(St. Louis) Today was a rough day. I knew it would be, which didn’t make it hurt less.
Going into the last day tomorrow where things will be voted on the likelihood is that either nothing changes or if it does it will be the more restrictive language, neither of which is tenable.
How do you appeal to hearts of stone? Turns out, you can’t. Between a misplaced religious zealotry, a pervasive spirit of xenophobia and puppet masters who direct the action from above through texts and secure loyalty through the provision of many brib...I mean “gifts” (yes I said it), the Methodist concept of Christian conferencing is a sham.
But what is emerging as a result, if it’s clear The United Methodist Church won’t live into a church for all God’s children, is that there are some of us across the connection who have and will.
As the session closed today I was needy of a word. The benediction I sometimes use to end worship rose up in my spirit. It’s framed from the words of the Liberal Lion of the 40 years ago and hero of mine, William Sloane Coffin. Maybe they’ll help you too as we discern the new thing God is doing whether the UMC votes for it or not:
“God give you the grace never to sell yourself short -
Courage to risk something big for something good -
And to remember that the world is too dangerous for anything but truth and too small for anything but love.”
(St. Louis) Short version. Long day.
Prioritizing legislation.
Top priority was Wespath (clergy pensions, seriously, that was the top priority).
Traditional Plan and Modified Traditional Plan deemed unconstitutional in a declaratory decision by the Judicial Council.
Yet the Tradition Plan was prioritized ahead of One Church Plan.
Lots of confusion with voting devices.
The mechanisms of unwieldy systems trying to work on display.
Yet we prayed for the Holy Spirit, still.
The prayer for the leading of the Holy Spirit was constant.
Tomorrow is going to be one for the books. Stay tuned.
Oh, one more thing. You pray for the Holy Spirit to come, watch out, it just might. And when She does, wild, crazy God-sized uncontrollable things happen, to which I pray:
(St. Louis). The Dome, the place where “The Greatest Show on Turf” once played (led in no small part by the Tigers’ Isaac Bruce), is cavernous. It makes no sense for a gathering of our size to meet in a facility that holds almost 70K people.
It’s hard to see everything’s that’s happening even with view screens.
But there we were.
The first day of gathered delegates and onlookers was a one of prayer and worship. Many languages were spoken highlighting the global nature of the Church. I had the honor of being anointed by Bishop Bruce Ough, whose nonanxious presence during the most pressure filled moments in Portland a few years ago, modeled a style of leadership to which I aspire.
We spent the afternoon talking about the rules we’d follow to conduct our business.
In the corridors caucuses strategized what to do once we ”got down to business.” Rumors swirled about who’s doing what and when.
And still we prayed. We worshipped. We communed. We were anointed.
It’s a snapshot of who we are - the faithful who long for the Spirit’s leading to transform us into something hopeful, while others believe the Spirit is meant to lead us into a more rigid version of what is.
And all the while there’s murmuring in the corridors.
(St. Louis) There’s an unease in the air as you walk into the registration area for the General Conference. As I arrived this afternoon to secure my badge I noticed some folks I knew from across the Connection. I ran into some of our fellow delegates with pleasantries about our travel, our lodging, and the weather. All looks say what our words don’t - “Well, here we are, what’s about to happen?
On a blustery, gloomy day, with the threat of rain and cold on the horizon, it’s easy to live into the fear and foreboding of what may be. The Conference opens tomorrow with worship and prayer. Lots of worship and prayer. Nothing wrong with that. It’s needed.
But the wisest words I’ve received today originated from a communicator from the PC (USA):
Get in the boat Go across the lake There will be a storm
You will not die.
Wise words, indeed. It takes courage to get into the boat. For The United Methodist Church, it’s time to board.
The anthem sung by our choir last Sunday was stunning. It’s a lyric written by Lindy Thompson with music composed by Mark A. Miller. You know Mark Miller’s music even if you’re not sure you do. His is the musical setting for communion we sing. He wrote “Roll Down, Justice,” which served as a theme for our Lenten series back in 2017. He’s one of United Methodism’s most gifted composers for the current age. He also happens to be gay. Mark has served the Church with his remarkable God-given gifts for many years, and the Church has received his gifts gladly even as it will not receive him in the fullness into which he was created.
I’m thinking about Mark and this particular anthem as I prepare to go to St. Louis for the Called Session of the General Conference of The United Methodist Church. I’m thinking about parishioners I’ve served over the years who came to me in the sanctity of my office to share with me the burden of being gay but not able to claim it within their family and certainly not within their church family, and the shame they felt for living a lie. I can recall the looks of pain, see the tears, and hear the fear in their voices of being found out, of being judged.
I’m thinking about my beloved St. John’s family of women and men, those who are of the LGBTQ community and those of us who ally ourselves with them and their quest to be fully included in the Church they love.
I think about St. John’s journey, which is not completely unlike my own where the conviction that everyone belongs is assured, but the realization that such a conviction conflicts with the rule of the Church to which we’ve vowed our lives created a conflict of conscience. So, many of us equivocated that conflict of conscience by living within the ambiguity of “don’t ask, don’t tell.” And maybe some of us thought that was a forward-living way to make sense of it all, or at least we thought it bought us some time hoping that something would change only to realize the change was that the harm done from not fully standing with the excluded was greater and the pain grew deeper.
