a young woman. Born into a Jewish family, she had been given the Hebrew name Hadassah, but as an exile in Persia, she was also given a Persian name: Esther.

Esther caught the eye of the Persian King’s servants when he was searching for a new wife. Installed in the palace, she eventually becomes queen.

Time passes, and a politician named Haman is promoted through the ranks, and becomes the highest official in the land, next to the King himself. Haman convinces the King to allow an edict ordering the destruction of all the Jewish people living in Persia.

You would think that Esther, living right there in the palace, would be one of the first to know about this edict, but she is sheltered there, but she has no idea what is happening in the city around her — fear and the grief. The first she hears of it is when her servants report to her that her Uncle Mordecai is making a scene, tearing his clothing, putting ashes on his head, and crying and moaning at the gate between the city and the palace.

Esther doesn’t understand what is happening, so she sends her servants back to Mordecai with fresh, clean clothing. Which he refuses in his grief. Esther then sends a trusted servant, Hathach, to find out what is happening. Mordecai’s reply through Hathach:

“Don’t think for a moment that because you’re in the palace you will escape when all other Jews are killed. If you keep quiet at a time like this, deliverance and relief for the Jews will arise from some other place, but you and your relatives will die. Who knows if perhaps you were made queen for just such a time as this?”

Mordecai forces his niece to listen to the difficult truth: this problem, this horrible, evil threat, it wasn’t just going to go away on its own. And Esther was uniquely placed to make a difference. If she was willing to take the risk.

And, make no mistake, it was a risk for her. Even as the queen, she could not simply walk into the King’s presence — she had to be invited. Leaving the safety of her luxurious chambers, and entering the King’s rooms uninvited meant, quite literally, risking her life. If he wasn’t happy to see her, she could end up being killed.

Knowing this, and knowing that she had to do at least try, she sends Hathach back to Mordecai with this reply: “Go and gather together all the Jews of Susa and fast for me. Do not eat or drink for three days, night or day. My maids and I will do the same. And then, though it is against the law, I will go in to see the king. If I must die, I must die.”

There are four things that Esther does in this story that can help us to respond to the evils in our own world. Esther…
(1) Listens to the difficult truth
(2) Recognizes that it will not be easy or comfortable to respond
(3) Goes to God for help
(4) Uses what influence she has

First: Esther listened to the difficult truth.

It would have been personally easier for Esther to just hide out in her palace suite, closing her ears to the cries of the people around her.

It would be easier for us to do so, as well.

Back in September, I flew up to New York to spend time with my Father after his open heart surgery. On that flight, I sat next to a man. Let’s call him Bill.

Bill had the aisle seat, and I was in the middle. Through the miracle of modern technology, once we were at cruising altitude, I was able to open up my laptop to begin working on my church’s website. Bill was looking over my shoulder, as I updated the site’s landing page, and he saw the picture in the header.


Bill asked, “What kind of church is that?”
I answered, “A wonderful church!”

I thought — I really thought — that the conversation was going to go in the direction of what a beautiful sight it was, people from many ethnicities, many cultures, worshipping and working together.

“Hmmph,” Bill said with evident disgust,
“You’ve got people of different colors in there.”

Over the next one and a half hours (did I mention I was in the middle seat?), Bill talked at me, telling me how Black people were constantly exaggerating both the difficulties they face and the historical abuse they had experienced, “making mountains out of molehills.”

Then Bill asked my connection to the church. When he learned I was the senior pastor, he threw his head back and exclaimed:

“Oh man, don’t even get me started on uppity women feminists!”

[feel free to insert here a mental picture of me repeatedly banging my forehead on the airline seat in front of me]

I tried — I really did try — in that seemingly interminable 1-1/2 hours to calmly and lovingly talk with Bill about the challenges faced by people I know and love, who deal with discrimination and prejudice as a regular occurrence.

But Bill wasn’t having any of it.
He wasn’t interested in listening.
He certainly wasn’t interested in understanding.

