Here is the steeple

Open the doors

And see all the people

I’d venture to say a good number of us recited this rhyme at one point or another during our formative years.  In fact, we probably know the actions too.  It’s cute, and it’s catchy, and I am glad I learned it all those years ago, but there’s something a little bit wrong about it. 

Last week, Staci Schulmerich, John Kim and I sat down to plan our outdoor worship for July 25.  It didn’t take long before we settled on a theme: “We Are the Church.”   Here’s why: on Sunday morning we will gather at 10 a.m. just like normal.  There will be children, youth, parents, and older adults as there are every Sunday.  There will be singing, prayers, and an offering.  There will even be food.  The only thing that will be missing will be our building, because all of this will happen at Hickman Park (23700 104^th Ave West, Edmonds).  Our “church” doors will be closed and our “church” lights will be turned off, but we will still gather to have church. 

 As John and Staci pointed out in our planning, the church is not a building.  We often think it is:

“What are you doing tomorrow?” one person asks.

The response: “It’s Sunday.  I’m going to church.”

But really, the church is not a place you go.  The church is the people.  We are the church.  The church is dynamic and is never confined to a building.  Church happens in all kinds of ways as the people who follow Jesus seek to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with God.  Church is one of few communities where we can let our voices rise in song, making a joyful noise whether we can sing the right tune or not.  Church is one of few communities where young and old regularly come together in community to learn from one another and lift each other up.  Our church is a community that takes risks, like outdoor worship; a community that values fellowship, like the annual church picnic, which will be after worship on Sunday; and a community that honors all people without regard for race, sexual orientation, economic status, gender, or ability. 

The living, breathing church is less like the rhyme above and more like the song: “I am the church; you are the church; we are the church together.  All who follow Jesus all around the world – yes, we’re the church together.”   

You’d better believe we’re singing this song on Sunday!  

I hope you will come be the church with us.



• When we begin to understand object permanence as small children
• When we struggle for independence during adolescence
• When we search for a vocation during young adulthood and beyond
• When we face profound existential questions of meaning and purpose during middle age
• When we learn to understand new limitations as our bodies age

In these ways, our self-understanding is constantly in flux.  Who are we?  This question is magnified during times of abrupt change, grief, or crisis.  When the world around us makes a seismic shift, our questions about life and self can multiply to overwhelming proportions. 

And in the meantime, there are many resources waiting to give us answers.  There are new religions mixed and new secular philosophies.  At the bookstore we can find feel good and self-help material, books that promote liberal individualism, magazines that tout family values, ads that tell us we can do anything we want to do and that urge us to be all we can be.  The choices are abundant and comprehensive, including even postmodern philosophies and deconstructionism with its persistent emphasis on negation. 

Regardless of what we choose, and regardless of what we are aware of, we all have worldviews that help us make sense of our lives.  But that doesn’t mean that all of these are equal.  Some indulge our every desire and give us hedonistic free reign.  We see this in advertisements that use pleasure to sell products.  Some worldviews stand on individualism and independence and don’t acknowledge our human limitations and our creaturely interdependence.  Some seem to do nothing but analyze and criticize, unable to speak of hope or blessing. 

As Christians in this age and especially in our times of doubt, anguish, and uncertainty, we need not head for the bookstore to find the latest craze.  We are part of a transcendent tradition that goes back thousands of years and that is able to speak to all people in all ages and all stages of life.  There are other great traditions like ours, other great religions, but Christianity is the one we walk within, and so when we are wonder who we are, this is the faith to which we turn.

Richard Rohr, in his book Hope Against Darkness: The Transforming Vision of Francis in an Age of Anxiety gifts us with this wording of one of Saint Francis’ prayers:

Who are you, oh God?  And who am I?

I am especially struck by the sincerity and authenticity of this prayer.  Who are you, oh God?  And who am I?  The question is always with us, and the answers shift and change as we do.  But the question is so profound because it is directed to God and not to ourselves.  This doesn’t guarantee security or one-time answers, but it does give us something to stand on:

• We are loved and accepted by that which is greater than us
• We are called to live for peace and justice and to spread compassion in our living
• Like Jesus, we are on a journey that includes suffering also hope.  May it be so. 



