One dog, one vote

I generally hesitate to talk politics, especially because I really don’t think Jesus was a Republican or a Democrat.  I see a lot of damage done to the gospel by Christians invoking their faith in support of one party, one candidate, or one issue, over the others.  While I do think that employing our faith in our ethical and political decision-making is essential and logical, up until this week I thought one-issue voting was a misguided practice.  I believed that it was a tool used by people of faith to try and manipulate one another – as if Christ came to earth to reshape the American political environment around a single issue – a particular sin.  That without examining any other aspect of a person’s life, choices, or faith practices, you could conclude whether they are truly a faithful follower, exclusively based on their voting record, sounded absurd to me.  That, of course, changed in 30 short seconds, when I saw the powerful message I’ve posted here:

 

Many churches want to tell me how to vote.  Many pundits want to tell me how to vote.  Many powerful, well-funded special interests want to tell me how to vote.  But now my dog wants to tell me how to vote?  For real?  My dog gets a say in how these elections should turn out?  Animal cruelty is now the single-issue litmus test I should employ for electing candidates?

Take it easy – I love animals and Steve King does kinda sound like a creep.  But I also love steak, and I could definitely see the sport in pelting a deer with an arrow and taking it home for dinner.  I absolutely love going to the races and seeing the swift and majestic horses run, even though it sometimes results in their untimely demise.  No, of course, I don’t support dog fighting.  And I definitely wouldn’t take my kids to watch two animals fight to the death.  But I’m not sure how heavy my concern is for whether pets get included in disaster plan legislation.  If my own home were to catch fire, I can assure you, getting the dog out would definitely be at the bottom of my "disaster plan," compared to making sure all the people get accounted for; it would, frankly, make me sad if first responders had to weigh a legal obligation toward my pet against getting back to the firehouse and being available to help other humans.

Let’s get real.  When we are consider the plethora of issues and problems with which our communities are struggling, when we confront all the exploitation and injustice that goes on around us, when we dream of how to make the world a better place – has the propagation of special interests gotten so out of hand that now even our pets get a say in the political process, provided they make a donation large enough?

 He responded, “The children have to be fed first. It isn’t right to take the children’s bread and toss it to the dogs.” Mark 7:27

I had to surrender.

Sunday before last, I was scheduled to preach while the pastor was on vacation.  I had agreed to do so well ahead of time and had even begun to strategize about it a few weeks in advance, wanting to ensure a well thought out message with engaging, and even humorous, illustrations.  I sometimes get feedback that I’m too serious from the pulpit, so I was going to make a deliberate attempt to stay lighthearted.  Despite my honest effort to be thoroughly prepared, events in my personal life took a turn that week, and I was not in a good place, when I arrived at church about an hour before worship.  My emotions were barely stifled.  I was unable to look anyone in the eye, because any sign of compassion might bring my struggle to the surface.

I sat in a front pew and read back over my sermon, gathering my courage to lead worship.  I realized as the scripture and message kept piercing my heart, how completely helpless I was to fulfill this obligation.  I knew that some 90-100 people were about to file in and expect worship.  I knew from past experience that some of them would be hanging on my every word, looking for an opportunity to send an offended and critical email to our pastor, validating their staunch insistence that women shouldn’t be preaching.  I knew that, for all the times in ministry that my personal issues had made my leadership role a challenge, this was the time.  This was the moment of complete surrender.  I knew that I, me, myself, Emily – I could not get through worship.

So I prayed.  I gave it all to the Lord.  I begged God to take over and use me in whatever way necessary to glorify him.  And, in a way I can’t explain, God did just that.  I didn’t plan my prayers, I just walked up to the pulpit and let it come out.  Every time I said "Amen," I was thinking, “Weird – that’s not really a prayer I normally would say.”  The sermon, thankfully, was all written out, but even in delivering it, I was constantly struck by the message of scripture; as if this message I had written the week before were not my own, but written for me.

That Sunday morning is one I will never forget.  People love the poem “Footprints” for how it expresses the notion of Christ’s partnership and support of us, the idea that we could look back and see the times Jesus was actually bringing us through.  But rarely do we actually feel his arms beneath us and know that right then, in that moment, we are being carried.  But that, my friends, is something I have experienced.  There are many hard times when I’ve fought through on my own, but praise the Lord to know how powerful Christ was when I was utterly helpless.

May that be a blessing I do not have to experience very often.

(This was my sermon illustration - thought you might enjoy...)

Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” Matthew 28:19-20

I'm adopted.

My husband and I were already engaged before I met his favorite uncle, and that uncle’s fiancée.  They were planning a July wedding, about two months ahead of our own.  I don’t remember exactly what it was about them: the casual hospitality of their lake house, the fun afternoon of sun and water activities, or the absurd way I was included in the early morning wakeup call of “Good Morning, Vietnam!” blasting out of the stereo by my head at dawn.  Something about them, right from the start, included me, as if I had always been there; as if we were related by something more than marriage.

