Ecclesio-simple

For the past few days, I’ve been reading a book called Simple Church, by Thom Rainer and Eric Geiger. Eric Geiger is coming to talk to a conference event in a few weeks that some of our church staff is attending, so this is like homework. And if you happened to see my Facebook status earlier today, you already know that I am not happy about it.

It's not just the patronizing language or the vapid metaphors that make the whole thing read like a cheesy children's sermon. It's not just the chauvinism that blares through whenever the authors mention their wives, or the rampant biblical eisegesis in defense of their premise. OK, it is partially all of those things. But I have some actual questions, too.

The premise of the book is that simple churches--churches with a clear, streamlined process for making disciples--tend to be healthier. I don't completely disagree with this premise. I think there's probably a lot to be said for getting rid of outgrown or ill-conceived ministries, and eliminating special programs that turn out to be more for show than for effectively reaching and forming people. So I admit there's some validity to their argument, even if I do wish they'd given ME their research and let me write a book targeted at moderately intelligent readers. I also admit I haven't read the whole book yet, so it's possible my questions might be answered or opinions changed by the end.

I also don't disagree with their assumption of spiritual growth as process. What good Wesleyan could?

But I do wonder how well we can assign parts of that process to aspects of an individual's involvement within the life of a church. Most of the churches they rank highly have a model that looks something like: people come to worship and meet God, people join small groups and learn about living in community, people pick a ministry and serve.

But what if I don't come to church first? I can't find a welcoming small group or a community ministry as an invitation into a relationship with God? I can't come to church and get plugged into the congregation by joining a Saturday service event? I have to go through a small group first? And couldn't there be some value in having a wide variety of ministries for people to choose to be involved in--even if they do clutter up the calendar, even if they're not particularly streamlined? I'm simply not convinced that the process of salvation "from the first dawning of light in the soul till it is consumed in glory" (that's probably misquoted slightly, sorry Wesley) is as neat as a three-step program. This "simple church" idea seems to want to plug people into a machine that spits them out as disciples on the other side.

And what happens when I do get the service stage of my spiritual growth process? I graduate? I'm good to go? How does continuing sanctification factor into the life of the individual and the church? When I think of how worship, education, fellowship, and service contribute to growth and discipleship, I envision less of a line and more of a positive feedback loop.

And of course, what their data show is not technically that simple churches are healthier, but that they are more popular. It's about growth--attendance and baptisms and membership. And really, if the church really, really faithfully lived out its calling as the church and expected its members to do the same--don't you think there would be far fewer Christians, rather than more?

That's not to say that people are leaving mainline Protestant churches in droves due to our stringent views on discipleship. It's also not to claim that numbers aren't useful, because they do speak to relevance. But there's really no good way to quantify faithful, transformative ministry.

Still, I wonder how the study would change if we picked some different y-variables. What if we looked not at membership and attendance, but at ways churches positively impacted and transformed their communities? What if we looked at how much they made their little corner of the world look more like the Kingdom of God? I don't know what those variables would be, but I wonder if the x-variable would still turn out to be simplicity. Because if not, I want to know what it would be, and that's the way I would want to run my church.

The Kingdom and Awkward Turtle

Today at Rising Hope I was having a pleasant conversation about football over lunch. Yes, it was off season--the woman across the table from me was wearing a Redskins shirt--and no, it didn't involve much actual knowledge of the sport. We were having this conversation when a woman with long brown hair and a slightly vacant expression sat down and introduced herself as K. She opened her Bible on the table and told us she wanted to share some things from Luke.

Oh God, I thought. The woman in the Redskins shirt, who seemed to know K, rolled her eyes at me from across the table. I was careful not to return the look.

K began reading about earthquakes and persecutions. And then she kept reading. And then she kept reading some more. Gradually almost everyone at the table left while I listened politely, feeling a little trapped.

Finally I found a breaking point and said--a little desperately--"K, what does this mean to you?"

