See, we’re not just saying that we want to be diverse. There are truly a lot of different kinds of people at Calvary. Lots. And everybody loves to talk about diversity, but have you ever tried to live in the middle of it? It’s hard! That’s where a focus on our larger vision comes in handy. And, hopefully, that’s what will get us through . . . the scary conversation. That and talking about sex in church, which makes most of us want to run into the deacons’ closet and hide. This is not an essay in which I examine all the theological, scriptural, moral or ethical dimensions of this issue. You can do your own reading on those by checking out what Real Live Preacher has to say on the subject or picking up a copy of one of many excellent books on the topic (search on Amazon or email me for some suggestions). I do want to acknowledge, though, that this is an issue on which people hold all sorts of different positions and about which people feel very emotional. This is not an issue on which we will all agree, no matter how hard we work to come to consensus. But, friends, this is nothing new for Calvary. Everybody here feels very strongly and very emotionally on almost every issue of our life together (Forget “the gay issue”. What about the punch recipe for Fellowship Hour? What brand of fruit punch used as the base for the recipe has been a hot topic of discussion in several meetings I’ve attended. And, remember the real vs. faux flower debate? Can’t get much more emotional than that!). I’m not sure exactly how that will be, but I think it needs to be a process in which everyone gets an opportunity to examine their position and express their views. It needs to be a process in which we all have an opportunity to learn something new and to listen to each other. And it needs to be a process in which we resolve in the end—whether we agree with each other or not—to continue our work toward that great vision we share: being the community of Christ at the heart of this city and being welcoming, responsive, trusting and prayerful in everything we do. There’s a time and place for everything, and if it’s time to have the scary conversation, well, then, I guess we’ll have it. But no matter what happens I’ll keep saying the same things: that we are called to be the community of Christ in this place, that we can agree on that fact, that this is an opportunity to learn to love each other more and that, at the end of the conversation we’ll be sitting next to each other in worship on Sunday.
It came up yesterday in the annual church meeting, as I suppose it has been coming up all over the world in church meetings of various sorts. Is it time for us to stop tiptoeing around the elephant in the middle of the sanctuary and have the scary conversation? That would be, to publicly and collectively ask the question: “Is Calvary a place where we accept and affirm all people . . . even gay people?”
Since we’re Baptists we are not bound by any larger denominational position (in theory, of course); we are called to discern our own position as a congregation. But while we’ve managed to sit quietly on the sidelines not asking and not telling, we’ve watched churches and denominations ripped apart by all kinds of faithful people with strong convictions on several different sides of the issue (not just two!). And while we realize this is a question that will eventually need our attention, we just don’t want any more ripping apart going on here at Calvary.
The question for us is, how are we going to address this issue in such a way that everybody feels they are heard and that, in the end, we make a decision that moves us closer to living out the vision we’re called to live out in this place?
I’d like to hear your thoughts on how we might approach this issue, whether you are a Calvary member or someone peering in from the outside. From my perch all I can think of are the many faithful people who have traipsed through my office in tears to tell me about themselves or a family member struggling with the issue of Christian faith and being gay. I’ve always reassured them that there is a place for everyone in the body of Christ and also a place for them here at Calvary and I’ve done that truthfully representing what I perceive to be the position of this congregation—even though we haven’t had the scary conversation officially.
That’s not so scary, is it?
Archive for January, 2006
Admittedly my perspective is a bit foggy, having been prescribed assistance to deal with the pain of recent events (see my Tale of Woe). However, my foggy perspective has not, in my opinion, impacted my astute observations of modern culture or my unmanageable compulsion to comment on those observations.
Here I note a few recent thoughts on the state of daytime television.
Since I have spent the last three days peering through the fog of a pretty bad headache at shows like 50 Hottest Vegas Moments you are probably thinking that I am recoiling in outrage at the drivel telecast while most of the world is busy at work. This is a concern of mine, but what is really fueling my outrage today is the fact that I just wasted about 6 straight hours of my life watching this stuff.
I didn’t mean to do it . . . it just sucked me in and I couldn’t escape.
I started out watching Paula’s Home Cooking, where this woman with a really thick Southern accent bustles around her kitchen cooking a lot of stuff with heavy cream and saying “honey” and “sweetie” a lot. It was very comforting to me in my compromised state. I turned it on because I saw a preview that promised the secret for making the most delicious white chocolate macadamia nut pie, which is something I think everyone needs to learn at some point in life. Right? Why not now?
