Missional Thoughts from Minnesota

We only stopped by Minnesota, but we noticed some things.

We noticed that when a city is so "churched" that it has two Lutheran dioceses, one for each side of the river, there is a lot more social (and financial) capital to do some good.

We also noticed that the Minnesota State Government is much more aggressive in its spending to help the poor.  C'mon Tennessee. Get with the program.

We noticed that when the poor are ones helping the poor, it can get really awesome really fast.

We noticed that forgiveness is the only way forward. No matter what.

We noticed that Chattanooga has a far more homeless persons per capita than the Twin Cities. In the Twin Cities, even with a high estimate, there is 1 homeless person for every 1312 people.  In Chattanooga, there is 1 homeless person for every 212 people.  That is not acceptable. The Twin cities population is almost 20 times larger than Chattanooga, but the Chattanooga homeless population would increase the Twin Cities homeless population by a third.

We noticed we like Lutherans a lot. We are all part of the Jesus movement.

His Name was Wild Bill

Our community was blessed with the presence of a man named Wild Bill. For two years, Bill was a regular: at times hugging, loving and wise; at times drunk, incomprehensible, and loud.

That was Bill. When he was with us, really with us, our community was enriched with knowing the love of Christ through Bill. When he wasn't fully present, our community was enriched by having to share that love of Christ with someone who wasn't always so lovable.

Wild Bill had lived on the streets of Chattanooga, under a bridge, for more than a dozen years. It boggles my mind and stretches my heart to think about all that means. He survived a dozen winters, outside. He slept under a bridge, with cars whizzing by, over his head. He camped with friends, who he called brothers, developing relationships of interconnectedness deeper than many of us ever will know.

I first met Wild Bill, who told me that was his name, at Southside Abbey's worship on a Friday evening. Soon after, I was doing my best to make him feel welcome at Southside Abbey and I kept introducing him to people as Bill. He stopped me: “My name is Wild Bill.” As our relationship grew, I asked him: “Why Wild Bill and not just Bill?” He told me, “of all the children my mother had, I was the wildest, so she called me Wild Bill.” He let that sink in for a most pregnant pause, before he let me in on the joke – he was an only child. That was Bill, excuse me, Wild Bill. Full of love, ready with a smile or a joke.

We've been working with Wild Bill to get his back Social Security Disability. He had injured himself years ago, walking up the large concrete incline that led to his “home.” Several surgeries later, he told me that he, “couldn't get through the metal detector at the courthouse.” This was one of the the many things that had slowed down Wild Bill's progress in navigating the bureaucratic waters of Social Security. I'd like to think we were close to actually making a breakthrough.

A few Fridays ago, Wild Bill blessed us with his presence one last time. He arrived at Southside Abbey and as I went to shake his hand, he pushed my hand out of the way and flung his arms around me. As he did, I could smell the alcohol. This wasn't new for Wild Bill, but our rule is: drunk is okay (not ideal, but okay), belligerent is not. Wild Bill was never belligerent.

He left worship a little early to get back “home” to his bridge, before it got too cold. The cold bothered Wild Bill, especially the metal rods in his leg and back. He died that night – crossing the highway above his bridge in the cold and the rain – Wild Bill was hit by a car.

The weeks that have followed have seen little change in Chattanooga. One bridge in town is without its Wild Bill. He died without fanfare. No legislation to change or end homelessness. No crowd-sourcing or fundraising in memorial. As I start to wonder if anything will really change because of Wild Bill, I realize that I have been changed, our Southside Abbey community has been changed, and I think of all those lives that were touched by knowing Wild Bill.

This season of Advent, we wait expectantly for the coming of Christ. We remember Christ, coming to us as the most vulnerable and we await Christ's Reign, where God's will is known and done on earth as it is in heaven. Many of us in the Episcopal Church can fool ourselves into thinking that we're already there, or at least pretty close to the Kingdom of God in its fullness, that progress has made things better for everyone. Our lives are pretty great. I, myself, enjoy my gluten-free bread at $5 a loaf.

