Renewal Works

Someone near and dear to me gave me a most thoughtful gift. The donor was mindful that I spend time with words, preaching and teaching and writing. The gift is a refrigerator magnet. It reads: I am silently judging your grammar. It's helpful to have that warning in front of me each morning, though the judgment is not always silent.

Admittedly, I am inclined to make errors that come in great variety, and a variety of folks in my life point them out. Like when I tell a congregation that we will say the psalm in unison, together. (An example of repeating myself redundantly). Or when I say something is very unique. I'm reminded that something either is or is not unique. It can't be very. Or when I pluralize the word priority. Numerous priorities undermine the meaning of a priority.

Let's pause to consider that last egregious error. It's related to something on my mind since we've been reading Jesus' parables this summer on Sundays. These parables, some lengthy, some succinct, describe the mystery of the kingdom of heaven. With transformative power, parables stay with us, having a life of their own. Just when you think you've figured out the meaning, they come at us again, asking us to think about them in some new way.

(As an aside, I remember my first New Testament class in seminary. I expected we'd dive into dense theological study. Instead, at the end of the first class, the teacher gave this homework assignment: Go home and write a parable. It was one of the most difficult homework assignments I ever received, triggering ever deeper respect for Jesus as divine teacher, as I produced a pathetic parable. Give it a try this week.)

One parable in particular, recently read on Sunday, has been on my mind. Here it is, in its entirety:

The kingdom of heaven is like a merchant in search of fine pearls; on finding one pearl of great value, he went and sold all that he had and bought it. (Matthew 13:45-46)

This parable made me think about my priority. Not my priorities. Okay, I'm not entirely sure that priority needs to be singular, but it has made me think: Is there one great pearl I value above all else? What is it? There are other ways to frame the question: What would I live for? What would I die for? Is there something, one thing, that would lead me to give up everything else?

What is the pearl of great value for the church, its singular priority? As I travel around the church, I'm aware that one of the challenges these days for faith communities is our culture: They don't really know what they are about. They're often not entirely clear about purpose, not always clear on where they are headed. Sometimes they appear to be about everything, and so sometimes end up being about not much at all. Mission statements can be at once lengthy and lacking.

On an individual level, what is the pearl of great value for my life and for yours, as far as the spiritual journey is concerned? Is there focus, mission, purpose? Maybe it is a call to be of service. Maybe it is to become more like Christ. Maybe it is to live into the simple but not easy commandment Jesus gave to his followers: to grow in love of God and neighbor.

Once we have identified the priority, for ourselves and our community, how do we live into it? What distractions pull us away? I doubt I'll ever totally get away from living with a plurality of priorities, numerous vocations sometimes competing with each other, marking my spirit with ADD. I know many distractions, diversions, detours on the spiritual path.

But that should not deter from moving toward single-mindedness. Join me by taking a step in that direction this week. What will that step be? How would you describe your pearl of great value?

-Jay Sidebotham

Contact:
Rev. Jay Sidebotham
jsidebotham@renewalworks.org
RenewalWorks is a ministry of Forward Movement.
www.renewalworks.org

If you'd like to join in this donor-based ministry, donate here.

On occasion, I participate in yoga classes taught by my wife. I'm surprisingly good at certain parts of the practice, like shavasana and child's pose. There are poses I refuse to do in front of parishioners, like happy baby. And there are parts that make me think one should never receive yoga instruction from a spouse. Take plank for instance, which is basically holding an army push up halfway down for about 3 or 4 days. Or chair pose, which is something my Junior High gym coach made us do when we misbehaved.

And don't get me started on this particular instructor's ability to count: "Hold that pose for 10, 9, 8, 7, you all look great, 9, 8, 7, 6, breathe deep, 8, 7, 6, 5, now smile, 7, 6, 5, 4..."

All of this is preceded by a time in which the instructor prepares us for practice with mindful meditation, helping us make transition from busy lives outside the studio. My wife is particularly gifted at these reflections. Of late, she has incorporated a passage attributed to Thich Nhat Hanh (see below) to begin the session. It has caught my attention as it includes this particular intention: to be awakened from the trance of forgetfulness.

I don't think that this wise Vietnamese monk is talking about forgetting names, forgetting where I left my keys, forgetting my password (though I often find myself in that kind of trance). The power of that phrase comes in recognizing that the spiritual journey is about remembering, and in recognizing that a lot of the time I am spiritually asleep.