She stared at me for a second, surprised, and then said, "I can hear the earthquakes. I can hear the persecutions." I wasn't sure quite how literally she meant that, but wasn't about to ask.

Not really knowing what to say, I ventured, "I think this passage is about how hard it is to follow Christ, and about the challenges we'll face, but how God is with us through that."

K stared at me again and then repeated, "I can hear the earthquakes..."

I waited for her to finish, thanked her for sharing, and then excused myself to go back to the office. "You told her what she wanted to hear," said the woman in the Redskins shirt as I walked past her. I don't know if that's a good or a bad thing.

I've often found myself in that kind of situation at Rising Hope and other places--listening to someone who's mentally unstable or just not quite with it--and not knowing what to say. I really want to know what to say. Or at least how to listen. I want to know how to take people seriously as people without always being able to take what they say seriously. I want to know how to love people without getting stuck in an endless stream of doomsday prophecies. Of course, there probably aren't any right answers, and most people probably don't know what to do any better than I do, but I do wish I knew some way to make those encounters less wrenchingly awkward.

But when I think about it--usually after the fact, but on better days during, too--I remind myself that I'm thankful for those awkward and uncomfortable encounters, too. Partially because it's good experience for me to get used to them and learn different approaches. But mostly because I am honestly thankful that K has a community where she can come and hang out, doomsday prophecies and questionable mental health and all, and I'm glad to be a part of that community.

A few years ago at Trinity I remember thinking something similar, when a probably-homeless woman got up during Joys and Concerns, walked to the front of the church, and began singing a song she appeared to be making up on the spot. Kathy, up front, had an expression that clearly said, "What on earth is going on?" No one knew what to do. We all listened politely. That was awkward enough, so imagine the awkward-turtle moment next week when the exact same thing happened again. And I thought--as uncomfortable as the whole thing was--how glad I was to go to a church where that kind of thing happened, because that woman could come in.

I fear--and laugh at--the thought of things like that happening in my own ministry down the road. But I hope those things do happen. I hope they happen all the time. Otherwise I'll have to wonder why the people who create those moments aren't around. I don't think the Kingdom would be the Kingdom without those painful-at-the-time, funny-in-retrospect, awkward, uncomfortable moments.

Grace with a vengeance

Today I ran. It was the first time in about a month, which is the longest I've gone without running in a while. The not running has been frustrating. And it was slow going today--I got winded at about a mile and half, and when I stopped to walk at two my legs shook ever so slightly. But it didn't matter. It was good to feel my body move in that way again, and even when I got home I kept going around the block, sometimes running and sometimes walking, because I kept thinking of more songs on my iPod I wanted to run to for the first time in so long.

As much as I wish I hadn't been forced to spend most of March losing muscle mass, I'm embracing the fact that there is grace in starting over.

In high school, when it wasn't crew season, I used to come home from school and run five miles every day. (I thought it was six at the time, actually, but Google Maps has since proved me wrong.) In college and the beginning of seminary I gradually fell away from that habit, until I was running maybe three or four miles a few times a week, sometimes less, once in a while throwing in a longer run if I felt particularly inspired or fat.

Then second year of seminary I mysteriously injured my foot, spent a few weeks in a boot that made me look like half an astronaut, and didn't run for the rest of the year. I mean, I tried every once in a while. But I was never able to build up any sort of pain-free consistency. Then that summer I headed off for two months in India, good walking sandals in tow, and never once tried to run. I let myself have the break I needed. When I got back to Atlanta, my foot was better and I was ready to start over--which I did, eventually running two half marathons and a full one before graduation. I'm convinced if I hadn't been forced to start over, I'd still be chugging out three miles twice a week. Instead, I came back with a vengeance. Maybe grace and vengeance don't ordinarily go together, but here they do.

There's grace in starting over. It's New Years resolutions and covenant renewal and baptism. None of those things mean much in the long term without the discipline that comes after, but those moments where something new begins to emerge are significant in themselves. From time to time we just need that swift kick in the ass (OK, I wouldn't describe baptism that way to the Board of Ordained Ministry) that comes after a time of knowing something is missing. I wonder when my next race will be. I wonder what I'll be able to do and how I'll be able to improve this time, and I can't wait to get to work.

