Blog Posts

Bishop Michael Curry 6/17/20 Bishop Michael Curry 6/17/20

Preaching on Racism in America: In This Month of June 2020

Bishop Michael Curry shares a “Habits of Grace” message about protests, Pride Month, and the coronavirus.

During this month of June, we find ourselves in the midst of great titanic struggles, hardships, and difficulties. When important things are at stake, when the lives of God's children, and the life of the world in many respects is at stake.

Even as I speak, protestors march through our streets, protesting the way we have been. Protesting for the way we could be. Black Lives Matter, protesting in our city streets that we might learn to live the ways of justice, and mercy that reflects the heart of God's love.

And even as I speak, this month of June is Pride Month when our LGBTQ siblings remember and recall, and continue their struggle for equality and mutual respect, and human dignity in our society, in our church and throughout the world.

And even as I speak, the COVID-19 pandemic continues in strange and unanticipated ways, but it continues. This is the month of June. These are some hard times. Hard times for all, but really hard times for so many.

Sometimes it's helpful to go back and look how others navigated hard times. I went and picked up a small book. There's a book of sermons by Harry Emerson Fosdick. It was published in the mid 1940s, in 1944 I believe. It was a collection of sermons that he preached as the pastor of Riverside Church in New York City, during the Second World War when the entire world was in an apocalyptic struggle between good and evil.

One of the sermons Harry Emerson Fosdick titled, "In such a time as this, no dry-as-dust religion will do."

He pleaded with people of God to draw closer to God for strength and energy. To live lives of love, of faith, of hope. In that same period of time, he composed the hymn that's found in many of our hymnals, and I would offer it for us this week in this month of June.

God of grace and God of glory,
on thy people pour thy power;
crown thy ancient churches' story,
bring her bud to glorious flower.
Grant us wisdom, grant us courage
for the facing of this hour . . .

Save us from weak resignation
to the evils we deplore;
let the gift of thy salvation
be our glory evermore.
Grant us wisdom, grant us courage,
serving thee whom we adore.

(Harry Emerson Fosdick, 1930)

God love you. God bless you. May God hold us all in those Almighty hands of love.

Used with permission, The Episcopal Church 2020.

Reference: "No Dry as Dust Religion Will Do," A Great Time to Be Alive: Sermons on Christianity in War Time, Harpers & Brothers, 1944

Bishop Michael Curry

The Most Rev. Michael B. Curry is Presiding Bishop and Primate of The Episcopal Church. He is the Chief Pastor and serves as President and Chief Executive Officer, and as Chair of the Executive Council of The Episcopal Church.

Facebook | @PBMBCurry
Twitter | @PB_Curry
Twitter | @episcopalchurch
Facebook | @episcopalian

God of grace and God of glory, on thy people pour thy power… Grant us wisdom, grant us courage. for the facing of this hour. (Harry Emerson Fosdick) — God of grace and God of glory,
on thy people pour thy power…
Grant us wisdom, grant us courage.
for the facing of this hour.
(Harry Emerson Fosdick)

Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

As an ecumenical and inclusive ministry of St. Andrew Lutheran Church, the content of each Church Anew blog represents the voice of the individual writer and does not necessarily reflect the position of Church Anew or St. Andrew Lutheran Church on any specific topic.

Ulysses Burley III 6/5/20 Ulysses Burley III 6/5/20

Pentecostal Protest

God is summoning us—the church—back to our protest-ant roots for such a time as this.

Imagine a unified nation not divided by an invisible line, but united by an invisible spirit. God is summoning us—the church—back to our protest-ant roots for such a time as this.

Borders, boundaries, barriers.

There are a number of things in place to separate and segregate us from one another. Some of it is geographical like mountains, bodies of water, and canyons. Most are man-made, like fences, walls, and checkpoints. But the remaining borders, boundaries, and barriers that separate us are invisible lines drawn by society. For the last 400 years this country has been in the throes of inequality where invisible lines have been drawn to divide us on the basis of racial, ethnic, and cultural differences.

The lines have especially been drawn this year—lines that carry the permanent sting of tattoo ink piercing the skin. COVID-19 has drawn a line as black people have and continue to die disproportionately. White men have drawn a line as we watched two of them hunt down and murder Ahmaud Arbery for running while black. White women have drawn a line as one in Florida blamed her autistic son's death on black men, when she was the one who drowned him. Another in New York City called the cops on a black man because he asked her to leash her dog, as is the rule in Central Park. Police officers drew a line when they murdered first responder Breonna Taylor in her own home, only to learn that they burst into the wrong home, guns blazing. Then a Minneapolis police officer crossed the line already drawn by law enforcement when he dropped his knee on George Floyd's neck, strangling him to death.