This awakening, this act of remembering is a spiritual intention, at the heart of the Christian tradition. The story of the children of Israel is told again and again to the children of Israel, to keep them on track by reminding them to look in the spiritual rear-view mirror. "Remember, your father was a wandering Aramean." When wandering in the wilderness, the children of Israel would complain to God, as if asking "What have you done for me lately?" To counter that complaint, they were called to recollect divine provision, redemption, forgiveness and liberation. Scripture calls people of faith to do the same these days, to awaken from the trance of forgetfulness.

The psalmist knows that a strong relationship with God comes with awakening from forgetfulness. In exile, the psalmist speaks of holding on to the memory of Jerusalem. See the portion of Psalm 137 below. Or read the first 8 verses of Psalm 78. It includes this intention: We will recount to generations to come the praiseworthy deeds and the power of the Lord, and the wonderful works he has done...that the generations to come might know, and the children yet unborn, that they in turn might tell it to their children, so that they might put their trust in God, and not forget the deeds of God. (vss. 4,6,7)

In the New Testament, Jesus gathered disciples at the Last Supper, instituting the eucharist with the command: Do this in remembrance of me. In our liturgy, a portion of the prayer used on Sunday at communion recalls the great and gracious things God has done in the past. That portion of the prayer is referred to as anamnesis. That literally means not forgetting (not amnesia).

Have you ever felt yourself caught in a trance of forgetfulness, spiritually speaking? Maybe you're there this morning. The call to thanksgiving is meant to awaken us. We give thanks to God not to stroke the ego of a narcissistic divine being. Rather, we reflect on ways we have come to experience grace in the past so we can embrace those experiences in the present, and trust they will unfold in the future. When we can remember that amazing grace, we can awaken from the trance of forgetfulness.

Carry that phrase with you this Monday. Awaken from any trance you might be in. Forget forgetfulness. Remember that grace abounds.

-Jay Sidebotham

Contact:
Rev. Jay Sidebotham
jsidebotham@renewalworks.org
RenewalWorks is a ministry of Forward Movement.
www.renewalworks.org

If you'd like to join in this donor-based ministry, donate here.

Hope

Where do you go these days to hear a word of hope?

Early in my ministry, a seasoned priest offered this advice. He said: "Jay, in Sunday worship, you only have to do two things. First, keep worship to an hour. Second, leave people more hopeful than when they came."

About ten days ago, I had the privilege of attending the Ordination and Consecration of Sam Rodman, new Bishop of North Carolina. I've known Sam for years. The diocese will be blessed by his strong, gentle, faithful leadership. The service was great. It did not succeed, however, in the one-hour rule. Wasn't even close, perhaps the exception that proves the rule. But it did leave me hopeful about the church, with bishops to lead like Sam.

I was struck in the service with one sign of hope in particular: The strong commitment to engagement in scripture. Like all our liturgies, there was ample opportunity to hear what the spirit is saying through words from the Bible. Let's not take that miracle for granted. It's amazing grace that we draw meaning and purpose from words written centuries ago. But there's more.

Sam was asked to solemnly declare his conviction that the "Holy Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments are the Word of God, and that they contain all things necessary for salvation." All things necessary for wholeness. All things necessary for healing. All things necessary to keep hope alive.

Sam was asked if he would be faithful in the study of Scripture, in order that he as bishop might have the mind of Christ. I ran across a study not long ago that said many clergy only read scripture in order to prepare for a sermon. Relatively few clergy actually read scripture to feed their souls or deepen their spiritual lives or discover a lantern for the path. This liturgy asked Sam to read scripture to have the mind of Christ.

Sam was asked to boldly proclaim and interpret the Gospel of Christ, enlightening the minds and stirring up the conscience of the people. Scripture has that power.

And once Sam had been ordained, the Presiding Bishop gave him a gift. You guessed it, a Bible.

Since Sam's service, I've been thinking about why he got all those questions about the Bible, about why we still read scripture. The material is really old. There's tons in there that is perplexing. There's a lot that offends. Much of it can be used in spiritual malpractice. Too many of us have been clobbered by proof texts ripped out of context, separated from inspiring love.

But we keep on reading it. Every year, at the end of the year, we read a prayer about scripture (printed below) which reminds us why we pay attention to the Bible. It says we hear, read, learn, mark, inwardly digest scripture so that we might hold on to hope. And which one of us does not need some hope. The kind of hope reflected in the story of the Exodus. Freedom happens. The kind of hope reflected in the Exile. There is a way home. The kind of hope that lets Peter walk on water, kept from sinking by Jesus' hand. The kind of hope reflected in Easter. Dead ends become thresholds. I don't know about you, but I need to hear that old, old story all the time.