High Stakes

This past Friday, in the middle of my travels to a few different churches looking for associate pastors, I spent the night at Kim's. She and her mom were in the process of picking out a dining room table for Kim's new house, and I was (willingly) put to work helping measure spaces, and comparing shapes, prices, and relative levels of ornateness.

At one point in the deliberation, being the practical and thoroughly untrendy person that I am, I put this thought out there: "Whichever table you get, it's going to be fine."

"I know," Kim said, "it's just that it's so much money..."

Which sums up, in a way, my feelings about meeting with people from all these churches. I could end up at any of these places, and it would be fine. More than fine, even. And yet, it all still somehow seems high stakes. There still seems to be so much riding on my decisions of where I want to go and what I want to do and what I'll tell my DS my top choices are.

It would be a bad idea, of course, to blog about any of my thoughts on specific churches at this point. But here are some general thoughts that have been swimming around in my head during and since this interview-ful weekend.

1. Unsurprisingly, there have been one or two churches that I had really high hopes for, and walked away--not disappointed--but maybe less excited than I had anticipated, for whatever reason. And on the other side, of course, there have been a few that I went to more to keep my options open than anything else, and that I walked away from much more excited than I would have thought. The more surprising part is how those realizations are really kind of scary. They mean the future might look a lot different than I had planned. In a way, I'm prepared for a future that I don't plan...which sounds terribly pious of me, but I really just mean that I've agreed that the bishop can put me anywhere she wants. But going for an associate position, I do have some say, and the scary part is not that I might end up somewhere I never wanted or expected, but that there's a possibility of me having some level of control, and actually making choices I never expected to make. I don't know why that's scarier, except that it means actually having to face those choices and what I really want and what my call really is, instead of waiting for someone else to figure it out for me. I don't know how I feel about that.

2. On a related note, some of these interviews have kind of blurred together, and I hardly know how to distinguish what one place can offer me, and vice versa, compared to another. I've spent all this time writing about the beauty and purpose of itineracy with the consequence of actually convincing myself, and now part of me wants to say dear Bishop Kammerer, please just place me somewhere and don't make me decide anything. So many of the best and most transformative experiences of my life have been those where I would have chosen otherwise if I could have.

3. Of course, my decisions won't necessarily mean that much, anyway. The churches I want have to want me, and I'm pretty sure if there are discrepancies, the senior pastors are the ones with dibs. And I'm afraid that even if interviews have gone well, there's nothing that really distinguishes me, and I won't be anyone's first choice. And then what if everyone else is matched up with mutually high choices, and there's nothing left for me?

4. I'm also becoming more and more afraid (maybe contrary to thought #3) that the more I sit at tables talking about what gifts I have to offer a church, that I make a good sell now but will just end up being a huge disappointment, that I'll never be as effective in ministry as I might convince people I will be.

5. But I'm realizing something else, too. The best match for me might not be the church I walk out most excited about as a church, or the one I can "see myself in" the most clearly. In other words, the church I'd choose to be a member of might not be the church I should serve. For one thing, I like small churches, and I'm not going to be serving a small church--I need this experience in a big one. And maybe the church whose passions most match up with mine--whose missions program I adore, for example--isn't the church that needs me or that I need, because maybe there's not as much room for growth on either side. None of the churches or job descriptions have been "perfect matches." I think that's a good thing. To a degree.

All this is to say that I still have no idea what's next, but clearly I'm getting to the obligatory point where I'm obsessing instead of enjoying the sense of God-directed potential. Any of these churches will, I'm sure, be a wonderful place for me to serve and learn and grow in the next few years. But still, it all just seems so high stakes.

Original Sin

Today in Confirmation the plan was to party it up a little and have a nice talk about sin. So last night when I got home from my grand tour of church interviews, I sat down at my computer and tried to adapt Genesis 2-3 to a readable, informal little skit for the kids to do, as a starting point for our discussion.

