Look, I don’t care how many Jesus fish you’ve got on the back of your car, or how many times you’ve sung Shine Jesus Shine, or how stirringly you can talk about orphans in foreign countries, if you refuse to help the people you have it within your power to help, then the Jesus you’re so publicly selling doesn’t have anything to do with the one found hanging out with lepers, giving sight to the blind, and holding the hands of the untouchables in the Gospels.Read More
If you have power, you can either use it to safeguard the interests of the rich and powerful or advance the interests of the poor and powerless. If you happen to follow Jesus (a man executed by the state as a threat to the interests of the rich and powerful), as most of our politicians in Frankfort claim to do, you can’t pursue the former at the expense of the latter and still believe Jesus is smiling down on you.Read More
While there’s no useful AI algorithm, it’s safe to say that anyone who claims to be speaking for God but only manages to tell the folks at the top that their political farts smell like eau de toilette is a hack.Read More
So, uncharacteristically, I just sat there and shut my mouth, determined to let the women have the freedom not be interrupted yet again by a well-meaning but loud-mouthed know-it-all white guy, convinced he knew better than they why women find themselves oppressed.Read More
If all you can manage to do is celebrate your good fortune without having any sense of compassion for those who fear for their lives, what kind of human being are you?Read More
I’ve struggled for some time with the realization that when the church fails—as it often does—it fails most egregiously in giving people the resources necessary for the outrageously radical act of following Jesus.Read More
Linda, I care about you. I think in many ways you’re a well-meaning person. So, I’m just trying to keep you from getting hurt. Because when it's over with this guy, nobody will ever trust you again.Read More
It feels morally wrong to hear people protest how much they care about the Dreamers, young people who've only ever known America as home, but then go on to attach conditions unrelated to their protection as necessary to, you know, actually protect them.
I just returned from a rally against gun violence, organized by local teachers. In the wake of the Parkland shooting, to hear teachers talk about the terror their students face as they imagine themselves staring down the barrel of a gun was gut wrenching. The cold rain seemed like the perfect weather to speak about the unspeakable.
They asked me to open with prayer. This is what I said:
God of all children, please be there in the midst of this pain. In the midst of the tears, and adrenaline, and stark horror . . . please be there. And more than that, help us to find you there . . . with tears on your cheeks and the blood of your children still on your face. We need to know that you’re here with us, in the thick of it . . . where the vomit and the gore ruin our khakis, and the smell settles into our pores, threatening to become a permanent part of the way the world smells to us.
Please be there, O God. For those students who have risen up against the senseless violence their legislators should have shielded them from. Give them strength and courage to insist on the peace you desire for all your children.
For those parents and friends who feel abandoned by you, please be there in ways that offer if not comfort, then at least the strength to make it through the next few minutes until the next wave hits. Give them also the strength and courage to face the fear and uncertainty, to stand between their children and the darkness that seeks them out.
For the teachers who also feel afraid, and sad, and too often powerless, bear them up to be able to confront the horror that lies in front of them, and give them the resources to be able to transform the memories of evil into stamina and resolve for the fight against gun violence.
And for us. Please be there for the rest of us who struggle to figure out how we’ve come to a point where children must fear armed strangers in the womb of our educational system. Help us to find the words to put to our rage and despair, to find the words to comfort those who need be comforted, to find the words to speak justice and peace to a world bent on filling graves with the bodies of children, to find the words necessary not to meet this violence with more violence.
And to the one who surely grieves most of all, have mercy on us and hear our prayer.
People like me can afford to go through life taking for granted that because we’ve never been harassed or profiled that maybe other people are just making it up in their heads when they say they have been. Because for one thing, we almost never understand other people’s motivations—and so we often project our own motivations onto others, supposing them to be about the same. And for another thing, if we’re wrong, and people actually are the target of racist, xenophobic, or sexist motivations, it doesn’t have much affect on us personally.Read More
And the understandable reaction when you’ve been the cultural homecoming king and queen forever—but then start finding yourself repeatedly stuck at the “wrong” lunch table—is to feel like dark forces are conspiring against you. These dark forces get filed under the heading, “political correctness,” which is really just that state of affairs in which it’s no longer safe to disparage people you feel are undeserving of your respect.Read More
"How can Christians hear the cries of wounded people who’re forced to live in fear, adjusting themselves to our view of a safe and just world . . . how can we hear those cries and think only about which symbols will be powerful enough to drown them out—just because we find those cries inconveniently challenge the world we’ve built for ourselves, cries that plead with us to adjust ourselves to a different world than the one we’re comfortable with—to see things through someone else’s eyes?"