You see, it is so very, very easy for us to close our ears to the cries of those who are struggling around us. In our community. In our world.

It would be easier. But we cannot do it.

One of the things that have impressed me the most about the resurgence of the “Me Too” movement is the reaction from so many men: “I Believe.” This movement, which Tarana Burke began in 2006 to raise awareness of abuse experienced by women of color, took off this year as women posted online about their struggles.

And people have responded by… listening.
And believing.
And seeking to understand.

One of the most important things that we can do is simply listening, and learning, as we seek to understand the difficult truth about what people are experiencing all around us. What people we know are experiencing. What we may be experiencing.

We can listen to and seek to understand the difficult truth of those who are hurting. That is what Esther did.

Second: Esther recognized that confronting that difficult truth would not be easy or comfortable.

That’s true for us, as well. It is easier to cluck our tongues at the anger and division as we watch the news, as we check our Twitter feed and update our Facebook pages. It’s easier to do that than to struggle with the discomfort of doing something about it.
It’s easier to say that someone ought to do something about it. Someone with more authority, with more power, with more time and energy and strength and influence. Someone, basically, other than us.

Challenging the status quo is not easy. It’s hard. And that is why we need to take the third step…

Third: Esther went to God for help.

Esther is one of the few books in our Bible that doesn’t overtly talk about God’s influence in the events recorded. Yet when she faces this difficult challenge, she immediately makes the decision to go into an intensive time of fasting and prayer. And she doesn’t just do this on her own. She reaches out to her community, and asks them all to join with her in preparing.

There is power in joining together as a community of faith to pray together, to fast together, begging God for guidance and direction as we seek to address the evils in our world.

Fourth: Esther used what influence she had.

Just about two years ago, I received the call that I would be coming to Plantation United Methodist Church as the senior pastor. I was so excited! Not just because I was getting out of the miserable cold of the Washington DC winter (I’m such a wimp), but because I already knew that the Plantation family of faith was a glimpse of the Kingdom of God.

And, thanks be to God,
the Christian church is meant to offer such a glimpse.

The Christian family
across our communities,
across the United States,
around the world
is a glimpse of the Kingdom of God.

We worship God:
people of different ethnicities,
different colors,
from different countries.

We worship God:
the owner of the million-dollar house
and the man who beds down under the bridge.

We worship God:
the grade school education and the PhD;
the employed, the underemployed, the unemployed.

We worship God:
black and white,
male and female,
gay and straight,
rich and poor,
young and old.

All around our community, around our country, around our world,
the Christian family is meant to be a witness
of love and grace and hope!

We are meant to use our influence
to bring not hurt, but healing
to offer not judgment, but redemption
to create not division, but peace.

I have ideas about how we can use our influence to make a difference. But I don’t want to press my ideas on you. I want to know your ideas. I want to know how God is calling you, calling us together, to do our part to make the dream a reality.

And we do that by:
(1) Listening to the difficult truth of those who are hurting
(2) Recognizing that confronting that truth will not be easy or comfortable
(3) Going to God for help and guidance
(4) Using what influence we have — our unique witness to be a catalyst for change

I do have a dream, for the church all around the world.

I have a dream that the church would rise up, and live out the promise we find in Galatians, chapter 3: “For you are all children of God through faith in Christ Jesus. And all who have been united with Christ in baptism have put on Christ, like putting on new clothes. There is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male and female. For you are all one in Christ Jesus” (26-28).

No matter the color of your skin, no matter your gender, no matter your sexuality, no matter your origins, no matter your abilities, your resources, no matter what: you — YOU — are a child of God. You belong to Jesus. You are beloved by Jesus.

I have a dream that this truth would be known by all people.
And that all people would see in the people around them,
not strangers to be feared,
but brothers and sisters yet unmet.

And, who knows if perhaps we have been brought here by God for just such a time as this?

I have a dream.
And I believe that dream is within our reach…
if we are but willing to reach out for it.


