Facing this Fearless Generosity Toward Guns

I’ll come to the point quickly:

America, we can no longer afford the right of each individual to have unquestioned access to guns. 

For my part, as a Christian, Presbyterian minister, I feel forced to ask again and again—for the sake of Jesus’ “little ones” (innocent children), and for the sake of our future as a people—“What should people of Christian faith do about these gun deaths that afflict our communities?” 

But shouldn’t all Christians be asking this question?  Especially, Christian gun-owners? 

I am no longer able to be “fearlessly generous” in the face of so many people who appear to care more about the right to bear arms—or what’s being interpreted as any citizen’s right to possess and use a firearm—than they care about children and others dying!  No!!!  All the pictures I see of armed citizens walking into banks, hospitals, and restaurants actually make me FEARFUL!  And inviting more people to “have guns” and “bear arms” in public has not led to saving lives.  I’ve watched as more and more people have died for this “right” or as a result of this right. 

So, now that it’s being widely reported that in 2013 more preschool-aged children were shot dead (a total of 82) than police officers in the line of duty were shot dead (a total of 27), isn’t it abundantly clear that the suffering caused by unquestioned access to guns is completely and totally unbearable for all of us?  Preschoolers AND police officers are being shot dead at alarming rates!  

I know!  We want to spin it the other way, to BELIEVE—SOMEHOW—that guns don’t kill people, that it’s really people who kill people.  But it’s just not true. 

Until today, I might have been tempted to believe that my ministry hasn’t been tinged by “gun violence.”  But here’s my story. 

My first call to ministry was to a congregation in a small town in the middle of Nebraska.  Compared to Richmond, Virginia where I had lived during my seminary education, during the time when Richmond was on the top ten list for gun-related murders in the country, the rural, “middle-of-the-country community” seemed blissfully safe.  Still, the day came when one of the faithful members of the congregation called with a spiritual need, telling me that her teen-aged granddaughter, who lived in Phoenix, Arizona, had been shot to death. 

The news rocked our small town, forcing us to remember that sin is indiscriminate.  Things like this weren’t supposed to happen! 

She was a good kid.  She lived in a suburban neighborhood.  Her parents had a curfew.  She was an “A” student.  She had good friends.  On the night she was killed, her parents had noticed that she was in the back yard talking on the phone with a friend; they’d even hollered out to her that it was getting close to bedtime, and she’d acknowledged.  When she didn’t come in, they found her slumped, with a head wound.  No one had heard a gunshot, yet there she lay in the emergency room shot to death.  Her friend on the phone would say later that a “crash” had ended their conversation. 

The autopsy revealed a bullet had entered her head from above, and judging from the angle of entry, had traveled more or less straight down, leaving the presumption it had been a gun fired into the air and not aimed intentionally.  It was an accident, or perhaps not at all on purpose, but leaving no way of knowing where the bullet had come from, how it was fired, or who fired it.  This tragedy led to a change in Arizona’s gun laws, so that firing a gun into the air, today, is a crime. 

Nearly twenty years ago, this didn’t seem like “gun violence;” but today, I have a different answer.  Yes.  Not only does the aftermath of every gun-death, intentional or accidental, share devastation; all gun deaths share one thing in common—a gun. 

Our problem is that every gun is equal in its uncaring-ness.  An 8 year old child can shoot a 10 year old neighbor “in fun;” or a teenager can unlock the gun cabinet and the ammunition and use the gun to kill himself.  A toddler may discover a gun in mom’s purse and be an accidental but active shooter of a woman in Wal-Mart; or a person in a fit of anger and hurt can get the gun kept in the nightstand for “self-defense” and shoot a spouse in order to end an argument.  Increasingly, very well-meaning armed citizens or even highly trained police officers can’t clearly identify the bad people with so many guns about; nor can they prevent bullets from passing through a wall or a body to cause collateral damage, just like bullets fired into the air don’t always fall harmlessly. 

No.  It is ever, increasingly more clear, that guns kill people.  Guns concealed or carried, guns locked in lock-boxes or left in nightstand drawers.  There are so many guns, in fact, that it’s statistically only a matter of time.  We no longer live in a world where it’s necessary for our children to endure lock-down drills, and hiding exercises, preparing for the day when a person, armed with a gun comes into school shooting in hallways and classrooms.  We live in a world, right now, where statistically, we must seriously consider counting the days to when our children—OUR OWN CHILDREN—will be the victims. 

You don’t want to believe it?  I know.  I don’t either. 

But as I’m writing this post, fresh news stories reveal a gunman caused a lock down at Philadelphia Community College--just a day after bomb threats disrupted college classes in and around Philadelphia.  Thankfully the reported gunman turned out to be only two men arguing.  The Police Commissioner said eventually, “The two men have a history.  He said they know each other, there was an argument, and one of them allegedly produced a gun.” 

Can we at least agree, it’s a totally different scenario minus the gun? 

 

School drills with bulletproof disaster gear for sale

We live in a world where accidents happen.  Guns kill people, even when people don’t want to kill people.  And increasingly people are CHOOSING to live in this world.  Without remorse!  People have become convinced in large and small ways “this is now how our life has to be” and for many reasons.  We justify the necessity of “deadly force” and “killing,” rather than decrying it.  We fear what might happen to us if we didn’t have these “protections” even as they kill our children.   

This, however, is NOT a CHRISTIAN view. 

The Pope, in his recent visit to our country, didn’t mince words.  He said, “If you’re a gun manufacturer, you’re not a Christian.”  If this is true, what does it say about gun owners? 

As one of my spiritual heroes says, “God does not kill.” 

I believe Jesus teaches there are options, but that killing isn’t one of them.  Ever. 

So, for the followers of Jesus, who are in fact called to “sell our possessions, …then come and follow Jesus,” isn’t the need for guns understandably way more qualified than any “right” the Constitution of the United States may wish to guarantee in one form or another?  In fact, in my view, following Jesus simply doesn’t square very easily or at all with using or even owning a gun.  There are always other, better options. 

