"Just a White Man Talking"

My friend and co-moderator of the 222nd General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.), Tawnya Denise Anderson posted on Facebook this morning: 

I'm relying on white folks to talk today. I've simply run out of energy to defend my humanity or point out this country's hypocrisy. Talk amongst yourselves. #tiredAF

OK.  My turn.  

[takes mic]

Hi, I’m David.  I bet I’m not a racist, but…,

My kids have this thing (a lot of kids do, and it’s so famous the Family Circus cartoon has numerous examples).  I’ll ask, “Who left this trash on the coffee table?”  The kids chime in, “Oh, not me.”  And, “Ida know.”  “It must have been (one of the others).” 

And honest to goodness, for most of my life, when faced with blatent racism in the world, in my community, I felt like I could say, full-throatedly—“I didn’t do it.”  And even, “I’m not like that.”  Therefore…, don’t blame me, or especially, “It’s not my fault.” 

Because if only I had been in charge, it would surely have been different.  #probablynot.  #privilegeisthewaterIhavealwayslivedin.  #iamblindtomyownracism. 

I’m a white, American, Protestant, male, six feet seven inches tall and I weigh more than 300 pounds.  I get treated differently, am the recipient of much more grace, the “benefit of the doubt,” and privilege than I deserve or should ever rightfully be entitled to.  While it’s “nice, I believe it’s not right, and when I think about it carefully I really think it sucks.  Honestly, I wish I could share.  My physical size, the color of my skin, my gender, allow me to interact with people differently—my mom says by the 5^th grade teachers were afraid of me because I was sizeably larger than any normal child they’d ever dealt with in the classroom.  #Imabiggun  It took them a while to know and trust that I was a true softie.  And not retarded.  And not held back. 

I am a softie.  Which is often why I don’t have the microphone, and I’m not on the front lines, and I’m usually not the first person to pipe up and say that something’s wrong, or particularly that people are wrong.  I’ve been raised and taught that forgiveness is paramount, that there is hope and new life for everyone in Christ.  Sometimes, “helping someone see the light,” especially when it involves systemic problems and even if it’s only truth-telling, seems like undue influence, or forcing someone to adopt my own views—and maybe I should just keep quiet. 

When I saw the video of Philando Castile, when he was shot, I thought immediately that it was somehow “fake.”  Modern technology, the CGI we love about Star Wars films, allows people with smartphones to doctor images, alter real video, etc. etc. etc.  It. Hardly. Seemed. Real.  But also because, what kind of police officer would do this after all the headlines?  No one would be that stupid. 

But it also did not surprise me that it was real.  And I wept at the unimaginable horror the 4-year-old in the car had witnessed, and the violence that had unfolded in front of my own eyes, knowing these were not characters in a movie but real citizens.  “It could have been me” NEVER passed through my mind.  It couldn’t.  This kind of thing NEVER happens to people like me.  A drive-by shooting, the result of gang-violence, being in the wrong place at the wrong time—but not this. 

And because this kind of thing keeps happening—the last few years being a steady drumbeat of black Americans dying because white American cops shot them to death—I know that something is terribly wrong.  And in truth, somedays I’m tempted to believe that part of the problem needs to be laid at the feet of the training programs we require for our police officers in this day and age when they must be taught threats are everywhere. 

We insist our police and first-responders train for every scenario that it doesn’t take long before they are hair-trigger responders.  Shoot first; ask questions later.  The truth?  Our human brains are simply incapable of being constantly charged with “flight or fight.”  Malcom Gladwell explores this in his book, Blink.  Surely, part of the reason is our insistence that we be kept safe.  But then, in a way that is unserving of our real needs, we overwork and underpay our police and other first responders.  It’s a wonder this doesn’t happen more often! 

And if it did, we should expect that the story would already have been written differently.  The incidents and deaths would involve people of more diverse backgrounds and means. 

But these stories do not.  They are instances of black victims shot by white police officers.  Training, yes.  But somehow we just don’t see the “other” as ourselves. 

And these circumstances and events keep happening because it’s overwhelmingly true that we simply think this is someone else’s fault or responsibility.  We’re caught looking around the room for someone else to have to admit their racism rather than trying to recognize that what is happening is wrong, and we’re in the room, too.  I’m in the room. 

What is happening is wrong. 

While it’s true, white people ARE killed by black police officers—but not at all like this or these kinds of circumstances.  

White people ARE victims of racism—but never like this. 

I’ve never been stopped because something was wrong with my car. 

Not getting to serve on a church committee that reserves a “quota” for minorities is not “reverse racism.” 

I get the benefit of the doubt when I don’t have my I.D. when I go to vote; or when I need to sign papers for a loan, or open a bank account. 

The argument is often, “We’re just trying to keep people safe.  We must remain vigilant.” 

So, at the end of the day, some of us are safe; others of us are not.  The white people stand a better chance, the black and brown people don’t. 

The truth is, this is wrong.  This is all wrong. 

[gives back the microphone] 

It Was Pentecost After All

It was the Day of Pentecost. 

The scripture lessons in worship pointed to the Holy Spirit’s appropriation of human speech in a way in which believers become the mouthpieces of God’s purposes.  Going out.  Telling others.  Communicating the stories of Jesus and God’s kingdom. 