But we're not all there yet.

There are still some places of wilderness out there, places that have wild people, people like Wild Bill. I used to think that it was the Church's job to save people like Wild Bill, but it may just be that they are saving us. Happy Advent from those still waiting.

This post was originally published on the Episcopal Church Foundation's Vital Practices Vital Posts blog on December 22, 2015. It has been reprinted here with permission.

In All Things, Give Thnaks [Sic]

Nope, it's not a typo.

The pressure is on us, those of us attempting to follow Jesus, and it's a performance pressure. The World and the Church are watching and both institutions are all too ready to fire the initial servo at us when we get it wrong.

I really enjoy Richard Rohr's daily meditations. Recently, he argued we have a lot to learn from the twelve step traditions, especially the way they approach spiritual formation and maturation. The Church, aligned with the imperial culture of the Western, has taken a top-view of these issues, rather than a bottom-view. We are trying to work our way up into spiritual health and wellness, when dwelling in Christ at the bottom might be more Christ-like in approach. Rohr muses that it is, “as if Christianity has been saying, 'We have the perfect medicine for what ails you: grace and mercy. But the only requirement for receiving it is never to need it!'” As our former Theologian-in-Residence, Nik Forti, wrote in our crowd-sourced piece for ECF's Vestry Papers, “The Church isn't called to serve the poor. The Church is called to be the poor.”

But back to “Thnaks.” Giving Thnaks is on mind this season. A few Thanksgivings ago, a friend of mine sent me a picture of the marquee sign of a little baptist church just up the road from us. In the South, we revel in these signs and hope for the best. Occasionally, we are not disappointed. These signs will have something profound or funny to impart, like:

Read the Bible – It Will Scare the Hell Out of You

God Wants Full Custody, Not Weekend Visitation

Remember, Even Moses Started Out as a Basket Case

Do Not Judge Others Because They Sin Differently Than You

God Expects Spiritual Fruit, Not Religious Nuts

To Those Who Robbed Us, We Forgive You

There are Some Questions that Can't Be Answered by Google or Siri

What's Missing from CH__CH?

Honk if You Love Jesus. Text While Driving if You Want to Meet Him

But this little church in the aforementioned picture, had the words on their marquee: “In All Things, Give Thnaks!” I laughed a little at first and then I felt bad for doing so. Here is a church giving thanks as they are able, proclaiming to the world where they are and where they want to be. How many of us engage in such heartfelt evangelism? How many of us make ourselves vulnerable to the ridicule of the world? How many of us take ourselves just a little too seriously?

I'm aware that this is a time of year of thanksgiving. Thanksgiving is central to who we are as Eucharistic people (it's what that word means after all). We are not called to put on perfect lives for the benefit of friends and neighbors. We are not called to tacit deeds of charity to help the so-called “less fortunate.” We are not called to wear the mask of perfection. We are called to be thankful for our imperfection.

This holiday season, I invite you to join me in living a little more eucharistically, a little more thankful that God chooses such imperfect ways to reach us – oil, salt, the land, water, bread, and wine. And as you are shopping, fulfilling your holiday obligations, and spending time with those you love, those you like, and the increasingly rare intersection of the two, remember: “In All Things, Give Thnaks!”

This post was originally published on the Episcopal Church Foundation's Vital Practices Vital Posts blog on December 17, 2015. It has been reprinted here with permission.

The Best Teachers Money Can't Buy

I've been in school a lot. This is not self-promotion. I'm not trying to say what a great, studious priest I am, as is plainly evident to anyone who reads what I write. I just mean in my thirty-six years on the planet, I cannot remember a time when I am not in school. I hold three advanced degrees and am close to two more. Again, don't be impressed. I spent seven-and-a-half years in undergraduate education. I also like to have a lot of fun. Despite all this schooling, I'm not a a scholar.