To be sure, these better options begin with solving problems long before we get to the point of involving weapons of deadly force.  And any solution to “gun violence” and “gun-deaths” necessarily involves solving other social problems and ills!  There is no “quick fix” or painless inoculation to be had. 

We have to start somewhere.  And I’ll start by calling out Christians. 

So for me, a Christian, Presbyterian minister, I’ll be praying for Christians, in particular, for Christian gun-owners, that they begin to see the light of Jesus Christ.  I’m fearful that my generosity in allowing more and more guns will mean more and more and more deaths.  So I am placing my generosity in fearlessly praying that those with guns will come quickly to see that they are no longer needed, required, or desired.  That Jesus gifts us with other options to resolve our differences and needs. 

I already know.  This prescription tastes like the doctor’s advice to a patient with high blood pressure who needs to give up table salt.  We may not like it, but for the sake of survival we have to figure out how to do it.  But unlike the patient with high blood pressure, it’s not just our own lives, it’s the lives of our children—that rely on our “beating our swords into plowshares.” 

If Christians will start, others will follow.  Christians need this kind of fearless generosity toward life in the face of those who would be fearlessly generous with guns. 

Let's Kiss Some Babies!

I live outside of Philadelphia, about 7 miles from this past weekend’s Pope-A-Rama that turned the city of Philadelphia like an upset apple cart with the visit of Pope Francis.  At one point on Sunday morning, the television commentators—who were covering every single movement of the pontiff live on television—indicated that they had counted 12 babies that the Pope had kissed since touching down in Philadelphia.  The number went on to soar well beyond that, and as it’s only Monday, I’ve yet to see an official count of Pope kisses.  Two words.  A. Lot. 

Anyone watching the coverage, either locally or nationally, surely saw what is plain.  This Pope has great curb appeal.  People lined up on curbs all over, just for a glimpse or glimmer of the Bishop of Rome—and they dangled children for his Holiness to kiss.  And obviously, as is often the case with Popes, the young and old, the maimed and lame, were strategically placed along the traveled pathways, where they too might be offered their own special encounter with the one who represents Christ. 

It’s never a P.R. stunt.  But it is. 

The one who represents Christ…, that’s supposed to be not just His Holiness, the Pope.  That’s supposed to be a lot more of us! 

Often over the last week, I was reminded either in the coverage or on someone’s Facebook feed that this behavior—of paying particular or special attention to the least, the lost, the poor, the underprivileged, the hurting, the sick, the suffering—is what Jesus did.  Over and over, as so many remarked at the Pope’s courage or his strong words, or even blamed him for the resignation of the Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives—the Bishop of Bishop’s influence was attributed to his determination to model Jesus for the world at all costs! 

And the crowds loved Pope Francis for it. 

But do they love Jesus for it? 

In the United States, politicians get the reputation for “kissing babies.”  It is a campaign stunt.  And people everywhere see right through it.  Maybe, that’s why when I suggest that those of us in protestant church traditions, and especially Presbyterians, would do well to start kissing some babies, that idea will get frowned on. 

But kissing babies is powerful. 

Not because it’s a P.R. stunt—but because it looks like Jesus. 

Kissing babies is just the beginning.  The problem is, of course, it forces us to love and accept, include and adore, people and ideas that aren’t always “popular.”  The Pope can get away with kissing dangled infants in a parade, or even hugging inmates in prison—he’s the Pontiff.  But when our churches accept poor families at the pot-luck dinner, or welcome drug addicts to the alcoholics anonymous meetings, we’re somehow conscripted by many as “enabling bad behavior” or “letting those people have something for nothing.” 

So these days, as many of our churches face struggles of diminished worship attendance and declining financial giving, we might reflect on what it is to represent Christ.  Our diminishment and declination has happened, at least in part, because we have not done well to replace the current ranks of members with new members.  We haven’t found new members who were interested in pursuing the old goals and strategies devised and carried out by our older members; and our unwillingness to change and adapt to the mission ideals of newer members has left us short-handed. 

I think Jesus faced these same challenges.  He had a loyal opposition known as the scribes and Pharisees—entrenched religious leaders who believed they had it right!  Sound familiar? 

But Jesus continually and consistently managed to step outside the box those leaders invited him to operate within.  Jesus could have climbed those ranks, he too could have been one of “those members” and would have been more and a different kind of popular.  He didn’t. 

The same kinds of themes are being observed when it comes to Pope Francis.  Refusing to bow to the loyal opposition.  Continuing to look outside the box.  Continuing to welcome strangers, sinners, the least, the lost.  Oh, and he’s almost universally popular because he kisses babies, the disabled, the afflicted, and bad characters! 

When was the last time we did things like that?  Because we represent Christ? 

Last week, I read yet another article aimed at suggesting to Presbyterian congregations how we might get outside the “box” we’ve created for ourselves by not recruiting and establishing new church members.  The suggestions were practical and worship-based.  “Don’t preach the lectionary, instead, use a sermon series.” 

I’m all for new ideas.  But I’ve studied church history and liturgical tradition and the lectionary.  I think the lectionary is simply “the original sermon series.”  But more than that, if we follow it—and more importantly, by it, follow Jesus—we might do better by getting out there and kissing a few babies!  And not metaphorically!  Maybe not just babies, either, but finding ways to welcome the least, the lost, the stranger, the one in need, the ones without hope, the ones who’ve given up—and offering them another chance to be enchanted by the one who calls us to live differently. 

At all costs. 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch, Havertown, Pennsylvania

Seminaries and Churches Together--A Sermon for Theological Education Sunday

Let us pray.  

--+        Our delight is in your law, O Lord, and on your teachings we meditate day and night.  Gathered by Christ as his disciples, may we draw ever closer to your Word.  May it hold us together as we welcome all your children into your presence; may it inspire us to welcome your presence in our own hearts and minds.  AMEN. 