I watched it all and decided it DID look good, and that it would taste especially good if someone else made it. Not me.
Well, after that show was over I was going to turn it off and sleep for awhile when I saw the lead in to Everyday Italian. It was just that the woman on that show is so pretty . . . and she makes cooking look so delightfully fun (maybe I’ve been missing something all along?). By the end of this show I started to suspect that my brain patterns might have been dangerously altered when I caught myself thinking about when I might make Rack of Lamb with Mint Basil Pesto for dinner . . . .
I thought, “That’s it! This is getting ridiculous!” so I turned the channel to TLC just in time to catch the beginning of A Wedding Story. I figured I could pick up some professional tips by watching a couple plan their wedding. I found, however, that the minister on the show did everything wrong! Certainly not like I would have done it!
It was almost a relief when What Not to Wear came on, though one of the hosts, Stacy London, is a little bit annoying. (And I know this for a fact because my friend Susie was on the show. But that is another blog entry.) Today, though, I got into their project. What would be better? Straight-legged pants or flared bottoms? Short jacket with structure or a longer, loose-fitting coat? Should we go with shimmer on the lips or a darker, matted lipstick shade? In the end I found myself winded–it was like exercise! So many decisions hanging in the balance; surely this could not be good for me in my weakened condition.
So I turned the channel to something more intellectual: Discovery Health Channel. Hmmm, this looks good, I thought, as I watched the trailer for I Lost It!, a new show about people who lose weight. And the fact that I thought this show looked like something I’d like to watch is just more indisputable evidence that I must have suffered brain damage in my recent car accident. What kind of compromised mental state leads someone to think watching a show about people who lose a lot of weight, solve all their problems and immediately begin living lives of bliss would be a fun thing to do?
I almost turned it off in disgust until I noticed the next show coming on, An Adoption Story. I love hearing about adoptions since I have an adopted child. So I watched, engrossed, as a wonderful, beautiful, loving and deserving couple in Seattle successfully adopted a perfect and adorable little boy through the foster care system. It was all perfect and wonderful and beautiful. I finally realized to what a terrible level I’d sunk when I had a momentary out-of-body experience and saw myself sitting on the bed, Kleenex box in hand, crumpled, used tissues scattered about, eyes swollen from crying . . . from the television show I was watching.
This has got to stop. I don’t know what I can do to change the state of daytime television in this country, but surely I could write a letter, start a consumer campaign, lobby for better programming? I feel convicted after my day in front of the television that something needs to be done. And soon.
So I plan to get started on this right away.
Right after A Makeover Story.
Depending on the time of day (and where we happen to be in the schedule of pain medication), the latest drama in my life is either an annoying distraction or a horrific tragedy of epic proportions.
Knowing myself as I do the truth is probably somewhere in between. Let me tell you my tale of woe.
On Monday morning I was headed down 16th Street on my way to a meeting. My kids were out of school Monday, so they were over at a friend’s house for the morning. My plan was to go to my meeting and head back home to pick up the kids and spend the rest of the day in meaningful, educational parent/child interaction (in other words, they watch TV while I work on my sermon).
In a very unusual turn of events I was actually on time for my meeting. (Ha! Just goes to show that being late is sometimes helpful . . .).
To summarize my long sordid tale, a car turned left off of 16th Street and directly into the driver’s side of my car. That would be my brand new Toyota Corolla, which came into my possession only the first week of December and still smelled like a new car. I had not even begun “storing” important papers in the car, as I have a habit of doing!
After its unfortunate meeting with this other car, my car could not be driven; if it is not totaled well, then, it’s pretty close to 
totaled. And to add to the outrage, the car that hit mine was painted a bright lime green. Picture my beautiful new black Corolla, totally crunched and smeared with lime green paint. Horrible.
I was rather dazed by the whole experience but I remember thinking my kids would be very impressed by all the fire trucks, ambulances and police cars assembled at the scene.
