Today I was listening to Fresh Air on National Public Radio. Terry Gross was interviewing a poet named Natasha Tretheway. She won the 2007 Pulitzer Prize for poetry for her book Native Guard. Good stuff. Her latest book is Beyond Katrina: A Mediation on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, a book of poetry and prose.

The part of the interview that I heard included the poet speaking about her grandmother's faith and her funeral.

GROSS: You describe yourself as not a religious person. But do you ever wish that you could have religion like your grandmother did and therefore, find some kind of holy meaning in the most horrible things that have happened?

Prof. TRETHEWEY: I think, you know, she had such a faith and I understood it as a great comfort to her. And there are times that I think that I wish I had such a comfort.I remember when she was being remembered at her service, the preacher looking directly at me and saying, grieve not as others grieve. He was sermonizing about how the faithful don't have the same kind of grief, because they know that there is something else. And so I felt indicted as he looked at me and said "grieve not as others grieve," as if he was pointing to me and saying, I know that you are not the faithful and because of that you have a different kind of grief, the wrong kind.

GROSS: And were you changed by that at all? 

Prof. TRETHEWEY: Oh, I was angry.

GROSS: Angry at him for making you feel that way when you were grieving.

Prof. TRETHEWEY: Yes. I...

GROSS: As if there were a wrong kind of grief.

Prof. TRETHEWEY: I think I wanted remembrance of her and I wanted comfort. I mean, I think funeral services are for the living in some ways. They are to remember the dead, but in the face of the living, beloved. And so I didn't feel comforted. 

I was so sad listening to this. I wasn't there, but it seems to me from her telling that it is possible this minister was offering to her comfort and hope when he said "grieve not as others grieve." However, she certainly didn't take it as such. She took it as judgment, an indictment.

It seems that for some any word from a religious leader is a word of judgment. And it is true that up to and including now, most of the words of religion have been judgmental.

These are the questions I am pondering:

Why are religious voices always heard as judgmental (and I am specifically using "religious" and not "spiritual" here) even when they may not be? Is it only because of our horrible history? Or, is there something going on inside a person that makes them feel indicted by God?

How can we change our religious language so that those around us understand and experience that "God sent his Son into the world not to judge the world, but to save the world..." (John 3:17 NLT)?


I would love to hear your thoughts!

I'm reading a book (among several right now) titled The God Evaders: How Churches and Their Members Frustrate Genuine Religious Experience by Clyde Reid, a staff member of the national setting of the United Church of Christ. I was pointed to the book by a quote from it in Dallas Willard's book, The Divine Conspiracy. God Evaders is old (1966), but it good have been written this morning. Reid quotes a pastor of the time, John Heuss, and it has been ringing in my ears for the past few days:

The ordinary day-by-day life of the average successful [there were still a few successful ones back then] local parish makes a mockery out of it's world-influencing revolutionary claims.

It is customary for all of us to lay the blame for the public indifference to religion at the door of the secularism and materialism of our age. It is my personal opinion that neither of these does as much harm as does the constant parade of trivialities which the typical church program offers to the public. This program is only rarely related to the real issues which are clawing the soul of modern man to shreds. This program speaks with no commanding voice to the multitudes perishing for lack of certainty. This program gives the distinct impression that it is concerned exclusively with its own preservation.

What most parishes are habitually doing is so prosaic and so little related to anything except their own hand-to-mouth existence that the public cannot imagine in what way they can possibly influence the great affairs of the world. What the local church has become makes it impossible for the average American to take its life-shaking Gospel seriously. Its day-to-day triviality is its own worst enemy.

In a quiet, but miraculous way, we noticed God moving at church this Sunday. God, in God's incredible grace, gave us, I believe, and I know gave me a glimpse of what could happen in our church. Our worship Sunday was good. Then some of us gathered to talk about worship, what worship is, how worship is meaningful to us. It was a wonderful conversation that really gave us something to work with as we move forward in our worship planning. And then Sunday night, we rocked. In an almost surreal scene, a rock band, and a pretty good one at that, Southbound Fearing, from Toledo, Ohio, treated the 20 or 30 of us gathered to an ear-splitting, bass-feeling concert.