“Seminaries and Churches Together”

--}        Brothers and Sisters, for most of my 20 years in ordained ministry as a Teaching Elder in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.), I have been an advocate for theological education working with the seminary support network to help fund our denomination’s Theological Education Fund. 

The Theological Education Fund was established shortly after the reunion of the Northern and Southern expressions of Presbyterianism in 1984; and the dream at the time of its inception was to provide a sturdy, denomination-wide funding stream that would substantially support and undergird the ministry of our Presbyterian Seminaries.  We have 10 Seminaries that belong outright to our denomination and us, and two additional seminaries related by covenant agreement.  These institutions provide for education and nurture for church leaders, particularly those in ordained ministry—both teaching and ruling elders—but especially inquirers and candidates seeking ordination as teaching elders, for which a seminary degree is required. 

For 2014, the Theological Education Fund received gifts totaling just over 1 million dollars from congregations and individuals across the denomination.  Just a decade ago, the Theological Education Fund accounted for nearly 3 million dollars annually.  And when you consider that those funds are divided among 11 schools that receive financial support—that 1 million dollars doesn’t go far enough to support the substantial service our seminaries are tasked provide.  Consider further that each of those schools, must raise several million dollars annually just to meet the budget—what we’re providing as a denomination is woefully inadequate for the needs which we have. 

Today, the cost of providing 1 year of theological education is more than $60,000 per student. 

And while tuition grants cover most of the tuition costs for PRESBYTERIAN students at our seminaries, the overall costs still leave seminary graduates with a substantial debt load, that even younger students will have a hard time repaying over their lifetime at today’s median salary in the PCUSA—not even considering those who receive salaries on the lower end of the scale or who come as older students! 

But my task today was not to shame you for not having given more money to TEF.  Our congregation faces its own serious financial difficulties and we haven’t had money to put toward causes like the TEF in recent years.  The financial situations at our seminaries are not as dire as our own, thanks to substantial endowment programs that buoy the balance sheets.  However, that cannot be a reason that we simply allow theological education to languish on its own. 

It’s not just about service to students, but serving the needs of the whole church! 

Remember, Jesus prescribes “theological education” for believers and followers in today’s gospel lesson.  It’s the kind of education that requires skills at recognizing the needs of others.  And, apparently, it requires skills that aren’t natural—in fact, they’re skills that very much go against the kind of education the “world” offers us. 

Martha Moore-Keish, a seminary classmate of mine, notes Joyce Ann Mercer’s Welcoming Children: A Practical Theology of Childhood in a Feasting on the Word commentary about today’s passage the importance of recognizing the value of children.  Jesus doesn’t offer up the child as a cute example, but a purposeful reminder for believers: 

" The 'gift of children' is thus not only about the delight and wonder that children embody, but also about the way that children draw Jesus’ followers into resisting all imperial powers of our time, struggling against all that opposes the 'kin-dom of God'."

See, the presence of the child in the story compels Jesus’ believers and followers into ministry to the “least” the “lost,” and the “forgotten.”  THIS—is theological education.  Preparation for ministry—as Christians, but also for Teaching and Ruling Elders—requires a different way of seeing the world!  Our seminaries are tasked with opening this new world where God’s love and vision for all of creation can be revealed.  It’s not a matter of simply “learning what the Bible says,” as if it’s just reading the words and applying a plain meaning.  It’s a matter of learning a craft, understanding the task of God’s claim on our lives, and living new lives! 

This isn’t just a task for preachers—for learning Greek and Hebrew and memorizing all of the books of the Bible—it’s a process and a practice of sharing with the church at large the call and claim of God in the world. 

Theological Education is the starting point for every ministry!  It’s the place at which we discern a calling and seek to follow God.  It’s also the resources we need to “be the Church” in the world.  It’s about leadership AND exploration.  It’s about having research centers where the latest studies and information can be deciphered as well as addressing needed, real-world questions. 

For example, the Bible offers absolutely no guidance about the use of fossil fuels or nuclear weapons—directly.  And while policy decisions about sex trafficking or homelessness or pornography and the dangers of the internet and cable television seem self-explanatory in light of the 10 Commandments—they’re not.  How we understand WHO we are as well as WHOSE we are is in part, related to our “theological education.” 

The theological education Jesus prescribes for believers and followers is one where we learn to recognize the people we are not inclined to recognize.  THEY are VITAL to our seeing and knowing the Kingdom of God!  Without them, we have little hope of accomplishing what God has called to us accomplish. 

The theological education Jesus prescribes is putting a child in the midst of the adults, to put a child in the midst of those who think they know—as an invitation to welcome the child. 

So this morning, I want to do no less than Jesus for you; except the child that I would put in your midst is theological education in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) and the work and support of our 10 + 2 Presbyterian Seminaries. 

My job is to invite you to share from your hearts—AND from your checking accounts.  Because while our congregation doesn’t currently have money to support this ministry, it doesn’t mean that you as individuals can’t make your own contributions to this work of God’s mission on earth.  And in your bulletin is information about the theological education fund and how you can contribute online or by writing a check and sending it to the Presbyterian Foundation.  Or, you can write a check to our congregation and mark it for the THEOLOGICAL EDUCATION FUND. 

And please, don’t think that a gift to TEF should be more valuable than your other giving.  Don’t make this gift instead of your pledged giving to our congregation, or instead of gifts you promised or intend to give to other causes that are important to you or our congregation.  Accept this “child in your midst” as a challenge to increase your giving and to give more.  Use it as an opportunity to push past your usual and customary giving, having been invited into the realities of God’s kingdom on earth.  And know that this additional, special giving, is part of the way God has invited you to respond to the small one amongst you. 

THIS is about Seminaries and Church together.  The Theological Education Fund is like “paying it forward” because some day, this congregation will require a new pastoral leader.  It just makes sense to replenish the ranks.  By funding the work of seminaries now, there is something to rely on later. 