Here is a copy of the interfaith position statement, signed now by over 175 clergy, supporting the welcome Syrian refugees to Louisville. Together faith leaders from the Muslim, Jewish, Christian, Buddhist, and Hindu traditions have linked arms to speak of our support for the welcome of Syrian Refugees. My hope for this position statement and the press conference announcing our solidarity, among other things, is that it might offer a template for other faith leaders in other communities to follow.
LOUISVILLE (Dec. 2, 2015) Faith leaders from across the Metro Louisville Community, whose religious traditions contain explicit teachings about welcoming the stranger, and who collectively have decades of positive experience with the refugee community, wish to express our solidarity and pledge our support for those fleeing war and brutality—particularly, those seeking to escape the conflict in Syria. That being the case, we recognize as a moral imperative the continued need to welcome refugees. And though we acknowledge the anxiety present in our culture, as people of faith we resolve not to live in fear.
Therefore, we announce our intention to continue raising awareness of the plight of Syrian refugees by the means available to us not as potential threats to be feared, but as sisters and brothers deserving of our compassion and protection.
We also announce our intention to encourage our separate faith communities to work together to provide the financial and material support necessary to the local agencies whose priority of care extends to the refugee community.
In addition, we call upon our neighbors and fellow citizens to join us in demonstrating compassion and hospitality to refugees, and upon our civic leaders to support such demonstrations of compassion and hospitality.
Without question, much of what binds us together as representatives of various religious communities is our shared commitment to advocating on behalf of those who are most vulnerable. Such a commitment expresses not only the most profound aspects of our faith traditions, but also our conviction that faith itself can bind us together in our common humanity, motivating us to pursue justice and peace for all God’s children.
(Here's a link if you'd like to go online and endorse it: https://dbcc.wufoo.com/forms/s1bsoziq1b9cjwt/)
By Derek Penwell
So, I'm sitting here writing a sermon, when I chance to look at my Facebook wall—which can be a really bad idea, especially during times of global distress. Nevertheless, all the noise on social media got me to thinking.
The sermon I'm writing is from this Sunday's lectionary reading from John. It's the story of Jesus standing in front of Pilate, being asked if he is indeed the King of the Jews. Jesus responds to this interrogation by saying, "My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from here" (John 18:36).
And Jesus, who is about to be killed by the state out of fear, is right. Only, we tend to think that "my kingdom is not from this world" is a reference to some celestial dominion, far removed from the world in which we live. And immediately, people's eyes glaze over as they think of streets of gold.
"My kingdom is not from this world," Jesus says.
So, where is Jesus' kingdom from? We've tended to think of Jesus' response as a reference to a different place, as an answer to the question "where?"
Out there, where the roll is called up yonder. In the sweet by and by. "This world is not my home, I'm just a passin' through . . . "
But I remain more and more convinced that Jesus' mention of a "kingdom not from this world" isn't a spatial question, a question of "where?" I think the appropriate question to pose to Jesus' claim of a "kingdom not from this world" isn't "where?" but "what?"—more specifically, "what kind?"
The kingdom to which Jesus refers is from a different world, not in terms of spatial location, but in terms of quality and character.
Pontius Pilate deals with Jesus from fear, as a threat. And how do we deal with threats in this world?
We isolate them, dehumanize them. We stick them in ghettos, put them in prisons, sequester them in internment camps. But for God's sake, keep them away from us. And if none of those things work, we invest in ever more ingenious ways to kill them.
Same as it ever was.
But Jesus doesn't deal with others first as threats to be feared; he embraces them as sisters and brothers created and loved by God, and therefore, deserving of our profoundest attempts at love and welcome.
So, when Jesus says his "kingdom is not from this world," he ain't kidding. The kind of realm over which Jesus reigns appears unintelligible to a world that believes threats are to be eliminated (by violence if necessary). Any kingdom that takes as its guiding principle the need to "love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you" is bound to appear alien to this world.
Following Jesus is risky. Indeed, his "kingdom is not from this world"—a world in which fear of the "other" drives us to deal with threats in deadly earnestness. Consequently, the domain his followers serve isn't "from this world" either.
So, if you want to follow Jesus, risk is what you signed up for.
Syrian refugees. Muslims. Transgender people.