If we think about it for a while, we can feel the sadness of mother earth and the pain of the fish and birds who are struggling for survival.  And along with our sadness, we feel helpless.  And along with our helplessness, we feel anger, anger at the sometimes irresponsible practices of offshore drilling and anger at our participation in this economic system of supply and demand that we are part of when we do something as simple as fill our cars up with gas. 

One of the common human responses to such a disaster is to try to figure out who is to blame.  We as a society want justice and we believe those responsible should be punished.  It looks like British Petroleum will be the main scapegoat.  But aren’t there others to blame?  What about our trade agreements and political policies?  What about our systems of regulation?  What about our collective understanding of the environment as something to be consumed?  What about the way we use oil in our everyday lives? 

The oil spill is more than an environmental disaster.  The oil in the gulf is a desecration.  It spoils the water and sea creatures.  It is vandalizing the fishing industry and will defile natural landscapes and protected wildlife areas.  It tears down our own misplaced notions of invincibility and replaces them with some burning questions.  What are our limits as human beings?  What do we need to be doing differently? 

Poet, essayist, and cultural critic Wendell Berry wrote years ago:

We can [not] live harmlessly or strictly at our own expense; we depend upon other creatures and survive by their deaths. To live, we must daily break the body and shed the blood of creation. The point is, when we do this knowingly, lovingly, skillfully, reverently, it is a sacrament; when we do it ignorantly, greedily, clumsily, destructively, it is a desecration...in such desecration, we condemn ourselves to spiritual and moral loneliness, and others to want. 

Mr. Berry’s prophetic voice urges us to turn desecration into sacrament, to orient our thinking about the earth around life, not consumption.  We can use oil responsibly.  We can respond to disasters lovingly and with repentance and grace, committing ourselves to do better next time.  We can admit our shortcomings and our limits and cry out to God with abandon the confession of the ages, "Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer."

“The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it,” declares the Psalmist (Psalm 24.1).  Creation does not belong to us, but we are part of it.  Nature is dynamic and we depend on it for our very being.  We cannot clean up the oil spill, but we can treat creation with knowledge, love, skill, and reverence.  To approach our world knowing our own limits, repenting of our shortcomings, is to see the holy in the land, the leaves, the rain, the trees.  When we consume, we can do it with reverence for that which gives us life and see that act of reverence as a sacrament. 



Our Christian scriptures call us ever to deeper compassion and more expansive hospitality.  The Pentateuch (first five books of the Old Testament) gives repeated instructions to protect the widow, the orphan, and the alien.  Exodus 22.21 says, “You shall not wrong or oppress a resident alien, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt.”  There are echoes of this sentiment all over the New Testament too: “In everything do to others as you would have them do to you; for this is the law and the prophets” (Matthew 7.12). 

As discriminatory legislation is passed in Arizona and as rhetoric about “securing our borders” comes over the airwaves, we as Christians, as youth and adults, are called to filter politics and popular opinion through these scriptures.  We ask not about security but about compassion.  We ask not about jobs but about hospitality.   Furthermore, we are called to be residents of the Kingdom of God more than the Kingdom of this World, and so in many ways we are always strangers in a strange land. 

The trio from One America reminded us how immigrants are crucial to our food production systems and our blue collar workforce.  Even more, they reminded us that the faces of celebrities and politicians and CEOs are also the faces of immigrants and that we too were once immigrants in this place. 

Sunday’s Youth Group was particularly inspiring because of the sharing of two immigrant youth.  Carlos and Laticia are undocumented teenagers.  They are both seniors who will be graduating from high school in the next few weeks and will be headed to college in the fall, Carlos at UW and Laticia at Western Washington.  They have overcome many obstacles on their journeys: parents who work so much that it is hard to have relationship with them, the challenges of job hunting without a social security number, and for Laticia, the recent deportation of her father back to Mexico.  Yet they are strong, and have channeled energy into community activism.  Carlos told me that when he was sixteen he realized that he could make a difference, that life as a teenager wasn’t just about Facebook and video games.  Here he is, speaking at a recent rally in Seattle.  Thanks be to God for our new immigrant friends, and the new eyes we now have to see the world. 