It was no surprise that after worship, during fellowship, several people wanted to testify about their experiences of the Holy Spirit—where people communicated and understood using other, non-native languages.  One person shared how this passage had recently been a topic of conversation within her family; and then there was my other conversation. 

The “tradition” in our congregation is that we don’t talk about politics—at Church.  But occasionally it comes up in one-on-one conversations.  Amongst pentecostal pleasantries, someone commented how inappropriate it seemed for the United States to have ever entered the Paris climate accord, since it turned out to be economically unfair and that the standards the United States agreed to were far more tough on our country than others. 

At least we did it to ourselves. 

But I said I was particularly sad, in response to the news that the President intended the United States to leave the Paris accord,  because as far as I could tell, the United States was relinquishing its leadership on the world stage—which for me, is a preference for sitting in the back of the bus rather than driving it.  My counterpart suggested that at least now, he hoped the agreement might be renegotiated. 

I was thinking of my friend, Bill Davnie (the Stated Clerk for Twin Cities Area Presbytery, and a former foreign service officer in the State Department) who wrote in response to the President’s announcement online: 

Some other ways of looking at withdrawal from the Paris Accords:

1.    An unhappy U.S. inside the Accord, but undermining it in various ways, would complicate its implementation more than our being outside of it. The signatories will likely be able to work more effectively without U.S. whining.
2.     Market forces will continue to support at least some transition to renewable energy in the U.S. Utilities won't be building coal-fired plants when natural gas, wind and solar are better options.
3.     Trump has just complicated any renegotiating of trade agreements he wants to do, because countries can now use greenhouse gas issues against us in negotiations. As we complain about intellectual property rights, say, they will complain about our carbon emissions.
4.     Our abdication of leadership in this area will move the international community in the direction of a broader, multi-polar rebalancing in international relations. The world is moving in this direction anyway, but American politicians either don't see that, or can't talk about in public because it sounds "declinist".
5.     More people know more about the Paris Accords now than a few months ago. That's good.

My friend and conversation counterpart was excited about the end of the agreement on our part, not for any of these reasons, but out of a sense of fairness—that we all share and contribute to the problem of climate change and should share more equally in the burdens of resolving it. 

I was thinking about how I wanted Jesus, or our love of Jesus, to somehow be the answer. 

My friend’s concern was the inherent unfairness of a climate agreement that gave clear advantages to the Russians, the Chinese, the Indians, and others, who—he was sure—would continue to pollute in massive amounts having an economic advantage over the

United States.  Indeed, this always smacks of unfairness; it is surely unequal; but MY frustration is that rather than see it as the carrot that helps the world get to a better place, we see it as “woe is us,” or in this case, that we had given away too much economically, politically, and practically by entering an agreement that treated our nation or others, “un-equally.” 

But then, what occurred to me was maybe, just maybe, our willingness to boldly enter into an accord that asked a lot of us as the United States, was ultimately because we dared to believe we ought to be doing as Jesus did.  “If the United States gave too much away at the conference table,” I said, “maybe it’s because we took our allegiance to Jesus seriously and we did the kind of things Jesus would do.” 

I’m not sure at all what I meant.  Feeling for a moment like I had to answer something “reasonable” it’s all I could come up with.  We loved Jesus.  Therefore, we took the shorter straw. 

“It could be,” I said, “that we’re in this kind of place, where we actually see the need to ‘give away advantages at the bargaining table’ that we were called to make ‘bad deals” as the President calls them, because we really do love Jesus.  That sounds like something Jesus would do, and would want us to do, too.” 

This kind of reason rarely makes any practical or “reality” sense—and it connected with my conversation partner in the way you might expect—it was a crazy way to suggest what our national motivations might have been or could have been.  Pigs might be flying in Iowa or hell might be frozen over in Texas, too.  But this does seem to be how the gospel works—when someone makes an economic sacrifice for another’s gain, because that’s the kind of thing Jesus does. 

I know this will not make any sense at all to TV pundits or bureaucrats enacting the President’s “tweets.”  I’m afraid they can’t possibly hope to get it.  Not even after years of therapy and education.  They don’t believe like I do! 

But, the people of Jesus—the whole world over—do get it.  And we should not be deterred in the meantime. 

It was a fleeting moment of clarity. 

It was Pentecost, after all. 

A Shroud for Easter

I’m used to Lent being a hard season.  There are usually, at least extra services on for Ash Wednesday, Maundy Thursday—but this year, in a new call, a Holy Week brought a community Lenten service each day.  There are often extra Bible Studies or church study groups—chances for the faithful to be all “Lenten” by taking on more than normal rather than just “giving something up.”  This year, there wasn’t a special study for me, but in a new congregation, a weekly Bible Study that I didn’t have a year ago.  And getting to Easter Sunday, with a different rhythm than the past few years was still like a relief valve going off—even though I wasn’t as overworked as many of my clergy colleagues. 

By the time Easter Sunday arrives, you’ve heard enough about death and that the power of sin is death—the Easter news that Christ has conquered death is this announcement of great reprieve. 

So this year, Easter came but death also happened.  Really. 