They put me up every week for years, when I was commuting to Kansas City for seminary.  They hugged me tight and expressed admiration for my courage when I was trying to be brave after a miscarriage.  They go out of their way to come by when they are in town, even when they are booked tight for holidays.  They keep an open home and open hearts, not just for my husband and me, but also for our girls.  From braving the heat to spend an afternoon at the petting zoo with me and the kids, to coming up with the wildest array of kid friendly meal options every time we come to town; they show by deed as much as word that we matter to them.

We visited my husband’s aunt and uncle on our way through town twice this week.  My daughters pitched a fit when we wanted to take them out for breakfast, because they love so much sitting around their table, eating strawberries, and chatting through the morning.  I can see why – it is a lot of fun to visit with people so well-read and thoughtful; always giving us something new to think about before we hit the road to head home.

It is such a privilege to share our marriage year with a couple who live out such a true expression of mutual submission and boundless love.  I grieve that they didn’t know each other soon enough in life, because their kids would be amazing people, but I’m grateful to God for giving them such a bounty of love to share with the rest of us!  We are, indeed, related by something much more than just marriage.

Jesus and the people he makes holy all belong to the same family. That is why he isn’t ashamed to call them his brothers and sisters. Hebrews 2:11

I’m feeling called to First Church of Denny’s

When I offered to resign four months ago, I knew I was ready for a change.  But even as my last day was set, I still couldn’t really imagine not being on staff at my church.  Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings have been such an ingrained part of our family rhythm, relationships with the kids and friends at church have been such a substantial part of our social network, it was hard to comprehend that we were going to depart from those ways.  We fantasized about waking up on Sunday morning and going to church solely because we wanted to go to church, but we could hardly comprehend the possibility of not going.

Maybe it is short-timer’s syndrome, but the last four months, and the last week specifically, have made leaving so much easier than I thought it would be.  Maybe our eminent separation has given me clearer vision to see what was always there, maybe my eminent departure has created some fatalism about our church being able to effectively reach young families, but my vision for a welcoming, accommodating church reached an impasse.  The hot button issue that made my last official board meeting depressing and bitter: changing tables in the main bathrooms.  There were only two other people besides me who argued to keep them: the two women who, albeit 30-plus years ago, once had to change their babies’ diapers at church.  Everyone else in the room was a baby boomer father (i.e. never changed a diaper except in an emergency) or never had kids.  But we were out-voted and diaper changing has now been relegated to the back bathroom.

Will the loss of these changing tables directly affect the membership demographic of our church?  Probably not.  But it was, for me, a weathervane.  There are dozens of similar decisions over which I’ve voiced a minority opinion throughout the years; this one was, to me, one of the most ridiculous.  They are small plastic tables that fold up against a wall; a standard in any public restroom.  What do they hurt?  Someone had to wait an extra couple minutes to use the restroom, and someone else didn’t like how they distracted from the décor.  So they took them down and now parents, especially guests, will have to hunt down facilities down the hall and around the corner.

Maybe the changing tables aren’t a big deal.  Maybe none of my gripes or issues ever really mattered.  Maybe I was wrong to think I was called to my church to be an ambassador for the lost, or to help break down the barriers that have led 2/3 of my generation to avoid church, if not actively despise it.  Maybe my generation doesn’t belong in church after all.  Maybe we need a new place to congregate on Sunday mornings.

I’m thinking Denny’s.  They don’t quit seating at 10am; they serve breakfast all day.  They have changing tables and high chairs visibly available to accommodate your family.  You can come as you are; no one comments on your appearance.  You know your 10% is going to help someone who really needs it.  There’s no mention of “luck” when it comes to what is in the “pot.”  And they won’t quit serving it, just because you spill a little coffee on the carpet.

I need to find a new way to meld my concern for my generation, and those coming after, with my belief in church as the Body of Christ.  I probably need to take a break from church life and politics for the same reasons so many of my peers avoid it all together.  But in the mean time – I’m counting down to my first Sunday morning Grand Slam.

When Jesus saw this, he was indignant. He said to them, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Mark 10:14

I have puppet music stuck in my head.

Did you know I made the first cut to be on the second season of Big Brother? I submitted my tape (back then, it was all VHS), and got a call back to go up to Minneapolis and interview on camera. It was also back when “real” people appeared on reality shows, not models and aspiring actors who already have agents and gigs. Anyway, I went into my interview ready to shine, and they about fell out of their chairs laughing when I pulled the stars from my audition video out of a paper bag. Two puppets: Jesus and Moses. I think it was my attachment to my then one year old daughter that eliminated me from further consideration, because the prophets and I rocked the interview.