But even now, with a pastoral leader in place, the work of our seminaries provides valued and needed resources toward meeting the needs of God’s mission in the world.  Resources to train congregational leaders, provide direction, and valued input.  As we turn to face the crisis of racism, theological education offers a wealth of knowledge and input.  As we seek to become a resource to our community in Havertown, theological education can help us speak “God” to the people around us. 

So, I’m putting the child before you. 

Won’t you join me in making a difference?  In welcoming him to the fold of the faithful; or, by remembering that SHE is the key to the Kingdom of God—for us.  And, for so many others. 

Will you pray with me? 

--+  Help us, O God, by the power of your Spirit, to listen attentively to your living Word, to speak boldly of your saving love, and to live faithfully in your holy way; we pray in Jesus’ name. AMEN. 

Worship Celebrating the 17^th Sunday after Pentecost; September 20, 2015

THEOLOGICAL EDUCATION / PRESBYTERIAN SEMINARIES SUNDAY

The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch; Havertown, PA 

Texts:   |  Mark 9: 30-37 * 

Tipping Point

I had one of those moments today that I don’t often have. 

I had heard there was a breathtaking picture floating around social media of a three-year-old who washed up dead on a beach.  I read comments by people who didn’t want to see the photo because they had children.  I saw other comments by people who didn’t want to come face to face with the bold reality that this small, wee, one, this vulnerable child, could in fact be their child.  I saw other comments that said plainly, “it looked like my child.”  These were all bold, daring people who don’t run easily from a fight—or a picture. 

I knew what was coming. 

I would have had to look myself, to find it, except I was in a phone conversation and just happened to glance over to the Facebook feed to see that the person I was talking to on the phone had also just posted the story. 

I knew to wait until I was off the phone. 

By then, there were other postings. 

I knew what would happen when I saw. 

And there was that feeling in the pit of my stomach—not the feeling I’d been having because I skipped lunch. 

I was listening to the NPR news story.  I heard Mr. Broucheart talk about being moved by the shoes.  They were ordinary children’s shoes in the photo I was looking at with the soldier carrying the limp body.  There was nothing strange or odd about the shoes. 

And then I saw the image of the boy lying face-down on the beach, no soldier around, just the boy.  And his shoes. 

I wept first. 

Then I groaned. 

But I don’t think it was because I put those kind of shoes on my own two boys when they were that age, or my daughter who just graduated from those kind of shoes this last year.  These weren’t the shoes of my children and I wasn’t reminded of my own children so much.  I had by then come to grips with the reality that this child, his mother and his brother—and his father who survived—were all fleeing from Syria.  From the war in Syria.  From the war in Syria that in part is shaped by the foreign policy (or lack of policies) by my own country.  From the war in Syria that affects thousands of lives across a whole region of the world, now.  Countless children affected, lost, killed, lives destroyed by far more violent means than drowning at sea! 

I was also being reminded that these waters were dangerous waters from biblical times.  That the Apostle Paul for one was shipwrecked in this same region, and himself—the stories tell us—made many a perilous crossing to deliver the good news of the gospel or riding in chains.  There was, after all, perhaps not anything new about this story in more than 2,000 years.  It just keeps happening.  It’s just that it’s far, far away from my day to day life—and I don’t hear about it, every day. 

The picture forced an emotional reaction in me, but I was not sad.  I’m angry.  Because this, too, is the face of gun violence, of violence and fear.  This is what happens when human beings are too afraid, or we’re hell-bent to have our own way at the expense of others.  And I see it all the time in my every day life right here in suburban America and it is only by the grace of God—no, perhaps only by dumb statistical luck—no, I want to say something about God makes this better for me, but I’m afraid it doesn’t because I know for certain God doesn’t love me or my children more or less than God loved this child washed up on the shore, or some other father’s child in Syria or inner-city Philadelphia.  And that’s the rub.  This isn’t a story about God or the lack or loss of God.  It’s a story about human beings who don’t walk enough with God.  Myself included. 

This is what I put on Facebook: 

The photo breaks my heart. But I'm not offended by a photo. I'm angry. I'm angry that even now, we as Christian people will be most likely to pray about it, but do nothing more. Myself included. Come, Lord Jesus, and convict us that we are wholly unable to live this way. But that we must put ourselves and drag others kicking and screaming if necessary, under the call and claim of your Kingdom. May we be forced to look at the world we have been complicit in creating. May we confess our poor choices. May we look to the promise that we can now write another ending so that others don't have to be victims.

Today, this is what this picture did to me. 

I’m willing to say: “I hate guns.”  There are reasons I have to live with them.  But I hate them. 

This tragic story began because of armed, human conflict.  This family simply wanted to escape.  We all want to escape. 

The shoes didn’t bother me. 

I’d rather not spare you the horrific image.  Perhaps there are reasons we don’t pass the photos from Sandy Hook Elementary or Columbine.  We should look in wonder …and come to grips with our human complicity.  Ask ourselves why we allow it to happen again and again and again.  Myself included.  Perhaps, that should be said of a great many things of which we keep ourselves neatly separated from.  It’s why we can live with all the violence and killing that we do. 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch, Havertown, Pennsylvania

What We Make For Ourselves

My family and I were driving back to our home in Pennsylvania having spent a two-week excursion through the south and the plains.  We had plans to meet some family for dinner in St. Louis when we got a troubling phone call from our family who live in the St. Louis area, telling us that violence had broken out in Fergusson and St. Louis following the 1 year anniversary of #MichaelBrown and #blacklivesmatter.  Not wanting to be mixed up in the violence that had been relayed as “gang violence” (and not necessarily related to the protests), we made alternate plans for dinner that would not take us downtown, and chose to drive around St. Louis, being sure to avoid Fergusson.  