As I decided which parts to keep and which parts to cut out--so that we could all understand what was going on without having to read two entire chapters out loud and risk losing everybody--I grew a little concerned. I started to remember that maybe I didn't really know what the point of the story was.

What did Adam and Eve do wrong? That's what I wanted to ask my class, but I wasn't sure I had the answer, or any good answers, even. OK, they weren't supposed to eat from this one tree, and they did, and that was a problem. But it seemed like a pretty arbitrary rule. Like God's just making up stuff for no reason. Isn't knowledge of good and evil a good thing? Isn't it what we try to instill in kids as they grow up? Doesn't it help us to make the right choices? You might say that it sets up a dichotomy that wasn't there before. But the tree doesn't create the existence of evil, it only helps us see it. So I was afraid of how this discussion might go. I wasn't quite sure what I was trying to teach using this story, besides that a discussion of sin without the story of the Fall seemed to lack a certain traditional quality.

I didn't wake up this morning with any better idea, but we read the skit together, and I asked, "So what did Adam and Eve do wrong?"

"They disobeyed. They ate from the tree when God said not to," a few of the kids offered.

"Yeah," I said, "and that's bad in itself, but why didn't God want them to eat from the tree? What's wrong with having a knowledge of good and evil?"

"Maybe," said a sixth-grade boy, "because then we can look at other people and call them good or evil."

Bam! I love it! What an insight! Eating the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil makes us judge people. Maybe this knowledge means we can't just accept each other as part of God's good creation anymore. Faults we didn't see before come into view. That might be a good and helpful thing when we're examining our own hearts and lives, but probably not so much when it means we start examining others.

Thinking about the story last night, I probably would have said that the core of the problem was wanting to be like God. That's a pretty standard reading; that's what the serpent offers with the fruit. And this new insight fits right in, I think. We want to be like God, deeming things righteous or not. Deciding for ourselves what (and who) is a blessing or a curse. When really, all God wanted for us was to accept, enjoy, and live the abundant life we're created for--the life that God called good.

So thanks, kids, for reminding me again that I don't need to show up with solid answers, and for giving me an interesting sermon somewhere down the line.

Confirmation, part 2

Two weeks ago I wrote about how I enjoyed teaching confirmation. I mostly enjoyed it today, too, but it also made me want to bang my head on the table a little.

That's not because of the kids. Sure, there was some throwing of donut holes and crawling under the table to tie someone's shoes together. Maybe that said something about how riveting my lesson on the Holy Spirit was or wasn't, but that didn't make me crazy. I'm a substitute teacher, after all.

It has more to do with the realization that we are behind on the class schedule (my schedule!!), need to catch up, barely have enough time to get through things without catching up, and omg it's my responsibility to teach these kids the basis of the Christian faith so they can make an informed decision and I'll never be able to do that by Easter gahhhhhhhhhhh.

Sometimes I need a reminder that it's not all about me. Luckily, God is pretty good about providing those reminders when you need them.

I've been trying to tell myself that, while maybe through this experience of teaching I'll learn things I might do differently in the future, it'll be fine this time too. As one of my favorite poems attributed to Oscar Romero (I think pseudonymously) says, "No statement says all that could be said. No prayer fully expresses our faith....No program accomplishes the church's mission. No set of goals and objectives includes everything....This is what we are about: We plant the seeds that will one day grow." In other words, no class is going to teach these kids all they need to know about the Christian faith. That kind of learning is the project of a whole lifetime. And how much do we need to know to make a decision, anyway? What's the cutoff? It is what it is, and God is famous for working through what is.

I tried to have a discussion of fruits of the spirit with the class. We got sidetracked into talking about what actual fruits the kids did and didn't like, so maybe not the most successful discussion ever. But then in church afterward, one of the scripture readings was from John 15: "I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit." And I found myself hoping something had sunk in and the kids would make a connection. Or maybe something like that will happen five years from now. Seeds that will someday grow.