Research indicates that engagement with scripture is transformative in the Christian journey. For all that is confusing or annoying or even offensive, it is a story of relationship with God, a story of healing amid brokenness, a story of persistent grace. In other words, it is a story of hope. Are you in need of hope this Monday morning? Where do you go when you need a word of hope? The news? I think not.

Find your way into what Karl Barth called the strange world of the Bible. Make it a part of a daily routine. Persist in parts that are difficult. Ask your irreverent questions. Ask God to speak to you through it. And let it be a source of hope.

You can safely assume that you've created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do. -Anne Lamott

Years ago, Life Magazine featured a two-page spread of photographs, a mosaic of images of Jesus from around the world, portraying a Jesus who might have grown up in Africa or Asia or South America. To me, the most jarring of the images came from the Scandinavian tradition, which portrayed Jesus as a Bjorn Borg look alike. I'm not sure what the historical Jesus looked like. I'm pretty sure he wasn't a blondie.

For me, the collection of images indicate our tendency to make Jesus into our own image. You'll be shocked to learn that people often use religion to affirm what they already value, confirm status quo, ratify existing (and dearly held) points of view. We hear reports that Jesus favors one candidate or policy over another. On social media, people claim they know exactly what Jesus would do about divisive issues of our time. All I know is the guy was full of surprises, comforting the afflicted and afflicting the comfortable.

I recalled the Life Magazine photos when I recently read an article by Dallas Willard, professor of philosophy who spent 48 years teaching at U.S.C., a theologian known for writings on Christian spiritual formation. In this article, he spoke about his work with churches and religious schools, trying to measure spiritual vitality. For him, this kind of growth was about growing in Christ-likeness. It stood in contrast to those Life magazine images, suggestive of the ways we try to make God or Christ in our own image. Dr. Willard challenged readers to think about how we might change to become more like Christ.

But what does that mean, to be like Christ? I'm sure there's not one answer. But try this exercise this morning. Think of five attributes of Jesus, based on what you know of him. Can you make some commitment to be more like him in those five ways?

I'll start. Here are five things that came to my mind about Jesus:

1. He valued simplicity, born as a refugee in a stable. He was itinerant, often homeless, and navigated all that with joy and freedom from anxiety.
2. He was big on forgiveness, even forgiving his torturers and executioners. It makes me think he knew how to manage the kind of petty resentments that drive me nuts.
3. He made a commitment to be of service, washing disciples' feet, maybe an episode from an ancient near eastern version of Dirty Jobs
4. He paid attention to people no one else liked or noticed: the rich and wildly unpopular Zaccheus, the crazy guy in the cemetery, the woman at the well with a scandalous past, those incompetent and fickle fishermen (who apparently never catch a fish without Jesus' help).
5. He went off by himself and prayed a lot, recognizing the need to appeal to the one he called Father, to a higher power.
   There's more of course. I'll stop there and ponder these five, focusing on them this week. Rather than trying to make Christ look more like me, I'm going to try to make some shift to look more like Christ, try to bring that shift to my work, to my responses to the troubled state of our world, to my relationships, my family and friends.

A clergyman I admire offered the following wisdom in a wedding homily. He charged the couple standing before him to be Jesus for each other. In other words, to be more like Christ.

It would be a good idea if we all in the church worked on that, mindful of what Gandhi said when pressed to convert to Christianity. He declined the invitation, saying: "I like your Christ, but not your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ."

-Jay Sidebotham

Contact:
Rev. Jay Sidebotham
jsidebotham@renewalworks.org
RenewalWorks is a ministry of Forward Movement.
www.renewalworks.org

If you'd like to join in this donor-based ministry, donate here.

I'm wondering if it's your time to ask Rabbi Kushner's question: Why do bad things happen to good people? Maybe you ask that question all the time.

The question has come my way lately, with a big challenge suddenly faced by a friend I care for and deeply admire. It's basically inexplicable. At times, maddeningly sad. I'm guessing you know about such challenges. They come in great variety. As one of my mentors says, suffering is the promise life keeps. How's that for a cheery kickoff to Monday morning?

