When I got home the other night and put my sheep in the barn, I counted them as I always do. Right now some of the ewes are with the ram, and those sheep stay out partying all night in the little pen beside the barn. So my count of the barn sheep is different. I wasn’t absolutely sure what my count should be- how many was it again that were out with the ram? Still, as I counted and counted again it seemed I was one sheep short. So I went out of the barn, stood by door, and listened. The night was cold but there was a three-quarter moon shining, and I could see out across the pasture. Right next to me, I could hear the party sheep bleating and baaing. And then, did I hear something off in the distance? Another baa answering back?

I listened longer. Yes, there it was again. It sounded like it was coming from way down the driveway, maybe all the way out on the road. I took my good dog Lizzie with me and started down the drive. As I kept walking, the “baa” got louder. I was definitely getting closer. I was almost to the road, and getting anxious, when I saw in the moonlight a dark shape off to my right. There was the youngster, not on the road but on the other side of the fence, in the corner of the pasture, and standing there calling out but not moving. My dog Lizzie put her head down in Border collie fashion and locked her eyes on the yearling ewe. I said “Stand there” to Lizzie so she wouldn’t scare the little one, then walked up to investigate the situation.

I had seen this before. The young sheep had grown tired of the meager offering of grass in the pasture- well grazed now as fall is turning to winter- and began lusting after the greener, ungrazed grass on the other side. She poked her head through the woven wire of the field fencing, got herself a few good bites, and then got stuck. Her head was wedged there, and all she could do was stand and call for help.

With one hand I grabbed the fence and pulled it toward me, as I put my other hand on the sheep’s head and pushed it away from me. After a little work, she was free. She shook herself off and then began trotting up the fence line toward the gate and on into the barn.

Anytime I lose a sheep, of course, I think of the “lost sheep” story in the Gospel of Luke (Luke 15:3-7). I have heard countless sermons on this passage and even preached some, and I have blogged about a few of my own lost sheep experiences. The reality is always different than the parable. At least it is never as easy or as straightforward an illustration as I used to think it was when I was only a “church’ shepherd and not yet a “mud and muck” shepherd. But the other night I found myself more in the story. This little sheep was pretty simple to find, mostly because she was letting me know where she was, and that she was in need. And that problem she had that she could not fix on her own was actually relatively easy to solve. And there is something so satisfying about being of use to a sheep in distress.

I know that we sheep of the Good Shepherd’s flock can certainly get lost too. And not all our troubles work out the way they did for my lost sheep a few nights back. There are times when we cannot ask for help, or would not know what kind of help to ask for even if we could. And there are times that things cannot be fixed. But still, isn’t it good to know that sometimes all it takes is a little noticing, a little asking, a little listening, and just a little work to bring a lost sheep home?

All the thinking our congregation has been doing lately about what it means to be a church of the 21st century has got me thinking about my sheep. In the last ten years that I have had sheep, and thus have been an actual as well as a metaphorical shepherd, I have watched for the ways the one calling informs the other. Often it has felt that my wooly Whidbey sheep are the ones that teach me about my Seattle flock. At least they keep me focused. And on the farm, the day-to-day practical realities and immediate gratification are instructive and rewarding. Are my sheep hungry? In the winter I throw them a flake of hay; in the summer I open the gate and let them out to graze the upper pasture. Is my flock the right size? I count up my acres, add up my sheep, divide, and decide. Are my sheep wandering into the neighbor’s garden? I patch the fence.

But in Seattle, things are much less clear. Is my flock hungry? Well, that question itself is complicated. What does spiritual hunger look like? How do we know if our restlessness comes from lack of food, or from the fact that we are looking for greener pastures, and not grazing in the abundant pastures we already have? And how much Bible study, or prayer, or even silence constitutes a flake? When I assess the size of this flock, what acres do I count, and what mathematics do I use for the equation? What does it mean when the shepherd is also one of the sheep, and with the rest of the flock looks to the same Good Shepherd for care? And of course, metaphorical sheep wander all the time, and sometimes very wisely and purposefully (if there can be any such thing as purposeful wandering- but that’s another story.) Anyway, it is easy to see that going from the reality of sheep to the metaphor of sheep is a little bit easier then going in the opposite direction, just because the starting point seems more clear.

But in the last few weeks I have found myself wondering how the work of articulating twenty first century patterns of faith might actually relate to my Whidbey flock. So I am jumping in here, seeing if there are connections. This is “living the blog life on the edge,” because I really don’t know if it will “work” or not. But interestingly, this willing riskiness points me to my first observation about the future of faith. My sense is that 21st century Christianity does not want easy answers. A faith for the future is an edgy faith. Those who take the journey these days are not in search of safety so much as they are in search of meaning, and that is a much riskier search. When I was growing up, going to church was the thing to do. These days, and especially in Seattle, going to church on a regular basis is counter cultural, and in progressive circles, it even requires a lot of explanation. You have probably had the same conversations I have: “Yes, I am a Christian, but let me explain that further. I am a progressive, thinking, compassionate, non-judgmental, social activist, green, gay-rights supporting, peace promoting, working for distributive justice . . . (I could keep going) . . . Christian.” At this time in history, progressive Christianity will move forward not because of habit but because of our willingness to live counter-culturally, to opt for a risky life, to explore alternative options.

OK. But sheep are not “risk taking” creatures. They are definitely not into exploring alternatives. The paths through my pasture demonstrate that well. Sheep make those paths, and then they maintain them by walking them day after day, without variation. And safety is almost always on their brains. Safety and food. I have seen sheep run from a dog, and then as soon as they get a little distance away, stop to graze (almost casually), then look up, see the dog, and start running again. “Eat, get to safety, eat, get to safety. Repeat.”

So, is there a connection? What can my risk-taking Seattle flock teach me about my Whidbey woolies? I don’t have an obvious answer, beyond “at this point the analogy breaks down.” And being a “two flock” person, I do not find that answer sufficient. I would rather force the metaphor than abandon it (it’s my old school, either-or thinking I’m sure.) And what about the other “twenty first century” observations about church? That community is central (well, the sheep will relate to that); that authority is shared, (hmmmm), that institutional loyalty is secondary to relationship (they have no idea what that means). So all I can think to do at this point is to end this post, and let the Mystery continue to work with me (as I slip into 21st century imagery again).

I spent last weekend at the Whidbey Institute at a leadership program that will stretch over four weekends throughout the coming year.  Our group of eighteen folks was drawn from all over the country, plus we even had a fellow from Canada, and from all different arenas (the “private sector,” government, the non-profit world, and the church.)  We will be gathering four times around the theme of “seasons of leadership,” and so we started with the fall.  Fall is a season of letting go, of stripping down to essentials, and never a season I would choose to start a year-long program.  It seems to me a time of looking back, not looking forward.  But I was reminded at this retreat that in all the shedding and letting go, what is really happening is that seeds are being scattered in unfathomable abundance, planted all over the place. This is a perfect time to start something- not with a big splash of showiness, but with quiet planting.

I imagine I’ll have lots to tell about the year as it unfolds, but for a start I want to say that this last weekend, one thing we did that I loved was we read a lot of poetry.  Preachers do that a lot anyway, but business executives and managers not so much.  It was great.  So great in fact that it made me want to post some of that poetry here.  Then I realized there might be copyright issues, and tracking down something like that takes me to the outside limit of my organizational skills.  So I decided instead to post a poem I wrote over ten years ago.  I wrote it back when my dog Jake was still not much more than a pup, and I was imagining him when he was older, maybe curled up in front of a fire place on a farm I might own some day.  Now I do live on a farm, and that young pup Jake grew old, and slept by a fireplace very much like the one I imagined, and died last spring.

I offer this poem today in honor of Jake, and of all seekers.

VILLANELLE FOR THE AGNOSTIC PREACHER

That old dog dreams of work and field and flock.
They are his heritage.  A good dog, he,
all black and white and solid as a rock.

Those collies, they rejoice to find the stock
that found the farthest field.  How peacefully
that old dog dreams of work.  And field and flock
fill up the shepherd’s days and evenings’ talk.
I wish that I could know such certainty,
all black and white and solid as a rock.

But I will claim each lonely late night walk
and while I wrestle with the mystery,
that old dog dreams of work and field.  And flock
the crowds to hear the self-sure preachers mock
the questions.  Crowds want crisp theology,
all black and white and solid as a rock.

I wonder what might open this heart’s lock.
Is any good God watching over me,
that old dog, dreams of work, and field and flock,
all black and white, and solid as a rock?

Last Wednesday afternoon I stood in the parking lot of Terminal107 Park, the Port of Seattle land that had been the home for Nickelsville since late July.  It was 1 p.m., the time which had been given as the deadline for Nickelsville to move.  Although the camp itself was almost empty of people, the tents were still up, and twelve folks who had decided to stay in defiance of the order to leave were sitting around almost casually.  There was yellow “police line, do not cross” plastic tape around the encampment, circling the orange plastic fencing that always surrounds Nickelsville.  On the other side of the yellow tape a crowd of us, friends, reporters, observers, Nickelodians, stood watching what would happen next. 

After a Port Police announcement had been made three times, telling the people in the camp to leave, a bus arrived and a whole bunch of police officers (I have read some estimates of up to eighty) came out.  They lined up two by two and began walking into the camp.  The crowd on the other side began to jeer.  A woman next to me said, “I’ve never seen anything like this.  What are they all here for?  You could build a homeless shelter with the money being spent right now.”   Then she said it again, louder.  Then, as if to make sure every one heard her disgust and outrage, she said it again.

As the police went into the camp, they spread out, looking through the tents and walking up to each of the folks who had stayed there.  The arrests were calm and as each person was taken out, the crowd waved and cheered the one who had just been arrested, calling out his or her name.  Reporters and news cameras caught the “action,” such as it was (not much action, actually.)   When all the people had been removed, the crowd also moved away.

 I was left with very mixed feelings.  I have been a Nickelsville advocate since I first heard of this community.  I love their defiant spirit, their refusal to be silent about their plight, and their insistence that they, as homeless people, have some intelligent solutions to offer related to homelessness.  I also believe that the Nickelsville model offers a very workable response to homelessness in Seattle.  I believe that public agencies and city and state governments could provide space and work as partners with the community of Nickelsville, and that the partnership could be a good one.  And I wish that Nickelsville could find a long term home.

However, I also know that the Port of Seattle officials tried hard to work with Nickelsville and were unable to achieve a partnership.  The Port, more than any other agency, tried to join with Nickelsville in moving forward.  Port officials extended the time of Nickelsville’s stay far beyond what any other public agency has done.  They examined many options before concluding that an eviction was necessary.  They volunteered to help find an alternate site. 

I did not heckle the Port Police.  They were not the problem on Wednesday.  I do not disparage the Port officials.  They were not the problem either.  Nor do I blame the people of Nickelsville for wanting to stay where they were until they could move to a permanent site.

I do not know what the solution will be.  Nickelsville is now relocated at Keystone UCC, in a very temporary situation.  Seattle still needs more safe and secure places for people without homes, and Nickelsville is one of those places.  And there are times one has to take a stand.  I do not judge people who come to the conclusion that “now” is that time.  

But on Wednesday, what I found discouraging was the “either-or” mentality that seemed to be n the air.  Such a mentality makes people chose sides, identifying “good guys” and the “bad guys,” and belittling anyone with an alternative perspective.  If we are to live in a world where all people are treated with dignity, then we have to start by ourselves treating all people with dignity.  That includes all people, those with whom we agree, and those with whom we disagree.  I know that is very hard to remember in times of great stress, and Wednesday at Terminal107 Park was such a time.  Still, I long for us all to find another way.  

I say all this because I have seen the unhelpful effects of “either-or” thinking in so many areas of my own life.  And I know such thinking is tempting- it really lets me be “correct” and dismissive.  But what I have discovered, over and over again, is that in politics, in the church, anywhere, an “either-or,” approach is a dead end.  It stops dialogue, undermines cooperation, silences difference of opinion, and closes off creative thinking.  At its worst, it justifies destruction in the name “being right.” 

So I am making my own shout out here- how about we all work to minimize “either-or” thinking and to listen to one another, to increase dialogue, and to disagree with grace rather than name-calling or animosity?   I am not the first person to suggest such a path of course.  In fact, I heard it from a guy named Jesus.  And he is someone whose example I am trying to follow.

I think Sunday afternoons are different for preachers and parishioners in many ways.  We preachers have just finished some of the most intense work of our week.  Parishioners on the other hand can see their weekend winding down, and are either stretching out that time as much as possible, or gearing up for Monday morning. 

I’m reflecting on this because I am reflecting on sermons, and what happens to them once they’re preached.  After we leave the sanctuary on Sundays, what are we thinking about? And once we’re heading home, how much are we thinking about the sermon?

And in this way, I think Sunday afternoons for parishioners and preachers are probably the same.  Some sermons, even the ones I thought were pretty good, I forget immediately.  The moment has passed and we all move on.  Many sermons I remember pieces of- particular illustrations or points I made stay with me.  But every once in a while a sermon follows me, through the rest of the day, through my week, and even longer.  It might be because it felt like a particularly good sermon, or a particularly bad one.  It might be because the response of the congregation was especially strong.  And sometimes it is because the questions the sermon raised are ones with which I continue to live.

In many traditions, sermons are supposed to answer questions, not raise them.  A retired preacher said to me recently as he was walking out of church: “My homiletics professor taught me that I should never scare up more rabbits in one sermon than I can chase down.”  He went on to add that I had got the rabbits running that morning but he thought I had caught them all before the sermon ended.  Well, sometimes I don’t catch all the rabbits.  Sometimes I come to the end of the sermon and just watch those rabbits scatter, scurrying under pews and into corners and through windows and doors and out onto the street.  Maybe it’s inevitable when the topic is big and the time is limited.  When I get home on Sunday afternoons after those kinds of sermons, I might even find that a particularly persistent rabbit has come home with me.  

Because we have been addressing big questions of life and faith, this summer our series of sermons have been rabbit scattering sermons.  And one sermon has kept coming back to me.  The question was, “How do I decide what s the right thing to do?”  Those of you who heard the sermon might remember that I asked friends and family how they answered that question.  And though the sermon was written and preached almost a month ago, the question is still with me.  Those times when a sermon keeps on preaching are precious to a preacher, even when it is preaching to her. 

And I have discovered that others are still thinking about it too.  I am especially hearing from those who answered my inquiries before the sermon.  They are returning to me, telling me something else they have thought of.  Some of those thoughts are profound.  Or a new issue they are facing.  Some of those issues are huge.  Or just that they are still thinking.  Still chasing their own rabbits. 

All of that reminds me that this is no easy question, and there are no simple answers.  Yet every day we have to make choices, we are called to decide, and we try to do the right thing.  This leads me back to anther topic we looked at in this summer sermon series, another one that scared up a whole bunch of bunnies, and one that is also still with me.  “Why bother with church?”  And I guess one answer is, you all help me keep looking at the question of doing the right thing, and looking for more than simplistic answers.  You help me ask that question in big ways as well as in personal ways.  And then, most importantly, you help me live into the answers, no matter how tough they are.  Thank you.

I just returned from two weeks away, on my farm at first and then down to Yosemite National Park in California.  During that time I was pretty much out of the loop when it came to “news of the world,” and that was especially true the week before Labor Day, when I was backpacking.  So when I came back to “civilization” it was stunning to hear of an uproar over the President of the United States’ plan to address the school children of the United States on the first day of school.  I think being out of the media loop for awhile gave me a heightened awareness of the nonsense that we have been hearing all summer.  In fact, even more than nonsense- the hateful rhetoric has passed for political discourse this summer has been exasperating. When our president says that summer is the “silly season” for politicians, he is being extremely generous. 

 All summer I have listened to news reports where people drown out congressional representatives home for the summer and hoping to discuss health care reform.  I attended a town hall meeting with Congressman Rick Larsen in Coupeville, hosted by the League of Women Voters.  It was only the determination of a 4’10” woman who must have been a first grade teacher in another life that kept the meeting from disintegrating into a shout-down.  (Remember when our teachers had to say it?  “We will not continue until the room is quiet!”  That was her)  My time away was a nice break from all of that.

 But then I came home, and as soon as I was within radio range I began to hear the latest.  People who were saying that our president telling school kids to work hard and stay in school is some kind of “political” speech.  It makes me long for a bumper sticker or a t-shirt or something that simply says “Stop the Hate.”

 Stop the hate.  I know good people disagree with one another.  I also know we can do that in a way that does not cut off conversation, or disparage the other person, or destroy community.  I have seen it done.  In this congregation we have learned how to differ with one another without the shouting.  We have learned that the conversation itself, and how we have it, is as important as the conclusions we come to.  We have learned to honor the perspective of people with other thoughtful understandings on an issue.  We have learned not to yell.  We are not perfect at this, but we have learned, and we are learning. 

 Perhaps this is a cry in the wilderness, the call of a woman fresh from vacationland.  But still it seems worthwhile to make the request.  And perhaps if we begin to spread this around, it will make a difference.  Let’s be evangelical about it- a commitment to revel in the conversation, honor differences, and listen as well as talk.

Yikes!  That useful and evocative word is on a coffee mug of mine, one that I got at Magic Mountain, the amusement park north of Los Angeles where I took my San Jose church youth group once on our way to a mission trip to Mexico.   On the mug, in addition to the “Yikes,” is the face of a cartoon figure, upside down and moving fast, strapped in to a roller coaster (Magic Mountain is famous for them).  I bought the mug because it perfectly conveyed how I sometimes felt about youth ministry, and all ministry now that I think of it, and as a matter of fact, it captures how I often feel about life. 

I have been drinking out of that mug a lot lately.

The “yikes” (yikeses?) I’m feeling about life range from ongoing little farm tasks that still aren’t done, all the way to generalized anxiety about the state of the world.  The “yikes” I’m feeling about the blog, of course, is that I haven’t posted anything in three weeks.  So here I am, Thursday morning, starting over once again. 

It’s ironic (and isn’t it always?) that this Sunday I am preaching on the question, “How do you decide what is the right thing to do?”  It’s actually been interesting for me to think about this sermon topic.  And the most fun I have had with this is that a few weeks back I sent out a text message to a bunch of friends and family, asking them if they would help me out with this sermon by answering that question from their own perspective.  Every person I asked said “yes,” which is interesting in and of itself.  And beyond that, the responses themselves have been fascinating.  If you want to know more about those, you can find the sermon on line at the church website next week.

But here is what I am realizing as I write this sermon (and as I am living my life): it is one thing to know what the right thing to do is, and it is another thing entirely to actually do the right thing.  The blog is a simple and pretty inconsequential example.  I want to post every week.  I intend to post every week.   And because I said I would do it, it seems like the “right” thing to do.   But still, here I am, with three weeks between me and my last post.  Yikes. 

The real ethics, of course, are much more complex and much more significant.  I know that living in a sustainable way is the right thing to do. And yet, my lifestyle is not a sustainable one.   I know that working for justice for all in our world is the right thing to do.  And yet, I am often content to settle for my own comfort, and the comfort of my own community.  I know that peace is the only hope for the future of humanity.  And yet . . . .  YIKES!

So I am concluding that any complete ethical system has to take into account the “yikes” factor.  And thus has to also take into account the “starting over” factor.   I’m not sure exactly how to articulate it, but I need a grace that helps me move forward and not get stuck in my “yikes.”  Maybe I should get a mug with a very humble cartoon character on it, no longer zooming along upside down, but taking a step forward, as if it were the very first step taken, and that says underneath, “Beginning again.”

I love this quote from Albert Schweitzer:  “There is no historical task which so reveals someone’s true self as the writing of a Life of Jesus.”  Schweitzer said it in his book, A Quest of the Historical Jesus, written over one hundred years ago, and I did read it back in seminary (and that was not one hundred years ago, despite what the guy on the ferry this morning who called me “granny on a motorcycle” might have thought).  But I actually came across this particular quote in the book Jesus Through the Centuries, by Jaroslav Pelikan.  The central thesis of Pelikan’s book is that Jesus and “the meaning of Jesus” changes through time as different issues from different eras arise.  Thus, Jesus is cast as rabbi, bridegroom, Lamb of God, King of Kings, Prince of Peace, great moral philosopher, liberator, and on and on, according to the needs of any particular generation.  I once heard a preacher point out that there are over one hundred names for Jesus in scripture.  He went on to say that no one name captures all that Jesus is, and the whole list of names does not say all there is to say about Jesus.  Wow.  No wonder “which Jesus?” asks as much about, “who am I?” as it does, “who is Jesus?”

