Pulse and Breath

Traffic Jam

The moments of our lives—the tick tock of our mundane lives—are scattered throughout the course of a day.  Our routines—when we awaken, when we arrive for an appointment or our job, our departure to return home, and the myriad other things like lunch and meetings that comprise our routines—provide us a sense of purpose.  When those routines come to a grinding halt in traffic or are intruded upon by forces that threaten to overwhelm us then, in those kind of moments, we are liable to sense our routines as so much threadbare wallpaper. We end up asking ourselves what we’re doing and why we’re doing it.

Those moments are intertwined with the moments of many, many other lives and events.  And in turn, the weave of our interconnectivity is played out against a microwave background of tension that radiates the very city we live in:  the federal city of the United States, a target of terrorists and the power grid of the powerful and those who want to be near the powerful.  How does one keep one’s sanity in the midst of this?  How does one arrive at an authentic sense of self so that when our routines are interrupted, when the traffic comes to a crawl, when a meeting goes spinning out of control, when getting home seems impossible, we are not ourselves spun into madness or purposelessness?  Let me suggest something.

In whatever chaos or disintegration of the flow of your moments, put two fingers on your wrist, find your pulse and then, take a deep, deep breath.  Pulse and breath.  Remind yourself that these are the truly significant gifts.  And whatever happens and however things play out today, it is this gift of life that graces us that matters.  You’re alive.  The world will be here tomorrow.  Moments pass.  In the time it takes you to feel your pulse and breathe deeply, you can discover how wonderful and strangely beautiful this all is.

One last idea—enter a holy place on Sunday and through worship, say thanks. When you practice a weekly rhythm of gratitude, your mundane moments will be placed into a larger, cosmic context.   May the Peace of God that passes all understanding fill your hearts.  Breathe deeply.  Find the pulse.


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Historic Riverside Baptist Church: We Are The History

English: World War One Memorial, Barre, Vermon...

English: World War One Memorial, Barre, Vermont, Washington County, USA (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

On this Memorial Day Sunday of 2014, we printed on the front of our worship program (you can download it under the sermons tab) the names of those members of Fifth Baptist Church who died in World War I.  I found it quite moving to have Bob Nelson read these names–names that have likely been quietly overlooked for years if not decades.  August is, of course, the 100th anniversary of the First World War and we will have some other activities to remember and honor those who served. But today got me thinking about the history echoed in our congregation…

Obviously our church (which underwent a name change in 1968) was around and ministering in Southwest DC at the time of the “Great War.” But think of this:  our nation has had 44 Presidents.  Our church history–not our building, because we have occupied four different buildings in SW (you can click on the About Us tab and find a brief history)–has witnessed 30 of those 44 Presidents.  Just say that aloud to yourself.  Our history intersects 30 of the 44 Presidents of the United States. Anyone want to guess the average life span of a business in the United States?  Here is a quote from Businessweek that can put this into perspective:  ”The average life expectancy of a multinational corporation-Fortune 500 or its equivalent-is between 40 and 50 years. . .A full one-third of the companies listed in the 1970 Fortune 500, for instance, had vanished by 1983-acquired, merged, or broken to pieces.”  This June, we’ll celebrate our 157th Anniversary.

Before a toaster was invented or a microwave, before an airplane flew or antibiotics created; through the Civil War, the First World War, the Second World War, the Korean Conflict, Vietnam, Iraq 1 & 2, and 9/11 our congregation(s) have lived, prayed and served. Right here,  in Southwest DC.  While our ministry is local, our voice is global.  Back in the 1980s Pastor Troutman took delegations to the Soviet Union on a Baptist Peace Tour to counter the “evil empire” rhetoric coming out of the Reagan White House. We wanted Christians (and others) to know that we knew the majority of Russians, Ukrainians, and Georgians were not Communists. Indeed, there were more Christians than Party members.  In 1972, Riverside began ordaining women to the diaconate. In the 1970s, the church began its journey toward becoming a bi-racial congregation. In 1992 we boldly declared our separation from any affiliation with the Southern Baptist Convention because of its hideous rhetoric attacking gay men and women. We have been brave in voice and action to include those who have been historically marginalized in our country.  Recently, my open letter to white Christians in Florida, denouncing the Stand Your Ground law, was read by over 100,000 people.

This is a history rooted in the faith of our people.  We are not the guardians of stained glass and stone nor a museum’s cultural artifact. We are a living organism, we are the Body of Christ, we are dedicated to the uplift of all human beings.  Come and join us this Sunday and let’s celebrate our history by raising our voices together  in worship and joining our hands in the work for the healing of our world.

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Sunday Morning Refuge

sanctuarySunday Morning Quiet, light softly propelled through blue stained glass windows, pews lined up like soldiers on parade, a pulpit and table and the symbols of faith ornamented along lamps, walls, windows… these are some of the things awaiting you on Sunday morning, these are some of the things you miss by not being here.
A refuge of peace,  a place of acceptance, a sanctuary of grace and sacred words read from a holy book, prayers offered on your behalf, prayers uttered for the healing of the world, music interlaced with all of it, sacred chords, devoted voices, all of it speaking, speaking, speaking to your heart, to your mind and your body in rhythm with holy time….these are some of the things awaiting you on a Sunday morning, these are some of the things you miss by not being here.
Presence of God, presence of Spirit, presence of the Good Shepherd, the tangible presences of others who gather together to bear witness, who stand together to stand for each other, who share burdens and joys and pass the cup of grace.  Carved out of a week of work, fashioned from the clay of our every day, this presence embraces us and fills us, stirs us and inspires us…these are some of the things you miss and when you miss, we miss your presence.
Sunday Morning Refuge.  Claim it as that one moment in your week of hours. Place yourself within it so for a little while, you commune with God, are tenderly cared for by the Good Shepherd and are one with this place we call church.
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Stop Praying . . .In Public for the State

English: Denarius featuring emperor Trajan

English: Denarius featuring emperor Trajan (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So the Supreme Court has ruled 5-4 that city councils can be opened with prayer.  I would councils and congresses begin with a pledge to the rainbow or, hands on a box of cornflakes,  vow to be good and just council persons.  Because the truth is, public prayer by public officials or their rent-a-cleric-for-a-day in service to the State pollutes authentic prayer while violating the sacred consciences of individuals who may not adhere to the particular religious tradition of the person offering himself or herself as a mouthpiece for a deity in service of the State.

Rendering to Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God what is God’s is a separation of religion and the state enunciated by Christ himself whom, you may recall, was executed by the Roman Empire in large part because his message about the coming Kingdom of God was interpreted by Pilate and others as subversive.  The first Christians paid a very dear price for their refusal to pray to the Roman gods. In fact, take a moment to read Governor Pliny’s letter to Emperor Trajan in the second century and you will see that Christians were hauled into “court” and summarily told to publicly pray and make an offering to Caesar and the Roman gods or  be killed.  Those early Christians were called atheists because they –or at least some portion of them—refused to mouth the religious script of the Roman Empire.  For Christians in this country to demand that councils begin with prayer and thus shame, embarrass or coerce atheists or persons of other religious traditions is an abomination. The early Christians would know what to call such a practice and “Christian” or “honorable” are not words that come to mind.

Here are a few of my assumptions with commentary:

*The State does not know how to pray. Why would you trust the State to pray or teach your children how to pray?  This practice amounts to God-cover for the political aims and aspirations of politicians and the government.  By the way, what do you think slave owners and segregationists were praying in their public meetings? Right.

*State sponsored prayer is the rather megalomaniacal illusion that you and your tradition has the only correct way to address the God and the health of the [city, town, country or football team] depends on praying to your God.  Unless you’re taken with theocratic notions, why would you agree to participate in this practice? Which leads me to say this to brother and sister clergypersons: stop praying in public on behalf of any government or football team.  See below.

*Jesus taught us to pray in our prayer closet in secret and not on the street corner bellowing our prayers or parading God like a float in a Macy Day’s parade.  Stop that. It is not just embarrassing, but it is darn near blasphemous.

If you want to pray (and I would hope that you do) then enter your soul’s sacred space and pray or enter the church, mosque, synagogue or temple and pray with others who are doing so because they believe in what they’re doing and not because they are coerced into participating in a religious rite for which they have no devotion.  Politicians, you’ve been invoking God to laminate your agendas and minutes for a long time.  Some of us have read Machiavelli’s The Prince. You’re not fooling us.

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The Plow

English: Grass, linseed, trees and maize, Mant...

I’ve never plowed in a field.  Ever.   In fact, I remember as a child sitting on the porch swing of my grandmother’s house in Rosehill, Virginia, down in Southwest Appalachia, beside her brother who was a farmer.  He took my small hands and turned them over and asked me where the callouses were.  I also didn’t know what a callous was.

There is a very, very difficult teaching of Christ’s about a plow and the kingdom of God.  You can find it in Luke 9:62. He taught, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.”  Had we an audio recording of that moment when he taught this, we would be hearing crickets.   There is much to ponder in such a teaching but let’s not get lost in the brush trying to tease those ideas out.  The thrust of such a teaching is to underline the cost of discipleship (as Dietrich Bonhoeffer, theologian and martyr at the hands of the Gestapo would say it).  Another way of putting it is to turn your hands over and ask if you have any callouses.

My supervising professor in Ph.D. studies liked to say that sitting in a garage will not turn you into a Chevrolet.  Even so.  Sitting in church will not make us Christians.  The Apostle Paul wrote (1 Corinthians 9:10), “whoever plows should plow in hope, whoever threshes should thresh in hope of a share in the crop.”  Look forward then, not backwards.  Keep your hand on the plow.  Sow in hope.  I’ll see you Sunday and you can show me your hands.  Grace & Peace.

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The Renewal of the World

drops in drops

When I naively stepped into college (in 1972!) as a ministerial student, I didn’t know the first thing about biorhythms.  That first year I had to take a required science course and I took a subject in biology (whose title I cannot recall) but I do remember being introduced to this idea of biorhythms, that I had a kind of internal clock that worked in sync with seasons of the natural world.

This explained to me–or at least I interpreted this–as the reason why I hated Florida. Well, I didn’t hate Florida the state, I just felt out of sorts with the lack of definitive seasons, having come from Cincinnati where there are definitely four seasons instead of one season of hot.  But what is my point?  Good question.  Hmmm, let me see, where was I going?  Oh!

Look around you. The world is renewed. One might have concluded otherwise in dormant seasons such as Winter but consider the renewal of the world now.  Atheists will, of course, take this for granted. They take order in the universe –and there are megatons of order both macro and microscopically–for granted. Oh, they’ll conclude, it’s just nature doing her thing.  Meanwhile nature, you note, is personified. Be that as it may, in this Spring of 2014, as you ponder the beauty of the world and its season of renewal, don’t take it for granted.  This didn’t just “pop” into existence.  There is a benevolent, loving God who loved us so much that there is a world and worlds around us and through which we journey. The appropriate response to that primordial  fact is worship.  See you Sunday!

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