If you're afraid, that's fine. Fear is something that just is. But if you're going to follow Jesus you're going to have to learn how to be faithful in the face of your fears. You're going to have to learn how to love those whom you don't understand, those whom you fear—not as abstractions, not as categories, not as threats—but as individuals, as human faces, as children of God.
Fear and violence cannot define our relationship to those who are different from us, in the same way that fear and violence cannot define Jesus' "kingdom that is not from this world."
I don't make the rules. I'm just telling you that if you call yourself by the name of Christ, there are some.
My recent conversation with Laurie Beth Jones about The Mainliner's Survival Guide to the Post-Denominational World. Check it out, and let me know what you think!
My back hurts. I sit with the laptop resting on my knees, and all I can think about is how much my back hurts. And the second toe on my left foot feels numb and tingly.
I should write but the world impinges. Or perhaps it’s not the world I’m in so much as the world that’s in me that sets up obstacles to the work I claim to want to do, but seem so often incapable of pulling off.
I know the rules about showing up and getting to it. But no matter how often I remind myself of them, I often can’t quite manage to do it. Why is that?
I’d like to say that I’ve figured it out, which is why I’ve determined to set down that hard-won wisdom here. But the truth of the matter is, I’m not sure why I can’t always seem to do what I know I need to do, what I say I really want to do. So I’m writing this morning not because I’ve discovered some truth, but because I hope that the process of writing will help me suss out what truth there is to be had. (I fear you'll find these musings merely an exercise in self-indulgence, but when I lower my bucket into the well, this is what I come up with.)
I don’t know why I go through these huge swings, arcing between focused motivation and fuzzy lethargy. I do know that I’m a strong starter, an idea person, but I’m often a bad sustainer. I don’t want to sell myself short and give you, dear reader, the idea that I’m all talk and no show. I can get things done. I have a pretty good reputation for doing stuff that I say I’ll do. But often, I lose interest at some point and want to move on to the next thing.
I can write a book—not effortlessly, but with the motivational momentum necessary to do the job, and do it passably well. But writing the next book … that’s a tough one. (The prospect of admitting that for you to read sends cold stabs of fear through my chest.)
Man, my back hurts. And my mouth is dry. I think I need something to drink. (See how easily it happens?)
I’m very competitive, by nature. So, if there’s something to be proved, I’m your man.
Nobody else has been able to do this? I’ll bet I can do it. In fact, I’ll kill myself to do it—not just to prove that it can be done, but to prove that it can be done by me. (I find sharing this kind of disclosure extremely uncomfortable—as, I suspect, in some way, in reading it do you.)
Climb that mountain? Fell that tree? Fix that broken thing? Person? Community? Earn that degree? Write that piece? Pass that initiative? Here I am. Look no further.
But after that? Climb that mountain again? Already did it. No adventure left in it.
Besides, my back hurts. And I could really use some coffee. And these kids … they make so much noise; it’s hard to concentrate.
I’m in Mexico at a children’s home. Kids everywhere. Playing soccer. Eating popcorn. Pushing a broken paint roller through the dust and dirt. And they seem so happy.
I come down every year. Juan and Selene, my uncle and aunt, run the Casa Hogar de San Juan—which takes in children that other people, for whatever reason, can no longer raise. They have twenty children here now—down from thirty last year. Once, in the mid 1970s, when my grandparents (who founded the home and operated it for almost forty years) were running things, they had fifty-five children. Twenty isn’t fifty-five, but it’s not nothing either.
Over 250 children through the years. I know enough about how these children got to be where they are not to romanticize life in a children’s home, but happiness springs up with amazing regularity here at the Casa Hogar. Having very little, the children seem to find what they need in the lives they lead here.
Idealizing the simple life of the poor and downtrodden is a temptation the well-situated ought assiduously to avoid. But identifying joy in simplicity seems virtuous to me. And so I’ll risk looking like the American lout I so often fear I am, and marvel at these children’s enthusiastic embrace of the life they’ve been given, not to mention the life they give back.
My back hurts. And I have a piece of the popcorn that Pancho gave me stuck in my teeth. The soccer announcer blares in the background, in the way only Spanish-speaking announcers can.
But I’m determined not to be distracted. I’m determined not to let the world tell me there’s something else.
I suspect that’s at the heart of my problem: I labor under the illusion that for life to have meaning there must always be something else, some new mountain to climb, some new language to master, some different obstacle to conquer. What I have in front of me, the experiences I’ve already collected hold too little fascination for me. I’m too easily distracted from the work I have been given to do, unless it carries with it the promise of something new and different, something few others are capable of doing.