I am actually frustrated and angry that my privilege and status afford me choices others cannot make.  I admit I have many opportunities to escape harm that others do not and cannot have, in part because people like me aren't willing to be vulnerable enough to give up our own safekeeping even in the face of trying to keep others safe.  And while I grieve the suffering, loss of  life, and hurting people must endure, I'm all the while grateful for my not having to bother.  This needs to change, not just for me, but for lots of us.  

But just a week earlier, when my family and I visited the Panhandle Plains Museum in Canyon, Texas, we encountered this banner and the quote from Ten Bears in the Museum’s lobby. 

It seems, we’ve been this way before. 

Sometimes called the “Smithsonian of the Plains,” the Panhandle Plains Museum did an excellent job of inviting reflection about the anthropology, sociology, religious beliefs, and the history of the Panhandle Plains.  It mapped out lifestyles and trading routes, revealed the harsh realities and joys of life for a number of different peoples over time. 

As a “white man,” It was particularly difficult coming face to face with history that recounted how “whites” not only destroyed natural resources—like the plains’ buffalo—but took for their own by means of violence, displacing native peoples violently.  Of course, it was all in the name of “getting rich,” and “keeping safe.”  As a last resort, it seems, native peoples fought back, having witnessed “white man” destroying resources and habitat—changing the landscape forever and making it no longer habitable. 

Then, with the natives gone, another group of immigrants moved in to continue “getting rich.”  Ranching and farming replaced native migrations and roaming.  The Texas oil rush added another chapter of “get rich” opportunities.  And today’s fracking adventures seem to me to just be the latest development. 

But, there are astonishing other “signs.”  All is not as it seems.  A drive through this landscape reveals unrivaled natural beauty, but alongside mostly forgotten towns with abandoned, unused buildings—standing as used hulks that if piled up, would look a lot like the piles of buffalo carcasses from back in the day.  No doubt.  The “White Man” has laid waste and decimated.  And it’s heartbreaking. 

But traveling north from Texas to Kansas, I was completely surprised to note the substantial shifts in peoples.  In the middle of “red state America” the number of small businesses and stores with Hispanic or Asian names and services is eye-opening.  It’s easy to notice how realities are shifting again. 

So, what is our inheritance?  Is it destined to be Greed?  Violence?  Suffering?  Death of every kind? 

But before we left Texas, we visited the Alibates Flint Quarries National Monument, and discovered that the real historical evidence in the Panhandle Plains of the now United States began some 12,000 or even 15,000 years ago.  There’s plenty of evidence of tool-making and hunting activities involving now vanished prehistoric animals.  We learned about prehistoric stone knapping and tool-making; and, despite our U.S. History classes, learned that “native Americans” inhabited the plains thousands of years before what we now think of as “Native Americans.” 

The archeological evidence demonstrates that trade routes and trading happened at a distance of at least a thousand miles from the quarries, in what would appear to be more peace-filled times.  This is a surprising comparison to say, “Biblical history” that seems violence prone and nowhere seems to stretch as far back. 

I wish we could have inherited a history of relationships, trade, and respect rather than making for ourselves a world of exploitation and destruction. 

We can’t change history.  But we can change our future. 

I’ve been reminded that I am a privileged “white man” in today’s world, blessed both with opportunities to exploit and preserve; and I recognize that my privilege came at great cost to others who suffered violence and loss and exploitation to my benefit.  But I’m committed to a future of relationships, respect, and non-retributive justice.  I want to move from responding to acts of violence and exploitation to helping my community and my congregation build a space where mutual respect and love trump greed and power.  

It gives me hope that long before our more recent troubles, human beings enjoyed a least some times of peaceful existence with trade and cooperation being key parts.  It gives me hope and courage that our Lord Jesus pointed us continuously in the direction of peace, love, helping, and healing. What ways can we share that peace and love with those around it who seem so clearly absent from it?  It’s probably not just an invitation to show up on Sunday mornings and worship with us! 

People of Jesus, we have work to do.  We can do this.  The world not only can change, it does change.  But we can help it change for the better. 

Imagine that the Church you love is dying.

[Jan Edmiston, an associate presbyter for Chicago Presbytery, has been writing about “closing churches” in her blog.  And while it’s been good food for thought, it’s stirred up some other feelings for me.  Here’s an unsolicited response, not meant to be critical of her work, but in conversation—that in writing, helped me work through some angst—not about Jan or her work, but about where we find ourselves in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.).] 

Jan Edmiston, a gifted Presbytery staff-person whose work I respect, wrote in her blogpost of July 8^th, 2015, that we should “Imagine that the Church [we] love is dying.” 

(You should check out Jan’s blog and the rest of her post here: https://achurchforstarvingartists.wordpress.com/2015/07/08/the-difficult-truth-about-creating-the-future-church/). 

Respectfully, I can’t. 

The Church belongs to God.  God is a God of life.  For me, the death of a/the Church is a non-starter. 

But I also know well what Jan and other church leaders want to get at.  Both we as individuals and the congregations and councils we’re a part of, need to “be the Church”—the real Church of Jesus Christ.  We can’t simply cling to our old buildings and the ways that have met us where we are comfortable and wait to be relieved, if we want to serve Jesus Christ!  To serve Jesus we must be Jesus—emulating his work and witness. 

Churches aren’t dying.  They’re struggling to look like Jesus. 

We all know this.  And it’s still hard. 

I’ve been grieving about my beloved Church for a while now.  It’s very much like she’s dying.  But I’ve experienced the illness not just in places we can identify and agree “where churches need to close”—it’s more like an illness that afflicts us from top to bottom, and bottom to top, left to right and all around.  It’s surely related to sinfulness, real and present and unavoidable when you get human beings involved.  It was that way for Jesus, too.  You do remember the stories? 