Holy week brought several people close to my congregation home to the local hospice house.  Another person related to our congregation then died on Good Friday.  So Easter Sunday was followed immediately by funeral planning.  The weekend after Easter in our small South Arkansas town was inundated with a triddum of memorial services sprinkled around Sunday morning worship—Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. 

And it wasn’t just me.  My Facebook and Twitter feeds were invaded by news of friends and colleagues facing any number of funerals astride Easter-related celebrations.  Then, there was the news that a much-beloved-by-many colleague in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) had succumbed to pancreatic cancer only a month after being diagnosed.  In the aftermath of “resurrection” news, death seemed all around. 

And death has seemed sure on display.  Not just in my little part of the world.  A deadly gas attack in Syria was answered by a deadly bombing.  Maundy Thursday was interrupted by news that the “mother of all bombs” had been deployed by U.S. forces.  Here in Arkansas, the state not only busily scheduled the executions of 8 condemned men—two-at-a-time, in order to beat the expiration date on the drugs used for the executions—it carried out most of them. 

“O death where is thy sting?”—that famous verse from the Apostle Paul’s letter to the Corinthian Church—is seemingly just a line.  There’s been sting a-plenty these days. 

In these “Easter weeks” news of even more deaths—people close to members of our Church staff, anniversaries of other deaths significant in the lives of people around me, concerns about people’s health, diagnoses of cancer and other illnesses promising that death hasn’t gone away or yet been completely sacked.  The truth is the dying still seems to be happening, and the rising not so much. 

Our lives, it seems, are continually being transformed by death.  People are dying all the time.  So what about the promise of the resurrection having a little more punch?  I’d like to see death finally get punched in the face.  I’m sure that other people would, too. 

But too often our pleas sound only for a reprieve from the pain and suffering associated with death.  We limit our “rising” to some kind of “stay of death” in which those who die live longer and accompany us farther on life’s journey.  We want a Lazarus-like re-living, not a Jesus-like resurrecting. 

But the truth is that resurrection isn’t a resuscitation.  When Jesus is raised from the dead he isn’t simply “put back” the way he was.  Resurrection was transformative.  And I think that’s how it’s supposed to be for us, too! 

Transformative. 

I believe God is always working on the dark places in our lives.  That if nothing else, God gives us strength and courage not to be so afraid and debilitated in this world.  We know that God has good things in mind and that this is enough, because God doesn’t abandon us to whatever may happen, but is always at work changing us and the world around us. 

The truth remains, however, that dying and rising in Christ is no easy feat!  It usually doesn’t “just happen;” much like Lent it takes some willingness on our part to engage in the work of “new life.”  It actually means change—the change of attuning ourselves more and more to God’s love, God’s gifts, and God’s possibilities that are always inviting us to do more, be more, and LIVE more. 

So what are we doing to show the world new life in Christ?  How might we give witness to the daily victory of God in our own lives and in the lives of those around us?  Where are we seeing Jesus alive and well, and how are we making others aware? 

Jot down some notes and share them with someone in your life.  New life is worth sharing.  That’s what Jesus does, and we can to.  And as we do, the light of life will displace the darkness.  The sting of death may be another matter, but of the light of life there can be no doubt. 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The First Presbyterian Church of El Dorado, Arkansas

What God Does!

In response to the team he coached winning the college football national championship, Dabo Swinney, in an on-camera interview, said first, “Only God does this!” 

It was a lie, of course.  I’m pretty sure God doesn’t play college football; yet, if Swinney were being honest, surely he wouldn’t have accepted the trophy!  Rather, wouldn’t the trophy belong in God’s trophy case—since “God did it.”  (I’m pretty confident, however, that the trophy will only be seen in the trophy case at the University of Clemson—(whether God did it or not!). 

It was a lie, of course—God doing it.  Anyone familiar with the scriptures of the Old and New Testaments knows that “God doesn’t work like that.”  God shows a preference for the extreme, radical underdog.  If God had orchestrated the college football national championship, wouldn’t God have done it with the team holding the longest losing streak going into the game?  Or, at least another team, not quite with the obvious talented abilities of the players of the two teams picked to play for the title two years in a row, now!  If the God of Bethlehem had done this, people know, it would have been different. 

A lot different! 

I hope!  I hope people recognize just HOW different.  With all the “improbable choices of God—Moses, who didn’t want to have to go back to Egypt to lead God’s people; David, who was the tender-est man-child of Jesse’s sons, tending the sheep in the field, not considered a capable candidate by human eyes; the infant Jesus born into the realm of Herod, the tyrannical leader of the empire crushing the world. 

This is the danger of the “prosperity gospel’s” prominence—the gospel of so-called “good news” that promises us if we put in the work, God will reward us—for we deserve it because of our faithfulness. 

But it seems like we’re going to start hearing more and more of this.  “Public religion,” expressed in supposed Christian values, by public figures and well-meaning people.  It always sounds like it’s something that’s “out of the Bible, but it isn’t.  Contrary to Coach Swinney’s observation, God doesn’t play college football; and even if God were in that business, it wouldn’t be for national championships.  Coach Swinney’s not the chief purveyor of these things; he’s actually a victim, having learned it from other well-polished speakers, from political hopefuls to supposed clerics televising the need not only to pray but to send in our “investments” toward the good life we deserve and God is just waiting to provide. 

