Donald Trump Stole My Old Church

Brett Younger

When I was a high school senior I became angry with my church.  The story of Jesus was leading me away from what they taught me.  I wondered if they had read the Bible they kept telling me to read.

Here is a partial list of things I stopped believing.  Christians are going to fly up into the sky any minute.  The earth is 6000 years old.  Budweiser is the devil’s poison.  Women are disqualified from telling the Christian story if there is a pulpit in front of them.  Gay organists can serve the church only if they are not seen in public with their partners.  The Pope is the anti-Christ.  My Jewish friends are going to burn in hell forever.  Everyone who smokes marijuana should be executed.  Kindergarten teachers should carry handguns.  Poor people get what they deserve.  I decided that my church was filled with narrow-minded fundamentalists who were not worthy of my new enlightened state.

But as time passed, I made peace with the church of my childhood.  I have been growing more appreciative.  They may have taught me a few terrible things, but they also introduced me to Jesus.  I defended them by saying that my old church is a victim of the culture.

Here is a partial list of the lies I told myself.  The people in my old church are not against women, but actually believe they are defending the family.  They sound racist because they are afraid.  They appear homophobic only because they do not know gay people.  They will stop being prejudiced against Muslims as soon as they meet Muslims.  They defend gun ownership because they love hunting.  Their hostility towards the poor is a misunderstanding of the American dream.

I convinced myself that while much of what they believe goes against the teachings of Christ, they are Christians at heart.  I was wrong.

Two weeks ago, I went to my parents’ church.  I had not been to a service there in thirty-five years.  The peace I had made with my childhood church began to fall apart.

The pickups in the parking lot had Trump/Pence bumper stickers.  American flags were in the front yard, the front of the sanctuary, and on the front of the order of worship.  The congregation sang God Bless America, My Country Tis of Thee, and Onward Christian Soldiers.  I heard, “We could use more fire and brimstone,” “We finally have a president who is doing what needs to be done,” and “We have to get rid of Obamacare right now.”

87% of my parents’ church-infested county voted for Trump.  Donald Trump has made it obvious that my old church is not filled with followers of Christ.  You cannot follow Jesus and support a tax cut for the rich that would end health care to millions of the oldest, poorest, and sickest people.  You cannot follow Jesus and hate minorities.  You cannot follow Jesus and treat women as inferior.

When faced with the choice of following Christ by caring for the hungry or supporting a politician who promises to make the rich richer, my old church ignores the faith they profess.  When given the opportunity to extend hospitality to refugees, my old church chooses bigotry.  When responding to a dishonest President, my old church defends the lies.

I have come to the painful realization that God is not the point of my old church.  My old church is shaped more by Fox News than Jesus’ Good News.  My old church is a chaplain to nationalism, patriarchy, and nostalgia.  My old church is the enemy of the environment, science, and equality.

I am not going to defend my old church any more.  If you are acting like a racist, homophobe, or misogynist in 2017, then you are a racist, homophobe, or misogynist.

How can anyone think that a church that celebrates Donald Trump is what Jesus had in mind?

BrettYounger_SignatureTransparent

Share

Modern Love Reflection

Jacque Jones

I am a big fan of the “Modern Love” column in the New York Times.  I recently had occasion to re-read Brooke Rinehart’s moving story “Sharing the Shame After My Arrest,” which was originally published in April 2011, and I have posted the link below.  In her account, Ms. Rinehart, who had never broken a law in her life, is wakened early one morning, handcuffed, arrested, and hauled off to jail along with her husband of less than a year.  It turns out that her husband has been using her name and identity to embezzle funds in his workplace. To wrap up that part of the story, after 90 days she is exonerated and her husband goes to prison.

But it is her account of those 90 days that struck me.  Devastated – her whole world turned upside down – the 28-year-old Ms. Rinehart moves back home with her parents.  Unable to sleep in the bedroom of her idyllic childhood, she sleeps on the sofa – and her mother sleeps opposite her on the love seat.  Every night.  For 90 days.  Saying few words, but being a constant presence, sharing the heartbreaking load (and the late-night TV) with her daughter. Eventually, her care for her daughter causes her own health to break down.  Ms. Rinehart writes:

“But my mother’s making this about her was actually saving me. To know that someone loved me so much, was willing to feel my pain so intensely that it kept her on the laundry room floor for a day, made me feel encased in a bubble of protection.

“I began to wonder if sadness was this finite thing, a big black mass of which there was only so much in the world.  If so, my mother was sharing it with me so that I did not have to bear the full weight.”

I don’t know if Ms. Rinehart saw her moving tribute to her mom as a metaphorical story – a kind of parable – about God, but I certainly did.