I’ve spent a quarter-century in leadership in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) serving congregations and at each level of the church’s councils.  I’ve witnessed the adoption of one downsizing and consolidation plan after another as we’ve practiced to perfection “circle the wagons,” responding to decline in members, money, and ministry.  We’ve chosen re-allocating dollars and shifting position descriptions to meet new realities rather than re-envisioning and reconnecting in response to God’s continuing and ongoing call to us.  In response to our fears, we’ve done our very best to preserve the status quo, trying to make the decline as less-painful as possible.  So now, there’s little downsizing and shifting work left to be done; and each adjustment really hurts. 

It’s true.  The Church needs some kind of transfusion.  And in her blog piece, Jan sees one kind of hopeful possibility where the generosity of Jesus looks absent:

“We have churches that need to close. They no longer serve anyone but themselves, and even that service is barely satisfying much less life-changing. They exist for themselves. They vie for personal power. (“I’m in charge of the kitchen fund and you can’t have any money for new spoons unless you come through me.”).” 

And she’s right about everything past the word, “close.” 

Here’s my struggle with closing.  All of the congregations and councils I’ve ever served or heard about, in some way, at one time or another (but not always or in all ways), fit this description.  And somehow, when we talk about closing churches we don’t’ talk out loud about ALL the congregations that fit Jan’s criteria, where “service is barely satisfying much less life-changing; where they exist for themselves; where they vie for personal power—oh, and by the way many have plenty of members and money to keep going for decades!  Instead, we talk as if we’re working from a list of churches where the “data” empirically dictates they are “no longer viable” because membership is too small, the corporation is financially caput, and the building is located in a non-vital place. 

Have we really forgotten what Jesus and his disciples looked like? 

True.  It’d be real nice if we could eliminate the drag of those “less fortunate” churches unable to sustain themselves and be able to use their unexhausted resources in other places.  But it just sounds too much like the disciples with Jesus in the deserted place: “These people need something to eat and we can’t help them.  Can you send them away?” 

I recognize the practicality—there may be way too many congregations with less than 12 adherents on our Church’s roster; but the proposals for moving them on sound a lot like that scene from Monty Python’s Holy Grail, where the cart to collect the dead plague victims is wheeled by with an invitation to “bring out the dead; ” only then, a man appears to “pass off” a relative “who’s not dead yet;” then the argument ensues about not being able to accept people are “aren’t dead yet;” then the official whacks the clearly “not dead yet” man in the head so he’s more passably dead. 

I feel whacked. 

Simply shifting the money from churches that “need to close” to churches that deserve to remain open is nothing more than a shell game.  Because we’re talking about the Church of Jesus Christ that can look alive or not-so-much in all kinds of forms! 

From where I sit, while closing churches helps us more realistically “balance the books,” the real need is for all of us individually and corporately to participate in the transformed life demonstrated, offered, and inaugurated by Jesus Christ!  Because the same kind of transformation that leads some of us into brave new things is the transformation that’s needed for congregations to joyfully participate in sharing everything that’s available to them for the promotion of the Kingdom of God!  Then, it’s not a demand to get out of the way, it’s a gift.  Jesus is God’s gift.  God is always giving.  God gives life, even where we can only see death—for example. 

The work that we have to do, individually and collectively, is “Jesus”—it’s both the “new to us” and the old answer! 

The true church, in all its forms, looks like Jesus.  Both uncomfortably poor and extraordinarily generous. 

But, “We have churches that need to close,” sounds a lot like “get off my lawn.” (And I don’t think Jan is saying that, at all!)

I wish the conversation was a lot more focused on living and looking like Jesus.  I wish we asked ourselves at every level, “Are we looking like Jesus?”  And if the answer is “no,” or “not as much as we could,” then, if we want to try to live and look like Jesus, this helps offer a corrective course.  For me, this is a much more productive way of discerning together what God is calling us to be and become. 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch, Havertown, Pennsylvania

“Errar es nuestro regalo mas divino”

I still remember the time my grandfather had wanted me to learn how to change the oil in the family car (one of his values was learning to do-it-yourself and save a few bucks).  He’d put the first of his three vehicles in the garage, had out all the tools, and said I should start by taking out the bolt on the bottom of the oil pan. 

And let’s be clear, I HAD NOT been the one who thought this whole “learning to change the oil thing” was a good idea.  Working with tools and cars—or both—was never my idea of a good time; nor did I ever think it was one of my gifts.  No matter, as this was one of those things “I should learn” and then if I wanted, I could do it myself, right? 

Can you tell I would have much rather been fishing? 

Oh, I got the bolt out of the oil pan, just at the moment my grandfather realized he’d forgotten the container to catch the used oil! 

So not 10 minutes into this helpful life-lesson it wasn’t going well!  And now, Grandpa was asking me—the novice—how we might clean up the oil soaking into the floor of his garage!  What I wanted to say was, “I told you this wasn’t the best of ideas.” 

To his credit, Grandpa liked solving problems; so, for the rest of the day WE “puzzled” over the possible solutions to the problem my grandfather’s lesson had created.  To my detriment, I thought I had better things to do with my summer vacation. 

But what I remember from that two weeks of summer vacation at my grandparents’ house was my grandfather’s sage advice: “If you don’t make mistakes, you can’t learn anything!” 

Not long ago, this picture and subtitle hit my Facebook feed: 

Errar es nuestro regalo mas divino."--"To make mistakes is our most divine gift."

A dog, making a leap, but appearing not quite on target—and we are so certain, aren’t we, that the tire must be the correct, most efficacious, clearly successful path? 

Even as we cannot see what is just outside the frame—another tire, another target, another instruction?  How do we know this is, in fact, a mistake—an error?  Or maybe these are the questions to ask as if to make it seem this is not a mistake—because we’re fearful that mistakes are bad! 

We are fearful that mistakes are bad.  We trust the old Biblical proverb that appears in various forms, paraphrased as—“do good and you shall live, do badly and you shall perish.” 

