Tag: community

Queer Leaven

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Preached at Creekside United Church of Christ (Minneapolis, Minnesota). Text: Matthew 13:33.

Imagine with me that you’re in an aisle of a grocery store, holding one of those rectangular baskets with handles that flip up. Put your hand out like you’re carrying it. (I’ll look less dumb if you join me.) Standing in the baking goods aisle, you reach for a five-pound bag of flour, and place it into the empty basket. Feel the weight as the powdery paper sack drops into it. Now, imagine that’s one terrible news headline, one calamitous thing, landing heavy as a bag of flour in your basket. How many other headlines and stories are you carrying after these last few weeks? Bombs dropping in Iran and missiles in Israel. Disinvestment in medical research, veteran services, disaster relief, suicide prevention. Five pounds, five pounds, five pounds. The supermarket basket is too full for more, but there’s additional pounds to come. Open your arms wide to a great bushel basket now—it can carry more. Add to it the pounds from Supreme Court decisions, ICE abductions, wildfire smoke, and political assassination. Palestinians murdered waiting for their sacks of flour. Do you feel the weight? You’re holding this awkward bushel basket, needing both hands, moving gingerly, so heavy in your arms, and unable to do anything else. How much are you carrying, the piled-up woes of the world this week? Fifty, sixty, seventy pounds—what to do with all that weight? There’s so much potential in the flour—enough to make more than a hundred loaves! But by itself the flour is just inert, dead weight.

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Open and Affirming: Past and Future

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Preached at First Congregational United Church of Christ (Moorhead, Minnesota). Texts: Genesis 9:8-16 and Mark 12:28-31

In September 2001, I completed a move from Great Falls, Montana to Moorhead here, and started schooling down the street at Concordia College. The first couple days of classes were the usual overwhelm you can imagine—a new school, new place, new friends, and new studies. But then on September 11th, the rest of the world and I sat in bewilderment as we tried to make sense of terrorist attacks that would change world history. The next Sunday, I went looking for a church that would help me make sense of what was going on. That cool September morning, walking north from Concordia, I was heading to St. John the Divine Episcopal Church north of here. But as usual I was running behind, and would be late for that service. Walking past on the sidewalk, I noticed that worship here was also at 10am. I’d be on time here, and I could always go to that other church the following Sunday. So I looked up the stone steps, heard chatting and a friendly invitation, then entered through the open front door. In all the years since, I have never made it to St. John the Divine.

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A closeup picture of a quilted stole, showing rectangles of fabric in blues, purples, and other colors.

Known, Called, Commissioned

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Sermon preached at Newport United Methodist Church and Community United Church of Christ in Newport, Minnesota.
Text: Jeremiah 1:4-10.

I have an embarrassment of riches when it comes to clergy stoles—so many beautiful and lovely fabrics to wear as symbols of God’s call to ministry! When I left parish ministry to begin full-time faith community organizing,
I hung them up in my closet and wondered when I would wear them again. So when Pastor Anne reached out to ask me to preach and share communion this morning, I’m just vain enough to start asking, “What should I wear??” In most Protestant churches, the Epiphany season of growth and wisdom is marked by the color green. So I went to the green and gold stole that a mentor gave me at my ordination, with the reminder that green is worn most often throughout the year. But I was also drawn to this other green one made by a pastor friend in Duluth, which includes the rainbow colors, fabric showing love, the spiral way of faith, and the Black Lives Matter salute that communicates resilient determination. Then again, anticipating seeing here some of the dear Community UCC members, who ordained me fifteen years ago last month in a sanctuary just down the road, made me reach for another stole that the church’s moderator there once gave me: “Blah, blah, blah”! (I think it was a joke?) Finally, Pastor Anne told me that the color for the day was every color—the rainbow! So I have opted for this stole of rainbow colors, made by a gay man in the congregation where I taught Sunday school while in seminary. You may not be able to see it from farther away, but this stole is made of hundreds of small colorful fabric squares, all stitched together by painstaking work into a colorful and diverse tapestry.

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“Sonnet” (James Weldon Johnson)

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I learned this text for the first time this fall, as its been set to luscious music by Marques L. A. Garrett that we’re singing this weekend at the Saturday and Sunday concerts of Singers in Accord. What strikes me is the deeply humane and yet secular nature of these encouraging words. One needn’t be a person of faith to yearn for and hold tight to the promise that good can prevail over evil, and right over wrong. Consider these words, and how they sound as music for the soul (performed here by the Los Angeles Master Chorale).

