Talk With the Preacher

I’ve had several inquiries from folks wondering what I think about the motion referred to the Southern Baptist Convention’s Executive Board the second week of June to modify the SBC’s constitution to automatically disfellowship churches who have women as their Senior Pastors.  Well . . . let me share the history. In 2000, you might recall, the Baptist Faith and Message (closest thing to a statement of belief Southern Baptists have) was amended to include the words: “While both men and women are gifted for service in the church, the office of pastor is limited to men as qualified by Scripture.”

Thus, as you might imagine, this recent move to disfellowship churches with women pastors is not the most shocking news I’ve heard anytime lately. Really, it seems like the next step in a long saga of behavior by the Southern Baptist Convention violating the Baptist distinctive of autonomy of the local church (that’s a fancy way of saying that each church must respond to the call of God as God’s Spirit leads).

Calvary, to the surprise of many, is still officially affiliated with the Southern Baptist Convention. Sure enough, there was a time in history when both the president of the Southern Baptist Convention and the president of the ABC were members of Calvary, and when this congregation and both those denominational bodies worked in conjunction and cooperation with each other. It was a wonderful time of Baptist unity and shared identity.

But . . . since then, Southern Baptists have taken a road of practice and polity that leads far away from that historical commitment to Baptist principles. It has been some time since Calvary has sent any significant money to the SBC, sent messengers to any SBC meetings or had any contact at all with leaders of the SBC. In fact, since Calvary is technically still an SBC member, many SBC churches find Calvary on the SBC website, contact us for help with mission work, and then feel strongly that they have been misled-we’re nothing like any Southern Baptist church they’ve ever seen.

And, really . . . they are correct.

So, to make what could be a very short answer even longer, I will finally say that no . . . I’m not surprised. What has been curious for me, instead, is the timing of this Southern Baptist proposal as it applies to our own community here at Calvary.

Our Mission Board has been working on facilitating conversation about our denominational affiliations. The thought is that it may be valuable for us to take a closer look at the organizations we say we’re affiliated with and what our affiliation looks like.

For example, if we say we are affiliated with an organization but don’t support them financially, is that appropriate?

What about maintaining affiliation with an organization whose basic principles stand in conflict with our vision statement? Is that truthful?

I think it will be helpful to ask these questions and dialog with each other.

But . . .we might just get our own decision making power pulled out from under us if Southern Baptists do, indeed, decide to disfellowship churches with women as their pastors.

And, in my mind, this turn of events is really unfortunate.

Honestly, I’d prefer that we take a decisive stand about what we believe God has called us to be and do, rather than getting kicked out for some genetically pre-determined reason. What about Southern Baptist statements condemning homosexuals? Or proclaiming biblical inerrancy? Or boycotting Disney? Or declaring that Jews are going to hell?

Are these the public stances by which we want to be known?

Sure, we have a woman pastor here at Calvary. But what about the radical beliefs that define our congregation? Aren’t those the things that set us apart from Southern Baptists even more? “Do justice, love mercy, walk humbly with God? Love God, love each other? We are an ecumenical, multi-racial, multi-ethnic Christian body that reaches out to the world with the Good News of Jesus Christ . . . to that end we strive to be welcoming, responsive, trusting and prayerful in everything we do??!?!?”

It seems to me that it would be a shame for us to be summarily disfellowshipped for the ridiculous reason that I am a woman.

I’d prefer to get kicked out instead for radically following Jesus . . . that’s much more offensive anyway.

Shane Claiborne, author of The Irresistible Revolution and now, Jesus for President, will speak at Calvary on June 27th.  Hope you might come to hear a radically freeing take on the Gospel message and meet some people bound and determined to live a different way.  Here’s more information.

Sometimes I wonder.  What version of reality was it, do you think, in which I had enough thought to carry through the impetus of applying to do doctoral work?   I’m celebrating the end of my last Doctor of Ministry class, which sounds really great until you consider that “end” also means “beginning”: final assignments for classes, requirements for that one last independent study, and, of course, that annoying little final project.Perhaps it wasn’t reality at all.  Perhaps it was a break with reality. Whatever you want to call it, I’m back now, back to juggling furiously and looking desperately for little moments of joy, rest and possibly even inspiration. In the meantime, it’s back to the blog:

Now the combination of my own God-given talent of offering an opinion on just about any subject you can think of, combined with the huge change this congregation had hoped to undergo when I came and is, in fact, undergoing right now would lead any thinking person to conclude that Heather would have to shut me up after asking me to answer this one.

