A Blog Post About Music #5

Featuring several acts I’ve seen live recently!

1. Lucius – Wildewoman (2013)

My first exposure to Lucius was through live videos of some of their performances. The tight female harmony vocals are made that much eerier live by the fact that their singers dress identically for shows. The style is sometimes rock, sometimes minimalist, and sometimes sounds like it’s coming straight out of the 50s. The showmanship is great–I got to see them open for Sara Bareilles last week, and they rocked out. Favorite tracks on this album include “How Loud Your Heart Gets,” “Don’t Just Sit There,” and the one you’ll see live below, “Go Home.”


2. Lowland Hum – Native Air (2013)

I first saw Lowland Hum at a house concert, before they were Lowland Hum. The duo is Daniel Levi Goans and Lauren (Plank) Goans, and when I first heard them, they had been married maybe 2 weeks. Lauren was mostly singing backup to Daniel’s music. Now, these Greensboro natives are a full-fledged musical as well as marital collaboration, and the result is stunning. The surprising but inviting melodies and lyrics and minimalist yet broad dynamics have the effect of making you lean in to listen and then step back to experience thematic and musical crescendos. Daniel and Lauren’s voices are in tune and embody the sound of two people in love. And, hey, they did a Tiny Desk Concert!


3. The Collection – Ars Morendi (2014)

This is another example of a group I first saw in a humble setting and later got to see after enormous growth. On stage, The Collection looks like a sound engineer’s worst nightmare–I don’t actually know how many members it has, but it’s at least a dozen. It looks like the natural-family-planning-love-children of a folk act and a grown-up version of your middle school band/orchestra. I first saw them at the Wild Goose Festival in 2012 and responded positively, but I mostly thought it was sort of a gimmick to have this insanely large group of people making music together. But when I went to their album release in Greensboro recently, I was proven so, so wrong. Frontman David Wimbish’s songwriting is stellar, the lyrics poignant and profound without trying to prove anything, the music catchy yet not predictable, the arrangements amazingly tight for using such a palette of instruments.


4. Susan Werner - The Gospel Truth (2007)

Susan Werner is a delightfully introspective yet sassy songwriting with a voice dripping with character and soul. I got on to her album The Gospel Truth and am still digging into the lyrics. She challenges established religion and beckons us further into a way of life based more on love and compassion than on rules and being right. Also, she’s apparently scoring Bull Durham: The Musical…frankly, I didn’t much care for the movie, which was a disappointment as a 7-year Durhamite, but who knows. Anyway, I got to sing her song “(Why Is Your) Heaven So Small” in church recently, and it was pretty freaking cool.


5. Sia – 1000 Forms of Fear (2014)

I first heard of Sia at the Sara Bareilles concert where I saw Lucius. Sara does a mind-blowingly awesome cover of Sia’s song “Chandelier.” Apparently, Sia has worked with a ton of really big names in pop and R&B. You know, David Guetta’s “Titanium” and Flo Rida’s “Wild Ones.” Not that I particularly love either of those, but it turns out Sia has a habit of avoiding the spotlight (she performed live on Ellen with her back to the audience), and people who are low-profile like that always fascinate me. What’s more, the music video for “Chandelier” (below) features child dancer Maddie Ziegler, and it’s weird and amazing in the best way. I don’t love Sia’s whole album, but I’ve had “Chandelier” stuck in my head for a week, both the original and Sara B.’s cover.

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The Last Trumpet

This sermon was preached at Centenary United Methodist Church in downtown Winston-Salem, North Carolina on May 11, 2014. The Scripture was 1 Corinthians 15:51-58.

Throughout the history of philosophy and theology, there has been debate about the relationship of the body and the soul. Ancient Greek philosophers believed that the soul and body are separate entities. According to the Greeks, the body is nothing more than a container that holds the soul. The soul is our real self; the body is just a shell.

This way of thinking is exactly what Paul was writing against in his letter to the churches at Corinth. The Corinthians are Greeks, some of the early Gentile converts to Christianity. It seems that they have been preaching about a resurrection only of the soul. Paul reminds them that Jesus’ body was raised from the tomb.