Part of why I spend time reading the Bible is because scripture knows and shows that these kind of questions make up our stories. Most famously, the book of Job raises the question but resists any neat answers. Psalmists repeatedly ask where God has gone. Jesus posed the question, echoing Psalm 22: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

In such moments, about the worst response one can offer is something that tries too quickly to make sense of it all. Job's friends, prime example, offering something that ties it up in a neat package, often more about easing one's own discomfort than supporting those who suffer. I have in mind sayings like: "God never gives you more than you can handle." "God never shuts a door without opening a window." All feed into the Gary Larson cartoon image of God at the computer, watching the falling grand piano about to smash an unwitting pedestrian, God pressing the smite button. Do we worship such a God?

If you're asking the bad things/good people question, there may on occasion be explanations for the challenges, something we have done or something done to us. Too often, there are no available easy answers. So we are led to the prayer from the burial service which asks for God's help in the midst of things beyond our understanding.

And we withstand when we can't understand. We proclaim when we can't explain. What we proclaim is God's presence, often felt most deeply in love and prayers of others.

We proclaim resurrection, which literally means "to stand again." When folks we love get knocked down, we move forward with them and for them, helping them stand again. We say our prayers with them and for them, prayers with our lips and with our lives, prayers that may be no more or less than silent, faithful, loving presence.

We give thanks for what we are able to give thanks for. And if the attitude of gratitude is too hard, we let someone else do the thanking and praying.

With courage (it suggests both bravery and heart), we hold on to hope. St. Paul, who knew suffering and challenge, prayed about it, occasionally whined about it, asked for relief from it and didn't always get relief. He referenced his own suffering in the letter to the Romans. Speaking of his own experience, he said suffering brings endurance which brings character which brings hope because God's love has been poured into our hearts. (Romans 5).

When we find ourselves in times of trouble, when understanding or explaining elude us, when we can do no more than withstand, in those moments a positive spirit, a sense of hope and promise becomes our guide. Easier said than done, I know. But something we are each and all given to do at some time. Maybe this Monday morning is that time for you. Blessings in this time.

-Jay Sidebotham

Contact:
Rev. Jay Sidebotham
jsidebotham@renewalworks.org
RenewalWorks is a ministry of Forward Movement.
www.renewalworks.org

If you'd like to join in this donor-based ministry, donate here.

Monday, July 3, 2017

Tomorrow we observe the Feast of Independence Day (a.k.a, the Fourth of July). It's one of the few secular holidays that has found its way into the church calendar, along with Thanksgiving and Labor Day. Appointed scripture readings and prayers help us reflect on who we are called to be as a nation. The feast indicates that our lives as citizens are related to our lives as followers of Jesus.

The feast has to do with more than hot dogs and hamburgers, though I won't turn those down. It has to do with a sacred celebration which invites us to ask this holy stewardship question: What do we do with the gift we've been given in our common life, as a nation blessed with remarkable prosperity and unprecedented freedoms?

As Episcopalians, who claim that praying shapes our believing, we can look to the collect crafted for this day (below), and see what it says to us this Monday. Look at what we pray for. We ask that we may all have "grace to maintain our liberties in righteousness and peace." So join me in reflection on that word righteousness.

Righteousness means so much more than being right or even being good. In scripture, righteousness suggests right relationship, with a recognition that so many of our relationships are out of whack. What does it mean to be a righteous nation? It seems to me that it is about building relationships marked by healing and wholeness, mending places where relationship is broken. The scriptures (you can look them up...a nice spiritual discipline for a day off) appointed for the Feast of Independence Day speak to the character of this common life.

There's a reading from Deuteronomy (10:17-21) written to the people of Israel before they entered the promised land and started to figure out what it meant to be a people. The reading talks about the character of the nation: executing justice for orphan and widow (the neediest, the marginalized), loving the stranger and providing food and clothing for them. Maybe this is one of those places where folks say we don't need to take scripture literally. But at face value, the righteousness of a nation has to do with how we treat the least among us. Across the political spectrum, folks will disagree about how best to accomplish that. But the goal seems clear.

The psalm chosen for the day (Psalm 145) reflects God's character as loving to everyone. "Compassion is over all God's works. The Lord upholds those who fall, and lifts those who are bowed down. The Lord opens wide his hand and satisfies the needs of every living creature." Again, scripture indicates a community marked by healed relationships.

The New Testament reading from Hebrews (11:8-16) calls readers to remember that they were once strangers and foreigners, that they desire a better country, a heavenly one. It's a graceful, hopeful acknowledgement that we can always do better.