The strangest thing happened, though. I jumped right in to answer her . . . but I couldn’t think of anything.

Those of you who know me and know Calvary will share my surprise. I am a pastor who talks about vision and change and future and possibility all the time; I rarely see what’s right in front of me, preferring instead to imagine what might be just around the corner. Change is the currency of my economy; it’s what I expect, pray for, long for, hope for.

And yet, when she asked what I would change . . . I couldn’t think of one thing.

After sitting speechless for a few minutes (save the comments, please) I finally managed to mumble something about the church constitution, which is rather cumbersome and out of date. And around which I will freely admit I would love to see some change.

But all I could really think of while I sat there trying to answer took the form of something like a slide show. I kept seeing faces of dear people. I kept remembering sensations-the warm water of the baptistery; the squeeze of a hand at the door; the sweet smell of a new baby held close, being dedicated. My mind kept skipping over the hard and painful parts of life together and landing instead in all those precious memories of worship shared, milestones celebrated, practical jokes cleanly executed and love . . . love all over the place.

My reaction startled me, but it also rolled over me like such a balm. It made me think that all this energy and worry I apply toward the day to day dramas of church actually . . . probably . . . do not, at the end of the day, make up the whole of what it means to live in Christian community on the corner of H and 8th NW.

I’m not wholly ready to tell Heather she can keep the change-I’m becoming more and more convinced that living in Gospel community means being ready to move wherever God’s Spirit leads. But today I can stop for a moment and give thanks for all that makes up the body of Christ here at Calvary, aware that when you step back and look at the whole experience of life together in this place, the overwhelming thread that runs through everything-the old, the new and everything else-is the hopeful Gospel message. And that is something I hope never, ever changes.

Thanks be to God.

Today, I make my Sacrament of Thanksgiving.  I pass before me the mainsprings of my heritage: the fruits of the labors of countless generations who lived before me, without whom my own life would have no meaning; the seers who saw visions and dreamed dreams; the prophets who sensed a truth greater than the mind could grasp, and whose words could only find fulfillment in the years which they would never see; the saviors whose blood was shed with a recklessness that only a dream could inspire and God could command.  For all these I make an act of thanksgiving this day.  Amen.

Howard Thurman

Calvary has the honor of hosting a showing of the powerful documentary, New Year Baby.  At 2:00 p.m. Sunday in Shallenberger Hall we’ll view the film then hear from the filmmaker.  We’re excited the film got a shout out on Penn Quarter Living, and hope you’ll join us Sunday!

The people of Burma (Myanmar) cannot get a break! 

With so much suffering in Burma already news of this devastating cyclone seems like adding insult to injury.  Here at Calvary we are particularly concerned because so many of our fellow church members come from Burma.  They still cannot reach many family members and are frantic with worry. 

To help them try to “get up again,” we have made it possible to donate funds online, which will be made available to suffering people through denominational channels, not governmental agencies.  Further, to lend your presence and support to our Burmese community here, join us for a benefit concert Saturday, May 17 at 6:00 p.m. at Calvary.  

Do I need to draw you a picture?

Apparently.

It’s always curious how different strands of my life inevitably intersect. This morning I was chatting with my very good friend and Urban Artist Caroline Armijo about the courage it takes to be artistic. She’s exceptionally gifted, of course, so she doesn’t work so much at discovering her creativity as having the courage to rigorously practice it.

Me? I’m not creative at all . . . I don’t have those gifts . . . I can’t express myself this wa . . . . .. That was my internal soundtrack as we talked, but later I started to wonder if it’s not so much that I have a lack of creative artistic talent as maybe, possibly, potentially . . . a deep fear of summoning the courage it takes to be creative?

Hmmmmm.

This second thought emerged when I (grudgingly) sat down to read a book assigned for a required doctor of ministry class next week. In this book Envisioning the Word, Richard Jensen makes the strong case for using images in preaching and worship, not just words.

In the process of reading this book skeptics like me are liable to think the author is being paid a commission by Microsoft as we promise ourselves (again) we will never, EVER, preach with the glow of a PowerPoint outline shining behind us . . . .

That’s my reaction, anyway, until I reach page 71 and a section entitled: “Who Killed the Goddess?”

This seems suspiciously unrelated to PowerPoint and related to some theological issues I think are fascinating, so I decide read on. (I also decide to read on because it’s required.) 

Jensen talks in this section about the widely known dichotomy (which apparently is not widely known enough for me to know it) between images and words. He cites a book by Leonard Schlain called The Alphabet versus The Goddess in which the proposal is made that: “When a critical mass of people within a society acquire literacy, especially alphabet literacy, left hemispheric modes of thought are reinforced at the expense of right hemispheric ones, which manifest as a decline in the status of images, women’s rights and goddess worship.”