It’s worrisome, this supposed “good news,” the admonishment “not to worry” because a politician or a group of politicians is going to “take care of it,” or that even “God will take care of it” when the solution involves the dis-enfranchisement of whole groups of people in the form of God’s favor for some and disfavor for others.  Which is, of course, the promise of “prosperity people”—God will love you if you follow; or curse you if you don’t.  Heads, I win; tails, you lose.  Either way the system is rigged. 

The “rigged system” is what God seeks to break—pursuing special relationship with human beings demonstrated in the story of Christmas that we just celebrated.  Or, as the prophet Isaiah declares: 

For the yoke of their burden, and the bar across their shoulders, the rod of their oppressor, [God has] broken…

What God does FOR US is send us Jesus.  Not to ensure our health and wealth and any kind of worldly salvation, but to break us from our oppression to sin. 

The promises of God come with opportunities for us to live out the promises of God’s vision as lived in the person of Christ.  In particular, his ministry of care for the disenfranchised.  The “prosperity people” so easily separate the good things that happen to the most deserving, suggesting that it’s a world where we all get what’s coming to us in the end.  Like a western where the black hats get what’s coming to them! 

But I can’t find a good Biblical story where someone gets what is really deserved.  God is so invested in the counter-instinctual work defined not by what someone deserves but by forgiveness, freedom, and love—instead. 

I’m afraid the voices of entitlement are just going to become louder and more obnoxious. 

“It’s our turn.” 

“We won.” 

“We worked harder.” 

“We deserve ….” 

To the victor go the spoils—is the old saying. 

The Bible teaches this isn’t how it is at all.  The one with the “most” doesn’t win. 

The practitioners of this public religion of prosperity seem to be enjoying their time of entitlement.  But as Seth Godin writes inhis blog,

“Entitlement gets us nothing but heartache.  It blinds us to what’s possible.  It insulates us from the magic of gratitude.  And most of all, it lets us off the hook, pushing us away from taking responsibility (and action) and toward apportioning blame and anger instead.” 

There’s enough blame and anger to go around these days. 

On the other hand, the Bible teaches me that if those who are publicly dishing blame and anger (intentionally or by accident) were in fact, more familiar with the sacred writings of Christianity, there would be something else to say. 

The real work, the counter-intuitive work that Jesus teaches is hard work.  It’s much harder than the prosperity promises of this public—so-called “Christian”—religion.  But those of us who take the Bible seriously are called to keep at it—counter-cultural, counter-intuitive, counter-instinctual.  Doing what is least expected. 

That’s what God does! 

So if you’re looking for something to say; or needing to say something—say that you’re grateful for all the opportunities God has given you.  Not because you deserve them, but because you don’t.  And God chooses you anyway. 

That’s what God does. 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The First Presbyterian Church of El Dorado, Arkansas

“One Candle, then two, and some empty shoes—BOOM!”

Today is St. Nicholas Day.  Famed day for commemorating a story that begins with a “Nicholas” wanting to help save some daughters from prostitution by means of a pregnant possibility—depositing some gold in some stockings or shoes and making NEW LIFE possible. 

Remembering that story as we try and celebrate it as a family, I woke up this morning with another—remembering especially that it was thereabouts nine months ago that I was standing in the sanctuary of First Presbyterian Church in Atlanta, Georgia—at the NEXT Church conference.  We had seen a visual depictions of “where we are” in the Church and the world, with pictures of broken people and places—especially churches.  And as a response to confession and forgiveness we sang together Philip Phillips’ rendition of “Home.” 

Hold on, to me as we go As we roll down this unfamiliar road And although this wave is stringing us along Just know you’re not alone 'Cause I’m going to make this place your homeSettle down, it'll all be clear Don't pay no mind to the demons They fill you with fear The trouble it might drag you down If you get lost, you can always be foundJust know you’re not alone 'Cause I’m going to make this place your homeSettle down, it'll all be clear Don't pay no mind to the demons They fill you with fear The trouble it might drag you down If you get lost, you can always be foundJust know you’re not alone 'Cause I’m going to make this place your home Written by Andrew Pearson, Greg Holden • Copyright © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc, Cypmp

This became a prophetic text for me, personally.  An anthem to be sung again and again, remembering and appreciating the goosebumps I felt in those moments—being reminded of God’s promises, and in particular that as unseemly as things were and still are in the world, and that God has given us a kind of residential scholarship.  We, like Jesus, are called to live in broken places among broken people—and be at home with the promises of God’s love. 

These Advent days, so many have lamented “post-election” about how dark, how horrible, how dangerous, difficult, perhaps even un-redeemable things are or seem. 

It is worth being reminded liturgically and otherwise that our God is the God who says, “let there be light,” in the chaos; and still, yet before it’s over, “God saw that it was good.”  More light has come into the world; we have actually experienced that “the light shines in the darkness,” and that “the darkness does not overcome it.” 