But no place are the deficiencies in my vast education more evident than at Southside Abbey. Those experiencing homelessness and hunger on the Southside of Chattanooga don't care that I've got letters after my name. Their needs are far more immediate than that.

And so, as it turns out, are mine.

I have written before about how my faith has been changed by the faith of those I serve. I remember vividly the interaction of a man experiencing homelessness for twelve years who handed me a money order for $250 – the exact amount we budgeted for weekly food at the time. I was so worldly I tried to talk him out of it. He said, “Don't take this gift away from me! I want to buy dinner for my friends this week!” Hmm. Clearly I still had a lot to learn about faith.

And it turns out, I still do.

A few weeks ago, we saw one of our regulars at worship on Friday night. He had been away for several weeks and I was starting to worry about him. Also, he lived in an abandoned building that was recently torn down. So, I was more than relieved to see him. As I was talking to him, I noticed that he was a little scuffed up and had more than the typical bruises. Like any good seminary-educated-pastor, I asked him, “Where've you been? We've been missing you.”

He told me that he had been in the hospital, because he had been thrown off a bridge where he was staying. He also told me that the two guys who did it added insult to injury by stealing all his stuff as he lay there injured. Then he dropped quite a bombshell... The two guys who perpetrated this dastardly act were in worship with us that evening at Southside Abbey. They were withing twenty or thirty feet of this conversation as it was happening! I went into papa-bear mode and wanted to know who did this to our friend. He wouldn't tell me no matter how I pressed. Then he laid it all out:

“I can't tell you who they are, because I know you and you'd ask them to leave. I don't want them to leave, because they need Jesus just as much as I do.”

They need Jesus just as much as I do. That's faith. I don't lament my formal education by any stretch of the imagination – clearly I've loved every expensive minute of it. But now, I've got some new teachers, and they're the best teachers money can't buy.

This post was originally published on the Episcopal Church Foundation's Vital Practices Vital Posts blog on November 11, 2015. It has been reprinted here with permission.

Moments of Grace

Southside Abbey is a small church. We can't offer much in the way of pomp and spectacle. (Unless by spectacle you mean chaos). We rent our space, and so we worship around art that is not necessarily religious. The nightmarish teddy-bear with claws comes to mind as a prime example. It can be a bit noisy, and yet, even with the noise, the artistic oddities, and the unpredictable people, there are moments of striking beauty and grace. In fact, these moments are essential to Southside Abbey. They are our ministry. A bunch of strange people get together and there are little hints that life could be another way. Maybe God is Love. Maybe Jesus is the Lord of the Cosmos. Maybe we should actually do what Jesus tells us.  Maybe we are saved by grace. Maybe we are all forgiven. It isn't always spoken, but you can see it, if you have eyes to see.
Here are some moments that have struck me:

Sudanese children blessing the eucharistic host with the priest

An ex-convict, ex-motorcycle gang enforcer leading worship

Lutherans, Episcopalians, and dis-enchanted Baptists singing in unison

Praying over pizza crust to become our communion bread

A drunk asking for quiet during the sermon

Repeatedly reminding a man with a traumatic brain injury that he is, in fact, one of the saints of God

A formerly Mormon wild-woman bringing the cookies every week

A sermon from a quiet and kind policeman asking us to reflect on how we respond to suffering


You can't make this stuff up.
What are some moments of grace that have struck you?

A Mission of Relationship

I find myself thinking about relationship lately.  We live in this world that increasingly allows us to choose our communities and ignore the people who live near us or who challenge us.  I have been teaching and preaching on the Johannine Epistles and the Gospel of John.  I am inspired by Jesus’ initial engagement with followers as he first invites would be partners-in-ministry to, ‘come and see,’ (John 1:39 and following).  This is how ministry with the Christ begins, as an opportunity to come and see; to move into relationship. I have wondered about what such a command/invitation to relationship might mean for practical ministry and mission in Chattanooga and in my community.