When I surveyed the damage I didn’t notice any gushing blood so I declined an invitation from a handsome young man in a uniform to accompany him to the hospital (and have been suffering my husband’s wrath on that point ever since, I might note). Yes, after HE arrived on the scene and harshly reprimanded me for that decision, my husband dragged me to the emergency room anyway (so really I did get to go to the hospital with a handsome man. Are you reading this, Mark? I totally typed it with a straight face, as laughing hurts at the moment) and tests determined that the little brain I had before the accident is still intact. (Thanks be to God. Some of us are barely making it with what we have; can’t afford to lose any!)
The lingering effects of this experience are that I am pretty bruised up and very sore–increasingly, it seems. Hoping to turn a corner soon.
What have I learned from this experience?
Well, I’ve learned (once again–slow learner) that I am not in control of everything (it just seems to me that the world would be such a better place if only I could control other drivers on the road, weather conditions, just little things like that . . .).
I also have realized that, given the outpouring of concern I’ve received, had my life been tragically snuffed out in the accident I might actually be missed (isn’t that a nice thing to know?).
And, I also learned that the church can go on without me, as evidenced by the fact that I missed Church Council meeting on Monday night and the world did not come to an end. (Honestly, I am a little puzzled by that. Surely they NEEDED me??!? How on earth could things possibly continue without me? This is most troubling!)
I am sure there are other profound lessons from this experience, probably being learned as we speak. Come to think of it, I already know at least a few of them are in some way related to the horrifying state of daytime television in this country (how did I go so long without being aware of this outrageous situation?)
But for the moment I think it best to take charge of the one remaining thing I seem to be able to control . . . .
I’m going back to bed.
Just everybody pause (I know you need me); I’ll be back soon and the world can resume turning as usual.
Calvary is a congregation in transition. That means, as the years have gone by, Calvary’s young families have gradually transitioned from that phase of life to middle age and on to, shall we say, the later years of life. While this faithful group of folks in the later years of life continues to worship and serve in ways that often astound me, to their great relief there is now a new group of folks a little behind on the path of life bringing up the rear, planning for the future.
(Crude and tactless translation: there used to be only a lot of old people at Calvary and now there are increasingly more younger people in the mix.)
Each group brings its own gifts to the community; 
I’m grateful for the whole big diversity of folks who make up our church family. But I’ve noticed that, with the transition of ages in our church, my pastoral duties have begun to change.
I realized this Sunday as I visited our newest little church family member, Renzo, who was born just last week. He and Mom Jillian are doing great. I personally thought it was such a coup for me to spend an afternoon sitting on the couch in a puddle of sunshine holding a sleeping baby close and being able to honestly report that I spent the afternoon “working”!
Little Renzo is going to rock his Mom’s world–he’s already working on that–but I think his birth is really the symbol of a new day for Calvary. His birth marks a significant shift, one where the pastor doesn’t just hang out at nursing homes anymore, she also gets to spend moments holding brand new babies.
Welcome to the world, Renzo, and most of all, welcome to your church family. There are many of us “older folks” already lining up to get our turns holding you. By coming to our church family you’re insured a whole bunch of extra grandmas, grandpas, aunts, uncles (and pastors) . . . who will hold you and love you and teach you about a God who loves you, too.
Yes, we’re all glad you’re here, you see, because you are our future.
This is the danger of spending so much time with one text—you start to see it everywhere you go. That’s the only explanation I can come up with for my sitting in the movie theatre Saturday watching Heath Ledger in Casanova and drawing parallels between the movie and Sunday’s gospel lesson, Mark 1:14-20.
Truth be told, without a little prompting I probably would have been content to just sit there and watch Heath Ledger. But it was really my friend Linda, with whom I saw the movie, who got me thinking. While we were rehashing the movie afterwards she reminded me of one line that sparked a few vaguely spiritual thoughts.
See, there’s a scene in the movie where Heath Ledger (who plays Giovanni Casanova—duh!) is giving advice to a young bumbling Casanova wannabe. This poor young guy’s heart pines for a young lady across the canal but she would never notice him; he’s too clumsy and uncool—not like the man every woman longs for, Casanova . . . dashing, romantic, handsome, smooth . . . .
The line Linda recited that stuck in my mind was Casanova’s advice to this poor guy, Giovanni Bruni (played wonderfully by Charlie Cox, I thought): “Be the flame, not the moth.”
Linda reminded me of this line and we talked about it for awhile. I kept thinking about Jesus’ invitation to the first disciples to turn in their fishing nets and come join Jesus in fishing for people.