But yesterday I had a bad experience.  I had just made it up Richmond Beach Road.  You know “the hill,” the long and winding stretch, over half a mile of incline.  The first few times I tried it, I had to pull over and walk myself and my bike up the sidewalk.  Now I can make it, as long as I stay in the lowest gear on my road bike.  Yesterday I was paused at the stoplight there at the intersection of 8^th Ave NW and NW Richmond Beach Road.  I was relieved, as getting there is always a small triumph and a sign that I’ve conquered the most difficult part of the commute.  Then someone behind me honked.  It wasn’t loud or obnoxious, just a little “honk-honk.”  I thought it was interesting, maybe even friendly.  The light turned green and I pedaled through the intersection when I realized the honking continued, more insistently.  After about a hundred yards of riding, a silver SUV pulled into the left lane, accelerated loudly around me, and blasted me with the horn one more time. 

My immediate reaction was defensive: Who the heck do you think you are?  I was riding in the right third of the right lane.  I was obeying traffic laws, arm signals, lights, helmet, and all.  And for crying out loud, I’ve delayed a gas-guzzling SUV by a whole fifteen seconds.  Sure, that deserves a mean and nasty honk!  Geez.

Now maybe, the driver was simply someone who recognized me, and maybe I’ve completely misread the whole situation.  But in case, just in case I haven’t, and because this unwarranted driver irritation happens to me and my fellow bike commuters on a semi-regular basis, this deserves a deeper look through a theological lens. 

We all live with countless pressures to be on time, fast, and busy.  We are measured by productivity and are trapped in an economy that values efficiency and profit as its ultimate concerns.  In our rush to keep up with the prevalent economy, whether its image of the day is in clothing, purses, television, or the newest handheld technology, we are driving right past the people we need to see.  We are honking at the people we need to be riding with. 

There are literal and obvious differences between driving and riding bike.  There are also metaphorical and theological differences. 

• To ride bike is to travel with regard for the land.  For bike commuters, the landscape determines our route, offers us views of the world that are not seen by those who are travelling faster. 
• To ride bike is to travel with regard for the environment.  I read somewhere that a bike the most efficient human-powered vehicle.  Human power is an entirely renewable resource with zero pollution, unlike oil, batteries, or electricity that comes from coal. 
• To ride bike is to travel patiently.  It is not fast.  For me it takes at least twice as long to get to church and longer to get home.  Patience is a fruit of the spirit (Galatians 5.22-23), a spiritual practice that pushes us beyond our illusions of control and into that God-centered realm of waiting and listening.
• To ride bike is to opt out of the status quo and contribute to the Kingdom of God.  It is a prophetic act that makes people feel uncomfortable and sometimes a little bit guilty.  Riding bike says that my life is not governed by those rules we are supposed to follow according to culture but rather by the values I hold as a follower of Jesus Christ. 

You don’t have to ride bike to do these things.  You don’t have to bike commute to live with regard for the land and the environment or to cultivate the fruits of the spirit.  Riding bike isn’t the only way to resist oppression and dominance, but it is one way. 



I write this because the spirit has brought an interruption to us. 

In January, John Kim and myself were trained as facilitators for a curriculum called Our Whole Lives.  The program is a comprehensive sexuality education curriculum that was developed by the Unitarian Universalists and the United Church of Christ.  Its foundation is deeply theological, rooted in these four core values:

• Self Worth
• Sexual Health
• Responsibility
• Justice and Inclusivity

Furthermore, companion material that integrates sexuality with our faith is part of the curriculum.  So here it is, a curriculum that combines sexuality and faith, but it doesn’t just combine the two; it demonstrates that the two have a deep and vital connection.  Talk about an interruption to normal!  

Many of us can’t imagine talking about sexuality and faith in this way in our communities of origin.  Even now, it’s unsettling and a little bit uncomfortable.  Shouldn’t we leave this to sex educators?  Shouldn’t we keep these conversations behind closed doors?  Today I emphatically say no.  We have done that too long, and look where it has gotten us as a society: it’s normal to see pictures that objectify women; it’s normal to watch television shows that show unhealthy sexual patterns; it’s normal to believe that no one gets hurt in casual sex.  We’ve been desensitized.  Our normal needs an interruption.

Furthermore, look at where so many churches are today.  Sex is almost a bad word; sexuality is something we fear.  Many churches won’t hire gay or lesbian ministers.  Many people of faith believe the only healthy sexuality is heterosexual and within marriage.  And we don’t know how to respond; we don’t know that right here in our sacred scriptures and in our own church are resources to articulate a healthier and more holistic understanding of sexuality.  This is crucial for the life of faith and especially for our children and youth.

Last Sunday (April 25), John and I held our first parents meeting to explore the possibility of teaching Our Whole Lives to some of our current 7^th through 10^th grade youth.  To the parents who were there, you are awesome, and I thank you!  To the parents who couldn’t make it, John and I have information and a passionate desire to share the importance of having your youth participate in a class this fall.  Talk to one of us! 

To parents of younger children, there are more possibilities out there for incorporating the program on a broader scope.  Let’s begin to dream together of what the spirit might have for RBCC in the coming years!  To others, if you have questions or interest, come talk to me.  If you have old or new wounds that you need to talk about, Joy and I are here to listen.  If you need resources for thinking this through, I have those, and I have time to talk. 

The door is opening to us for a new kind of abundant wholeness.  Won’t you come along? 

This ancient form of worship is called Tenebrae, which is the Latin word for shadows or darkness.  Our broader congregation will have a similar worship experience this Maundy Thursday, led by Pastor Matt.  As the story of Jesus' betrayal, denial, arrest, trial, crucifixion, and death is read, the shadows grow and the darkness becomes more intense. 

It is a fitting way to read the story, and indeed, a fitting way to enter into the shadows of our own lives. 

Too often at Easter we skip from Palm Sunday to Easter, from loud Hosannas to empty tombs and Easter egg hunts.  It's tempting to skip the cross altogether, especially as progressive Christians.  The cross, after all, is a symbol of violence, something we try to avoid.  On top of that, we often encounter theological perspectives of the cross that make God seem violent and vengeful, and our picture of an inclusive and loving God doesn't quite fit.  While I'm on the topic, another way to understand the cross is to see that when Jesus confronted the "powers that be," those systems of power and oppression, their response was to eliminate him and his prophetic witness.  That said, regardless of how we hear the story, it is tragic, and perhaps the tragedy is precisely why we cannot overlook the cross.

Life is woven together not just through joy but through sorrow, not just through triumph but in tragedy and in the shadowy places.  Furthermore, when we follow Jesus Christ, we are more likely to go to these shadowy places.  We encounter injustices - violence, homelessness, poverty, intolerance, because following the path of Jesus takes us to these places, these places on the margins of society, these places that success and power and wealth do not often reach. 

We need the cross to remind us that when we accompany shadows, we are in good company, and we are living into the fulness of the Christian life.  This week is not just about waiting for Easter; it's also about paying attention to the cross. 

Once I knew a man who didn't like going to the dentist because all the instruments in his mouth tickled, and he had to spend all his energy suppressing laughter.  Most of us don't like going for a variety of other reasons: it takes up part of our day; it hurts; the hygeniest tries to talk to us when we are unable to respond; the chair becomes uncomfortable after about 35 minutes; sometimes we have fillings or root canals or teeth that need to be pulled; it's expensive.  There are many reasons not to like the dentist. 

However, as I nestled into the chair last Saturday, it occurred to me that there are actually several reasons to appreciate this twice yearly ritual. 

First, it forces us to slow down both our bodies and minds.  Often going to the dentist is an interruption of our routine.  There are more important things to do at home and at work or school.  But once we sit in that chair, we can't do anything about our "to do" list.  We are at the mercy of another human being.  Our physical bodies are out of our hands.  Similarly, it's difficult to be stressed about our chores, homework, or deadline when someone is poking around in our mouths.  The dentist has a way of taking our minds off of other things and shocking us into the immediate present, and how often do we really get to be present in the place where we are?  So it is with the meditation and contemplation, when our spiritual, emotional, and physical selves align in time and place and we can be more wholly us.