Walter Brueggemann, identifies this as our propensity to trust a “deeds-consequences” construct that [ultimately] produces a graceless world[i].  He argues that “You reap what you sow” is the construct that frightens people into a “moral life” where wrong living evokes long-term punishment that is inescapable.  So we trust that we get what we deserve, or that people should receive what we deem they deserve for their actions—ignoring the story of faith where God promises none of us are treated as we deserve! 

While we believe God pardons, forgives, and redeems, still—we are stingy about our willingness to allow God to help us! 

Christian faithfulness must trust somewhere along the way that it isn’t just about maintaining perfection according to the Law, doesn’t it?  Christian faithfulness also means entrusting God—who loves, pardons, forgives, and redeems us—and our mistakes, too—doesn’t it? 

So my grandfather’s lesson keeps coming back to me, over and over.  I’m being encouraged (more and more frequently) to “experiment” as a part of my role as teaching elder/pastor.  Experimentation is a hard task-mistress for us Presbyterians; our particular form of government was created with checks and balances and carefully prescribed structures meant to commend each little jot and tittle of church life.  Presbyterians, who prefer “decently and in order,” have too often created a barren wasteland for experimentation.  We believe we’ve not only done it before, but we’ve done it well—with great success, even!  No need to try it another way—to trust God to redeem, reclaim, recreate, with us. 

Yet not long ago, I wrote down for the second or third time as a participant in a presentation about leading “change” in the life of the Church—“It’s like seeking answers to the questions you don’t even know how to ask yet.”  And I was mesmerized once more by the promise of trying and failing well—by learning.  More and more, colleagues and congregations are sharing news of a new motto in their practices as leaders and congregations: “fail miserably—and learn from it!”  Perhaps it’s a lot like “sin boldly” was for Martin Luther. 

Perhaps this should be more familiar to us than we think, since we espouse to be a church called to be “reformed and always reforming.”  How can we demonstrate our trust in God’s willingness to write our story inclusive of mistakes?  How can we accept failure and mistakes as a verdant way forward?  A sustaining gift of God who walks with us, helping us always to find our true home. 

When was your last big failure?  --err, when was the last time you had a chance to learn something helpful, to learn something fruitful for God’s kingdom? 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch, Havertown, Pennsylvania

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[i] Walter Brueggemann, “The Impossible Possibility of Forgivenss”  Journal for Preachers Volume XXXVIII, Number 4, Pentecost 2015

And then *THIS* Happened

Yesterday began with me having to explain how it works for me to feel “unencumbered” with my job/role as pastor, because you can’t count on the predictability of a 9-5 workday and usual/ordinary tasks.  You just can’t account for what’s bound to come up except that something always does. 

Then there was the knock on the door to share the glad news that the heavy rain overnight had resulted in large amounts of water seeping into our church’s social hall.  Our Property Team chairperson, whom I may have been able to call to pawn off the task of cleaning up, was out of town.  In case you wondering, there wasn't a class in seminary that dealt with any of the maintenance issues or problems most likely to be encountered in congregational leadership.  I left seminary all certified for pastoral ministry; there was no story entitled, “the miracle of shop-vac,” or “boiler-ology” to fall back on.   

So after taking a complaint from a staff-person about wires sticking out of the wall in one of our closets, I spent a couple of hours sucking up water with the shop-vac (yet unaware that the filter was to be used in “dry-vac” operations and only impeded wet-vac success).  Then, I read a Facebook post from a colleague who spent his morning replacing lighting fixtures in the secretary’s office (better him than me since I know nothing about electricity and felt no harm standing in a puddle of water with an electric vacuum sucking water)!  (Note to Session:  Don’t ever leave me alone with power tools!)  You just can’t account for what’s bound to come up except that something always does! 

While it’s true that being a pastor is seldom boring, somehow I think it would have been helpful if someone had shared along the way that I might one day discover that one of the supposedly helpful steps in correctly exegeting the Pauline epistles was in fact going to be the step that included the actual plumbing and plunging of toilets!  Or, how to operate a shop-vac when your building floods.  I understand these things are second nature to some people; but it’s the same people who like to Monday Morning Quarterback the decisions that got made when they were mysteriously not around!  You just can’t account for what’s bound to come up except that something always does! 

I’m always glad to help.  But when certain things happen I definitely feel like I’m not the best-trained person for the job!  Sometimes though, you've just got to own the reality that in any given moment, you may in fact be the PERFECT person for the job! 

I've been lamenting lately that some of the people helping to lead my denomination aren't the best-trained persons for the job, either.  I've voiced my opinion both publicly and privately that recent decisions have been bungled, that the “optics” haven’t been good, and that I’m disappointed and brokenhearted that responses to questions and concerns haven’t been straight-forward and transparent.  Despite knowing well that we just can’t account for what’s bound to come up, except that something always does; I've become that loud-mouthed critic who wasn't in the room when needed action had to be taken.  I've become the proverbial congregant perpetually unhappy about the new worship order, and found myself wondering and wondering out loud that a change in personnel at the top would yield a more fruitful season. 

I do trust—that my colleagues in ministry serving in and with our denominational structure believe our ministry as Presbyterians is relevant, important, and work hard to make it effective; I do know—they are facing challenges, concerns, and “clean-up” that no one anticipated.  Like me, they no doubt feel it’s been “left to them,” while others who caused the concerns, anxieties, and problems have either moved on or been moved on.  You just can’t account for what’s bound to come up except that something always does! 

We’re still saying it, though—that the old days of denominational structures being at the center of church identity are clearly over.  Our congregation participated in a neighborhood home tour this past Sunday where we received visitors and guests and got to show off parts of our building.  “Presbyterian” is in our name that was printed in the home-tour guides—but lots of people still had to ask, “What kind of church is this?”  And while we think it “goes without saying” that everyone is welcome in our building, more than one person noted how they finally had a chance to get a look inside our building, suggesting that they DIDN'T feel welcome on other occasions. 