The Gospel reading, excerpted from the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5:43-48) is a call by Jesus to love not only neighbors but also to love enemies. Does he really mean that? It's not fun. It's not easy. In our divided nation, what would it mean if we would and could do what Jesus asked us to do?

As I reviewed these readings, calling us to think about who we are on this national holiday, I was struck with how much we have erred and strayed from a righteous vision, from right relationships. The measure of a great nation, it would seem from scripture and especially from the prayer, has to do with an embrace of grace, a commitment to live in righteousness and peace, to let that be shown in compassion, especially towards those pushed to the edges.

Independence Day is a holiday, which means it's a holy day, a chance to reflect on who we are, and who God is calling us to be. Enjoy the celebration tomorrow. Give thanks for our remarkable nation. Pray for our leaders. And consider the call to deeper righteousness, to healthier relationships, marked by compassion. Is there a specific way you can live into that imagination this week?

-Jay Sidebotham

Contact:
Rev. Jay Sidebotham
jsidebotham@renewalworks.org
RenewalWorks is a ministry of Forward Movement.
www.renewalworks.org

If you'd like to join in this donor-based ministry, donate here.

I recently got a new car, with lots of features to master. I keep trying to turn the car off by pressing the fan for the defroster, a button strikingly close to the ignition.

Shortly after acquisition, I was driving home at night, turning left into our neighborhood across two lanes of busy traffic. The maneuver required moving to a center lane designated for turns, waiting for a break in oncoming cars. I sat there for a while. A car very much like mine pulled into the center lane from the opposite side of the road, facing me from only a few yards away, also wanting to cross oncoming traffic. Get this. The guy had his blinding brights on, shining directly in my face.

Alone in the car, I allowed a tepid version of road rage to surface. The word "idiot" may have been heard. Maybe an expletive or two. (There are no tapes.) With bright light shining in my face, it was hard for me to assess oncoming traffic. What a jerk.

Then I looked at the relatively complicated dashboard on my new car. I realized that I had had my brights on all along. I switched them off. He switched off his. I was guilty of the thing that made me so mad in the other guy. Go figure. Blinded with my own indignation, I failed to notice my part in it.

Maybe that's what Jesus had in mind when he said that with the judgment you judge, you shall be judged.

A week ago I led a men's retreat, at the request of a fine group of Episcopalians who wished to explore ways to faithfully navigate the turbulent times in which we live, how to be in community with people with whom we disagree. I accepted the invitation with hesitation, because I haven't figured it out for myself. But I thought it would be good for me to give it thought.

As I thought and prayed about how to guide the group, I realized I had to look inward. I had to contend with my own road rage. (Mr. Trump is not the only one who yells at the TV.) I had to face my judgmental tendencies. I was led to the promises in the baptismal covenant, which describe what it means to be a Christian, not what it means to become one, but what it means to be one.

The first promise asks if we will continue in the teaching and fellowship and prayers of the church. In a nutshell, it's asking if we will start by doing our own spiritual work in community.

The second promise asks if we'll persevere in resisting evil, and whenever we sin, repent. I am up for the resisting part. The challenge comes with the word whenever. Not if ever. Whenever. Again, we've got work to do. Before I prescribe everyone else's course correction, I should consider my own.

The third promise asks us to proclaim good news, in what we say and do. It doesn't say convince or compel or coerce. It says proclaim. Trust the results to God.

Honestly, I find the fourth promise annoying. It says we seek and serve Christ in all persons. Christ is there, even if well disguised. I could wish that promise wasn't included. I savor a long list of exceptions. But the message is clear: Christ is somewhere in all persons. (Can the Prayer Book really mean that?)

The fifth promise calls us to strive for justice and peace, demanding active advocacy in a world where the neediest are being thrown under the bus in oh so many ways. That is balanced by another irritating call: to respect the dignity of every human being, even the driver with brights on, even the family member or congregant or co-worker or politician who in our humble opinion needs to see the light, and may in fact be a jerk.

Don't get me wrong. There is plenty of reason for indignation these days, plenty to resist. But to break the cycle, maybe we need to recognize our own part, figure out ways we fail to work for justice and peace, ways we fail to seek Christ in others, ways we fail to respect each other, ways we allow a judgmental attitude be our default.

In other words, maybe we each have to check our own spiritual dashboard.