Posted in Pondering Scripture | Tagged , , , , , | 3 Comments

Down to Earth Christmas

Text from the Christmas Eve message at Plantation UMC.

Down To Earth_long

I don’t remember how young I was the first time I went to a Christmas Eve service. Probably 7 or 8 years old. My family didn’t attend church, but on Christmas my Uncle Kevin would visit us, and he’d take me with him to the Catholic church in town. I loved that service. First of all, let’s be honest, as a kid I loved it because I got to stay up really late for Midnight Mass!

But also I loved the smell of the church, kind of a woodsy, smoky scent from the incense that was burned. I loved the candles and the organ and the way the priests just seemed to float down the aisle in their long robes as they processed in and out. I loved the little kneeling rail in the pews, and figuring out when to stand, kneel, or sit during the service. I loved the music and the songs. And I loved being there with my Uncle, who smelled like pipe smoke and soap.

I attended that Christmas Eve service every year with him and loved it. But I have to tell you, I can’t recall one single sermon that was preached. Not one!

And that gives me really high hopes
for what you’ll remember about my sermon tonight!

In my late teenage years, I started to notice that some of the people who attended that Christmas Eve service — all dressed up and pretty and smiling — were the same people I ran into during the rest of the year.

The mean man who lived across from the town library, who would actually throw stuff at us if we took the short cut across his back lawn.

The lady I had once seen beating her dog in the grocery store parking lot.

Other kids I went to school with who cheated on tests, or who cheated on their boyfriends.

And I started thinking that the whole thing was less magical than I had thought. I started thinking that maybe everyone there was faking the whole “I’m-so-nice-and-I-go-to-church” thing.

Add to that, that everyone around me seemed to know all the songs. Not just all the songs, but all the verses to all the songs. I couldn’t always figure out which book we were in, let alone what page. I didn’t want to sit in an uncomfortable pew listening to a minister preach a sermon that I wasn’t going to remember anyway.

So why ruin a perfectly good Christmas Eve by going to church?

After all, I just really wasn’t that interested in church. Eventually, I became pretty antagonistic toward it. I wanted nothing to do with it. And the whole Jesus came into our world as a tiny baby thing? That just seemed such an easy way to make faith controllable. There is nothing more portable, more maneuverable, I thought, than a baby. Pick it up, dress it however you like, put it down wherever. I mean, what is more cute and cuddly and non-threatening than a baby?

A God who becomes a baby? I thought that Christmas was all about a faith that puts you in charge.

And I was not interested.

Fast forward about ten years. I was working in a job I seriously disliked, unsure of what my future held, and wrestling constantly with what exactly my purpose on this earth was.

After one horrific week at work, I was completely disgusted, and heading home on the dark country road. Off to the right I could something bright on the side of the road. I slowed down as I approached, and realized it was the stained glass window of a church I had driven by hundreds of times before, but never paid attention to.

After all, I was not interested.

That stained glass window shining in the night was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. And I could not get it out of my mind. After several weeks, I decided that I needed to see it again. From the inside. Even though I was still not interested.

Long story short, I met Jesus there, in that little country church.

Not in the words of the preacher
(though I really wish I could say that!),
not in the music
or in the prayers.

I met Jesus in the people.
I met Jesus through their love.

These were people who didn’t pretend to have it all together. People who were flawed, and who were honest about their mistakes. They didn’t judge me, look down on me, or offer me unwanted advice. They just loved me.

And then, finally, it hit me. The Divine coming down to earth as a baby on Christmas wasn’t about giving us a controllable faith.

It was about

If you remember nothing else from this sermon tonight — and from my experience, that’s entirely likely — this is what I would love for you to hear:

Because of God’s love for us,
God came quietly,
in the form of a newborn
in a dirty barn
in a backwater town.

Because of love.

Think about that for a moment. I mean really think about it. There is nothing more vulnerable than a newborn baby. Completely dependent, utterly defenseless.

When you love, really love, you put yourself at the mercy of the one you love. The God who created everything that is, powerful beyond all imagining, loved us enough to be put into our hands. To be vulnerable.