And even as I write it, I know how self-absorbed and narcissistic it sounds. So much so, in fact, that I’m not sure I want this particular facet of my personality revealed to the world.
But I believe that writing is a search for truth—even (perhaps especially) truth that discloses that which we might otherwise wish to hold close, hold closed. Interesting word, “disclose”—a kind of backhanded way of saying, “lay bare,” “open up” … literally “un-close.”
So, I lay bare, open up, “un-close” in hopes that the truth I find will offer insight to me, and perhaps, by indirection, to you.
I set down the truth, as much as I know how, but not nearly as often as I should—perhaps in some way hoping to connect to the world that I—like the children laughing around me—happen to inhabit, rather than the world on the top of the next mountain. Because I can’t inhabit that world. I can only inhabit the anticipation of that world, which is not really a world at all, but merely a semiotic placeholder for a world that exists in the space between my abilities and my capacious need to win.
My back really hurts, but I’m writing—which means I may be close. I don’t know.
Jesus is the worst thing to happen to Christianity in a while.
Want to know how I know?
I got another anonymous letter sent to me today. Actually, it wasn’t a letter at all; it was a tract. Turns out, they still make those. (Which makes sense, because who hasn’t been confronted by a second rate black and white cartoon carrying the grim warning of impending damnation, then fallen down in a tangle of wayward limbs and humiliated repentance?)
The title of this magisterial work of theology? Reverend Wonderful.
In it our protagonist, the sardonically named, Rev. Wonderful (Haha!, Get it? ’Cause he’s really not “wonderful?”) enjoys the untempered adulation of the adoring masses. He’s introduced as the "most loved man in America."
So what makes the “Reverend” so “Wonderful,” so nationally beloved and respected? He’s theologically liberal, of course. (Because, you know, all the famous preachers are liberals. They all have megachurches and television empires and political machines.)
Unfortunately, though, it’s precisely his theological liberalism that leads God to run Rev.’s sorry butt back through the pearly gates and cast him “into the lake of fire forever.”
So, you might be wondering just what is this liberal poltroon’s great sin against God and the Christianity on behalf of which this tract offers its voice? What has consigned the Reverend to eternal perdition? Why, it’s his preaching, of course. Just listen to the evil spewing from his mouth:
“Yes, God cares about souls, but He [sic] also cares about SOCIAL JUSTICE … the poor and needy! We must UNITE to fight ignorance and bigotry” [emphasis in the original].
That’s right. R.W. gets crosswise with God because he can’t, as Stephen Covey suggested, “keep the main thing the main thing.” Instead of spending his time out hawking Christian bumper stickers and waylaying the unsuspecting with the middle school aesthetic of evangelistic tracts in an effort to “get people saved,” he foolishly pays too much attention to “the poor and needy!” No wonder God has to ice the guy! I mean, come on. All that soft-hearted liberal Jesus-y stuff be damned.
The tract I received in the mail today represents, admittedly, a somewhat caricaturized version of Christianity. But let’s be honest, it is a popular version of Christianity--one in which following Jesus’ commandments about doing “unto the least of these” is seen as a distraction from the true thrust of Christianity, which has to do with making certain that people believe the right things and that they allow Jesus into their hearts. The inescapable irony in this dismissal of tending to the needs of those on the margins is that when Jesus talks about judging those who will “go away into eternal punishment,” he never mentions as a reason for their condemnation any failure to “ask Jesus into your heart.” Instead, when Jesus speaks most powerfully about sitting in judgment on the nations, he reserves his ire for precisely those who fail to care “about SOCIAL JUSTICE … the poor and needy” (see Matt. 25:41–46).
So, back to my original assertion: Jesus is the worst thing to happen to Christianity in a while. He has a way of completely screwing with a popular view of Christianity in which what’s thought to be important is the finely calibrated modulation of the individual soul, rather than the “works righteousness” involved in actually living like Jesus said to live.
Jesus can’t help but be a disappointment to Christians who would rather not be bothered with the world God created--the one with traffic jams and dirty socks, with ballet and waterfalls, with love and generosity, with the poor and needy--than with the one to which they’ve been promised platinum membership passes at some future eschatological reckoning.
No, if you’re committed to a Christianity in which God is opposed--decidedly, angrily, cast-you-into-the-eternal-lake-of-fire-forever opposed--to any ecclesiastical effort to “UNITE to fight ignorance and bigotry,” the Jesus you find caring for the the poor and needy in the Gospels is going to pose an insuperable obstacle to your Christianity.