When we recite the Apostles’ Creed, we say this: “I believe in the resurrection of the body.” If you ask most Christians what that means, they will say it means that Jesus’ body was raised from the dead. This is true, but it’s not actually what the creed is talking about. The creed is talking about our bodies being raised at the last day.

The resurrection of Jesus’ body was not a party trick; it was the first fruit of the general resurrection. It flies in the face of Greek thought that would separate the body and the soul, and as it turns out, it is wholly consistent with the Biblical account of the nature of humanity. We are not souls that happen to have a body; we are bodies enlivened by a soul.

Let’s go back to the creation story in Genesis. Here is how James Weldon Johnson retells what happened on the sixth day of creation, after everything had been made except humanity:

Then God walked around,
And God looked around
On all that He had made.
He looked at His sun,
And He looked at His moon,
And He looked at His little stars;
He looked on His world
With all its living things,
And God said, “I’m lonely still.”

Then God sat down
On the side of a hill where He could think;
By a deep, wide river He sat down;
With His head in His hands,
God thought and thought,
Till He thought, “I’ll make me a man!”

Up from the bed of the river
God scooped the clay;
And by the bank of the river
He kneeled Him down;
And there the great God Almighty
Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky,
Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night,
Who rounded the earth in the middle of His hand;
This Great God,
Like a mammy bending over her baby,
Kneeled down in the dust
Toiling over a lump of clay
Till He shaped it in His own image;

Then into it He blew the breath of life.

God does not make a soul and then stick in into a body. God gently molds a body in God’s image out of the dust of the earth, working patiently like a potter at her wheel, motherlike in her tenderness and attentiveness. And then, God breathes life into the clay.

We are not souls that happen to have a body; we are bodies enlivened by a soul.

One of my favorite psalms is Psalm 131, and not just because it is very short. Psalm 131 is about peace and hope. It has a beautiful image of the soul with God like a child with its mother:

“But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; my soul is like the weaned child that is with me.”

The way the Psalmist speaks of the soul is so tangible and embodied. Singer-songwriter Joni Mitchell said, “love is touching souls”—our souls long for touch because our souls are themselves embodied.

Many studies have shown that physical touch is integral to human development in the earliest stages of infancy. In 1946, “Rene Spitz…observed that infants who were raised by…young mothers in a penal institution were better off than infants who were provided with sufficient nutrition in hygienic [orphanages].”

We are not souls that happen to have a body; we are bodies enlivened by a soul.

Today is Music and the Arts Sunday as well as Mother’s Day. The arts speak to our souls, but they do so only with the help of our bodies. Art is to be seen, heard, touched, tasted, and smelled. Our bodies enable us to feel the goodness of God in a tangible way.

Psalm 34 says, “O taste and see that the Lord is good!” We are not called to metaphysically sense the presence of God in some disembodied, ethereal way. We are called simply to taste and to see. We are called to feel God’s embrace and to quiet our souls in the arms of our Mother.

It is in our bodies, and not without them, that we find resurrection. Whether our bodies are strong or feeble or broken; whether our ears can hear or have been deadened by age or illness or accident; whether we can speak or sing or mumble or only stand mute; whether our minds are sharp or clouded by dementia; whether our eyes are bright or blinded, whether our tongues can savor or have grown dull with time, we will all taste and see that the Lord is good.

I have a neighbor named Walker. He is cute, sweet, a great conversation partner, and he really likes me. He is also 3 years old.

The other day, Walker shared the gospel story with me, and he was right on point.

Walker and I were getting ready for a neighborhood event, and his grandmother was working with other volunteers at the kitchen while also trying to keep him occupied. I decided the best way for me to be helpful was to distract him. With the help of his grandmother, Walker started telling me about the Easter play he had gone to see recently. His grandmother prompted him as he explained to me how Jesus died on the cross, was in the tomb for 3 days, and then rose from the dead.

But then Walker got really excited and took over the narrative.

“And guess what?” he said. His little body curled up as if he would physically burst from anticipation.

“What?” I asked.

“Guess what’s gonna happen when Jesus comes back again?” He could barely stand the excitement.