Tonight we remember that this baby whose birth we celebrate, he came for a reason. He came to teach, to heal, to challenge, to die for us, to give us the promise of heaven. Jesus came to love. He came to give of himself so fully in love, that he — through whom the Heavens and Earth were made — he made himself completely and utterly vulnerable in his love. And that love would eventually take him all the way to the cross. For us.

When I realized this, suddenly I was interested.
Really, really interested.

Because of love.

Not the kind of love defined by the Merriam-Webster dictionary as “strong affection for another.” (Boooring!!)

It’s a love that is best defined
by the Greek word for love
used throughout the New Testament:


Agape (ah-GAH-peh) is a powerful, life-transforming love. It is a love that is consciously chosen, a love of the will as much as of the heart. It is a love that is all-encompassing and self-giving. It’s the kind of love that God offers to us in Christmas.

I’ve met and talked with some of you tonight. And you look lovely and put-together and happy in your Christmas Eve outfits. You’re beautiful!

But I also know that you’re not perfect. You make mistakes. You have regrets. You mess up every day — you may have messed up on your way here tonight.

Or, maybe I’m wrong, and you are perfect!
Maybe the pastor preaching to you tonight
is the only one who’s not perfect.

(Which is a super depressing thought.)

But in all likelihood, you are like me. Some days are great and you feel on top of the world, and others are, well, maybe not quite so stellar. I know this because you’re a human being, living in a messed-up world, torn in a million different directions every day, just trying to make your way. Just like all the other beautiful people in this room tonight.

So, remember I said that there was just one thing that I wanted you to take away from the sermon tonight, that God came down to earth on Christmas because of love? Did you remember that one thing?

Well, I’ve changed my mind. There are actually TWO things I want you to remember tonight! The other is this:

Jesus came down to earth to be born in a stable surrounded by animals, to become vulnerable and to give of himself so fully, not just because God loves us.

God did it because God loves you.

You. Really. You! All this, because God loves each of you, so much, that he came down to earth on Christmas. And that is why we are here tonight.

Our bishop in Florida is a brilliant guy named Ken Carter, and he gets the truth of all that. The other day he posted on Facebook a poem he had written. I don’t usually read poetry on Facebook, because, well, most of it is just awful. But he titled it “A Christmas Eve Prayer for Those Who Don’t Go To Church.” With that title, of course I had to read it! I’d like to share it with you tonight…


A Christmas Eve Prayer for Those Who Don’t Go To Church

I don’t go to church very often, Lord.
I don’t go at all…well, I am here at Christmas.
I’m home then.  I feel drawn to it.
I like the Christmas Eve service.
The coolness of the air,
the aroma of the candles,
the familiarity of gathering with strangers.
I feel like a kid again.
It’s surreal.

I know it’s common to make fun of people like me.
What can I say?  I’ve drifted…
But something pulls me back
Are You speaking to me?

I connect with something in the sermon, sometimes,
but mostly it’s the music and the candles.
What is it about the candles?
Darkness and light.
Light and darkness.

I know about light and darkness.  I live in both.
I’ve got some of both in me.
And yet there is an impulse,
a movement to be closer to the light.
And so the flame of a stranger touches mine
and I sing the chorus,

“Son of God, love’s pure light
Radiant beams from thy holy face…”

That is the light, the face, the life I seek,
and in this moment, I am touching it.
And then a voice reminds me,
in the echo of ancient words
that are always needed,

“the light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness did not overcome it.”

I am speaking to you, Lord,
but on this night, from every conceivable direction,
you are speaking to me.

And I am listening.


I have to say that my life began to change  in that little country church with the gorgeous stained glass window, when I began to listen, when I put aside my cynicism, and when I finally allowed myself to become interested.

And so my Christmas Eve prayer for us — for all of us here, for you and for me — is that we would become interested in finding out more about this God who loves us so much.

This God
who came down to earth
on that first Christmas
out of LOVE…



Posted in Advent | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments