Dear Dad

Sermon for July 24, 2022

Luke 11:1-13

Last Sunday, we heard Jesus telling worried and distracted Martha that her sister, Mary, had chosen “the better part” by sitting and listening to Jesus rather than serving an impressive meal (Luke 10:42).  Today, we find Jesus living out his own advice and spending time with his Father in prayer – something he does often in the Gospel stories.  Well, if Jesus needs to carve out time to stay in touch with his heavenly Parent, we probably need that, too.  In fact, one of Jesus’ followers gets this and asks him, “Lord, teach us to pray” (Luke 11:1).  And Jesus’ response is what became the Lord’s Prayer.

Of course, we hear that as referring to a formal, set prayer we’re supposed to offer.  In our Episcopal tradition, the Church has included that prayer in just about every act of public worship.  And it’s key for many of us individually, too – starting our mornings, or ending our nights, or maybe both. 

I wonder, though, if Jesus’ answer to that disciple might have been as much about how to pray as it was about what to pray.  How are we supposed to engage the eternal sovereign of the universe?  What’s God looking for?  I think that may have been what Jesus had in mind.

So … how should we pray?  Well, I thought I’d ask God directly and see what comes from that.  For me, the best medium is writing, so I wrote God a letter.  Here goes.

Dear God,

It’s been a while since I’ve written.  I’m sorry about that – not in the sense of regretting a sin but in the sense of regretting that I haven’t made the time.  I always feel better when I set aside time with you, but I wonder how it makes you feel, as the heavenly parent.  In my own life, I feel blessed when my kids want to talk to me.  It says that, despite everything, our relationship is still there.  Does it work that way for you, too?

Anyway, you taught us to pray using this lesson we call the Lord’s Prayer.  It is a comfort, and I’m grateful for it.  When I don’t know what else to say to you, those words fall into place.  At the same time, I have to admit that I often don’t think much about what I’m saying as those words fall into place.  So, let’s see what happens if I do.

Jesus told us to begin by naming you as “Father” (Luke 11:2).  Honestly, I don’t know that “father” is how I see you.  I don’t think of you in terms of gender, but that’s not the point.  Instead, I think “father” means that you want me to remember that you’re not just some abstract cosmic force; you’re my parent in the best sense – the creator and authority figure, yes, but also the one who always shows up and listens.  You care about what I care about simply because I care about it.  How crazy is that?  And, like a good mom or dad, you also move me forward, helping me see that whatever I’m getting wrapped up in is not the ultimate reality.  Maybe that’s why some of the people writing the Gospels remembered Jesus adding the words “in heaven” to that opening address of “Father.”  Our reality isn’t the scope of your reality, and that’s good to keep in mind.  But the downside is that your heavenly position can make us forget that you’re with us right here, right now, too.

Then there’s that line, “Hallowed be your name” (Luke 11:2).  With that, I think Jesus ask us to remember there’s a big difference between you and my own parents, even at their very best.  When something is “hallowed,” it means that thing is set apart as holy, signifying a reality that’s eternal and divine.  But we aren’t the ones that make something hallowed.  Like the battlefield at Gettysburg, you are hallowed not by any act or remembrance that we can offer but because of the offering you make.  Like the soldiers on that battlefield, you give yourself to us and for us; and that self-giving nature ironically sets you apart from us, makes you holy.  In your gifts to us of life and love, you pour yourself out, the living sacrifice you ask us to emulate.  So, even though you’re there with us in every experience, you’re also set apart from our experience, always reminding us that your love is just that much more than we can comprehend.

Then you ask us to pray, “Your kingdom come” (Luke 11:2).  Now, why would you want us to ask for what you already intend to do?  Maybe because prayer isn’t about getting you to do something; it’s about getting us on the same page with what you’re already doing.  Now, I’ll admit that when I say, “Your kingdom come,” there’s a part of me that’s really saying, “Come on, Lord, bring on the big ending.”  There is so much to lament, so much to grieve in this world you’ve given us … and the thought of you swooping in to set the world to rights is pretty darned attractive.  But praying for your kingdom to come reminds me that your reign and rule over our experience happens on your timeline, not mine.  And it reminds me that we humans aren’t just props on your cosmic set.  We’re your kids, people you’re always forming more and more into your image and likeness.  And the way we grow into who you’ve made us to be is by being the change you’re seeking in the world now.

OK.  The next line is, “Give us each day our daily bread” (Luke 11:3).  This one may be the hardest one to pray without my fingers crossed.  Because, if I’m honest, I want a lot more than my daily bread.  I want plenty of bread, and I want it for a long time.  Like the people of Israel, I don’t want to have to trust that the manna you provide today will be there tomorrow; I want to gather up a bunch of it right now so I can rest easy in the future.  But, of course, this petition isn’t about bread.  It’s about trust.  Well then, sure, God, I can get on board asking for help with that, because trust is something I definitely need.  So, give us what we need for today … and help us take a breath, knowing that you’ll come through tomorrow, too.

Well, God, then we come to the daily work of forgiveness, and there’s a lot in these lines of your prayer.  If you’re telling me to ask for forgiveness every day, that means you know I’m going to turn away from you every day.  But still, you’re there.  And still, you want to have this conversation.  On one level, that’s shocking: Why haven’t you written us off long ago?  But on another level, that’s parenting: You know your kids will mess up, but you want to have the relationship anyway.  So, you ask us to come back to you, even though we’re sure to turn away again. 

But that’s not all.  There’s a powerful lesson here about how we deal with each other, too.  Your grace is free, but it’s no free ride.  To the same extent that you forgive us, you expect us to forgive each other.  And it’s not just forgiveness in the abstract you’re asking for.  You want us to “forgive everyone indebted to us” (Luke 11:4) – which says to me that forgiveness is going to cost me something.  Come to think of it, that probably shouldn’t come as a surprise.  After all, freeing us from our sin certainly cost you something.

And finally, we come to this: “Do not bring us to the time of trial” (Luke 11:4).  That seems weird: Why would we think our loving parent might be the one bringing us into trial?  Well, some of the people recording these stories of Jesus expanded that line to say, “Do not bring us to the time of trial, but rescue us from the evil one.”¹  OK, that gives the request some context.  But it’s hard for us postmodern folks to take that seriously.  We’re much too sophisticated to think there’s an evil overlord out there somewhere, stirring up harm for your children.  But then again … just follow the news for a few days: people shooting children in schools, people shooting each other on the streets, nations invading other nations without even the pretext of justification, comfortable people knowing other folks suffer but not really doing much to change it.  Well, we may not be threatened by a red devil with horns and a pitchfork, but we are certainly threatened by evil that takes us “where [we] do not wish to go” (John 21:20).  So maybe we need to pray such an archaic prayer simply to remember that there are indeed spiritual forces out there that do not wish us well, and that we’d be smart to turn to you instead.

Well, God, I’ve got to wind up this letter now.  As always, it’s time to get on to the next thing.  But thank you for the chance to remember the craziest truth of them all – that you’re asking me to reach out more.  I should be the one appealing for an audience with you … but it turns out, you’re already there, waiting.  All I’ve got to do is knock – or sit down and write a letter.

1.       See Matthew 6:13. The NRSV notes that this addition also appears in some ancient manuscripts of Luke.

Scout Sunday: Hearts First, Hands Second

Sermon for July 17, 2022 

Celebration of the Centennial of Scout Troop 16

Luke 10:38-42

(Past Scoutmaster David Banks spoke first.) Thanks, Dave, for that reflection on the Scout Oath and Law.  Yes, “trying to do our best to do our duty to God” … indeed, that’s both Scouting’s call to young people and Jesus’ call to each of us.  The Scouts here at St. Andrew’s have 100 years of practice in trying to live out their Oath and Law.  And, as Dave said, it’s good to have summary statements like that to help us remember how God asks us to live in complicated times.  Jesus boils down the Jewish law and the prophets’ teaching to this simple, two-commandment rule: Love the Lord your God with all your heart and soul and mind and strength; and love your neighbor as yourself.  Everything else – our Catechism, our church’s statement of mission and purpose, the signs outside about passing God’s peace – they all flow from these two commandments: Love God and love neighbor.

Where it gets messy, of course, is putting that into practice.  Last Sunday, we heard Jesus state this summary of the Law only to have a lawyer test him by asking, “OK.  Who is my neighbor?  Where’s the boundary of love?  How far do I have to go?”  So, Jesus tells the story of the Good Samaritan, teaching the lawyer and the crowd two things they didn’t want to hear.  First, everyone is your neighbor, especially anyone in need.  Second, even the last person you’d expect to see as a hero, even a hated Samaritan, is actually the one following God’s ways when they do justice and love kindness and walk humbly with God (Micah 6:8).  And to make sure we don’t miss it, Jesus tells us to “go, and do likewise” (Luke 10:37).