“What?!” I repeated.

Walker was actually trembling now, and finally he flung his arms wide and shouted, “He’s gonna take us all with him! EVERYBODY!!!”

In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet, he’s gonna take us all with him. Every body. Amen.

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Learning to Make Mistakes

If you’ve talked to me for more than 2 minutes or gone anywhere near my Facebook profile in the last few months, you’ll know that I have started my first garden and am pretty excited about it.

But the other day, I made a mistake that cost me almost all of my plants.

I had noticed some bugs had been munching on my kale and broccoli, so I got insecticide. I knew this particular product was also good for fungus control, so I put on my straw gardening hat (which I bought ironically but am now totally, unabashedly in love with) and set about spraying down not only the brassicas but also my brand new transplants.

I finished treating most of my 14′ x 24′ plot, wiped the sweat off my brow, and looked at the bottle of the product I had just been using.

My heart sank at one word: “CONCENTRATE.”

This little bottle in my hand makes 16 gallons of spray when watered down. I had just coated my plants with the undiluted solution.

A quick phone call and a Google consultation revealed that this product was nothing but organic oils, so it’s not like I had just doused my yard in chemicals. Maybe the plants would be OK?

But after a few days, it became clear that they would not be OK. My baby tomato and squash plants, and even my big, previously healthy kale and broccoli, all looked like they were dying.

I was pretty proud of my initial reaction, because I did not immediately burst into tears. Instead, I thought about it and put a plan into action. Most of the young plants had only been in the ground a few days; I could easily replace those. The kale and broccoli were a lost cause, but I could tear them out and plant other things in their place.

I set off for Webster Brothers Hardware, feeling very pleased with my happy-go-lucky, not-at-all-anxious-or-self-deprecating attitude. I was rolling with the punches! Take that, tendency to be too hard on myself!

But then, that little voice in my head started talking. You are an idiot. You know you should always read the instructions. You never pay attention. You are careless and stupid.

Suddenly I was back in familiar territory. This is how I usually handle making mistakes–by seeing them as further proof of what an awful, useless person I am. I should have read the directions. A halfway intelligent person would have read the freaking directions.

I just finished reading Brené Brown’s book Daring Greatly. In it, she makes a distinction between guilt and shame. Guilt, she says, is feeling appropriate remorse for something you did or said and taking action to remedy it. Shame, she says, goes beyond that–it becomes about your worth as a person and your ability (or lack thereof) to connect with others.

In this example, guilt sounds like this: “I didn’t read the instructions. That was a mistake. I know that’s something I tend to do, so I’ll be more attentive to that from now on. I will do what I can to fix this, and next time, I will read the instructions.”

Shame (courtesy of the little voice in my head) sounds like this: Only an idiot does something stupid like that. You should know better. Everyone who has been so interested in and impressed by your garden is going to be disappointed when they find out you screwed everything up.

Shame, Brown says, is the fear of disconnection. My garden has been a source of connection for me–to the earth, to myself, to other people–and suddenly, I was imagining all the ways this would ruin that. My roommate had been looking forward to juicing the kale. My dad had been so impressed by my big, leafy plants. A friend had helped me start the garden and had given me or helped me select all the plants I had just murdered. I had let all those people down, and now they would all know that I was an idiot.

I wanted to quit. I wanted to give up. That’s what I usually do when I realize I’m not good at something.

But I didn’t quit. I tore out everything that had been damaged. Fortunately, the sugar snap peas, cucumbers, beets, lettuce, and carrots were safe. I replanted my tomatoes, peppers, squash, and eggplant. Without the kale forest taking over the big bed, I was even able to rearrange the placement of my plants so that the tomatoes had more space when before they had been a little crowded. A small victory.

And this was my bigger victory: I added watermelon and cantaloupe to my garden. I hadn’tphoto-2 had room for them before. I will definitely miss the kale and broccoli, but I’ll just keep buying them like I’ve always done.

The next time that little voice in my head calls me an idiot, I have a rebuttal:

Would an idiot have watermelons in her garden? I don’t think so.