There is a lot of fear, anger, resentment, and anxiety about these days and the coming days.  It’s ADVENT all over again!  But I’m grateful for the light and even more-so for the promise that we are not left here to toil for ourselves.  Rather that God can and still does make such unseemly places our “home.” 

I’m looking back at nine months ago wondering what happened that day in Atlanta, because in some ways, it feels like it’s given itself over to new birth in my life.  Today I’m in a new pastoral position with my sense of call renewed and with great hope.  I’m literally in a “new place,” I have a “new home,” and I’m feeling God’s promises each day holding me up!  It just happens to be Advent; the light is literally and spiritually shining in the darkness!  At least for me. 

But then—BOOM—and maybe some light for others!  News broke this past Sunday afternoon that the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers was going to deny the Dakota Pipeline project the right of way to build beneath the Missouri River near a Native American burial ground. 

I am grateful minds and hearts changed. 

I am grateful, because the media coverage of events at the site has been extraordinarily poor.  There were reports of peaceful protests and brutality—including water cannons being used against protestors in sub-freezing weather.  I know a number of my colleagues, including friends, visited the protest camps, trying to both raise awareness and to support and participate those working to protect the rights of Native American peoples and water rights. 

I am grateful that minds and hearts changed—after months of discussion, dialogue, and eventually protests.  This turn of events came as unexpected news and people were gearing up for the worst!  The news was a little bit of light amidst otherwise dark news and anxiety about the future—even with uncertainty about what a new administration may decide to do come spring. 

But this news came while we in the Church are amidst Advent; where there was the light of one candle, but now two as the Advent days stretch toward Christmas—the promises of God’s love held out to us as we prepare to celebrate again God’s incarnation in Jesus! 

To be sure, if you’re on the front lines of the dispute—whether at Standing Rock, or in Flint, Michigan (where the polluted water is yet to be resolved, STILL!), or in South Carolina (after another acquittal in a black man’s death by a while police officer where all the world could see otherwise)—I’m still a privileged white man saying something akin to “don’t worry, be happy; God’s got this.” 

Really, I don’t mean to say any more than, “Hang on.  We’re not alone.  God has given us Jesus.  And the joy and light is realized every day.  And sometimes, especially in these Advent days.” 

Rather than holding out and up all the reasons why the darkness is what it is, perhaps we can also contemplate in THIS Advent, what God has already begun in us, that we might become something new ourselves! 

I am grateful that minds and hearts can be changed.  In fact, I am hopeful that my mind and heart will be changed enough so I can let go of my own fears and anxieties long enough to feel the joy of this season.  And maybe I, too, ought to be more intentional about filling shoes and planting seeds that will change someone else’s life for the better. 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The First Presbyterian Church of El Dorado, Arkansas

One Candle-Power

While my family and I were relocating from Havertown, PA to El Dorado, AR we received word that our moving truck had broken down and that our delivery date that had been “pre-planned” and “scheduled” got put-off and rescheduled.  Imagine the scrambling if Christmas were actually put back a couple of days to the 27^th and there was going to be one more week of Advent this year! 

We greeted this news about our move with a sigh and a shrug saying, “it was bound to happen.”  But more than that was the opportunity to take advantage of the extra time to “see some sights.” 

In the Shenandoah valley of Virginia we stopped at one of the famous “caverns” and did an underground tour.  Turns out we ended up at the place were tours have been going on for about 200 years.  And it was in the midst of being underground, with no outside light, that our tour guide turned off all the electric lights and then lit a single candle. 

I was reminded that "one candle-power"—amidst total darkness—is incredibly powerful! 

Our Christian season of Advent begins every year with one-candle-power.  I was thinking of this recent experience as I anticipated the lighting our Church’s advent wreath this past Sunday.  One candle-power.  That’s all. 

Advent begins with the flick of a bic, or a click of the lighter, or the strike of the match, and the flame is touched to the candle wick.  And for a week, that single candle burns by itself. 

One candle power. 

Is that what it was like when God said, “Let there be light?” 

And for those first few moments, the light burning away the darkness revealing chaos! 

I’m almost afraid to ask what that one candle power reveals in our world as that light chases away the darkness!  What’s been lurking in the shadows that we haven’t seen?  What new things are revealed to us about our world that the light suddenly reveals?  A light that seems so fragile amidst the darkness. 

Sometimes it seems that the darkness is always more powerful than the light.  One candle power hardly seems enough to hold back the darkness—at least not for long.  I suppose this is why we light a second candle, and then a third, and a fourth after that. 

And this year, the congregation I’m serving has a tree that stands at least two stories tall, adorned by light and chrismons.  The light of one candle, easily dwarfed by the light blazing in the corner of the sanctuary, full of the reminders of Christ!  A reminder in light that we are not alone.  That we walk with Christ among us.  That one candle power now only chases the darkness to the corners, but that one candle has backup! 

This Advent, I’m trying to think of the one candle power not revealing the darkness of the world, but exposing Christ in the world.  One candle is enough to reveal Christ at work, or Christ’s work.  And that is another light.  Now there are two lights, revealing a third and a forth.  Now for lights, spreading to six more. 

If each of us had a light….  Oh wait.  We do! 