At the end of the account, Ms. Reinhart pours out her story to her doctor:

“Something bad happened to me,” I said, unsure of how to begin.  But then it all came out: my arrest, my husband’s deceit, the charges, the end of my marriage, the loss of my house: the whole harrowing ordeal.  When I finished, her eyes were wet.

“How have you survived this?” she asked.

I thought for a second.  “While the charges were held against me, I slept on the couch in my parents’ house.  I spent 90 nights on that couch.” I paused. “And my mom? She slept for 90 days on the love seat.”

My doctor blinked, unable to hold back her tears. “What a mom,” she said softly.  “What a mom.”

What a God.  What a God.  Emmanuel – God with us.

“Sharing the Shame After My Arrest,”

Share

The Birds and Bees (and How They Fly)

Brett Younger

I was ten years old, lying on the couch reading an Archie comic book.  (I am embarrassed to admit that I liked Veronica more than Betty.)  My father came in wearing Ward Cleaver’s face: “Brett, put your novel away.  There’s something I should have talked to you about by now, but I’ve been putting it off, because I wasn’t sure you were old enough to understand.  We’re going to have a convebrett-fathers-day-blogrsation I think you’ll always remember.”

I was thinking what you are thinking.  My father just offered Andy Taylor’s introduction to the birds-and-the-bees talk.  What I wanted to say was, “Dad, you gave this speech a month ago.  I don’t want to hear it again.  You said that if I had questions I should check back.  I will never do that, but I appreciate the offer.”

How could my father forget that we already had this discussion? (“Discussion” means he talked and I listened.)  And yet, inexplicably, he had forgotten.  It was going to be at least five tortuous minutes before I learned who Archie was taking to the big dance at Riverdale High.

I expected to hear, “When a man and a woman love each other very much” but Dad opened with, “It’s time to talk about how an airplane flies.”

He had several model airplanes with him.  My father gave a speech that lasted longer than five minutes: “An airplane flies because its wings create lift, the upward force on the plan, as they interact with the flow of air around them.  The wings alter the direction of the flow of air as it passes.”

When I thought he would be getting to “a woman is different from a man” he was saying, “The exact shape of the surface of a wing is critical to its ability to generate lift.  The speed of the airflow and the angle at which the wing meets the oncoming air stream contribute to the amount of lift generated.”

We did not get to first dates or anything interesting, but Dad covered drag, acceleration, and aeronautical theory.

Forty-six years later I more often recall Dad’s “how planes fly” sermon than his “where babies come from” speech.  I appreciate the “everything you always wanted to know about aviation” address, because it was my father at his most authentic.  He worked hard to pass down his love for model airplanes (we tried, but I never got it), the Dallas Cowboys (my teenage rebellion was rooting against America’s Team), westerns (I like The Searchers), and Frank Sinatra (I’m right with dad on Ol’ Blue Eyes).

Good fathers share what they love.  Father’s Day is a chance to be thankful for every good gift our fathers tried to give us — even the flying lessons that never got off the ground.

Note:  The photo above is a clever re-creation of a 1971 conversation.

BrettYounger_SignatureTransparent

 

 

 

Share

Hub Cap Salad

John Scibilia

Hub cap salad, also known as jello mold salad, was a centerpiece at the annual church picnic.  Those round green shaky jello salads with shreds of carrots on the inside and mini marshmallows on the top.  Do you cut it like a cake or spoon it like a pudding?  Mom had a piece of Tupperware, specifically made to carry deviled eggs, which was proudly mustered out for this annual congregation event.  Massive pounds of hotdogs and burgers were waiting for the grill.  No one had heard of kale or thought salmon was a cook-out food group.

To work off the great food there was the marathon softball game when everyone had a chance to play, especially the dads who didn’t walk upright for weeks after the picnic.  Even if you didn’t play, you cheered everyone on.  It didn’t matter how you had voted a week ago about getting the new hymnal.  Everyone cheered, especially when they saw the pastor could swing a bat almost as well as he could preach.  God loves each of us the same, but does not bless everyone with the same softball skills.

We worshipped together every Sunday and attended a variety of monthly meetings.  But it was this once a year expression of community that was the subject of stories all year long.  “Do you remember Sal’s home plate slide?  Wasn’t Marian’s potato salad better than ever?  It was so great to see so many of the new members having a good time.  When is the picnic next year?”

Sunday worship brought us into community with God.  Monthly meetings, not so much.  A reading of the minutes and Roberts Rules gymnastics just didn’t do it.  Remembering our time as a community enjoying one another was fun to talk about.  Valuing each other as children of God was far more important than a pressing issue that wasn’t all that pressing.