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Failure to Recognize

This sermon was preached on May 4, 2014 at Centenary United Methodist Church in downtown Winston-Salem, North Carolina. The text was Luke 24:13-35.

Several years ago, I was out grocery shopping and walking through the parking lot toward the store. I noticed a man come out of the store and start running toward me, shouting. I couldn’t quite hear what he was saying, but he seemed to be very excited to see me.

I had no idea who this man was, but he clearly recognized me. So I did what any person who is polite but prone to forgetting names would do—I pretended to recognize him, too.

I called back to him, “Oh hi! How are you?”

But then he got about five feet away from me and stopped. “Oh,” he said, “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

And so I pretended not to have been pretending to recognize him and went on my way.

We have all had experiences of a failure of recognition. We might see someone from work out of context and find we can’t quite place him or her; a person we know from church might walk right by us in the grocery store without even acknowledging us; or perhaps, like the poor guy from my story, we might think we recognize someone, when really they are a stranger to us.

When Jesus rises from the dead, those who knew him best fail to recognize him. At the tomb, Mary Magdalene mistakes Jesus for the gardener. And here, the disciples don’t recognize Jesus at all, even as they are talking about the events surrounding his death.

Why don’t they recognize Jesus? This passage says, “Their eyes were kept from recognizing him.” Maybe God is intentionally clouding their vision. Maybe the risen Christ somehow looks different. Maybe it would just be too ludicrous to think that this was actually Jesus who had been crucified, so even if they do see the resemblance, the disciples don’t even entertain the idea.

Carol Howard Merritt suggests something that doesn’t often occur to us. She reminds us that at this point, the disciples are in the throes of unimaginable grief. They have been shaken to the core by the trauma of having their teacher taken from them, beaten, tortured, and executed in a slow, painful manner.

Their trauma is not only personal but also theological—“we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.” This, they had thought, was their Messiah. They have lost not only their friend and teacher but also their Messianic hope.

Anyone who has experiences loss knows that grief is disorienting. Your perspective, your focus, your way of processing things—it all shifts. A friend of mine has said he wonders if that grief is why it took so long for the story of Jesus’ life to be written down. The earliest Gospel, Mark, wasn’t recorded until 70 CE, almost 40 years after Jesus’ death. What if the whole ordeal was too traumatic, too disorienting, to be written until some time had passed?

And it was not only Jesus’ death that was traumatic; his resurrection was, too, even in the joy. The disciples must have experienced some severe emotional whiplash, from believing this was their Messiah to watching him die to suddenly hearing the impossible news that he was alive again. The good news of the resurrection may have been harder to believe and accept than the devastating news of the crucifixion.

Many families of alcoholics and addicts pray for years that their loved ones will get sober. When and if they do, there is, indeed, joy—yet at the same time, life after sobriety can be just as hard as life before it, if in a different way. Sobriety does not erase the pain of what went before, nor does it remove all that it means to be imperfect people in a fallen world.

The disciples grieved Jesus’ death as their friend, teacher, and Messiah. They rejoiced at his resurrection, but they must also have been confused and disoriented. Perhaps they even wondered if they were being deceived in some way.

And so the disciples start their 7-mile walk to Emmaus, confused and grieving and amazed and in disbelief. A man starts walking with them, and they don’t even pretend to recognize one another. Jesus simply comes alongside them and shares in their journey.

When I started seminary, they gathered all the first-years together for an opening worship service. One of the current students was preaching on this very text from Luke 24. Bonnie gave us both encouragement and a warning: don’t spend so much time talking about Jesus that you miss actually encountering Jesus.

The Greek root of the word “theology” breaks down to this definition: “words about God.” Countless words about God have been written and spoken and thought over millennia. Sometimes these words draw us closer to God, and sometimes they keep us from God.

But Jesus does not do away with those words because Jesus is the Word incarnate. The disciples share their story, and then Jesus shares the story of the Scriptures. In a moment of hilarious dramatic irony, Jesus explains to these men exactly who he is, using words with which they would have been intimately familiar.