My husband and I started leading the puppet ministry at our church several years before I actually hired on as staff. As completely dorky as puppet ministry sounds, it is one of the most fruitful ways that we have been involved. The youth who are now graduating still talk about the music and messages they first heard from the mouths of felt characters, back when they were small. With our combined creativity and resourcefulness, my husband’s extraordinary gift at bringing the puppets to life, and my ability to manage young people, we’ve come up with fresh ideas and lively shows for probably 14 years now.

Back around the time I summarized my personality for casting directors by appearing with Jesus and Moses, we took on organizing a puppet dinner theater for Holy Week. It involved preparing a dinner, decorating a dining room, seating charts, ticket sales, and a million little mind-boggling details. But the biggest endeavor was working with half a dozen teenagers to put together a three act show that would keep the audience’s attention between courses of food. Apparently the six weeks of rehearsals that led to our Good Friday show made as big an impression on me, as they did on the puppeteers, because every Good Friday, the soundtrack from Fish Tales runs through my head like, “Baby, Baby, Yeah,” after a Justin Bieber Today Show appearance.

There was a song about the feeding of the 5000, where Jesus took one child’s lunch of loaves and fish, and multiplied it to feed the entire crowd: or as the song put it, “fish sandwiches! What a plan was his! Supernatural Supper for the multitude!” Of course, you can’t forget the Good Friday number, “It was a good day. On a bad day.” Or the finale, “Do not fear! He was crucified, but he escaped the grave, he’s not inside, no, he’s not here. He is alive!”

Ten year old puppet lyrics, trumpeting through my mind, and recalling at once both the demands and the joy of a vibrant ministry. And, at the same time, filling my heart and mind with the bittersweet, compelling truth that this week is all about: the teachings, the sacrifice, and the resurrection of Christ.

And when Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook, the rocks split Mathew 27:50-51

Lent is my New Year's

I don’t make resolutions, because I find it pointless.  More than that, I get a little annoyed with everyone else’s resolutions, because they inconvenience the good habits of others.  For those disciplined health nuts who hit the gym every morning, every day of the year, it seems unfair that the first week of January they suddenly have to wait in line for a treadmill, knowing that the row of unseasoned novices, smelling of fresh spandex, and struggling to figure out the settings on the machines, aren’t really serious about this new lifestyle.  By mid-February, they will return to their morning Starbucks ritual and everyone else can get back to their own routine, without having to trip over the uncommitted.

So, rather than get in the way of people who really do want to better themselves, I skip the whole shenanigans and wait until I’m truly inspired to do something different.  Over the years of our marriage, my husband and I have often found that inspiration in Lent.  The whole concept of giving something up or taking on something new, in solidarity with Christ and his suffering, burdens me, and commits me spiritually in a way that 1/1/whatever never could.

Making changes in my life for Lent has both those spiritual connotations, and also some practical ones.  Lent is for six weeks.  It is the perfect trial period for life improvement.  You can commit to almost anything for six weeks; it’s a very do-able length of time.  You won’t have to feel like a failure at the end, if you don’t keep it up, because it was only a six week commitment to begin with.  But it is also a long enough time to know by the end whether your changes bring the kind of joy and benefit that makes them worth continuing.  Many valuable life improvements have sprung from the brief six week commitment of Lent.

One year, we gave up coffee creamer.  We lost 5 pounds each.  While we went back to drinking creamer, we do not consume nearly the quantities we did before.  Another year, we gave up TV.  That was hard!  We tried to tape all our shows so we could catch up after Lent, but it really never happened.  It helped us realize how much time TV was consuming, and how unimportant the missed episodes were to our enjoyment of later shows.  We developed a family mantra of, “We will never lament that we missed a TV show because we were out living our real lives.”  We went back to TV, but we also disarmed it from having so much power over us.

This year, we decided to start walking 3-4 times a week.  We mapped out the neighborhood and our walks range from .7-1.5 miles.  We’re slowly working in some running, too, but not pressuring ourselves with it.  Mostly, it’s just about keeping our commitment, to get out there and be in creation while moving our bodies.  I’ve been impressed that so far, we’re actually sticking to it, and I’m noticing some improvement to my stamina and muscle tone.  Who knows, maybe this will be one of those Lenten rituals that actually lasts past Easter?

With every change we make, with every habit we start or break, there is some internal switch that seems to flip – or not flip – in us that determines our outcome.  New Year’s never really flipped that switch for me, but, and I know I may sound a little hokey here, Jesus does.  Whether it’s that “I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength (Philippians 4:13),” or “Everything should be done in a way that will bring honor to God because of Jesus Christ (1 Peter 4:11), Lent is a season, where my meager sacrifices and gifts take on a much more meaningful and deeper symbolism than they deserve.  What’s a day without meat, or a cup of coffee without creamer, compared to the unthinkable suffering Jesus endured?  If he did that, the least I can do is commit for six short weeks.

If anyone speaks, they should do so as one who speaks the very words of God. If anyone serves, they should do so with the strength God provides, so that in all things God may be praised through Jesus Christ. To him be the glory and the power forever and ever. Amen. 1 Peter 4:11