-Jay Sidebotham

Contact:
Rev. Jay Sidebotham
jsidebotham@renewalworks.org
RenewalWorks is a ministry of Forward Movement.
www.renewalworks.org

If you'd like to join in this donor-based ministry, donate here.

What's in a name?

If the New Testament book of Acts was a movie up for Oscars, Barnabas might get a Best Supporting Actor nomination. Maybe. He has fifteen minutes of biblical fame, and there's tons we don't know about him. But he had a feast day last week and he's one of my favorite biblical characters, perhaps because we know little about him. (If we knew more about him, chances are he'd be less impressive. Funny how that works.)

Here's what we know. He was there at the beginning of the church, the blossoming of the Jesus Movement, in that remarkable time before Christians were called Christians. (They were first known as people of the way, which is a title worth reclaiming, but that's for another Monday).

St. Barnabas was committed to helping people in need. He was called to help St. Paul get incorporated into the church, when many people were suspicious of the recent convert who had so vigorously persecuted Christians. He began to travel with Paul around the rim of the Mediterranean. I think anyone who could be St. Paul's traveling companion deserves kudos. It couldn't have been easy. Paul and Barnabas moved from church to church, raising funds for those suffering famine in Judea, setting the precedent that part of the mission of a global church has to do with caring for our brothers and sisters around the world (a first century version of Episcopal Relief and Development).

The thing I find so intriguing about him has to do with his name change. He was originally known as Joseph. His name was changed to Barnabas. There are other folks in the Bible who have name changes, often a sign that they are noteworthy, a sign that God is doing something new in and through that person. In most cases, God does the renaming. In this case, the apostles, the community changed Joseph's name to Barnabas. I find that intriguing.

They gave him that name because Barnabas means "son of encouragement," which is why I'm impressed with the guy. I found myself wondering what the community saw in him. The word "encouragement" is rich. At its heart, we find the word courage, which suggests not only bravery but also heart, courage sharing its root with the French coeur. Clearly, Barnabas had a gift which allowed others to approach life not only with the bravery that it took to be part of this persecuted community, but also to do so in the spirit of love that became the brand of the early church. Outsiders looked in on the church and said "See how they love one another.' Do you think people would look at the church today and say that? They might well say: "See how they argue with each other about stuff that nobody else cares about." But I digress.

I know I've written about Barnabas before, but he's been on my mind this week, posing this slightly scary question. If my community was going to change my name, what would they change it to? Would I like the new name? Am I even connected enough to a community that knows me well enough to identify and celebrate my gifts?

Maybe you want to ask that question for yourself.

And if those questions provide no answer, maybe in tumultuous times we could all channel our inner Barnabas and adopt his name. Maybe we could all decide to be, or strive to be children of encouragement. Make a start this morning. Who can you encourage?

-Jay Sidebotham

Contact:
Rev. Jay Sidebotham
jsidebotham@renewalworks.org
RenewalWorks is a ministry of Forward Movement.
www.renewalworks.org

If you'd like to join in this donor-based ministry, donate here.

Diving in

It seems to me there are two kinds of people in the world. Those who stand by river's edge and take the plunge, diving into even very cold water. And those who dip toe in the water, gradual entry, bit by bit, often a more arduous process. I count myself in that second group, especially when it comes to the spiritual journey.

When as a young adult, I began to explore the Episcopal Church, I waded in slowly. I'd purposely arrive at church a bit late, locate myself behind a column toward the rear of the church, avail myself of easy exit when service was done. My journey at that time was marked by lots of questions and some confusion about the ways Anglicans worshipped. All that book juggling and liturgical aerobics. I heard words like narthex and verger. Even the word eucharist was new to me. I read in the bulletin about something called the Collect, clearly distinct from the Offertory. I thought: These folks are avid fundraisers.

And then there was the Creed. I was struck with how a group of seemingly intelligent folks stood and mouthed the same words, week after week. It often seemed rote. Many seemed bored. I joined in, sort of. I would stand and begin the creed, able to affirm the mystery of a creator. But there were other lines that were perplexing or even unbelievable. Raised a Protestant, I decided I would not say the lines I didn't particularly like or comprehend.

I observed several things. First, no one seemed to mind, or in fact, notice when I stopped talking. The community let me come at my own pace, as I stepped bit by bit into that stream. That was grace.

And while I indulged in this defiant personal boycott, the creed still got said. The community continued, and in fact, carried on even if I was unsure or uncomfortable. More than that, the community carried me into deeper belief.