This part of the story is an echo of John 5. I love how Eugene Peterson’s paraphrase of the Bible, The Message, interprets verses 39 and 40: “You have your heads in your Bibles constantly because you think you’ll find eternal life there. But you miss the forest for the trees. These Scriptures are all about me! And here I am, standing right before you, and you aren’t willing to receive from me the life you say you want.”

Supper At Emmaus

“Supper at Emmaus,” He Qi

The disciples have their heads in the Bible and in the latest gossip from Jerusalem. Jesus meets them there in Scripture, but then he asks them to look up. And he does so by offering them bread.

“When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him.”

At our 11:00 service, we have only recently added intinction stations (where you receive a piece of bread and dip it into a common cup) along with the option of receiving individual wafers and cups of juice at the altar rail. What we have heard from people who try intinction for the first time is that they are moved by the act of coming face to face with the communion servers. Standing at eye level with the person handing them bread or offering them the cup, they make eye contact with that person and see them in a different way.

When we break bread together in a few minutes, we have the opportunity to recognize Jesus anew. We see him in the bread and cup. We see him in one another. We see him in this gathered community we call the body of Christ.

And in this recognition, we find our Messianic hope—that this is the one to redeem Israel. This is the one to redeem us all. Amen.

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A Blog Post About Music #4

I got tired of making up dumb blog titles like “Yet Still Even More Another Again Blog Post About Music,” so I’ve moved to numbering the posts. Welcome to Episode IV: A New Blog. Or something. Featuring alt rock, alt R&B, baroque pop (whatever that means), hip hop, and pop. Music is the coolest.

1. The Hold Steady – Teeth Dreams (2014)

My knowledge of The Hold Steady has mostly been focused on their 2006 album Boys and Girls in America, but when I heard a review of their new release on NPR’s Sound Opinions, I decided to check it out. The production is slicker than in the past. The guys at Sound Opinions don’t dig it, and I had my reservations about a sound shaped by producer Nick Raskulinecz, who has worked with Foo Fighters, Evanescence, and Coheed and Cambria (all bands I listened to in high school…but not since), but the quasi-spoken word vocals of Craig Finn set it apart for me. I love the storytelling in their music.


2. Rhye – Woman (2013)

I love the opening track to this album, “Open.” But the whole album is…dreamy, chill, electronic, soulful. The duo’s sound is reminiscent of Sade and speaks to the sensual, the emotional, the human. Check out Rhye.


3. Jónsi – Go Do (2010)

This is an album I’ve pulled back out recently because it just embodies summer joy for me. Jónsi is the lead singer of Sigur Rós, in case this post needed some more hipster points. (I know, I said I was going to stop using that word.) The music on Go Do is danceable, pranceable, whimsical, and uplifting. To me, it sounds like the taste of Arnold Palmers by the pool with friends.


4. Homeboy Sandman – First of a Living Breed (2012)

The fact that Homeboy Sandman released an album called Actual Factual Pterodactyl (2008) is enough to pique my interest. But I didn’t actually know that when I was introduced to First of a Living Breed (2012). He speaks truth thoughtfully through great lyrics and beats. This track, “Illuminati,” hits on everything from technology to race to the War on Drugs to religion.


5. Sara Bareilles – The Blessed Unrest (2013)

Honestly, I haven’t really gotten into this album. I LOVE Sara Bareilles–girl can SING, and I have the words to the entirety of both Little Voice (2007) and Kaleidoscope Heart (2010) memorized. But even after a few listens, The Blessed Unrest just hasn’t grabbed me yet. The obvious exception is the opening track, everybody’s favorite, the totally danceable, perfect for running or a self-esteem boost, “Brave.” You can’t not smile watching the music video for this song (which, I recently learned, was directed by Rashida Jones).

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Untying My Shoes for Lent

When I was a kid, I never untied my shoes. I’d come in from running around outside, probably playing softball or traipsing through the woods or doing something equally tomboyish, and rather than bend over to undo the laces, I’d step one foot on the heel of the other and yank my foot out of my shoe.

My mom would warn me that this was going to make my shoes wear out faster, but I didn’t care. It’s not like I was having to pay for the shoes when they needed to be replaced.