Also, the dentist is a place where we are tended, despite our best efforts.  Many of us care for our teeth by brushing and flossing, but the vast majority of the time we take our teeth for granted.  At the dentist, they are given time and attention.  Our mouths become more than just instrumental - they are valued for their own sake, and how often do we value our bodies beyond the simply utilitarian? So it is with our faith.  The wise teacher, Jesus of Nazareth, testifies that the good life is not measured in rewards but in relationships, not worldly accomplishments but in celebrating the fact that we are beloved, no strings attached. 

Finally, as with any ritual act, visits to the dentist are transcendent.  I, for example, have visited at least six different dentists in three different states.  I have gone during seasons of success and failure and during times of discontent and happiness.  There is a beautiful constancy about the twice yearly pilgrimage.  So it is with the rituals of our faith - baptism, communion, singing hymns, coming to worship.  Week in and week out, year in and year out we come not always because we feel like it, but because we are faithful to a community and a God that transcends our sometimes temperamental selves. 

Thanks be to God for showing up in the simply ordinary. 

After worship the other day, I had a beautiful encounter with two strong women of our church.  We were talking about Lent and the question came up: why would we give something up for Lent?  Why would we deprive ourselves?  Should we not celebrate the many gifts we have rather than sacrifice them?  I had to think for myself, I who have given up candy and chocolate and other sweet things for these forty days... why? 

Here's what I know: I crave sweets.  They are my default - when I get home from work I want a cookie.  When I'm stressed, I want to bake brownies.  Before bed I want some chocolate.  It's almost automatic.  So for Lent, I am interrupting automatic.  Every time I see the candy dish in my office, instead of grabbing a piece I think of giving up and letting go.  Every evening when I want something sweet I stop that mindless walk into the kitchen and think about my faith.  Every time sweets are served somewhere I remember the Christ who I follow.  Perhaps this deprives me of my automatic cravings, but it strengthen my walk with God. 

I have a friend, a pastor back in Kansas, who has written a beautiful Lenten reflection.  She writes this: "Lent is, by most North American standards, a disaster. Sign up to be sad? Agree to abstain from the best life has to offer? Plead for forgiveness and purification? No way! We’d rather be happy, happy, happy."  She challenges this automatic mentality saying, "We are all God’s ministers, called to fast and weep for people who are hungry, lonely, homeless, grief-stricken—including for ourselves... Maybe to accept sorrow is to make room for joy."

Maybe to accept sorrow is to make room for joy.  These are powerful words.  Why do we give something up?  Because we are privileged.  Because we are sinners, makers of mistakes.  Because to not know our fullest sorrow is to not know our greatest joy.  Because we have gotten complacent, we have become too comfortable, and we need to be afflicted.

Bless the women who encountered such matters with me.  Bless the God present there when our conversation dove right past "How are you?" and into "How about faith?"  May God grant that more coffee hour encounters spin into matters of the Jesus we follow. 

It was startling, then, to see the bright, bold yellow blossoms of the forsythia on Monday.  It was so delightful and startling that I exclaimed out loud, "The forsythia are blooming!" 

Growing up, there was a row of forsythia bushes out to the west of our house.  They stood presently along the place where my great grandparents' home used to stand.  We never trimmed them, and so they grew recklessly, and their blooming was dramatic, coinciding with the Easter season or thereabouts. 

My delight at the Seattle forsythia has quickly become confusion.  It's February, after all.  It's only Ash Wednesday - not yet time for the forsythia to usher in new life.  My ever-faltering Christian life still needs this winter season of discontent, of self-reflection and self-appraisal.  How can I repent, how can I wait for my savior when the forsythia are blooming, reminding me of the brilliant resurrection that is breath and being? 

I will find a way, I'm sure, to live in Lenten introspection.  As the landscape and the culture shape my practice of faith and shape it in new ways in the Pacific Northwest, so will the seasons, just in different ways here, where spring comes early and (I've heard tell) lasts long.  In the meantime, yes, in the meantime, I'm glad for the forsythia and such things.