Well, that seems clear enough, right?  But then, because even the clearest teaching gets tricky in real life, the scene shifts to today’s Gospel reading, the story of Mary and Martha – a great exploration of what it means to do your duty to God.  After telling the lawyer to “go and do likewise” in loving and serving his neighbor, Jesus comes to Mary and Martha’s house for dinner.  They welcome him, and Jesus gets settled – and Mary cools her heels, just sitting there with Jesus, soaking up what he has to say.  Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, Martha is fuming, getting more resentful by the minute as she takes up the slack and does all the work of putting on this amazing feast she’s orchestrated for the traveling VIP. 

For centuries, people (like me) have been identifying with Martha in this story and remembering all the times we were left holding the bag … to rescue group projects at school, or finish work assignments, or put on family events.  Someone has to be the responsible one and get the dishes done, but why does it have to be me?  Right?  So, we Marthas would love to hear Jesus backing us up on this.  Surely “go and do likewise” would apply in this situation.  “Don’t you care, Lord, that those slackers have left me to do all the work myself?”

But like Martha, we doers can easily miss the point.  Loving God and neighbor doesn’t mean meeting the expectations I’ve set for myself and other people around me.  Loving God and neighbor means putting the other first.  In the story, did Martha ever ask whether Jesus wanted a big, complicated meal?  Would he have preferred some chips and a drink on the porch instead?  Maybe so, because clearly what Jesus is valuing here is the heart that’s listening to him.  “Mary has chosen the better part,” Jesus explains (Luke 10:42).  It’s not that Martha’s work isn’t valuable.  But our hearts have to be shaped for love before the rhythm they beat is loving service.

So, back to the Scouts and their Oath and Law.  Scouting isn’t about laying down rules that young people have to follow, expectations some authority figure mandates they have to meet.  Scouting is about forming young people so the choices they make honor God and country, help other people at all times, and steward themselves as people made in God’s image and likeness.  Scouting seeks to form youth into people who serve in love, knowing that good acts spring from good hearts.

I think that’s where Jesus is going with us Marthas, too.  When we’re worried and distracted about our obligations, even our holy obligations, it’s easy to miss the point of those obligations.  Jesus wasn’t coming to Mary and Martha’s house to eat the best dinner they could prepare.  Jesus was coming to Mary and Martha’s house to bring the presence of God, the reign and rule of God, directly into their midst.  Preparing a great meal for the traveling VIP was a lovely gesture, but what the VIP wanted wasn’t their meal.  What he wanted was their hearts.

I think he’s working on us the same way.  If we see our faith as being all about following rules, we inevitably get stuck worrying and arguing about which rules are right.  And if we do actually follow them, it’s probably about trying to earn our way into heaven … and maybe about showing up someone else in the process.  I think Jesus is asking for our hearts instead – not because he doesn’t value our service but because the heart work has to come first.  As Dave Banks said just a few minutes ago, channeling his inner Mary, “It’s God’s awesome majesty that demands our deepest reverence.  It’s God’s power that fills each of our hearts with His love.  It’s what God asks of us that makes us better people.”  The heart work has to come first, even for Marthas like me, because when Jesus has our hearts, he knows our hands will follow.

Listening to Enemies

Sermon for Independence Day, transferred -- July 3, 2022

Matthew 5:43-48

Today, we’re celebrating Independence Day (one day early) – not just a national holiday but a feast day on The Episcopal Church’s calendar, too.

As you may have learned in Confirmation class or our Discovery class, the United States and The Episcopal Church share some parallels in their origin stories.  In both cases, the presenting circumstance was conflict – and lots of it.  By 1787, the 13 new states faced differences that had been obscured by the unifying force of revolution.  Would the large states get to bully their way past the smaller ones on policy questions?  Would white Americans be allowed to keep enslaving other humans – and, if so, how would the enslaved people be counted in determining representation?  You probably remember all this from high-school civics class, but what we may not feel is the sense of division and conflict that burdened the founders.  Drawing up the Constitution had the potential to be less like a committee meeting and more like survival of the fittest.

Two years later, also in Philadelphia, representatives of what had been the Church of England were meeting to figure out how to be the Church of England when you’re not in England anymore.  But their issues ran much deeper than simply editing out the prayers for King George and the clergy’s oaths of allegiance to the Crown.  Their divisions were similar to the ones playing out among the founders two years before.