You’d think that this habit would have changed once I reached adulthood and shoes became a budget line item. It didn’t. To this day I am still more likely to try and treat my sneakers like slippers, squeezing my feet in and out of them with that bow still double-knotted.

But this year, I am untying my shoes for Lent. Not because it’s probably better for the photoshoes or because it ensures I’ll have my laces tied properly for best support when I go running, though those are good enough reasons in themselves. I’m untying my shoes for Lent because the reason I usually don’t do it is that I don’t have time.

This, of course, is a lie. Untying my shoes takes less than 30 seconds. Unless there is a wild animal chasing me (in which case I’d probably want to leave my shoes on) or someone shooting at me (same idea) or I’m on my way to save someone’s life (really, why am I taking my shoes off at all?!), I have time to untie my shoes.

When I get stressed or anxious, I can get so panicked about how little time I have that I don’t use that time well, or I forget to take care of myself, or I am short with other people. To say, “Yes, I do have time to untie my shoes” is also to say, “Yes, I do have time to complete all the tasks before me (or to ask for help in doing so),” or, “Yes, I do have time to eat well, pray, do laundry, clean my room, and get enough sleep,” or, “Yes, I do have time to give this person my full attention and respect.”

In Lent, we sanctify time and reclaim it. We enter into a period of waiting for something that has already happened but somehow has yet to be realized fully. And so I am sanctifying and reclaiming my time, slowly but surely, in 30-second chunks.

Every time I pause and bend down to untie my shoes, I hope to remember that the God of time is also the God of abundance and love, and that it is that God, and not time itself, that rules my life.

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This sermon was preached on February 23, 2014 at Centenary United Methodist Church in Winston-Salem, NC, on Luke 4:14-21.

Simon says raise your right hand.

Simon says put your right hand down.

Simon says raise your left hand.

Simon says put your left hand down.

Simon says raise both hands.

Put both hands down.

If you just put your hands down, I hate to tell you—but you are out of the game.

To refresh everyone’s memory, “Simon Says” is a children’s game where one person is designated the leader, or “Simon.” Simon gives directions for the group to follow, but each instruction has to start with the phrase “Simon says.” If the leader gives an order without saying “Simon says,” the other players are not supposed to mimic the action. If they do, they are out.

Today, we kick off our study of Mike Slaughter’s book Change the World: Recovering the Message and Mission of Jesus. As we prepare for and enter into the season of Lent, small groups and Sunday School classes at Centenary will be reading and discussing this book. Each week for 6 weeks, a different word will guide our study: Follow. Welcome. Feed. Heal. Rescue. Go.

We start with “Follow.” I chose to begin by playing “Simon Says” because it is a game of following. But it’s about more than that. In “Simon Says,” if you follow directions without paying attention, you will make a mistake. “Simon Says” isn’t just about following; it’s about listening.

In the church, we talk a lot about following Jesus. And we should. That’s what we are called to do: follow Jesus.

But in order to follow Jesus, we first have to listen to him. Otherwise, we might look up one day and find ourselves following something other than Jesus—money, politics, ambition, career, you name it. We might end up following something that seems good—morality, religion, a pastor, even Christian values—but following any one of these things is not the same as following Jesus.

The passage we just heard from Luke 4 marks the beginning of Jesus’ public ministry. He has been baptized and tempted in the wilderness, and he comes to his hometown to begin preaching, teaching, and healing.

Mike Slaughter says that this passage defined Jesus’ mission, and it defines our mission, too. Jesus reads from the prophet Isaiah: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”

Many passages of Scripture lend themselves to different interpretations, and so I am wary of any sentence that starts with the phrase “The Bible clearly says…” But the Bible is clear on a few things, and this is one of them. Mike Slaughter puts it this way: “The gospel is good news for the poor. If it is not working to benefit the poor and oppressed, then it is not the gospel!”

Jesus goes to bring good news to the poor. And then Jesus says, “Follow.”

If we are listening to Jesus, we will notice that here, he does not say, “Follow me to get into heaven.” Modern Christianity tends to be obsessed with personal salvation, with getting into heaven. Salvation is important, of course, but it is not all about getting fire insurance for your soul, so to speak.