I was reminded online last week of this quote attributed to Karl Barth: 

“The time is fulfilled, and the Kingdom of God is at hand.  We must hear this in the same way we hear the news of the daily headlines.” 

For those of you who call the world dark, or who keep revealing the darknesses, the dark places, or the power of the “dark side”—I raise you one candle-power. 

How can we greet these days with the grace with which they are given?  An opportunity to bask in promises that are real—rather than as unwanted setbacks? 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The First Presbyterian Church of El Dorado, Arkansas

Newer Images of Sacrifice

There was this line in yesterday’s sermon: “Sacrifice must be met with sacrifice.”  I’m not sure where it came from, exactly, but it came out of my contemplating a newly-revealed story from September 11, 2001—about Lieutenant Heather Penney of the U. S. Air Force, who—in the wake of the planes hitting the World Trade Center Towers in New York—alongside her commanding officer screamed into the sky in a pair of F-16’s fully prepared to take on hijacked planes.  In the moments after lighting off, they each realized their planes had been prepared for training missions scheduled to fly that day.  They had no bombs, no missiles, and no guns—not even a rock.  Yet these were the only planes in position to take down United flight #93, that appeared to be on course to the U.S. Capitol.  Penney realized hers had just become a suicide mission as she thought through what was necessary to ensure United 93 was taken out. 

The iconic images and stories from 9-11 that we all witnessed in some way or other remind us of the many people who gave up their lives for real.  They were more than victims.  They were “survivors” who made it out of burning buildings alive—but who went back in to lead others to safety.  They were those aboard United flight #93—without orders—who fought for control of the plane and wrestled it to the ground over an unpopulated area.  They were those in uniform and those who weren’t; those who knew instinctively what to do and those who responded as they’d been trained. 

When people talk about 9-11, I remember a former colleague who stridently explained how he’d be using his sermon that Sunday, to declare for his congregation what it meant that in their city, there had been a months-long battle over tax increases to fund the city’s first-responders.  His line, that’s always stuck with me, was his disdain for the people who dared to call the firefighters, police officers, and first-responders “heroes,” but who were so unwilling to provide for their basic needs.  “These are the people we expect and require to come and save us, and yet we don’t pay them enough to provide for their families should they make the ultimate sacrifice.” 

It sounded brash.  His tone, less than 24 hours before he would deliver the message and the gospel for his congregation—and that afternoon among only colleagues—sounded somewhat disrespectful, even un-pastoral.  We knew he was trying a line, still thinking about the right tone to carry what he believed.  Maybe he was looking for the line not to cross. 

But I found his challenge strangely healing.  I began my own sermon that Sunday, asking the congregation to think about how we might support those who so bravely gave of themselves for others—including making sure that we paid people fairly.  It brought tears to the eyes of the mayor of our small town.  Being reminded that there was someone willing to take up and support those tasked with responding, seeing and hearing that support and love proclaimed in church, he left worship resolved to support and love, and to strengthen the support personnel of our community.  It’s one thing, of course, to support those who bravely sacrifice and die—after a tragedy.  It’s another, to begin to see those needs beforehand, too. 

15 years after September 11, 2001, it’s still not all clean and neat and tidy.  To some extent, we don’t know how deep the chaos was felt—or how near we were to the brink of even worse disaster.  And we still have a lot of people who bear real wounds—and most we’ve never heard about. 

I think about Air Traffic Controllers who had to watch helplessly, who tried to engage the military and others to help, but failed to connect all the dots before it happened. 

I think about other pilots and flight crews. 

I think about those on the other end of the phone calls, whose help was needed, but who couldn’t respond. 

I think about those who blame themselves for not spotting the hijackers in the airport. 

I think about those who know they made mistakes as they tried to make the right calls and do the right things. 

I think about those, for whom the long string of events on 9-11 was just the beginning; the thousands who’ve gone off to war, sent to faraway places to “defend us” whose lives have been lost or those who have returned with wounds and PTSD.  I think about the long war that started that day, but isn’t yet over.  That while some of us have prospered, graduated from college, started whirlwind careers making good money, many continue to make unimaginable sacrifices—and often, sacrifices remain unnoticed. 

Sacrifice must be met with sacrifice.  Too often we take sacrifice for granted, make it “expected,” and rely on the sacrifices of others.  Too often we are blinded, somehow unable to recognize how our lives depend on others.  These “other stories” help make it more clear. 

The joy and justice of the Kingdom of God in the gospels can be ours if we’re willing.  But it’s not supposed to be hoarded for a day or time of trial.  God’s intention is that we live out the joy and justice of the Kingdom of God each and every day.  It means paying attention to what’s less obvious.  Or, being willing to declare the blatantly obvious! 

If sacrifice must be met with sacrifice, what’s MY sacrifice?  How can I be help, support, and LOVE, today?—and to whom? 

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

A Prayer for the Haverford Township Board of Commissioners Meeting, July 11th, 2016

[In Haverford Township, the Board of Commissioners still ask our Havertown Ministerium to provide pray-ers for Commissioner's Meetings.  My turn usually comes in July, since our Session meeting doesn't conflict in July.  In the wake of the horrific loss of life in Baton Rouge, outside St. Paul, and in Dallas--this is what I shared:]  

Commissioners, it’s always a privilege and an honor to be with you and to offer an opening prayer for your meeting. 