My heart be brave, and do not falter so,   
Nor utter more that deep, despairing wail.   
Thy way is very dark and drear I know,   
But do not let thy strength and courage fail;   
For certain as the raven-winged night
Is followed by the bright and blushing morn,   
Thy coming morrow will be clear and bright;   
’Tis darkest when the night is furthest worn.   
Look up, and out, beyond, surrounding clouds,   
And do not in thine own gross darkness grope,   
Rise up, and casting off thy hind’ring shrouds,   
Cling thou to this, and ever inspiring hope:
   Tho’ thick the battle and tho’ fierce the fight,
   There is a power making for the right.

“When news is bad” (Steve Garnaas-Holmes)

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There are a thousand articles and social media posts from pundits and politicians trying to make sense of why the presidential election last week took the turn that it did, and positing the way forward. I’ve read a few of them, and no doubt will read more in the coming weeks. I’ve even written my own near-term reaction piece on Trump’s reelection. But I’ve found myself needing instead to first sit with grief that my neighbors in America have made such a bewildering choice, and to tend to the soul before attempting to diagnose society or chart a course to follow. Into this moment I’ve been grateful to discover this poem by the retired Methodist pastor Steve Garnaas-Holmes. I’m not certain that it was written in the last week with the election in mind–it serves for any time when the news is bad and we need reminders of how to respond with our full humanity.

Take seriously your grief.
It is love, stripped bare.
Let it flow through you.

Trust that you are held.
We all are held by the Beloved,
the Broken-Hearted One,
the One who Suffers most Deeply.

Know you are not alone.
Millions bear your sorrow.
Ancestors and even unborn generations
walk with you gratefully.

Seek others who are tenderhearted.
Receive all the grace you can.
In the flesh is best, but even in spirit,
know we are here.

Trust the Goodness.
God has not given up on us.
Through every disaster grace remains.
Refuse to despair.

Choose courage over selfishness,
trust over fear, love over anger.
You do not know the end of grace.

There is much you cannot change,
but bring healing where you can.
We are not promised to be given light,
but to shine with light.

Don’t become an enemy of the world
and its brokenness. Stay tender.
Become a source of comfort and joy for others.
Let this purpose bear you through the darkness
and you yourself will become light.

Take courage; trust grace;
stay connected; practice love.

–Steve Garnaas-Holmes, unfoldinglight.net

Veteran’s Day Witness

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Every year on Veteran’s Day I think of my brother Ezra, who served among the Marines in Iraq and thankfully carries no bodily wounds from that war. I look at smiling pictures from his time in uniform and wonder about the many unpictured moments that he and other veterans carry inside. We have a sense from news coverage of Ukraine and Gaza of the terrible, ungodly cost of war, but what we see is only a fraction of what is done. What wounding have American veterans caused and witnessed? What wounds do they carry—within and without—from their time of service? How can a country express lifelong caring mercy to veterans and their families, while also committing our whole selves to the causes of peace?

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After Trump’s Reelection

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I woke up at 2:30am and rolled over, sensing that the space beside me was empty, and then saw that Javen’s bedstand light still on. Turning the other way, I reached for my phone and read the headline: Trump won Pennsylvania. I got out of bed and went downstairs to find Javen where I left him hours earlier—lying on the couch, checking election returns. I heard his rundown of the painful results and took some relief in the Minnesota outcomes, but kept going back in shock to the national trends. Republicans gaining ground almost everywhere, and Trump on track to victory even after everyone knows what he plans. I slumped to the floor, leaned on Javen, and said, “It feels really hard to love my neighbor.”

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Channel Anxiety into Action

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The public discourse (and discord) over tomorrow’s election results has reached a fever pitch. I have heard anxiety about what may or may not happen in most conversations over the past week. Even as I’ve been door-knocking and advocating for candidates in my personal capacity, I’m also feeling on tenterhooks about the future. Is anyone else finding it hard to plan for much of anything else beyond November 5th??

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Healed

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Forty years ago, in the mid-1980s, an unusual disease began spreading throughout the United States and elsewhere in the world. Its characteristic symptoms included flu-like illness, skin lesions, anemia, and a gradual weakening until eventual death. Because of the communities where it was most often found in early years, the disease was described as a “gay plague”, and it became the source of even greater stigma. It took years, and tens of thousands of deaths that nearly wiped out a whole generation of gay men, before President Ronald Reagan would even call it by name, “HIV and AIDS”. It took longer still for governmental research to commence on treatments, and while things are greatly improved now, we still have no cure or vaccine for HIV.

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