There were two basic positions about how the ex-Church of England should govern itself.  High-church leaders in the Northern states mistrusted popular governance and wanted bishops to retain control.  Many of them had also been loyalists in the Revolution, something the patriots hadn’t forgotten.  At the same time, lower-church leaders in the mid-Atlantic and Southern states wanted to do away with bishops and hang onto the considerable power wealthy laypeople exercised in the parishes of the South.²  

In both conventions, church and state, the conflict was about power.  And, in both conventions, that conflict was resolved through compromise.  The people building a new government and the people building a new Church chose to solve problems along with those who opposed them, rather than vilifying them and seeing them as enemies.  Now, what they created certainly wasn’t perfect – especially the U.S. Constitution’s continuing slavery and counting enslaved people as three-fifths human.  Thankfully, a revision process was built into the system, too.  But both the American Constitution and The Episcopal Church came into being because people who disagreed with each other took on the discipline of listening, finding common ground, and compromising for the greater good – even if what they built wasn’t perfect.

“Perfect” … that’s a word we heard in today’s Gospel reading, too – and a scary word for those of us who are recovering perfectionists.  This call to be “perfect” concludes a truly challenging reading in which Jesus tells us to love even those we can’t imagine loving – our enemies.  

Now, it might be easy for us to write off today’s reading, thinking, “Well, that’s a nice idea, Jesus, but you’ve gone too far this time.  We all know we can’t be perfect – it’s impossible.  So, loving our enemies can just fall into the category of a Scriptural bridge too far.  If I can’t do it, why try?” 

Sorry, but we don’t get off that easily.  The Greek word translated here as “perfect” doesn’t mean error-free.  It means “whole, complete, [or] mature.”¹  And working toward that kind of perfection, the journey of growing into “the measure of the full stature of Christ” (Ephesians 4:13) – that’s definitely on our assignment list.  In fact, you could argue that, for Christians, it is our assignment list.

Striving for that kind of perfection was also at the top of the list for the founders of the country we celebrate today.  Being whole, complete, and mature as a nation – forming a “more perfect union” – that’s the Constitution’s primary reason for being.  It says so, right there in the Preamble.

So that journey of forming a more perfect union, or the journey of becoming whole and complete and mature in following Jesus – what does a journey toward perfection look like?  I think the founders of our nation and our Episcopal Church – maybe even Jesus himself – would say that becoming more perfect starts with listening to the people you don’t want to hear.  It’s the most fundamental way to honor the humanity of someone you’re tempted to write off, someone you’re tempted to dismiss as your enemy.

And listening is hard work.  These days, it’s countercultural work because we live in a nation of uncivil discourse.  But we did some of that hard work of listening here last year, offering a class on civil discourse and then a series of listening sessions.  Parishioners with vastly different points of view came together over six evenings not to debate but simply to listen to each other’s perspectives on racism, immigration, gun violence, inclusion of LGBTQ people, and care of the environment.  We asked participants not just to name their positions but to talk about their core beliefs, ethics, and values.  We asked them to share the dreams or ideals that informed their positions, or maybe the fears underlying them.  And people did it – they took the challenge of being vulnerable both in their sharing and in their listening.  I think the folks who came found it to be a great experience.

And now, we’re going to try it again.  In this moment, we find the day’s national and local events presenting us with a need to listen like maybe never before.  The topic du jour is abortion.  Not only has the Supreme Court overturned Roe, but the half of us who live in Kansas have the responsibility to vote in a few weeks on Amendment 2 to the state constitution, which would specify that the document contains no right to abortion.  So, on Thursday, July 21, we’ll offer a listening session designed by members of our Advocacy Discernment Committee, including past junior warden and professional counselor Ann Rainey, and me.  We’ll follow basically the same model we used in the series last spring.  We’ll share the vision for this exercise and set some ground rules.  Then you’ll be invited to speak for a limited period of time, maybe three minutes, to share your perspective on abortion policy and, specifically, Kansas’ Amendment 2.  Now, I know this kind of experience, even just me talking about it now, might be triggering for people who’ve had to wrestle with whether to end a pregnancy.  But know this:  There won’t be debate.  There won’t even be discussion.  What there will be is a space for holy listening, for honoring the point of view and the full humanity of people who think differently about a tremendously important issue.

I’d like to start that process now, actually, with a little modeling.  I want to share what I would say if I were getting up to speak at this listening session.  It’s something I can share simply because of my experience in this heartbreaking and beautiful role of priest and pastor.  So, here goes:

I don’t have particular expertise about abortion or reproductive autonomy.  I’ve also never had to consider the issue personally, so that’s a perspective I definitely can’t speak to.  But one of the things that grieves me about the abortion debate, and most of the rest of our public discourse, is the way we reject nuance.  We are much more comfortable living in the land of “this or that,” of “right or wrong.”  And I think this obstructs our journey toward becoming whole, and complete, and mature – as individuals, as a Church, and as a nation. 