The church has used and abused this idea of “fishing for men”—starting, of course, with continually using the male-exclusive language. Jesus certainly meant the disciples would be communicating a message to everyone—not just men. But this image of fishing has been distorted even beyond that. Fishing, in my mind (certainly reinforced by many Four Spiritual Laws Training Sessions and Sunday School classes in “witnessing strategies”), 
implies catching, hooking, tricking . . . killing, even. Yes, taken to extremes it can be a violent, dishonest strategy (ummmm, the Crusades . . . ?). And if you make direct parallels between this activity and our attempts to communicate our faith to others, well, what invariably happens is that one day we find ourselves with bullhorns on Bourbon Street shouting about sin and hell (not my favorite way to spend a day on Bourbon Street, I must confess).
Surely this is not what Jesus meant when he invited the disciples to come along and fish for people!
My theory is that Jesus was inviting those disciples to be who they were—fishermen—for the sake of the Gospel (in fact, that’s a good summary of Sunday’s sermon, which will be on the Calvary web site probably tomorrow). That is, to be the best they could be at what they knew and, in the process, invite people to join them. In other words, to be a flame radiating light and attracting those who are looking for a way to move out of the darkness.
I am not really all that sure that you could find overt allusions to the Gospel message in the movie Casanova. But the truth of the matter is that whenever you allow the text to squeeze its way into your heart you might find messages from God no matter where you are. For me, I’ll never think of Jesus calling his disciples again without that image of Heath Ledger admonishing . . . “Be the flame, not the moth.”
Hey! Does this great theatrical spiritual discovery mean that my movie ticket is a legitimate business expense? Next, a business trip to Bourbon Street!
I’d like to think that once in awhile there are small nuggets of spiritual profundity that can be mined from these ramblings. I am not trying to be a groundbreaking theologian along the lines of St. Augustine, but an occasional foray into some expression of spiritual depth would be nice.
This is not one of those moments.
This is an entry about real confessions . . . the kind of revelations about yourself that you could work to hide from the world if you really tried.
Here I reveal two, to be exact.
Okay, three. Uhhhh, four.
First, anybody who knows me well (okay, really, anybody who barely knows me at all) knows that I am quite a committed coffee drinker. I am starting to think that this habit of mine could be classified as an illness if we wanted to be technical about it.
It is true that I spend more time at the Starbucks on 7th and G NW than I do in my office, but that is not just because I’m a supremely hip urban pastor (pause to laugh) who is willing to go anywhere and do anything for the sake of the gospel.
No, I pretty much hang out there because I really like to drink coffee.
And, those of you who know I am unlikely to do anything in moderation will easily be able to surmise that I drink a lot of coffee.
I am now to the stage in my personal coffee consumption that I am afraid NOT to drink it, as the headache I will undoubtedly have is not something I look forward to.
I am not necessarily proud of this fact, but, then again, I suppose there are worse habits to have.
This fact lays the groundwork for the next confession, which is that I purchased my current coffee maker (in use every single day, programmed to go off at 6:05 a.m., carefully set up right before I go to bed) because I thought it looked cool on the shelf at Target.
Yes, I am ashamed to admit that I purchased this particular coffee maker for the sole reason that I thought its presence on my kitchen counter would elevate my level of personal coolness (admittedly a very real need).
I am ashamed to admit this because I am the very one who will regularly admonish my children to be sure to appreciate things and people for what they truly are . . . not just what they look like.
Sometimes, of course, choosing something (or someone) soley on the basis of its looks works 
fine. There are some things and some people who look totally cool and, at the same time, ARE totally cool (I hate those kinds of people–oh! that would be confession number three . . . ). Nevertheless, such is not the case with my Mr. Coffee 12-Cup Thermal Carafe Coffee Maker.
The sad truth about this coffee maker is that it is a certifiably, totally objectively horrible coffee maker.