I also told the kids to pay attention to what happened during communion today, so we could talk about it next week. Turns out two of the girls in the class helped serve communion. And I thought more about how they are being shaped in our common faith in all sorts of ways that don't have to do with me teaching. Not only has the church been doing that for a lot of those kids since they were born, but it will continue doing so after they are confirmed. It will continue shaping them and introducing new ideas about God and helping them experience God in different ways. Even if this class was too short and no one paid as much attention as I wanted, even if decisions to become a willing part of this community called the church were based on nothing (which I'm not saying is the case), there is prevenient grace in that, just like in baptism.

My prayer is that the class will be, as Romero or pseudo-Romero would say, "a beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for the Lord's grace to enter and do the rest." And that remembering that prayer will save me from some headaches.

Hope to Account For

If I had one of those feelings charts with the rows of variously-emoting cartoon faces, today I would circle the face marked hopeful.

It was my first full day subbing since I came down with mono, and it was a good one, and I had enough energy for it. I lined up another church interview, which means opportunities and options are continuing to open up. The snow is finally melted enough that I could walk in my little park down by the creek, where it was chilly but not cold, and where I ran into neighbors with whom I shared the good news of this week. Life is good, and I am full of hope for the future.

With the word "hope" tumbling around in my head as I walked by the creek, I thought of how 1 Peter tells us to "always be ready to give an account of the hope that is within" us (3:15).

Well, I'm ready, Peter. But then I also thought how throughout February, I would not have been so ready. Between death and breakups and heinously gratuitous snowfall and illness and the threat of impending financial ruin that accompanied those last two things, I felt very little hope in February. And if it was there, hidden somewhere, I certainly wasn't putting much effort into accounting for it.

And since, of course, the hope I'm supposed to account for really doesn't have much to do with my own health or relationship status or job prospects or the weather, that kind of makes this newfound March hope seem a little cheap. A little selfish. If I'm honest, today's hope doesn't have much directly to do with resurrection or the advent of God's kingdom or eternal life. It has to do with my luck seemingly turning from bad to good, and my desire for that trend to continue. Although I must say, being happy about the superficial things makes it much easier to feel hopeful about the holy ones. Note to self: must try to cultivate deeper, more stable hope.

Still, I suppose if pressed in February, I would have told you that I did in fact hope for better things to come. That, in addition to the support of family and friends, what got me through was knowing that after February would come March, and the snow would melt, and I would gradually feel better, and I'd start talking to senior pastors about associate appointments. Those are all still the superficial things you can't count on, of course. But at the same time, knowing things will get better sounds a little like resurrection to me.

Lunch at the Special Ed Table

People always talk about how mean children can be to each other. They can. I certainly have vivid memories of the kids who forced me to change bus stops in fifth grade, and I'm sure there have been times when I made other kids' lives unnecessarily difficult too. (Though I don't think on such a continual basis...but it's funny how easy it is to forget that side of things.)

Since I've been subbing I've spent time in a number of different special ed classes, from kindergarten to high school. Working with kids who are "different," often visibly so, you might expect me to have seen my share of this childhood cruelty. But I haven't. Not at all, really.

Today I spent lunch period with an autistic boy named Ricky. He could get his lunch and eat on his own, but needed help with things like opening his ketchup packet. Other special ed students of various abilities trickled in and sat at Ricky's table, to which I assume they were all assigned. I watched a high-functioning boy across the table from me help the slightly less high-functioning boy next to him open his milk, and eagerly ask if there was anything else he could do. The rest of the kids sat and ate lunch and talked like, well, normal kids.

Of course, maybe it's easy to be accepting of difference and diversity when you're in a group set aside and defined by just that. And in a way, what a gift that is--though not a gift that most of us would probably ever register for! But I've also been in mainstream classrooms offering extra support to certain kids with special needs, and for the most part, I've seen the same thing there--their mainstream peers want to help, not to exclude or make fun or even ignore. Kids are great.