The Reverend Wonderful would never say it (because apparently, he’s too inoffensively nice), so I will: Jesus is the worst thing to happen to Christianity in a while. But I suspect the poor and needy are just fine with that.
Hey, he’s not my straw man.
This article originally appeared in the Huffington Post.
Well, it appears that we’ve gotten Millennials (that generation born 1980-2000) wrong.
Jean Twenge has famously tried to make the case that Millennials are lazier and more selfish than previous generations. In books like Generation Me and The Narcissism Epidemic: Living in the Age of Entitlement, Twenge has argued that today’s young people have grown up coddled, having been nurtured with an inflated sense of self-worth in an “every-kid-gets-a-soccer-trophy” world.
Dr. Twenge’s research, though, has been controversial among social scientists for some time. Up until recently the counterargument to Twenge’s assertion of Millennial narcissism centered on the idea that Millennials, far from being more narcissistic than their generational forebears, are just motivated by different things. What has sometimes been taken as laziness or a lack of ambition in the workplace is instead a refusal to chase money in favor of looking for happiness and flexibility.
However, it turns out that even happiness isn’t exactly the right description of what drives Millennials in their career choices. In an article in The the New York Times Emily Esfahani Smith and Jennifer L. Aaker argue that happiness isn’t a precise enough explanation of what Millennials seek. Instead, the data show that “Millennials appear to be more interested in living lives defined by meaning.”
Meaning, of course, is a slippery word, since the range of its possible significance seems so personal. Smith and Aaker, however, identify meaning as present in those whose “lives feel connected to others, to work, to a life purpose, and to the world itself.”
This got me to thinking about the church.
Every time I write about emerging generations, I get email about how Millennials get too much attention, and about how they’re lazy, whiny attention-hogs (unlike Baby Boomers, apparently, who’ve historically suffered a deplorable lack of attention), and about how I need to stop acting like they represent the salvation of moribund mainline denominations.
Look, I don’t think Millennials are anything more than young people trying to make a go of it in a world where the economic deck has been decidedly stacked against them.
I don’t think there’s anything magical about them (being in their presence won’t cure Lumbago or pacify psychopathic serial killers).
I don’t believe that if we could just figure them out the church could reengineer its post-war hegemony in American culture.
But I do think they’re worth paying attention to.
Here’s my assumption: If mainline denominations have taken a nosedive in membership, money, and influence (which they have), and if you want a chance to figure out why (which I do), it seems like a good thing to start looking at the age demographic where the losses have been heaviest.
Care to venture a guess as to where that might be? Yep. Millennials. (Bet you didn’t see that coming.)
Oh, I know that’s oversimplifying, and that there are any number of people out there itching to tell me why looking for answers among those who are bugging out at the fastest rate is a lousy idea. But, you’ve got to start someplace, right?
An increasing number of young people have found organized Christianity scandalously underwhelming. Why?
Like much of the rest of culture (following Twenge’s lead), the church has tended to answer that question by assigning blame to Millennials: “Those selfish little narcissists just don’t appreciate what we’ve got here, what we’ve tried to do for them. They only care about themselves.”
There are holdouts, of course--those who’ve adjusted their approach to appeal to the immature impulse to “happiness” that they believe drives Millennials. There are churches who’ve tried to appeal to Millennials, believing that if they could just find the right mixture of “hip” music and upbeat theology, that they will have hit the happiness sweet spot. Believing (perhaps unconsciously) that young people care less about the more difficult aspects of following Jesus than with being entertained, popular Christianity has pursued what I prefer to think of as the “sitcom-ification” of faith -- that is, the life of faith should be presented as a series of challenges in an upbeat atmosphere that can be resolved in a half hour, and will include enough comedy to keep the laugh-track engineer appropriately occupied.
But what if the church quit worrying about whether there is enough carmel for the lattes in the church café or enough hair gel for the praise band?
Or what if the church quit whinging about how “these-kids-just-don’t-appreciate-the-church-we’ve-worked-so-hard-to-bequeath-to-them?”
What if the church took Millennials seriously?
What if the church viewed Millennials not as petulant narcissists or vacuous amusement hounds, but as serious adults living in an uncertain world, who are searching for something meaningful to which to give their lives?
What would we have to do to be that kind of church?
Whatever happens, I suspect that any chance mainline denominations have of surviving can be found somewhere in the answer to that question.