In the post church picnic glow we greeted each other on Sundays differently somehow.  We had been together in our humanity sharing softball scrapes and treasured family recipes.  God was in our midst in a real way.  When there was the unavoidable difference of opinion from time to time, the picnic was a reminder of our humanity and community.  It was our common faith, not the hub cap salad that brought us together.  The love of God and our common mission kept us together.

The church picnic was one big passing of the peace in the community that lasted all year.  Church picnics, or whatever those times as a congregation may be called these days, can still be all that.  Pass the peace (and hold the hub cap salad).

Share

Happy Mother’s Day to My Mom, Ginger Rogers

Brett Younger

brett-and-momMy mother should be a dancer, but she rolls her eyes when I tell her that.  All of her fundamentalist Christian life, dancing has been as off-limits as rock and roll, Heineken, and liberal Christians, but she could be a ballerina.

My mom has the athleticism of a ballet dancer.  Her brief, but glorious, hoops career is legendary in Northeast Mississippi.  Grandma would not let my mother play basketball for the purple and gold of Itawamba High School because the team’s short pants were two feet too short.  One famous night in 1948, several Lady Indians fouled out in the third quarter of a tight game with their bitter rivals — the Houston Hilltoppers — so the coach went into the stands to beg Clarice Graham to play.  Mom slipped into a borrowed pair of boogie shoes and, in a dress that hit just below the ankles, scored several key baskets, dancing the Indians to a celebrated victory.

My mom has the precision of a ballroom dancer.  Dancers have an extraordinary sense of where their feet, legs, and arms should be at every second. Ginger could not spin with Fred if he showed up one second late.  My mother has a supernatural sense of where everyone should be and has never been less than ten minutes early to anything.  If punctuality was the key to dancing, my entire family would be touring with Alvin Ailey.

My mom has the spirit of a jitterbugger.  The best dancers are passionate. When mom giggles, which she frequently does, she begins to shake, her voice goes to a pitch audible only to dogs, her face turns a beautiful shade of red and her dark blue eyes start dancing.  Her rhythmic exuberance would make Beyonce jealous.

I often irritate my mother by trying to get her to dance with me.  I point out that King David danced, the psalmists tell us to praise God with dance, and Ecclesiastes assures us that there is a time to dance, but she will not waltz, tango, or foxtrot with her son.

Angela Monet writes, “Those who danced were thought to be quite insane by those who could not hear the music.”

Though she will not admit it, mom hears the music and knows she should be dancing.

Some can only remember the jigs their now-departed mothers danced.  Some mothers are too far away to two-step with their sons.  Only a fortunate few can put their arms around their mothers and dance.

On Mother’s Day, be thankful for every playful step your mother ever took. Any excuse is good enough to trip the light fantastic with our moms, even if it is only in our imaginations.

BrettYounger_SignatureTransparent

 

Share

Experiencing Easter

Brett Younger

Words have been failing Easter since the first Easter.  Words of theological explanation miss the Spirit.  Words of debate miss the point.  The words of poets, like gospel writers, come closest, but even they miss the wonder.  Easter is not meant to be spoken, but experienced.easter1

The first reaction the women had on seeing the stone rolled away was not joy, but confusion.  According to Luke’s version, two men offered the terrified women an explanation they were not sure they could believe.  The women returned to the disciples’ hiding place and took turns trying to present a coherent story.  Their listeners wanted to be polite, but they had never heard such nonsense.  The women’s words about life from death were particularly unconvincing.

What did the women expect?  They may have been upset that the other disciples dismissed their story as foolishness, but they must have understood.  An empty tomb proves nothing.  The last explanation to consider is the one that they gingerly suggested.

Resurrection does not square with anything else we know.  No resurrection makes its way into Gray’s Anatomy or Pontius Pilate’s scribal records.  This is a shaky beginning for the world’s most widespread religion.  Modern Christians, with a modern understanding of what is scientifically possible, are tempted to apologize for Easter.

The writers of the New Testament make it clear that Easter does not happen on the basis of second-hand reports.  Those who believed did so only as they discovered that they were not as alone as they had thought.  Christ was somehow with them—making them braver, kinder, more alive, and more like Christ.  The only reason good enough to believe in the resurrection life is if it happens to you.

easter-2Like the first group that hesitatingly made its way toward Easter, we must make our own way to the tomb, not to analyze its emptiness, but to hear the voice of hope.  Easter cannot be experienced vicariously.  So take a walk to the garden and consider the quiet.  Gather with the church and sing the songs of new life.  Serve the Risen Christ by caring for someone who is hurting.