What this invites me to, in my discipleship (that is, in my following of Jesus), is careful self-examination and deep self-awareness. What I said to the children (and thereby to everyone) in worship last week is that our picture of Jesus is like a puzzle.  No one of us has the whole picture, but we are all holding pieces of the puzzle.  When we connect as a community and figure out how those pieces fit together, we get closer to a true picture.  Of course, the converse could also be true.  The more we isolate ourselves, either as individuals or as communities, and hold tightly to our own image of Jesus as the only true one, the more we will find we are only holding on to an incomplete puzzle at best, or a distorted and misleading caricature at worst.  And if you want to see how bad it can get, read Stealing Jesus, by Bruce Bawer.  He emphasizes the danger of such isolation with the verb in his subtitle: “How Fundamentalism Betrays Christianity.”  Strong language.  But it does remind us that our picture of Jesus, mixed up too much with our lack of understanding of ourselves (and our unexamined assumptions about life), can betray our faith.

I don’t think that means I cannot say anything about Jesus.  It simply means I need to understand that when I encounter Jesus (and I do believe that I encounter him) I am also encountering myself.  And that means I need to understand my assumptions, sort through my own presuppositions, let myself be known in community, and always proceed with care. 

So, what can I say?  When I look at Jesus, I see a teacher, a revolutionary, a compassionate “spirit person” (Marcus Borg’s term, and at this point I would also cite his book, Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time), a healer, a social prophet, a brilliant strategist, a feminist(!), a fearless world-changer.  And as a Christian, I also say that I see in Jesus all that I know of God.

I do realize that in these words I am also telling you about myself (and so I could have added “good shepherd,” although I’m not so sure how good a shepherd I am, and at least I didn’t say that Jesus was a democrat!)   But I am telling you about myself as I have been shaped by an encounter with Jesus, which could seem like circular reasoning.  Except that I do believe that where Jesus lives and where God works is in the encounter between my vulnerable self and the “out there” realies-  of Jesus as described in Scripture, of faith explored in a community where I have opened myself to others, (and listened carefully to their stories as well), and of whole wide world.

Which Jesus?  The elusive one who is beyond any label, and keeps calling me to transformation.  The one I am getting to know on my own journey, and the one I am getting to know in this community of faith on the journey with me. The one who names me, and tells me I am a “beloved child of God.”  And then reminds me that it is not just about me- we all are beloved, and not just all us humans, but all of creation.  The one who convinces me that love is stronger than hate, or even indifference, and then calls me to live in that reality. 

Now you tell me.  Which Jesus?

When, for our “I Wonder as I Wander” summer preaching series, the question was asked “Aren’t we just picking what we want to believe from the Bible?” I was intrigued.  As soon as I begin to answer, I find that I am  touching my deepest assumptions about truth.  What, if anything, lies beyond my own consciousness?  How do I connect with it?  (Of course you who are reading this who, I believe, do indeed exist beyond my consciousness may already be wondering what on earth I’m talking about.  I hope you keep reading.)

When I went off to seminary, over thirty five years ago now, I held a very objective view of “truth.”  Not only did I believe that Truth existed pretty much completely outside myself, I also believed that Truth was “revealed” in the Bible.  I believed my life task was to discover what that Truth was and to follow it to the letter.  I believed that if I did not do that, I was putting my very soul at risk.   Of course I felt sorry for folks who did not have access to the Bible, or for people who misunderstood it and so were in trouble with God, but I figured I would let God sort all that out.  I would just study hard enough to stay on God’s good side.

For example, I believed that the Bible taught that to be a Christian one must be baptized.  As a believer.  By immersion.  That was True.  And that belief worked fine at the Baptist seminary I was attending in Louisville, Kentucky.  Though they did not teach that baptism was essential for salvation, they at least taught that believer’s baptism by immersion was an important expression of one’s Christianity, which I figured was close enough. 