For one thing, the removable water canister leaks, so I have to take it out, fill it up and run–run–from the sink to the coffee maker then slam it into place before all the water drips out. And, very often during brewing, the basket holding the coffee grounds pops out of place for no reason that I can discover. When this happens and there is no person around to pop it back in, the water cannot flow through the grounds into the pot. What happens instead is that my entire kitchen counter (and often the floor) is baptized with coffee and grounds. And, worse, there is no coffee ready for me when I wake up. To add further insult to these two very injurious facts about my coffee maker, the thermal carafe is not exactly thermal in the way I think of thermal (Thermal underwear, for example? Am I wrong to make these assumptions?). In other words, the coffee gets cold about 20 minutes after it has brewed.
As a result of this terrible situation in which I find myself I can often be observed (as I was last night) complaining about my coffee maker and sometimes (though very rarely) saying bad words while I am running from the sink to the counter with the water canister.
My loving husband helpfully pointed out last night (while this recurring scene was happening yet again) that I might possibly consider ending my relationship with this coffee maker and going to the store and purchasing a new coffee maker . . . ?
With a sigh I tried to communicate to him the complexities of this situation. See, if I were to purchase a new coffee maker I would never want make the same mistake again–that is, buying one just because it looks cool. And, to make sure I do not fall into this trap I would have to do some pretty extensive consumer research on coffee makers, I explained patiently. And (and this is where I unwittingly found myself confessing to yet another personal flaw–this makes 4, for those of you who are counting), to do such research takes time, you see . . . time I would rather spend doing other things.
Things like . . . complaining about what a terrible coffee maker I have.
There’s probably no question that I am a religious nerd. However, that does not excuse the fact that my husband has done Dorcas wrong.
This situation is not unlike the occasion on which Mark (the husband under discussion) gave me an Enya CD and proceeded to launch a campaign of ridicule that involved playing the most popular tune from the CD over and over and over (and over) on the piano until we were all so sick of it that the last thing I wanted to do was to actually listen to the CD.
Even today I turn off the radio when that song comes on. And I have never even opened the CD.
I am dismayed to report that Mark has almost succeeded in doing the same to my very favorite Bible character of all, Dorcas.
The thing is, when I was a little kid I heard these incredible stories from the book of Acts about Dorcas, stories about this woman who used the skills she had to serve God in a time when women didn’t have many options at their disposal.
That theme was very meaningful to me as a child.
Go figure.
Plus, I thought Dorcas’ death and subsequent rising from the dead were all very dramatic and exciting. After all, she was “devoted to good works and acts of charity” and a lot of people showed up to cry at her first funeral. I thought if there was anyone in the Bible I’d like to be (aside from King Asa the Halloween I was 5, of course), that would be Dorcas.
I NEVER laughed at her name; I always listened with rapt attention and tried to paint mental pictures of this woman who cared for everyone and whom everyone loved. I still don’t think there is anything funny about Dorcas at all. (By the way, did you know there is an institution of higher learning called Dorcas University?)
However, I personally have come to believe that it’s genetic evidence of my husband’s disrespectful sense of humor passed on to our children that, one day, as I began to tell them (my precious offspring, to whom I am solemnly committed to passing down deep truths of faith) the story of Dorcas I was stopped almost as I began by chortles, snorts and giggles.
I can’t be absolutely sure, but I think Mark started it. (Just goes to show you should be very careful who you marry . . . that person will undoubtedly have some influence on your children.)
Nevertheless, I pressed on, telling my kids the story (hoping that maybe one of them would like to be Dorcas for Halloween??), but was soon overwhelmed by hoots of laughter and comments like, “Her name was DORCAS? Hahahahaha! She must have gotten teased a LOT at school!”
I tried to rise above it, but all of my efforts to explain that Dorcas was a Greek name and probably did not have the connotations they associated with the English word all went ignored.
I was then and I continue to be now totally and completely indignant about the whole situation. My efforts to pass down a meaningful example of Christian living . . . my attempts impart biblical knowledge . . . my sharing of a faith story that meant something to me . . . all of these things, thwarted.
There are many injustices in this world, but for some reason this one strikes me as especially egregious. I wonder: if I don’t speak up, who will combat this loss of innocence and reclaim the inspiration of Dorcas? Who will campaign to right this wrong? Who will work to insure that millions of children in the world today will not miss hearing the story of Dorcas because they are laughing too hard at her name? And, perhaps most alarming, who will make sure that some devout little child can choose, without ridicule, to be Dorcas for Halloween?