Look for signs of Grace’s appearing—especially in your own heart.  Are you tired of dusks and yearning for dawn?  Open yourself to the possibility that the Spirit of Christ lives on among us—not as a memory, but as the outlandish presence of the Holy Mystery calling us to celebrate.

BrettYounger_SignatureTransparent

Share

A Letter from Liz

Liz Coates

How often do we write letters anymore?  When was the last time I sat down, with a pen and paper (or, fine, a laptop)?  It’s not something we do often.  Email is today’s form of a letter but we use it for business, for necessary communication.  Letter writing feels like something altogether different.  Letter writing is reserved for when we have something meaningful and personal to say.  The last time I wrote a letter, not to be confused with a thank you note, I was saying something deeply personal to someone very close.

The Apostle Paul wrote letters to many, different faith communities in his ministry.  Some of the communities were having theological arguments that he needed to help sort out.  Others were concerned about him sitting in prison and he wrote to ease their worry.  Some of Paul’s letters were in response to good reports about how the community was doing.  But, in all of his letters there are two consistent characteristics.  He reminds each community of the centrality of Christ’s teaching and he encourages them.

As I was thinking of how to write you, I could think of no better model.  I have loved my time at Plymouth.  I have grown to love many of you.  I love our worship together.  I love our ministers and staff. I’ll return to Georgia a better minister because of my time here.  So, while it will be difficult for me not to be with you, I am not worried because of who I see you to be, Plymouth.  You are a church that indeed encourages one another and looks to the Gospel for hope, instruction, and purpose.  The centrality of Christ in all aspects of your ministries is evident.

Paul wrote to the Thessalonians in his first letter of the beautiful hope we have in Christ.  Life was not always easy for this community living in Greek culture and learning to follow the way of Jesus.  Culture often conflicts with what we learned from God incarnate.  And so Paul, to these people he had grown to love, wrote these words:  “Therefore encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing.”  That is what I, likewise, say to you.

Thank you for blessing my life richly and for encouraging me.  Keep up the good work of God that I have seen you doing and keep remembering because of whom you do it.  Be different and have courage for the awesome work that God is offering you.  See with God’s eyes and know that the spirit of love shines brightly through you.

I pray all of God’s grace and joy for you as you continue to grow in community and faith.

Gratefully,

Liz

Share

Worship Receiving Line Etiquette

Brett Younger

photo-feb-19-12-01-40-pmAfter Jesus’ first sermon, the congregation tried to throw him off a cliff.  Since then churches have instituted a receiving line as a way to avoid an unfortunate end to a worship service.  The preacher at Plymouth is stationed at the door through which most people exit, but we leave room for the disgruntled to escape without comment.

This Sunday after she preaches, Liz will have the joy of these conversations.  Most of you are quite good at this exchange, but, nonetheless, just to be helpful, here are a few comments you should not make after the sermon:

“Good try.”

“Do you have a cold?”

“I’m just saying it’s 12:30.”

“Why don’t you preach on Revelation?”

“Every sermon you preach is better than the next one.”

“That used to be one of my favorite texts.”

“Where do you get your hair cut?”

“I’ll give you five bucks if you say the word zamboni next Sunday.”

“Do you know if we’re using real eggs for the Easter egg hunt this year?”

“Here’s what I would have done with the sermon.”

“I don’t come to church to be preached at.”

“Let me respond to the tiniest bit of minutiae from your sermon.”

The receiving line is your opportunity to be the preacher’s favorite—and with so little effort.  There are so many good things to say.  Try one of these on Sunday:

“If you had been my preacher twenty years ago I wouldn’t be so corrupt.”

“You almost make me want to read the Bible.”

“I never thought about that text in that way.”

“I like the Jesus you preach more than the Jesus I grew up with.”

“I talk about prayer a lot, but today I prayed.”

“I feel less tired than when I got here.”

“I remembered some things that matter.”

“I did not enjoy the sermon, but I will think about it.”

“I have a neighbor I haven’t spoken to in ten years.  I’m going to talk to her this afternoon.”

“Thank you for being honest.”

“I want our church to do more for hungry children.  How should I start?”

“I am going to be more aware of God this week.”

“I think I heard the Spirit invite me to do more.”

The best response to a sermon is not the words you offer the preacher, but a renewed openness to God.  As you leave church on Sunday consider shaking Liz’ hand and saying, “I want to be a Christian more than I did an hour ago.”