The last time I was here was back in October, and I asked you to indulge me in a moment of silence because there had been a number of incidents of violence at schools. 

It took my breath away that 9 months later, after another week of horrific violence, I might need to do it again. 

But, silence hasn’t helped, or gotten us to where we’ve really wanted to go. 

So, if you’ll indulge me again, in the wake of Baton Rouge, St. Paul, and Dallas—take a moment, not to look down or to look away, but instead, I ask you to look around the room and look into the faces of those next to you and those across the room. 

Look into the faces….  Christians believe that we are all of us as human beings, made in the image of God.  We all have a little bit of God in our faces; we need each other, we are essential to each other—in all of our beautiful diversity. 

Rather than silence, when we’re looking for answers, we might try asking each other! 

I invite you to join me in asking for God’s Blessing: 

Holy God:

We again we have experienced that living is hard, that policing is hard, that governing is hard. 

We are polarized by politics, name-calling, finger-pointing, hand-wringing, blaming, pointing of guns, systemic failures, constantly having to pull ourselves up after another injustice another unfairness. 

We wish that killing were just as hard; but it seems it comes all too easily. 

May we be reminded, O God, that we each share your image; that we need one another. 

May we be reminded that ALL life is all too precious, and far too fleeting. 

May we be reminded that we are all human, that we all make mistakes, but that we are unsatisfied to just let them go, and that we will do all that is in our power to make them right. 

May we disagree, in love. 

May we challenge each other, in love. 

May we work for reasonable solutions—even unreasonable solutions—in love. 

So in this meeting, may our commissioners meet civility and kindness and charity in each other. 

And may those who come with business, meet kindness and charity, and know that we are all doing the best we can. 

May we bless each other with smiles, being grateful for those who give of themselves so that our lives are easier—for those who pick up trash and yard waste; for those who run to the firehouse at the sound of a siren and check out smoke alarms and smoking pots on stove, and unattended barbecue grills; for those who patrol the streets stand in harm’s way, and rescue lost cats; and yes, for those that must vote to make it happen by paying the Township bills and the payroll! 

All of this is hard, but we can do it well.  Smile on us, O God. 

AMEN.  

April 2017 Would Be a Very Good Month for Babies

Way, way, way back when times were tough for God’s people—in bondage, in Egypt, under the threat of death, not because of unfair labor practices but the threat of death because Pharaoh declared a war on male Hebrew babies—stories not often retold these days reveal that Hebrew leaders actually banned having children.  The image of Egyptian soldiers or agents killing infants was too much for them to bear.  So to avoid infant deaths, as this surely was not what God wanted or intended, they chose not having babies.  Seeing themselves as unable to change the system, they admitted their powerlessness and made themselves complicit with the Egyptian edict. 

Husbands and wives refrained from relations.  The Hebrew population ceased to grow.  And the lack of resistance kept a good people down. 

I’m grateful to John Dominic Crossan and Marcus Borg, whose book entitled The First Christmas introduced me to some of this tradition. 

Where the turning of the story began, they suppose, was when a young Hebrew man and his wife chose resistance.  They resisted Pharaoh, they resisted their own leadership, they stood in the face of infants being killed and chose life—intentionally.  They made a baby and named him Moses—and dared Pharaoh to snuff out what God had inspired. 

I write this, horrified by the violence that erupted in the United States from African-American men dying at the hands of white police officers and innocent white police officers gunned down as they protected what was widely reported as a peaceful protest in Dallas, Texas. 

I don’t condone the violence.  I don’t condemn police officers.  I don’t blame #blacklivesmatter.  I recognize every day that the violence we abhor is violence we have helped create ourselves.  It’s the violence of not loving our neighbors as ourselves.  It’s the justification of privilege, somehow thinking we’ve “earned it.”  And it’s only a matter of time before the violence explodes in so many different directions.  We are all at risk.  Not just because of the color of our skin, but our refusal to love one another as Jesus teaches us as Christians.  We are also dying because of the color of our skin or the color of our politics or the color of our religious affiliation or the color of our sexual orientation and lifestyle. 

There is many a good reason to give up hope that we can end this cycle of violence.  For us to give in to the idea that this will go on and on and on—much like we have said that the peoples of the Middle East will always be fighting, that the poor will always be with us, that there can be no real peace for human beings.  That someone, somewhere, will always take up arms. 

I’ve spent a lot of today reading online, trying to find out exactly what happened in Baton Rouge, in Minneapolis, in Dallas.  I’ve read facebook posts and tweets, news stories, reflections from friends and colleagues. 

I was moved by a woman who hoped that her son would not have to see her die, like the 4-year-old daughter of the girlfriend riding in Philando Castile’s car watched him die. 

I was moved by a colleague whose eldest child, having gone off to college in Minnesota was going to participate in rallies in the Twin Cities; how words from her dad encouraged her to speak loudly and feel free to get arrested. 

I have spent hours this week thinking about my own children, and in particular, a friend of my eldest son, they both enter 6^th grade this fall, the friend who is African-American, whose mother is white and greatly fearful (and for so many good reasons) of what awaits him in this world.  I, too, am fearful about what that will mean for my son and our families, knowing their years of innocence will likely be impacted now by things they won’t be equal in sharing in because of the color of their skin. 