While we are scrambling to make sure we know where we’re going when we die, Jesus is asking us to notice first where we’re going while we live. Jesus ascended into heaven only after he had descended to this world, after he had gone to bring good news to the poor.

In his book Love Wins, Rob Bell says this: “A proper view of heaven leads not to escape from the world, but to full engagement with it.” If we focus only on heaven later, we miss our opportunity to taste and realize heaven now. Mike Slaughter says, “We have overemphasized getting people into heaven to the neglect of getting heaven into earth.”

Since last September, we as a congregation have held up a simple but profound question: “Are you hungry?” The answer has been a resounding yes. We—and our neighbors—are hungry—physically, emotionally, spiritually, and relationally.

As we have explored the many dimensions of hunger, we have talked about prayers, presence, gifts, and love, and in the month of February, our theme has been reverence. What does it mean to be reverent, to be holy, before a God who is holy?

When we talk about holiness, we tend to focus on personal holiness—our own morality and piety. This is part of holiness, but it goes far beyond that. We cannot be holy on our own. We can only be holy together. This is why John Wesley said, “The gospel of Christ knows…no holiness but social holiness.”

There is a story of a man who had stopped going to church and was spending most of his time alone in his house. The pastor went to visit him and found him sitting by a fire. The man welcomed him, and the pastor came in and had a seat but said nothing. As they sat, the pastor moved to the fire, took a pairs of tongs and removed a single ember. He set it off to one side of the hearth.

In a matter of minutes, the ember’s glow faded, and it grew cold while the fire blazed on. The man turned to the pastor and said, “Thank you for that sermon. I’ll see you on Sunday.”

We cannot be holy on our own. We can only be holy together—together not just with the people in our church but with all of God’s children. Jesus says, “Follow”—and he says it to all of us, together.

This is what I want you to think about when we get into our Lenten theme of service. We serve one another because we need each other, because we are called not to get into heaven but to get heaven into earth.

We are called to service, we should be careful not to forget who the real savior is. The real savior is not morality, religion, a pastor, or Christian values, and it is certainly not us. Slaughter’s book calls us to change the world, but we can only do that in the same way Jesus began his ministry—“by the power of the Spirit.”

We are called to service, but we are not the savior. Jesus is. All we do is follow and show the way. As D. T. Niles put it, “Christianity is one beggar telling another beggar where he found bread.”

Lilla Watson is an indigenous Australian activist, and she said one of the most compelling and challenging things about service that I have ever heard. Here is what she said: “If you have come here to help me, you are wasting our time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.”

Our liberation is bound up with the liberation of the poor, the captive, the blind, and the oppressed, because we are all just beggars looking for bread. If we serve our neighbor because we think we have something to give, because we think we can help, because we want to make them more like us—we are wasting our time. But if we serve our neighbor because we believe that the only way we can be saved is to be saved together, then, perhaps, we have begun to follow Jesus.

Remember when we played “Simon Says” earlier? Have you ever wondered how that game got started? Apparently it goes back centuries, millennia even. It refers to a saying about Cicero, a Roman politician and orator from the 1st century BCE.

The saying went like this: Cicero dicit fac hoc, or “Cicero says do this.” Cicero was such a powerful person that if he said to do something, you just did it.

What if, when Jesus said to do something, we just did it?

One of my favorite saints is St. Francis of Assisi. Francis was born the son of a wealthy merchant, but when he became a Christian, he renounced his family’s wealth. He went down into the valley to meet Christ in the poor and the outcast, becoming poor and outcast himself.

When Francis heard Jesus say, “Sell all you have and give it to the poor,” he thought that Jesus actually meant it. Francis is my favorite Biblical literalist. Jesus said it, and Francis just did it.

Jesus goes to the poor in a city ranked the worst in the country for childhood food insecurity. Jesus goes to the captives in a country that has less than 5% of the world’s population but almost 25% of the world’s incarcerated population. Jesus goes to the blind and the oppressed, to the disabled, the marginalized, the addicted, the vulnerable, the outcast.

Jesus goes to each one of us, and Jesus says, “Follow.”

Are we listening?

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