Over the past two years, I’ve talked with three couples who were considering ending a pregnancy not for any of the reasons often presumed in the abortion debate – not as contraception, or because of financial limitations, or because of the drastic changes a child brings into your life.  Instead, these families were considering ending a pregnancy because testing had revealed that, once born, the baby would not survive more than a brief time.  The problems included genetic anomalies causing critical organs not to develop fully.  In each case, the parents had to weigh the consequences of carrying to term a child who would not live long at all, and then compare that with the tragedy of choosing to end their pregnancy.  None of the couples considered this lightly, and each was devastated by their situation.  The couples made different choices, two ending their pregnancies and one carrying the fetus to term.  But they had the ability to exercise the choice that they had discerned God was leading them to make.  In my view, public policy that doesn’t take into account situations like these is public policy that needs to listen to the nuance of lived experience, especially now that we know so much about a baby before it’s born.

Well, there you have it – one example of what I hope will happen in our listening session on July 21.  And I hope you’ll consider taking part.  Alongside the Fourth of July fireworks and music and hotdogs this weekend, I think listening to people who completely disagree with us is a great way to celebrate the American experiment of representative democracy – and to celebrate the American experiment of The Episcopal Church.  As Abraham Lincoln said of us at Gettysburg, so we are living now:  We are a “nation conceived in liberty” but “engaged in a great civil [conflict], testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure.”³  And so, my prayer is that we would choose to keep pressing toward perfection, toward being whole, and complete, and mature, guided both by our Savior’s voice and “by the better angels of our nature.”⁴

1. HarperCollins Study Bible, 1868 (note).
2. Hein, David, and Gardiner H. Shattuck, Jr.  The Episcopalians. Westport, CT: Praeger, 2004. 52-54.
3. Lincoln, Abraham. “The Gettysburg Address.” Available at: https://www.abrahamlincolnonline.org/lincoln/speeches/gettysburg.htm. Accessed July 1, 2022.
4. Lincoln, Abraham. “First Inaugural Address.” Available at: https://www.abrahamlincolnonline.org/lincoln/speeches/1inaug.htm. Accessed July 1, 2022.

Formation for Transformation

Sermon for June 26, 2022

Luke 9:51-62

Yesterday, more than 30 St. Andrew’s people went to St. James United Methodist Church on the Paseo to take part in Connecting Community, the first installment of what I hope will be an ongoing project.  All day, people from St. James’ neighborhood and beyond could come by for help with the needs of day-to-day life – things like groceries, and diapers, and clothing, and washing their clothes at a laundromat – in fact, apparently 420 loads of laundry!  I’m sure we’ll be hearing stories for a long time about the experience of standing alongside new friends from St. James and serving people together.

But why did we do this?  Why do we do things like the Connecting Community event, or the Free Store at Christmastime?  Why do parishioners serve at the Kansas City Community Kitchen or St. Paul’s Pantry?  You know, a critic could rightly point out that even if we held yesterday’s event every week, we wouldn’t be solving the problems that afflict so many in our community.  Giving people diapers or food or clean clothes is certainly a kindness, and Jesus blesses that.  But it doesn’t solve the larger issues – neither the particular challenges specific individuals face, nor the systemic limitations of opportunity resulting from more than a century of legal discrimination and educational failure in our communities of color.  So, if our outreach work isn’t solving those problems, why are we doing it?

To look for an answer, let’s look to today’s Gospel reading.  It begins a new, long section of Luke’s story in which Jesus and his followers move from their home base in Galilee, in the north, down to Jerusalem – the centerpiece of the Jewish world and what will become the “trailhead” for the disciples’ mission to the rest of the world.¹  Jesus starts out with his face “set toward Jerusalem” (Luke 9:53), apparently resolute and focused.  Passing through the land of the Samaritans, historic feud partners for the Jews, Jesus is rejected by people there; and the disciples James and John want to channel their inner Elijah and call down fire from heaven.  Not only would that seem out of character for the Prince of Peace, but Jesus also doesn’t have time to get bogged down in judging those who won’t follow his ways.  They’ll find judgment enough later on.

Then the story keeps moving as Jesus engages people on the road, people who do heed his call to live under God’s reign and rule.  One person pledges to follow Jesus wherever he goes, but Jesus warns him that following this path isn’t just an intellectual exercise.  It means following Jesus in a life that offers less predictability and less comfort than what the animals get. 