In other words, through various social and historical trends we’ve all come to see words as superior ways to communicate, pushing images back to second (or fifth) place. All the “people of the book,” (Jews, Christians, Muslims) Schlain claims, have fallen into this trap and it happened just as soon as they took abstract ideas and codified them in words.

Words, he says, are exclusive. Images are more expansive.

And so, what I have concluded from all of this is that I have apparently been wasting my time writing blog entries and preaching sermons, an effort which has apparently unwittingly contributed to a patriarchal and male-dominated understanding of God. All this time I’ve spent in front of the computer subjecting the larger world to the scary inside of my mind thinking I was breaking the stained glass ceiling and I was really reinforcing it! Turns out I should have been sketching. Or painting. Or liturgically dancing!

Which makes me want to call Caroline and ask her to come back to my office to help me imagine how I might express ideas about God in a visual way that is not mistaken for a kindergarten craft project. Because while it’s getting more and more comfortable for me to post a written blog entry, it’s rather scary to think about taking an idea of God and depicting it in macramé. You know what I mean?

This very week we celebrate the Day of Pentecost, the coming of the Holy Spirit. How do you describe the Holy Spirit in words? I could try (and, in fact, I will . . . for about 20 minutes on Sunday). But, I wonder, given what I’ve learned today about courage and visual art, words and containment: maybe the Spirit is better explained with a gust of wind? Or a splash of color. Or some balloons . . . or a puddle of fabric on the altar . . . ?

I can see already that this adds a whole new dimension to sermon preparation, in fact. When you start to see exegesis in finger painting, well, your whole view of the world changes. And so, now that I’ve put all of this down in words I need to summon the courage to draw you a picture.

Where are my crayons? I think I’ll go decoupage something.

In the first place, if you know me even casually you will know my dismay, if not downright disdain, when I am in almost any circumstance that involves sappy praise songs. (I particularly become bitter when we have to stand, swaying and clapping, for 15 excruciating minutes, then sit down to sing the same song some more. But that’s a whole other blog entry, isn’t it?). 

This was certainly, if not the last place then pretty close to the last place I expected to receive a blessing, especially since “receiving a blessing” is a phrase that I would never be caught using in public under any circumstances that I can think of.

So I was already in a place of mild annoyance when the group of 30 or so African children filed onto the stage and began their performance with a dance and song in their native Ugandan tongue. The kids were great-really-but something about the whole situation felt vaguely uncomfortable. Here I was, sitting in a crowd of about 600 white Americans (really, there were perhaps one or two African Americans in the audience and no other minorities that I saw) watching 30 kids from very poor villages in Africa sing for my own personal enjoyment.

In the course of the performance we learned the African Children’s Choir was actually quite a big deal, touring all over the US and Great Britain to raise money to improve child welfare in Africa. The kids, ages 9-11 or so, travel with the choir for 15 months at a time performing all over the world. Through their music they are able to make significant differences in their communities back home.

Their story was heart-warming and they were amazing; but, the whole situation still felt wrong to me. And then they started singing praise songs. Little Ugandan children singing English language praise songs . . . “Lord I lift your name on high . . .”.

Oh, dear, get me to fresh air quick; I was feeling queasy.

But then the kids launched into their next song. It began with one little high, clear voice ringing out over the crowd: “You are the Shepherd, I belong to you. When I walk on rough ground, you will guide me through. You know my name, you know my voice. Before I was born I was your choice. Show me how to follow, Lord keep me close to you . . . you are the Shepherd, I belong to you.”

Unwittingly, without any warning, much to my utter surprise, tears started streaming down my face. As I listened to those words all the colors and accents, continents and cultures slid away until I felt like I could have been that little child with a high, clear voice singing to God: You are the Shepherd, I belong to you.

I do understand that singing those words probably means much more when affirming your value in the eyes of God means you have the right to clean water and healthy food. But right then I felt like a member of the choir, also in need of God in ways that were just as elemental.

And I wanted to get in line behind the little children so I could be blessed by this Shepherd, too.  And I was:

People were bringing little children to him in order that he might touch them; and the disciples spoke sternly to them. But when Jesus saw this, he was indignant and said to them, ‘Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs. Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.’ And he took them up in his arms, laid his hands on them, and blessed them.

I’m surprised by my feelings, since I have years of experience dealing with this very thing.