I've often compared the Kingdom of God to sitting around the lunch table at the adult day care where I used to work, seeing all the faces of people of such different ages and mental and physical abilities, and realizing that despite or because of it all, we were a family. Sometimes, in the school cafeteria or around the reading rug, I see it again.

Moving Forward

It's official--the Board has recommended me for commissioning this year.

That means the powers that be have affirmed my call to and my gifts for ministry. It means this coming year I'll have a job, a real one. I'll find my own place (to live) and find my niche in a new place (geographically), near or far. It means life has finally started to move forward.

This year, for the most part, has just seemed so static. I'm back home, which there's nothing wrong with, but it's just not what you have in mind for your life when you're 26 and finished with grad school. I've worked at jobs that don't mean much to me, whether I actively hate them (Staples) or just feel like I'm not in any one place long enough to be invested or make any sort of difference (subbing). It hasn't been a bad year. It's just been a year of waiting, of feeling like I should be moving on but can't, of frustration that my gifts and passions are going to waste.

I know that there is grace in there. I know that this year has brought blessings that I never would have had if I'd moved on in the way I wanted and expected to. I wouldn't have worked at Rising Hope, or gotten to see new parts of the world, or been able to spend some time at home with my grandmother before she died, or built up my character considerably during my brief foray into retail. I know that life come July, when I start working in a church, won't always be sunshine and rainbows, and probably sometimes I will feel like nothing's going anywhere and my gifts and passions are going to waste. And I know that life isn't just the big things that happen but all of the frustrating, mundane, static, sacred days as well.

But I hope that this year since graduation will help me remember to give thanks for this coming opportunity to live my life doing something I love and feel called to. Even on the non-rainbow days. For now, I'm excited about moving forward :)

A swirling vortex

I've been sick for the past few days. This makes me mad.

It makes me mad partly, of course, because it means I don't feel good, but it makes me madder because it means I can't work and I can't run. I mean, I'm not going to pretend I hate sitting in a reclining chair drinking tea and watching Gilmore Girls and What I Like About You. But when I started substitute teaching, and many times since, I calculated what I could expect to earn in an average week in, and how I could use that money. Turns out with all the various eschatologically-themed snowstorms recently, I've worked only 2.5 days in February. And then running--around Christmas I was asking advice on how to cut 10 minutes off my half marathon time. Now I'm so behind schedule on training I'm not even sure I'll be able to finish.

It forces us to slow down. I've heard people say that about being sick. I also heard people say that about the snow. And maybe it's true. In general, people in America need to slow down, even if it infuriates us to have to do so. However, I do not consider myself to be one of those people just now. I'm already living life at a crawl these days it seems. So what about when being sick just keeps you slowed down? When it makes life, in the words of Sheldon Cooper, "a swirling vortex of entropy?"

But even so, I suppose I can stand to be reminded that I'm not completely in control once in a while. I'm not completely in control of my income. I'm not in control of my training schedule. I can respond in ways that make the best of both--not spending as much, walking if I don't have a run in me, all that good stuff. And in the meantime, I suppose remembering my own lack of control over my plans is an occasion to trust God for things to be OK despite everything.

...3 Johns, Jude, and Revela-ation..

I taught confirmation today, the first time I've done so on my own. I was a little nervous. Maybe a little less nervous than I would have been six months ago, since these days my livelihood pretty much depends on showing up places, having no idea what's going on, and teaching. (Or maybe, "teaching," depending on the day. But still. I don't have much experience with Christian ed, especially with youth. It seemed like a good idea to correct that now.

Looking over the book and planning yesterday, I actually got kind of into it. I decided, in the interest of Bible-familiarity promotion, they needed to learn a books of the Bible song. Maybe this was partially for me, because I never learned such a song, and I tend to fumble around a lot in the minor prophets :) So I found one on YouTube and listened to it on repeat a bunch of times. Today it played in my head during my run, except only the last part, "First Peter, Second Peter, 3 Johns, Jude, and Revela-ation." So maybe I will regret that, along with promising them a prize if they could show me they had it memorized, prompting one girl to ask if a dog was too big a prize.