The days activities nudged us just enough outside the norm to be able to imagine something different. And it was good.

Someone gave me a quote today-- quote by one of my favorite spiritual writers, Henri Nouwen:

When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. the friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is the friend who cares.

It's a great description of what I do with my hospice patients in my role as an interfaith chaplain. I meet them where they are, discerning what is spiritually important to them, providing comfort and assurance.

Medically, hospice is about palliative care. It is about keeping a patient comfortable. No agressive or curative treatment is pursued.

Spiritually, palliative care is often called for: comfort, assurance. End-of-life is such a time, I believe, unless of course, a patient demonstrates a need for something else: reconciliation with God, reconciliation with others. But what about in my role as pastor? When is it appropriate to engage in curative spiritual care? When do I need to risk a little bit of pain, possibly on the part of one who I am caring for, and definitely on my part, to help someone over a hump, or to mirror what I see as a detrimental issue in their life?

I imagine it would have to be if they themselves request me to take such a position. Or, as a prophetic voice, which, generally, is not comfortable for me, there may be times when I should take the initiative.

Finley Peter Dunne is credited with originating the saying "Comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable." He was referring to the role of the newspaper. It has since been applied to the role of spiritual leaders and the church. It requires great discernment. I can think of times when both have been used where the other may have been appropriate.

A few weeks ago, on July 4th actually, I preached on the idea of servanthood. It wasn't one of my best sermons. It's hard to preach on something that sounds so crazy. It's like standing up and saying that green is orange or that left is right. However, since that week the sermon, at least, has been working on me. The idea is haunting me, that it is in service, in servanthood that we can find freedom.

For you were called to freedom, brothers and sisters; only do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence, but through love become slaves to one another.                               Galatians 5:13 (NRSV)

If I am serving another, then I am free of the concern about what that one thinks of me. If I am serving another in love, then I am free of what the consequences are, how that service, how that love is reacted to. I don't have to impress anyone. I don't have to be anything I am not. I just have to serve.

This is what we are called to as disciples of Jesus. This is what we are called to as the church. But it seems that it is the antithesis of who we are as the church. We don't serve, we judge. We protect our belief systems and our institutions. It is very apparent in the Roman Catholic church maybe because they have been around for so long and have so much power or perceived power at least. The Vatican's recent comments reveal an institution more interested in protecting its tradition and doctrine than dealing forthrightly with a serious problem, the victimization of children by the ones children should be able to trust the most, their religious leaders. However, us younger denominations and groups are just as guilty.

I want to serve. I want to lead a movement of servants.

"The root of all sin is the suspicion that God is not good."
- Oswald Chambers

I just heard this quote today. I like it so far, although I'm not sure I have fully absorbed it. Yesterday, I spoke about providence, the idea that God protects us on our journey. I believe that. (See below)

But wow, the root of all sin begins with the suspicion that God is not good, that makes me put my money and my life where my mouth is. Do I really believe that God is good all the time and all the time God is good? Do i trust  there is a God and that said God wants the very best for me? I spend every day of my live encouraging that belief in others. But this quote has given me pause; made me stop and think.

It's like Chambers is asking me "Jason, do you believe that God is good? If you do, wouldn't your life look different, be different?" It's not a matter of holding to a particular dogma. Baby, it's way beyond that. It is a question that cuts to the core of how I live my life, who I am. I can preach it. Can I live it?