But living among, serving alongside and loving those not fully welcomed judges “don’t ask, don’t tell.” Some of us needed to be ministered to by those whom the Church will not ordain to help us see that it takes courage to have courage. It takes a “choose this day whom you shall serve” moment to see clearly what we’ve worked so hard to obscure, that at the end of the day what it all boils down to is something as simple as this – our marching orders do not come from The Book of Discipline. They come from the commands of Jesus who tells us to “love God and all that God loves.”
With it comes the realization that if the question of full inclusion is ultimately one of justice, then there is no middle way. We either choose love or we don’t. We either love people not regardless of who they are but precisely because of who they are no differently than any of us seeks to be loved, or we don't. The choice to love is not dependent on those who agree with me. The power of love, God’s love, is that agreement has nothing to do with it because if it did, it wouldn’t be love at all. Love is to be given. Love is to be received, freely and without reservation or condition.
And I’m freely and unreservedly willing to love the whole of the Church, including those within it who would rather label me than know me and sneer as they say the word “liberal,” as if that’s a bad thing. I’m willing to live with and among the very people who prefer to purge me and mine from the Church as if to do so is some purification rite.
So Mark’s melody and Lindy’s lyric resonate in me today. Written in response to the violence done by a young white man in the sacred space of Mother Emanuel AME Church to Jesus loving disciples:
In the midst of pain, I choose love.
In the midst of pain, sorrow falling down like rain,
I await the sun again, I choose love.
In the midst of war, I choose peace.
In the midst of war, hate and anger keeping score,
I will seek the good once more, I choose peace.
When my world falls down, I will rise.
When my world falls down, explanations can’t be found,
I will climb to holy ground, I will rise.
In the midst of pain, I choose love.
In the midst of pain, sorrow falling down like rain,
I await the sun again, I choose love.
I’ve been braced for this moment in St. Louis since it was announced. It was the ground of my hope coming out of Portland in 2016 that there could be a way out of no way. Over the last year, I’ve been all over the place – on the cusp of hope and the precipice of despair. In the end, though, unless I’m choosing love, choosing peace and believing we will rise, I’m entering the proceedings with a heart of war, not of peace. I’ve found an abiding peace that comes from the knowledge that “perfect love casts out fear.” So, I’m not afraid, anymore. I am persuaded that the balance of my life in ministry will be spent in the Light, where God’s grace is amazing and God’s love is real, where All means All, where we Let Love Lead. What happens in St. Louis has nothing to do with whether or not I live in the “ethic of love," but hearing the call of Jesus and listening to voices like Mark's will.
As if on cue my sleep is stirred to consciousness in the wee small hours of the morning.
There’s several things that wakes a middle aged man in the night!
The aches and pains that normally cause some level of discomfort are present, to be sure, but they are muted by the ache that accompanies a memory.
This night. This hour. This shock.
No less than the moments of profound joy, the moment a wound to the soul occurs leaves an indelible mark.
Over the course of time the wound has healed over, yet the scar remains.
Scars are often roughly textured, never pretty. Some are hard to look at. Some we work so hard to hide. Others evoke curiosity, “How’d that happen?”
Every scar tells a story - the pain it caused, the path to recovery from when it was incurred to now.
I broke my ankle when I was 14.
40 years later, every now and again when the weather changes abruptly, I feel an ache there even though it has long since healed over. It’s just my body’s reminder that something happened.
So ache's echo awakens me this morning to remind me that 14 years ago my family suffered the soul wound of losing Jimmy, one who possessed so much of the family’s energy. It’s a loss that left us staggered. Yet somehow we still stand, scarred but not broken.
Is that Grace?
I feel the loss palpably some years more than others, and this year I feel it.
I don’t know why, maybe a strong soul cold front is blowing through.
It aches enough to awaken me. So I’ll sit with it for awhile.
I’ll remember what I could never forget.
I’ll wonder what could have been.
I’ll give regret for things unsaid no room because I’ve battled those demons and prevailed.
But mostly I’ll be glad for what was, this bolt of lightning I had in a brother. And if you were struck by him, on this day, you understand.
I woke up at 4 a.m. this morning. It's not that I wasn't tired from the weekend, or yesterday in particular. Oh I was. And I got 5.5 hours of good, deep sleep. And it's not like I don't have to get up in the night...the older I get...am I right, fellas?
It was 4 a.m. 13 years ago that my phone rang.
Jimmy was gone.
There's something about the echoes of spiritual circadian rhythms from traumatic moments. It's not a conscious choice to be aware, although one surely could be intentional about them. No, there's something in us calling us to remember what was or what happened.
So while there's something about him I remember any day, everyday, today I bring my attention to his life and energy. And I'm glad.
With all the family together yesterday sitting outside on a beautiful Easter afternoon, one of my children who has a penchant for hyperbole drew a reminiscent comment from several of us - "Hello, Jimmy!"