Just when did *THAT* happen? 

You just can’t account for what’s bound to come up except that something always does! 

I feel this way because I’m a congregational leader on the front lines where substantial change—not in our favor—has already happened.  I feel this way because I’m certain that we can do better.  I feel that way because sometimes, just like the social hall being baptized after a heavy rain, I’m the one stuck with the consequences just when I believe there are more important and pressing matters to be accomplished! 

And then I remember.  Our true task isn't always what it seems it should be.  We’re called to be witnesses to the love and justice of Jesus Christ.  To find and identify, to be and become, to point to and yet be a part of God’s love, reaching into the world in Jesus Christ. 

Some days we just have to own that, to own the tasks that have been given to us, to do our best, and let the chips fall where they may.  You just can’t account for what’s bound to come up except that something always does! 

What we count on—is the resurrected Christ; who grants not just new life when we die, but who gives us so many opportunities in which to serve, serve others, and witness to his love.  You just can’t account for what’s bound to come up except that *THIS* always does! 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch, Havertown, Pennsylvania

The Problem of Easter Sunday Attendance Records

[WARNING:  Satire alert!] 

Lots of church insiders speculate beforehand and brag afterwards about the Easter worship attendance.  But in my almost 20 years of ordained ministry in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) I’ve simply never known for Easter attendance to be all that great. 

Oh sure!  There’s the odd visitor or two.  But I can’t say that I’ve ever heard of a congregation that gets consistent growth in worship attendance for Easter! 

I’ve wondered for years why this is, because everyone seems to talk about it.  Really?  There are more people in worship for Easter?  I mean sure, CLERGY talk about it.  But they seem to bemoan the people who attend as if it’s obligatory to “see and be seen” in worship.  We even have “name-brands” for these people, like C & E’s or “Chri-Easters.”  But the truth is, worship numbers during Easter are abysmal.  They don’t go up; they plummet! 

It turns out, to the dismay of regular church-goers, Easter is not just a Sunday.  Easter is a season.  So, by the end of the season, the “losses” begin to add up (just like they do for the Phillies).  In the same way, most congregations immediately begin charting a DECLINING worship attendance on Easter Sunday—like buying a new car that depreciates as you drive it off the lot (or the Phillies on opening day in the 7^th inning).  The downward slide is completely inevitable.  I mean we chose to locate Easter during Spring and they don’t call it “Spring Fever” for nothing!  Most churches suffer a catastrophic bout of Spring Fever every year—just look at the worship attendance numbers! 

But this may be because Easter attendance always begins with a bang and stratospheric attendance for opening SUNDAY that begins declining as soon as the liturgy reaches the benediction.  And with Spring Fever and “carburetor Sunday (when everyone tunes up their lawnmowers), the numbers totally fall off. 

Look.  Believe me.  I know that if more people understood that EASTER was really a commitment of 7 weeks, they wouldn’t get our hopes up by showing up on Easter SUNDAY.  And then this whole matter of charting an attendance decline could easily be turned around.  At least, we’d have a fighting chance! 

Sure, I know.  It’s a big expectation for regular church goers—who attend almost every week of the year—to put on a full-court press of church attendance for Easter.  I mean, Easter is the LONGEST liturgical season, outpacing the 6 weeks plus of Lent and nearly doubling up the weeks of Advent.  And surely, we can’t expect our Easter activities to compete well with the NCAA’s “March Madness,” the opening of Baseball season, the impending NHL and NBA playoffs, and for the love of discipleship—NASCAR and spring football! 

Still, we might have a fighting chance if we risk giving up Easter SUNDAY.  Consider, the Easter SEASON almost always brings with it Mother’s Day, Graduation Sundays, and sometimes, even Memorial Day weekend—all times when just as many people may want to be seen in church!  And, if we got people off the Easter SUNDAY habit, and on to an Easter SEASONAL habit, we COULD make this worship attendance thing go in the right direction! 

So, Brothers and Sisters, Friends, I’m PLEADING here.  We need help.  We’ve got to stop bringing people to Church on Easter Sunday and start forcing (err… I mean) “INVITING” PEOPLE to join us for worship THROUGHOUT THE EASTER SEASON! 

We need non-weekly worshipers to step up their game and help us, too!  We need people skeptical of regular church attendance to come in and make a difference if only for these 6 or 7 weeks!  We need weekend warriors to give up the early-season lawn mowing and trade sleeping in on Sunday mornings for naps during NASCAR racing during Sunday afternoons!  We’ve got to STOP the Hallelujah Chorus, and START Hallelujah Chorusii (that is, many choruses)! 

Now, I know already that this approach promises to be radical and completely counter-cultural and in some circles even a bit heretical.  But I’ve been challenged recently to start trying new things and doing the unexpected.  This sounds out of the park, but I assure you it’s totally Biblical.  There’s really no reason to be in Church on Easter SUNDAY.  Mark 16:6 says it plainly—even Jesus isn’t in Church on Easter SUNDAY: 

“Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here.

[Because if you’re reading that line in church, several times, trying to make your Easter-y point, you keep saying to your people, “you’re looking for Jesus of Nazareth …he is not here (the plain reading of which must mean, he is not in church)!”] 

So I say, if it’s good enough for Jesus, “why not?”  Why not take Easter Sunday off, and improve those attendance numbers.  Plan to turn the trend around, by making Easter SUNDAY the “low Sunday” in worship attendance.  Have contests and prize-giveaways for people who DON’T come to Church on Easter Sunday.  Take up the conversation with your church officers, let it become like the State of the Union where some of the cabinet is present, but not all of them—draw straws and cast lots for the Session members who have to attending the obligatory Easter Sunday service and make sure everyone, Everyone, EVERYONE else shows up for the remaining six Sundays of Easter! 

As one of my favorite Canadian comedians is always saying, “Remember, I’m pulling for you—we’re all in this together!” 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch, Havertown, Pennsylvania