Anyway, I really enjoyed the class today. They asked good questions: "Can God do anything? And if so, why doesn't he make everyone believe in him?" And, "Would God be angry if we called him Mother?" And it sort of made me think about how teaching makes you reformulate things, get down to the core of them. Because I could have totally been like, "Well, let me tell you about process theology, or the classic free will response" and they probably would have gone back to eating their donut holes. I mean, I don't want to talk down to them. I want to convey that there is a variety of answers to their questions, all faithful; I want them to think; I want my answers to have integrity, and not just be the ones that are easy to spoon-feed when we're already pressed for time; and I want to give them something, so that I've taken their question seriously. I want to express those answers in ways that are relevant without making them easy.

I'm sure I know many, many people who have struggled with these questions and are able to find good balances in their contexts. I have a ways to go. But that's one reason I'm glad I'm there. And hopefully, answering questions and putting what I (and others) think into new terms will help me clarify my beliefs as well.

"What if I'm wrong?": Some thoughts

Recently the Reconciling Ministries Network group that I'm part of on Facebook posted this blog entry by Joey Heath. In it, he responded to the question, asked in a conversation he was part of, of "what if he's wrong" in his belief that homosexuality is not a sin. Heath, who is a United Methodist seminarian working toward ordination, argues that if he's wrong, it doesn't matter. We're all sinners, and salvation comes from faith, not from one's correct stance on issues.

As anyone who knows me knows, I agree fervently with Heath's starting point--that homosexuality is "part of the beloved creation and not a sin." I agree that this is a very important question to have a cogent response to, because it will be asked, and because it furthers conversation rather than hanging on to a blind insistence that there's no possible WAY we're wrong. And, of course, I agree with his conclusion--we are saved by the grace of God, not our own orthodoxy.

But! I wasn't satisfied with the Methodism of his response. So I want to try to put it in what I feel is a more Methodist framework. Heath writes, "No matter how much we seek out perfection, it will be just beyond our reach, because we have sinned and therefore fall short."

Well, often I'm pretty tempted to agree with that, and I think many denominations would (?). But when I'm (hopefully) commissioned, according the the Discipline, I'll have to answer the question, "Do you expect to be made perfect in love in this life?" And I will have to answer yes. With God's help, of course. So I'm uncomfortable with the statement that perfection will always be just beyond my reach. That may be true, but I'd better believe it's not.

I don't think Joey Heath and I are at odds here, I just think we need to be clear about what perfection means. Christian perfection means for Wesley--as the Discipline says--perfection in love. Christian perfection doesn't mean "an exemption either from ignorance or mistake, or infirmities or temptations" (Sermon 40, I.9). So it follows that I could be "perfect," and still hold fast to an idea or doctrine that turns out in the end to be wrong.

But if I was perfect in love--or even if I was just far, far way and working toward this little by little--I think I would try my best to include the unincluded, however I understood that. I think I would have no choice but to stand up for justice--whatever my sincere but human idea of justice might be. And if I was wrong--if I am wrong--then I have faith that, through the grace of Christ and in the words of Julian of Norwich, "all will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well." And on that, Joey Heath and I agree.

Next year, I'm giving up meat

Things I'm not giving up for Lent this year:

1) Sweets. I've done this a bunch before, prompted by the example of my Catholic aunts when I was a kid. I always expected to weigh 10 pounds less by Easter. It never happened. Instead my chocolate addiction was resurrected (yes, resurrected) with a vengeance each time, making it that much harder for next year.

2) Money. I've tried this before too--not buying anything unnecessary--prompted by a sermon my first year in seminary. I thought that was kind of in the true spirit of Lent, so I did it for two years, then got tired of it. Not too long ago I read A.J. Jacobs's Year of Living Biblically, where he tries to adhere to Scripture as literally as possible, and I remember thinking it would be a good Lenten practice to try to take Luke 6:30, "Give to everyone who begs from you," literally for 6 weeks. I still think that would be good. But turns out I don't have very much money these days, so maybe next year when I am rich. I know--nowhere does it say "Give to everyone who begs from you if you can comfortably afford it." But maybe that's just a good verse to generally keep in mind for now...