Then another person catches Jesus’ attention, someone open-hearted enough that Jesus invites him along for the journey.  The man says yes, but “first let me go and bury my father” (9:59) – not a delaying tactic but an obligation if he wants to follow the Fifth Commandment about honoring our parents.  But Jesus stops the man short, saying the call to follow him takes precedence even over this: “Let the dead bury their own dead,” he says, “but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God” (9:60).  We don’t know which path the grieving son decided to take. 

Finally, another person agrees to come with Jesus on the journey but asks for permission first to go say goodbye to his family – the very least we might expect from someone about to abandon his household.  In fact, it was allowed by Elijah in the first reading today when he called Elisha to succeed him as Israel’s lead prophet.  But, again, Jesus takes the hard line: “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God” (9:62).  Yikes.  So much for warm-and-fuzzy Jesus who likes to cuddle lambs and babies.  There’s no time to waste, he says, and no room for anything less than unswerving dedication to God’s ways and God’s priorities.

But if you keep reading in Luke beyond today’s story, you find that this unswerving journey … isn’t.  The story does not take Jesus and his community on a direct path from point A to point B.  Instead, they wander around Judea for 10 chapters – healing people, confronting opponents, teaching how God’s reign and rule stands in contrast to the systems and priorities we usually follow.  It takes them a long time to get from Galilee to Jerusalem for the confrontation we know as Palm Sunday.  So, did Jesus get lost?  Or distracted?  I don’t think so.  His face is still set toward Jerusalem, but he’s also got a lot of work to do to help his friends and followers set their faces toward the kingdom, too.

I think it’s just as hard for us to hear Jesus as it must have been for the folks trudging across Palestine.  After all, when people who disagree with us say ridiculous things and undermine the values we hold dear, we might silently wish for a little heavenly fire to rain down, too – but then Jesus rebukes us, not them.  We, too, would balk at leaving behind the comfort and predictability of our lives to follow a Way that runs counter to most of what the world values.  We, too, would feel the need to go bury our father and honor that relationship before we followed our heavenly Father’s path.  We, too, would want to share a final good-bye with our family before heading out for God’s kingdom with no return ticket home.  Neither we nor the folks following Jesus along those dusty roads are ready to hear what he has to say. 

So maybe that’s why that trip to Jerusalem changed from an express train to a whistle-stop tour.  Like the people of Israel a thousand years earlier, wandering in the wilderness on the way to the Promised Land, these followers of Jesus found they were there for the journey as much as for the destination.  They were on a path of formation, even a path of transformation.  Most of them weren’t yet ready to keep their hands on the plow and never look back.  They were just beginning to learn what plowing was all about.  And Jesus was guiding this journey of discovery not as a flight engineer but as a pilgrimage leader, casting the vision of God’s reign and rule, and then inviting them to find it along the way.

We’re pilgrims, too.  And like all pilgrimages, our journey isn’t about physical distance as much as it is about boundary-crossing.  Jesus was inviting his friends and followers to step outside the patterns they knew and put God’s priorities first – to try out kingdom living, and see what relationships they might build, and see how the experience would change them … to see if, perhaps, God’s priorities would take root, and change their hearts, and reorient their lives.

And so, we come back to yesterday’s Connecting Community event, or our work at the Kansas City Community Kitchen, or St. Paul’s Pantry, or the Free Store.  We are not holy social workers.  Neither do we have the power to transform broken social structures on our own.  We are pilgrims, crossing boundaries as we follow Jesus step by step more fully into God’s reign and rule.  We’re being formed to embody God’s priorities just that much more deeply today than we did yesterday.  We’re being formed to be transformed – disciples learning to be apostles, fellow workers with Christ sent out to draw others in, and change their hearts, and thereby change the world by prioritizing those whom Jesus raises up.  Growing into the measure of the full stature of Christ (Ephesians 4:13), we speak, and we work, and we vote, and we serve – and in doing so, we witness for what the kingdom can look like on earth as it is in heaven.

In our pilgrimage, the greatest formative power comes from relationships – opening ourselves to someone we didn’t know, opening ourselves to someone else’s story, opening ourselves to someone else’s vision of the world.  That’s what I hope the Connecting Community event was and will be: a doorway that brings us alongside other pilgrims taking their own long and winding road with Jesus to Jerusalem.  

We come together to bless the community not because we can fix it.  We come together to bless the community because doing so helps to fix us. 

1.       New International Study Bible, 1872-3 (note).