My experience, of course, comes from growing up in the same family system as my sister, Maile, who was then very popular, captain of the cheerleading squad and homecoming queen and is now gorgeous, mother of 4 children whom she homeschools, and devoted wife who makes her husband’s lunch every morning. For years I have wanted to hate her, or at least live with some degree of self-righteous indignation, but the problem is that my sister is possibly the nicest person on the entire planet, totally and completely undeserving of my resentment.

It’s just so unfair.

Anyway, similar feelings emerged when I met Heather Entrekin. Heather is a former member of Calvary who is now pastor at Prairie Baptist Church in Kansas and is currently taking sabbatical time to read, reflect and think about the church from the outside in. In order to do that, Heather has found an apartment in DC’s Chinatown and is immersing herself in the life of the city and the rhythms of Calvary’s congregational life.

My initial response to hearing of Heather’s plans was to wonder aloud why on earth she’d want to spend time here at Calvary while on sabbatical. My secondary and more gut-wrenching response was a huge and overwhelming wave of envy, which has only gotten bigger as I’ve watched Heather take art classes at the Smithsonian, devour books I’ve been wanting to read, stroll through Eastern Market deciding on the fly what to cook for dinner, etc., etc., etc.

I just have to say: dealing with my envy would be so much easier if Heather were mean. Or stuck up. Or ugly or not too smart or clearly not very spiritual.

The problem is, when you meet Heather you can tell instantly she is the exact opposite of all these things. She’s nice and friendly. She’s a really good listener. She’s very calm and self-possessed. She has a soft and comforting voice that she uses to speak truth and also claim the work of God in the world. She’s not starry-eyed about ministry; she cries right along with you. And she has great ideas about text and faith and community and church.

I think I am going to have to put her in the lofty category my sister inhabits, in fact.  But I won’t stop being jealous.  The truth is: watching Heather soak up the joy of solitude and reflection is enough to make me drool (if only I had time).

Because I can’t hate her and I can’t join her, what I’ve decided is that I will become a sabbatical voyeur, peering into Heather’s experience and trying to remember to find little pockets of sabbatical wherever I can and taking moments to (if breathlessly) thank God (again) for bringing another wonderful colleague and friend to walk alongside for a little while.

Join me in peering over Heather’s shoulder as she experiences sabbatical!

You know, sometimes the best thing you can say is, “who cares?”

One of my nagging problems is that I seem to care too much, mostly about stupid things, like whether or not my children are eating enough vegetables or, alternatively, whether everyone is happy about everything all the time.

You know I have about as much control over the first issue as I do the second.

I know the world needs compulsive worrywarts like myself (at least that’s what I like to believe) but sometimes all the things that need my worrisome attention get to be a little too heavy for me to carry around. And also at least marginally function. When that happens all the concerns I’ve packed onto my shoulders, most of which I cannot control no matter how hard I try, push me down and hold me there until I feel like a fish who’s jumped too high and ended up flopping around on a pier.

My husband Mark, who some might say could care a little more about things, says that when I feel like a flopping fish I’ve got to let it go-release the responsibility for everything I can’t possibly ever control and let it float away. Say it as you exhale . . . “who cares?”

Who cares if that’s a decision I would not have made? Who cares if the science project is turned in late? Who cares if I can’t make the meeting? Who cares if she chooses to be unhappy? Who cares if the house isn’t clean?

Who cares?

Feels good, doesn’t it? Letting go as you breathe out and surrendering responsibility for everything you can’t possibly control no matter how hard you try? Yes, it does, actually. If feels freeing and light, it feels like flying, finally moving through life without carrying all that extra stuff.

Who cares?

The problem is that, no matter how hard I try, I care. I care a little more sometimes than others, and probably a lot about things that don’t matter in the end. I care way too much for things I can’t control and people who won’t be happy even if I stand on my head.

I am betting Jesus had some disciples with the very same problem I have. That might explain why he told them, “Therefore I tell you, don’t worry about your life . . . “, which, in my estimation, was Jesus’ way of saying “who cares?” Jesus’ admonition comes right on the heels of his parable about the rich man who didn’t have any place to store all his excess grain and who threw himself into the task of accumulating more and more and more . . . all the while missing the fact that his life was fast coming to an end-my Bible calls that one the parable of the Rich Fool. Ouch.

So I am going to work on saying, “who cares?” I’ll try not to say it to folks who find themselves in momentary crisis, but I will try to say it about science projects and messy closets and perpetually unhappy people and all the things I can’t control no matter how hard I try.

I just don’t know, though, if I’ll be successful at letting go like this.

But, then again, who cares?