Then I took a class at the Presbyterian seminary across the road.  Not only were there good, non-immersed Presbyterians there who sure seemed like Christians to me, there were also four young men studying to be Catholic priests who had come over from St. Meinrad’s in Indiana to take the same class.  I experienced a crisis of faith.  At the time, it was seriously frightening.  I did not know then, at age 22, that a “crisis” of faith can be a very positive thing.  It can be the sign, in fact, of a growing faith. 

As I came to see  that very good, sincere, and in fact brilliant people could arrive at very different conclusions about what the Bible teaches, I realized that my life’s quest to “get it right” was doomed to failure.  And as I came to see, much later,  that very good, sincere, and in fact brilliant people could actually find Truth in scripture other than the Bible (like, say, the Koran), or even outside the rubric of faith, I had to re-examine my whole understanding of who God is, and how I connect with God.  I did not know it at the time, but in that seminary class long ago, I was taking my first steps toward the United Church of Christ and their deep belief in a still-speaking God, who is beyond my knowing, and who I connect with not through the strength of my own understanding, but by grace. 

Along that line, let me say that I have watched with interest as congress has wrestled with this question in a slightly different way in their confirmation conversations with Judge Sonia Sotomayor.  She has been asked over and over if she will apply the Law without regard for her own feelings or experience.  As if anyone can do that.  In fact, I think there is great danger in the assumption that anyone can achieve complete objectivity in the search for truth.  That stance, at its most extreme, allows us to ignore our own unexamined presuppositions (prejudices) and limitations, and gives us permission to ignore the voices that disagree with us.  And the problem I see in the uproar over Judge Sotomayor, I also see in those who think they know exactly what the Bible is saying, and are eager to make others comply with their version of it.

I still look to the Bible for the stories that shape my faith.  And I still “pick and choose,” just like I always have.  The difference is that long ago, I assumed I was not picking and choosing, but simply “studying.”  Now, I try to pay attention to what is behind my picking and choosing.  When I listen to the words of Scripture, I know that I am listening for the Word of God, and in doing that I have found that the words open up to me (and I open up to them) in ways that let them reach to my very soul.

This last week I spent most of my time at Seabeck, at our church’s week long family camp. Almost two hundred of us gathered in this Pacific Northwest slice of paradise on the Hood Canal. First let me say how amazed I have been ever since I came to this church that so many people make it a priority to take a week out of their summer and gather with others to play, laugh, learn and just be together. What a gift they are giving to themselves and to one another. Then, beyond that, I am constantly impressed by the caliber of leaders we have had at this camp over the years. Marcus Borg has been here. Rita Nakashima Brock and Rebecca Ann Parker have been here. Rabbi Ted Falcon and Sheik Jamal Rahman came a few years back with Don Mackenzie. Betsy Rose is our camp musician year after year. If you don’t recognize these names, go ahead and Google any of them. Wow!

This year we (the adults) heard from David Domke and Corey Schlosser Hall (Google ‘em) about faith, citizenship, and the future of our planet. We considered the differences between a “dutiful” citizen and a “relational” one, we learned a variety of handshakes, we wrestled with Big Ideas about what it means to be a faithful Christian on this warming Earth. On Thursday, Corey and David challenged us to do something about what we had been hearing through week. They also challenged us to do it relationally (tell someone about what you are going to do, invite them into some action with you.) And finally, they challenged us to reach out to someone we know who might have a different perspective (one with which we don’t necessarily agree) and have a conversation about the environment.

Well, I didn’t need to go to Seabeck to learn that our planet is in trouble, and that the trouble has a lot to do with how we have been living on it, and that a lot of how we have been living on it has to do with our faith. I already knew that. But I have a habit of saying that at this point in my life I need much more reminding about what I already know about living my life (and my faith) than I need new information about those same topics. Maybe it’s the same for you. Maybe we didn’t learn everything we need to know in kindergarten, but we sure learned a lot of it. And I go to Seabeck to be reminded (and this is also an important part of why I go to church) of the very thing Corey and David kept emphasizing- that we are in this together. This journey of faith (and of life) that we are on is as much about relationships as it is about anything else. So I am writing about it to remind you too. If you were at Seabeck this week, let this be a reminder not only of the commitment you made, but of the connections that were a part of it. If you did not go to Seabeck this week, let me invite you on in to this congregation-wide effort to make a difference, together.