I don’t know the answers. All I know is that Dorcas got dealt a bad hand. She was definitely a candidate for Sunday School fame on the level of King David and Simon Peter, but all has been undercut by her silly name and the back-row snickers of those less-holy among us.
Here’s the bottom line. There’s enough pain in this world already. It’s time to reclaim Dorcas for the rest of us.
And Enya, too.
When I hear the word what springs to mind immediately is the hymn–you know it–Redeemed, How I Love to Proclaim it . . . . It just makes you want to run down the aisle, doesn’t it? This sense that, if I can get it right something magical, amazing, wonderful and instantaneous will turn my life from what it is right now to something beyond my wildest dreams?
That’s what I always learned, anyway. That in a moment (which you should be able to recount with exacting detail, including date, time, location) you made a decision to turn your life over to Christ and some kind of supercalifragilisticexpialidocious thing happened . . . right then!
I first started to wonder about this when it occurred to me that my life before kneeling down next to my bed with my mom at age 7 and my life after that moment were strikingly similar. Maybe it’s just me, I thought for years. Maybe it didn’t take that day. Oh, my gosh, what if I said something wrong and that moment in 1977 was NOT ACTUALLY THE MOMENT I WAS REDEEMED?
I confess this was a nagging thought in the back of my mind for years. Years. Until, one day, years later (about 20 years later, to be honest) I was sitting in church and the pastor said these words, “Even now we are being redeemed.”
Even now we are being redeemed! Bells went off, whistles sounded. Even now I am being redeemed! It’s a process.
Whew. What a relief!
Since then I have learned and embraced with joy the Apostle Paul’s ideas about sanctification. They give me hope–that I didn’t miss the boat that day in 1977, that I didn’t mistakenly leave out one word, thus rendering the instant magical event null and void . . . that redemption is a process.
It comes in small inspirations
Just for a little contextual reference point I’d like to tell you that I clearly remember hot controversy the fall I entered Kindergarten. The parents were talking in hushed tones, I remember, about “busing” but it didn’t mean much to me–all I knew was that this very cool new part of my life meant I got a shiny new lunchbox and finally, to ditch my annoying younger siblings and go to the pinnacle of all experiences . . . elementary school.
Yes, that was pretty much my introduction to Civil Rights through the school system. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day wasn’t celebrated anywhere then, and the formal designation “Civil Rights Movement” was pretty new.
Times have changed, though, and I know this because I am, once again, in elementary school.
Well, I am not technically IN second or third or sixth grade, but as any parent of a school-aged child knows, if they’re in school, well, you are, too. Science projects, research papers. Homework packets, class parties. After-school enrichment, state testing. Today we’ll be spending some time creating a real Mr. Potato Head with an accompanying story of his life, for example. (Can’t wait!)
Oh yes, my friends, I am in elementary school again.
So I feel that I am fairly qualified to say that Martin Luther King, Jr., has become a very prominent topic of study and discussion in “my” elementary school. Much, much more than my first time around. My children know who he is (not sure I did my first time in elementary school); they know what he said; most importantly, they know what he stood for.
(They even know very strange trivia like I heard the other day when one of my kids said:
“Hey Mom, did you know Martin Luther King, Jr. had a son who was also named Martin Luther King?”
Yes, I replied.
“And did you know he looks EXACTLY like the dad on Fresh Prince of BelAire?”
No, I replied.
Oh, our educational system has come such a very long way . . . ).
Knowing something and being changed by that knowing, of course, are two different things. So I’ve been listening closely to see whether or not all this Civil Rights education is really changing my kids, really helping them look at the world in a different way.
The answer came for me the other night at dinner. I was taking a poll of how the kids wanted to spend Monday . . . no school, no work, a whole free day (except for the potato project, I have since discovered)! Truth be told, I was gearing myself up to hear an urgent request to see Cheaper By the Dozen Two or some other cinematic expression of hell.
Instead, one of the kids looked thoughtful for a minute and said, “You know, I think it would be so cool to go to the Lincoln Monument. Then, we could park the car and climb up all those big steps. Then, when we get to the top, we could go over right to the very place where Martin Luther King, Jr. said his speech about having a dream. And we could remember that he thought everybody should be treated the same.”
Oh, our educational system has come such a long way. So much further than I’d ever dreamed.
But maybe this was the kind of thing Dr. King was dreaming of all along.
Happy MLK Day. 