3) Meat. Who doesn't eat meat???

4) Facebook. It occurs to me that this would be another excellent option, probably also in the "true spirit" of Lent. I waste vast amounts of time on Facebook. Refreshing the news feed, checking if anyone liked my status, keeping tabs on the relationship status of every guy I've ever had a crush on. This is conducive neither to good stewardship of time nor to good mental health. If I gave up--or even limited--my Facebook access, I would have all sorts of time for things like prayer and meditation and learning Spanish. But then again, when your social life isn't exactly abuzz offline, Facebook does help you feel connected. So it's staying, too.

I'm thinking about these things because last year, when I started this blog as my Lenten discipline and committed to have one theological thought a day and write it down, I kind of ran out of things to talk about toward week three or four. That's crazy! If the goal is to think about my whole life in all its aspects more theologically--to see everything through the lens of faith and not just explicitly churchy things--how do you run out??

I know if I read the Bible more, I would more naturally think of life in terms of what I read. I want that for myself--for Scripture to be so much a part of me that I can't separate it from the things I experience on a day to day basis. I've been trying to be better about that for a while now. But maybe for writing I also need some focus. You know, so I could chronicle my experiences during my Facebook fast, or how I felt when I couldn't just walk past the overly-cheerful men collecting donations outside Giant (that did happen today; I was a little annoyed at how enthusiastically they greeted me, like they were personally excited to see me.) Anyway, I'm going to keep thinking, and maybe inspiration will strike!

Ashes to ashes

Today being Ash Wednesday, I went to church. It was a joint service with a church nearby, it was as sparsely attended as might be expected (not everyone shares my enthusiasm for liturgical solemnity), and it was at 7:30 in the evening.

In high school, when I was first able to drive myself places, I started going to church before school on Ash Wednesday. These days it would take a lot more than repentance to get me up that early, but I liked having the ashes on my forehead all day. They showed people who I was. Specifically, they showed people that I was the kind of person who got up at ungodly hours for godly purposes. They showed people what a religious badass I was. Sort of like all the years I secretly looked forward to Lent because I got to feel hardcore explaining to people why I couldn't eat that delicious looking donut.

In college, my church had a noon service, so I went to that one. It wasn't quite as badass, I suppose, but I still got to walk around campus with a big gray smudge on my forehead for most of the day, so that was good.

I remember one of my friends in high school remarking cynically (as she often did with regard to the church) how every Ash Wednesday, people gathered and listened to Matthew 6, about fasting in secret and not letting anyone know, and promptly went and did the exact opposite by getting smeared up with ashes. And honestly, because even then I knew deep down why I had gotten up so early, I kind of agreed with her. Isn't walking around with a big smudgy cross on your face just a big, meaningless show of piety?

That's why part of me was glad our service was later this year. I got my smudgy cross and went home, watched Modern Family, wrote this, and will proceed to shower off the ashes. The outside world knows nothing of my piety, and my immortal soul is probably better off for it.

But then again, I miss those early morning ashes. Because they do help you remember that there's something different about the day. Today I barely remembered it was anything but Wednesday. I didn't have to be careful pushing my bangs back. No well-meaning stranger said, "Hey, you got a little something..." Today wasn't solemn, and I didn't feel repentant, and except for a semi-treacherous run in the street and several Facebook posts on my newsfeed reminding me that I was returning to dust, I certainly didn't think about my mortality.

And I didn't get to see someone someone else with a smudgy forehead and smile at them, knowing we shared something. I missed that too. Maybe what we share is the religious badassery of getting up early to repent, but maybe, maybe, it's something more as well. Maybe those ashes do show people whose mark we bear, and remind us to act worthy of it. Maybe.

If anyone's reading--thoughts??