What would our ministry and common life look like if we simultaneously followed the example of Jesus, inviting others to ‘come and see,’ while at the same time following the command of Jesus to come and see what Christ is doing in and through others.  What if we became a missional people who majored in relationship and only supported that with money? What if we began to believe that what we have to give is not from our power, or our money, or our ideas, or our strengths, but instead from our very selves?  What if our mission was to become vulnerable to others, a mission of relationship, community, and reconciliation?  

I think this would mean creating the opportunity and space to eat with, hear the stories of, and share our own stories with those who find themselves ostracized from us and from each other. I believe that the Missio Dei (mission of God) is partly expressed in the redeeming work of building community by connection in vulnerability.  The examples of the life of Jesus are centered on sharing: meals, experiences, ministry, worship, and conversation, all with striking vulnerability.  Jesus gave up everything to be in relationship with his human community.

A mission of relationship is about life changing engagements, about finding the Divine in the face of those who we are estranged from.  Lower socio-economic school aged youths might encounter parents, educators, and college students.  Fathers behind on child support (some 50% of those court mandated in TN) would enjoy conversation with parents struggling to understand their children.  The refugee from Sudan might share a meal with an undocumented immigrant working at a local chicken plant.  Those struggling with mental illness might find companionship in an alcoholic/addict.  The over worked, over committed business woman might find herself in the life of a homeless person. Conservative/evangelicals might explore God's identity and work in the world with progressive Protestants.  The services that might be provided: tutoring, social work, mental health care, 12 step, housing, food, outreach, worship, are all secondary to and a result of relationship.

What is the Church?

Let's start by defining what we do not mean.

1. The Church is not the building
Many folks would assume that the church is the building. Many folks would be wrong.
A body without blood ceases to be a body. It is a corpse.

2. The Church is not the people
There are those who think that church is whenever their buddies get together and pray a bit. They may have a point, for Christ is present, but they are also missing out on a lot: eg. the Eucharist.

3. The Church is not the institution
It is foolishness to conflate God's redeeming work in the world with human power structures. Such confusion causes people to claim that their denomination, and their denomination only, is the true church. The Holy Spirit is not beholden to any organizational chart or doctrinal point. The wind blows where it will.

So there we have it. The church is not those things.
However, we should also define what we mean by church.

1. Sometimes the church is the building
Or put better, churches are places. A building isn't necessary, but a place is. People live in place and place shapes our spirituality. In that same vein, art and architecture shape our spirituality. Having a beautiful building in which to worship God means something. It means that we associate God with beauty. It meant something when God told the Israelites to worship him in a tent. It meant God can be worshipped anywhere. Place matters.

2. Sometimes the church is the people.
In prayer, in the ministry of their daily work done well, in the love of their neighbors, in their care for the poor, the people in the pews act as the body of Christ in the world. This is where the rubber meets the road. It is one thing to love all of humanity, abstractly and safely. It is another thing entirely to love the person next to you.

3. Sometimes the church is the institution
If there are no sacraments, if there is no process for ordaining leaders, if there is no tradition, no carryover between generations, no capacity to meet the needs of the community, then you may not be involved in the church. It is mostly likely a dysfunctional bible study. Organization brings stability, and stability keeps people safe. God likes that sort of thing. It gives him something to work with: eg. the ordinary means of grace.

So the church is not these things, but the church is definitely these things. The church is a mysterious intersection between the people, the place, and the institution that is somehow more than the sum of its parts. It's a mystery, and you can bet the Holy Spirit has got something to do with it.

Now some rational types may be complaining at this point, ''C'mon, I can't throw a rock without hitting another so-called 'mystery' in Christianity." The rational types can chew on those rocks for all the good it will do them. Reality is mystery. Truth rests on paradox. And the beauty in that reality is that it releases us from determinism. Logic won't let us see all the way to the end of where this whole cosmic endeavor is going. Love maybe, but not logic.