"From today's crisis, a church will emerge tomorrow that has lost a great deal...She will be small and, to a large extent, will have to start from the beginning. She will no longer be able to fill many of the buildings created in her period of great splendor. Because of the smaller number of her followers, she will lose many of her privileges in society. Contrary to what has happened until now, she will present herself much more as a community of volunteers...As a small community, she will demand much more from the initiative of each of her members and she will certainly also acknowledge new forms of ministry and will raise up to the priesthood proven Christians who have other jobs...It will make her poor and a church of the little people..All this will require time. The process will be slow and painful."
- Joseph Ratzinger, 1969


Ratzinger is now Pope Benedict XVI. This is a quote from an article about him in Time magazine (June 7, 2010). It was uttered forty years ago and yet is amazingly prophetic. I am getting impatient. I am weary of the conversations about how we can "save the church," meaning the institution we love and protect. I am ready for that institution to die so that it will stop impeding the movement of the Spirit in our world. I am ready for what is coming. I am ready for women and men with hearts set afire to respond to who God is calling them to be and what God is calling them to do.

After squeezing a three-tear degree into eight, I am proud to say that on Sunday, May 23rd, 2010, I received my Master of Divinity degree from Florida Center for Theological Studies. I wasn't expecting it to be, but it was actually a very moving experience, mostly because I was joined by a couple of dozen of my friends and co-ministers from my church who came down to Miami on a bus.

One of the speakers was Dr. Miguel H. Diaz, the current U.S. Ambassador to the Vatican. That was pretty cool.

The other speaker was Daniel O. Aleshire who is the executive director of the Association of Theological Schools. He shared a simple, folksy message based on the life of his father-in-law, Dr. Herbert Gabhart who had recently passed away. Dr. Gabhart had been the president and, later, chancellor of a small Christian university, Belmont University. I found the three lessons he shared valuable:

1. Be grateful. Always thank those who have helped you along. Dr. Gabhart showed as much gratitude for the small gifts as the large.

2. Be generous. Dr. Gabhart was frugal but not miserly. He did a lot with a little. He took as much joy in not spending money as others take in spending it. However, before he died, he was able to donate back to the school every penny they had paid him in salary over his several decade career there. That is awesome!

3. Be persistent. One New Year's Day, the main building of Belmont College was destroyed in the fire. At the end of what must have been a heart-breaking day for the college president. He emerged from his charred office with a sketch of a new building and enough money pledged to begin its construction. Every collegue and friend who called to offer their condolences was asked to contribute to its rebuilding.

There are many theories and lifts of what is required of great leadership. But for me, now, these three seem like a great place to start.

This Sunday, we talked about how "Every Life...Needs a Truth-teller," experiencing together the story of David and Nathan, who came alongside David and took the risk of speaking truth into his life.

In my sermon I mentioned M. Scott Peck's description of pseudocommunity that occurs when we are involved in "communities" and relationships, but fail to take the opportunity to speak truth to one another, to hold one another accountable.

However, there is a shadow side to speaking truth. When we speak  truth to those about whom we care, we risk being rejected and/or misunderstood. It has been said by a friend of a friend who I never had the opportunity to meet before he passed away, "The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off." Another risk we take is exposing what we understand to be the truth to the examination of others who may not agree with us, whose truth might be different than ours.  Peck says that the antidote for pseudocommunity is to risk the chaos, yes chaos, that is possible (probable?) when we speak truth.  Risking and pressing through the chaos can lead to the blessing of true community.

What better place than a community of faith, centered around the unconditional love and acceptance of God, is there to practice being truth-tellers? How can we create a place, an environment, that offers as much safety as possible for us to encourage one another and hold one another accountable on our spiritual paths?

I had lunch with a colleague yesterday and the conversation turned to worship styles. All of us church folks have an opinion on worship styles. Those of us "in the biz" talk (and argue) about theological and aesthetic considerations and what style of worship attracts the most people to church.

However, worship is about more than just the style of music that is sung or the sermon that is preached. It is about who we are with, where we are, what frame of mind and heart we are in.

I invite you to share below an experience you have had where you can say you worshiped. Maybe it was at a glorious Easter Sunday service or a quiet Christmas Eve service. Maybe it was at a childhood camp around the fire. Or maybe it was at a symphony or  Grateful Dead concert. When was a time where you came in contact with something "other" or "more" when you were with a group of people (whether 10 or 10,000) Click the comment link below and share your story!