I have one of those experiences myself.  I remember my own experience in college.  My roommate was African-American, also a Presbyterian preacher’s kid, but adopted.  I was there the day my roommate was arrested for robbing a baseball card store.  My roommate and I both had been on a college-sponsored mission trip to Eastern Kentucky over spring break, the time the robbery had taken place in Arkansas while we were in Kentucky.  When the white police officers asked me if there was any way my roommate could have committed the crime I laughed and said how preposterous it was, “No.  He can’t time-travel, or be in two places at once.  He was with us all night.”  But to my dismay, they believed otherwise. 

In this world where people seem to have no honest chance and hope is fleeting, …I hope a bright young couple is thinking this is the perfect time to have a baby! 

Because it will mean hope is not dead, and life is not in doubt; that someones would be choosing life, and witness, and resistance.  

#makelovenotwar

#killemwithkindness

#loveyourneighborasyourself

#thegoldenrule

#teachthemtoyourchildren

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

I Disdain WASPS and WASPiness; and I’m Part of the Problem

A few weeks back, a colleague of mine posted this on her Facebook timeline:  “There was a wasp in the house and I sucked it up in the vacuum cleaner but now I have to take the vacuum to the dump to be incinerated.” 

I really don’t like wasps, and I have a lot of affinity with her assessment.  But when someone

posted a graphic-language-containing-meme about wasps and bees in the comments to the original post, I found myself thinking about WASPs.  The meme suggested that wasps exist only to (and this is the sanitized version) “mess stuff up.”  But whether it involved the insects for W.A.S.P.y people and ideas—the meme was still right! 

I’m hoping there’s a better solution to the problem of wasps or WASPs than incinerating the vacuum cleaners of the world! 

So yesterday, after worship—I was horrified when I realized it—I came face to face with my W.A.S.P. male privilege. 

I was introducing the newly elected co-Moderators of the 222^nd General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.)—as I do each time the Assembly meets, introducing the congregation I serve to the Assembly’s elected leadership and the ambassadors of the Assembly’s work for the next 104 weeks.  Unlike other years, this year—because there were only 2 co-Moderator teams to choose from, because I was somewhat familiar with all 4 co-Moderator candidates, because one candidate was from my own Presbytery, and 2 of the others I had either met, heard in person, or share regularly in blog posts, I felt confident enough to introduce the newly elected co-moderators without notes, a stat-sheet, or the official General Assembly press release in hand. 

Here’s what I said: 

“…Denise Anderson, who is a teaching elder and an African-American woman from National Capitol Presbytery, the other is Jan Edmiston, a teaching elder and the Associate Presbytery Executive for the Presbytery of Chicago.” 

See what I did there? 

I remember feeling the need to tell the congregation that Denise was African-American—sort of like a radio-broadcaster, having to describe the scene—“oh, and you need or want to know that Denise is black.” 

Well…, she is.  But maybe that shouldn’t be the main point! 

I wanted the congregation to know that we had elected a co-Moderator team, a beautifully diverse team.  I could have said that, but I didn’t.  From my privileged place—I was taught (?), I am want—to not have to describe everyone racially.  I’d prefer that “people were people,” and even then, I could have just left off that Denise is African-American. 

But by naming Denise as an African-American but then not naming Jan as white—I left people to “assume” that everyone should understand Jan was white, implying, of course, that somehow Jan is OK, that she’s ‘like us,’ that she’s ‘not-different.”  In fact, such an introduction could subtly imply that somehow Jan is more of a moderator than Denise.  I’m horrified because that’s what we privileged people do—we even unconsciously offer subtle hints about whom to trust and follow, treating people differently in just the right ways. 

Yet this was explicitly NOT what I thought, think, or believe. 

And I must do this in any number of ways. 

And therein lies the problem.  I am blinded by what has been usual and customary for me, believing I can see a world without color or distinction because I don’t have to think about it every day.  Privilege.  I have it.  Others don’t.  It’s unfair.  It’s unequal.  It stinks.  It more than stinks. 

I didn’t mean to suggest anything other than describing Denise by my comment, well, other than being sinfully proud that my denomination had the courage, insight, and giftedness to call a wonderfully gifted and diverse co-Moderator team.  It matters for important reasons that Denise is African-American and Jan is white.  It is a blessing and gift to have called two women to serve as the first co-Moderators of the General Assembly, and that it was not two white women (that would match the overwhelming lack of diversity our denomination possesses) but that it was a woman of color and a woman of privilege who if nothing else can model for us and encourage us to continue to have the conversation about race and privilege! 

And I hope I’d be right and saying that as a denomination we’re mostly ready, even if some of us don’t always act like it! 

And maybe the election of Co-Moderators of the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) isn’t such an earth-shattering accomplishment in the greater scheme of things.  But this time, it’s offered me the chance of reflection and repentance in my own way of being.  The whole world might not yet be changed, but my world can be different.  And it’s a blessing and a gift. 

I believe the door to freedom is standing open.  We just have to have the courage and conviction to walk through it. 

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