You see, over time, I found myself changing, growing, expanding in what I said I believed. For me, it was true that faith is more often caught then taught. It was contagious. I came to say more of the creed, until eventually I joined saints around the world and across the generations in fully making this affirmation of faith. I came to see that the doctrine of the Trinity expressed in the Creed is key, revealing the character of God as mysterious, as relational, as community, as welcoming me into that community, as love.

I came to be moved by the creed, words polished over the century. I was moved by the fact that for centuries, people of faith have gathered and said these words. I was moved by the fact that around the world, on any given Sunday, people were saying these words. I was moved by the fact that in red states and blue states, faith was affirmed. Maybe not fully understood. Maybe not even fully believed. But the words got said.

I still have moments when certain lines defy understanding. On those days, I say them anyway in the spirit of the New Testament character who said "Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief."

On this Monday after Trinity Sunday, the only Sunday of the year dedicated to a doctrine, take time to think about what we believe, about where we give our hearts, which is what belief is all about. Give thanks that God's love welcomes us, preceding our assent, exceeding our comprehension.

And dive into that great stream of saints around the world and across the generations. Or dip your toe in the water, taking a small step into the ever rolling stream, a community on the move that will carry us with our questions and our challenges and our injuries, with our gifts and hopes and love.

Come on in, the water's fine.

-Jay Sidebotham

Pentecost

Some thoughts prompted by the reading for the Feast of Pentecost, which we observed yesterday, thoughts which worked their way into a sermon. Here's some of what got preached:

Pentecost is sometimes referred to as the birthday of the church, marking that very peculiar day described in the book of Acts when the church began, also described in the gospel of John (chapter 20) when the resurrected Jesus meets the disciples.

Jesus sends the disciples out into the world, breathing on them, a conveyance of his grace and power. As he dismisses the disciples, he says to them: As the Father has sent me, so I am sending you.

Here's what I found myself thinking about this week. How exactly does the Father send the Son into the world? A number of things occur to me, by no means an authoritative or exhaustive list. Feel free to add your own insights.

First, the Father sends the Son into the world in the most understated way, charting a path of humility. The Son is born to a young unmarried teenage girl. The delivery room was a stable, a shelter for animals. His parents were homeless refugees. He appeared not in Rome or Athens, but in the little no-count town of Bethlehem. Paul describes this journey in a beautiful hymn found in his letter to the Philippians (included below). He says that Jesus took on the form of a servant and did not consider equality with God a thing to be grasped. If that's how Jesus was sent into the world, as servant, with humility, how are we being sent in a similar way into the world this Monday morning?

Second, the Father sends the Son into the world at a specific time and place. Scholars sometimes call this the scandal of particularity, which captures the outrageous grace that God uses real people, as exasperating as that may be. It brings to mind the phrase: I love humanity. It's people I can't stand. As the Father sent the Son into a particular time, as Jesus lived his life in a limited geographic area, so we are sent to particular places, to meet particular people, to be of service there. Not everywhere, but somewhere. What specific somewhere, what specific encounters are you being sent into today?

Third, the Father sends the Son into the world in a spirit of compassion, a word which literally means suffering with, and which connotes the great love that animates the good news of Jesus. Karen Armstrong, scholar of comparative religion, has noted that compassion is the central value of all great faith traditions. Lord knows a cursory reading of the morning paper will let us know that it is in great demand. As the Presiding Bishop repeats, "if it ain't about love it ain't about God." Jesus comes to stretch out arms of love on the hard wood of the cross to draw us into his saving embrace. That's what he was sent to do. Apparently, that's what we are sent to do as well. What are the opportunities before you this day to share and show love, give someone a break, cut someone some slack, look at life from that person's point of view?

Finally, the Feast of Pentecost reminds us that the Father sends the Son into the world with transforming and healing power that calms troubled waters and multiplies snack lunches to feed multitudes and opens blind eyes and opens sealed tombs. The Father sends us into the world with that same resurrection power, which we name and claim, admitting that on our own, we're capable of little besides ego-centric envy and resentment. This Monday morning, as you are sent out into your world, how can you access this higher power?

Those are my thoughts on how it is the Father sends the Son into the world, and how we are sent into the world. You may have others, but take this day as an occasion to see what God is up to in your neck of the woods. Tap into the power that lets you share God's grace with someone, somewhere, in a spirit of service and compassion this Monday morning. Because Monday matters.

-Jay Sidebotham