BrettYounger_SignatureTransparent

Share

Underground Railroads

Brett Younger

Have you imagined the questions the members of Plymouth Church were asking during the 1850s?  Why can’t the church stay out of politics?  Why are we involved with the Underground Railroad?  How do we know the people we are helping are not dangerous?  What is the vetting process?  Can anyone guarantee that nothing bad will happen to us?  Don’t we have enough to do just taking care of ourselves?  Should a church be breaking the law?  What could the government do to us?

Churches across the United States are now asking those same questions.  Many are part of what they are calling the New Underground Railroad.

Recent executive orders on immigration and two Department of Homeland Security memos move past earlier guidelines to focus only on criminals for deportation, and instead put undocumented immigrants at risk of deportation for something as minor as a traffic ticket.  We are being asked to ignore the fact that immigrants are statistically less likely to commit crimes than native-born Americans.

The present administration’s ramping up deportations raises new questions, but the immigration system has not been effective or humane for a long time.  We break families apart and penalize the kind of people we want in our country.  Since 1995 the United States has allowed 5,000 visas per year for unskilled workers (and a guest worker program of about 200,000).  But for years this country has imported most of its agricultural workers, so twelve million people work in the shadows.  Ninety percent of undocumented men are working, because our country needs their labor.

People who do not think of themselves as political, but take their faith seriously, feel compelled to speak out.  Churches are resisting the deportation of undocumented immigrants.  They believe that the Jewish tradition compels us to practice hospitality to the foreigner.  They recognize that the Gospels are clear about the Christian requirement to care for the outsider.  Jesus warns those who pretend to follow, “I was a stranger and you did not welcome me.”

The Sanctuary Movement includes more than 800 courageous congregations that have committed to protecting immigrants.  They pledge to pray, educate, and give money.  Churches like Judson Memorial in Manhattan have formed study groups that are looking for thoughtful and responsible ways to follow Christ’s instructions.  Churches like Pilgrim St. Luke’s in Buffalo are preparing to use private homes as part of a modern-day underground railroad to move undocumented immigrant families to Canada.

Christians are asking good questions.

https://www.buzzfeed.com/salvadorhernandez/sanctuary-churches-v-trump-deportation-mandate?utm_term=.wh86pnX7pr#.pu66ArPqAl

http://www.sanctuarynotdeportation.org/

https://www.christiancentury.org/article/roots-and-branches-sanctuary-movement

http://justice.crcna.org/matthew-25-movement

http://www.judson.org/sanctuary

Basement

Share

On Not Going through Life without Goals

John Scibilia

brett-and-carolAs part of our pursuit of all things New York, Carol and I recently experienced the thrill and excitement of professional hockey.  Our seats were not the best.  We were well out of range of the Kiss Cam.  We had to look down to see the championship banners.  I wanted to shout “Hey, Zebras!  What game are you watching?” but was not sure that made sense from section 209, row 22.

We saw our friends John and Jill Scibilia on the Jumbotron reading the fans’ code of conduct.  I believe the Islanders asked John to do this because he is a fan who needs to be reminded of the fans’ code of conduct.

Hockey is not a big sport in Georgia, so my knowledge is not extensive.  The Islanders’ mascot, an underpaid person in a colossal blue and orange head, is, for reasons I do not understand, Sparky the Dragon.  I also do not understand offsides or icing—which seem to comprise about 2/3 of the referees’ calls.

Hockey has better nicknames than other sports.  Islanders opponents include Blues, Blue Jackets, Blackhawks, Red Wings, Ducks, Devils, Penguins, Maple Leafs (shouldn’t it be leaves?) and Predators (actually “Predators” seems like an unfortunate choice).

Hockey is a little like soccer on skates and a little like human pinball. There were beautiful moments when a skater would turn, spin, and glide majestically across the ice.  Those moments often ended with a huge person knocking the graceful skater into a wall.  Michele Kwan, meet John Cena.  Dentists must love hockey.

I tried to sing along with the tribute to the New York Rangers, “If you know the Rangers suck, clap your hands.”  I offered to buy Carol tickets for Mother’s Day, but she wants to consider other possibilities.

This leads to the perfunctory theological insight that closes church e-news columns.  (I admit this is a stretch and if you only read this column because you love hockey stop now.  You do not need to check this—which may be the worst hockey pun in this column.)  The deep, profound insight is: “We don’t have to stay with what we’ve always known.”  Hockey is now my favorite sport on ice.  (Curling is also a cool sport).

We are tempted to decide what we will do by its proximity to what we have already done.  Maturity is learning that “haven’t been there” doesn’t need to mean “won’t go there.”  There are chess fans who would love hockey if they gave it a chance.  If today is just like yesterday, it may be because we are not seeing the possibilities.

BrettYounger_SignatureTransparent

Share