So I wonder, what would our world be without borders, boundaries, barriers, and invisible lines? Can you imagine a world with no mountains, or oceans, or walls, or fences to separate us? Or better yet, a country with no racism, or sexism, or classism, or ageism to segregate us?

No invisible lines.

Imagine instead a unified nation not divided by an invisible line, but united by an invisible spirit. The Holy Spirit, or as my grannie used to say, “The Holy Ghost!” This season of Pentecost is a reminder that God has given us another Advocate in the Holy Spirit that has the power to break down borders, boundaries, barriers and invisible lines. We just have to accept that the Holy Spirit advocates for EVERYONE.

What really stood out to me in the Acts of the Apostles is the authoritative interpretation of the Pentecost event by the prophet Joel. He speaks of this new community that is remarkably and radically inclusive in gender, age, class, race and ethnicity. It's a community that we've fantastically failed to live into as both church and society. But I believe God is summoning us—the church—back to our protest-ant roots for such a time as this. As the country is reeling in the protest of division by invisible lines, God too is challenging us into a Pentecostal protest of unity ushered in by a Holy Ghost that is inclusive of all and alienating of none.

Unity is an ideal we pretend to comprehend but struggle to execute—even as church. We often confuse unity with uniformity, because it is much easier to gather with people who are like us than it is to reach across the divisions which mark our culture. It's why very few of our churches reflect the ethnic, social, and economic diversity of the country we live in. Martin Luther King Jr. said 11 o'clock on Sunday is the most segregated hour in America, and he'd still be right today.

So we can't expect society to resemble that which we've yet to achieve as church. We have to erase the invisible lines of division in Christianity before we can lead as the nation's moral compass. In order to unite and end segregation in church and society, the body of Christ has to acknowledge its role in oppression and liberate itself through repentance for its participation in America's first sin—racism.

We often only think of the oppressed as being stuck—and therefore, the only people in need of liberation. But the truth is, both the oppressor and the oppressed are in bondage together, and our liberation is bound. Imagine someone pinned down on the ground unable to move because someone else is holding them there. Better yet, don’t imagine it, just see the nearly nine minutes George Floyd gasped for air as the life was squeezed out of him by a deadly knee of oppression. Our first mind says that the one being held down is the only one in need of freedom, but the reality is, both are stuck. The oppressed can’t get up, and for that to remain true, the oppressor can’t let up. In order to end oppression, both the oppressed and the oppressor have to be liberated.

God is calling the church to the forefront of a liberation movement where we move forward together toward repair in Holy Ghost Pentecostal protest; the kind of protest where our knees are only dropped for reverent prayer and solidarity, and not brutality. I know we'll get there, because Pentecost is here.

The 40 days of Lent marked a difficult time of sacrifice, prayer, penance, repentance of sins, and self-denial mirroring Jesus' time in the wilderness that climaxed with His crucifixion. The 50 days of Easter was a period to celebrate in the resurrection of our risen savior. Easter is ten days longer than Lent—that means our celebration is ten days longer than our sacrifice. The arrival of Pentecost is a beautiful reminder that our rejoicing in God is always longer than any trials and tribulations that come our way.

So if these times of unrest have left you weary—do not despair. Whether it's the invisible lines drawn by the virus of COVID-19 or the virus of racism, the invisible Spirit has come to erase those lines. While the fires burning down buildings don't quite feel like the burning flame of the Holy Spirit, or George Floyd's last words, "I Can't Breathe", don't quite feel like Jesus breathing life into us to receive the Holy Spirit—do not be discouraged. Because God has sent us an advocate to ensure that our days of celebration are always longer than our nights of rioting.

Ulysses Burley III

Dr. Ulysses W. Burley III is the founder of UBtheCURE, LLC – a proprietary consulting company on the intersection of Faith, Health, and Human Rights. Ulysses served as a member of the Executive Committee of the World Council of Churches as well as the United States Presidential Advisory Council on HIV/AIDS (PACHA) under the Obama Administration. He has been recognized by the National Minority Quality Forum as a top 40 under 40 Minority Health Leader for his work in faith and HIV in communities of color and serves on the NMQF Advisory Board. Ulysses is an internationally recognized speaker and award winning writer on topics including faith, HIV/AIDS policy, LGBTQIA, gender and racial justice, food security, and peace in the Middle East. He is a lay leader at St. Stephen’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Chicago, IL.
Facebook | @UlyssesIII
Twitter | @ulyssesburley
Instagram | @ubthecure
Website | www.ubthecure.com
YouTube | Ulysses Burley

Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Angela Denker 6/4/20 Angela Denker 6/4/20

Paternalistic Racism of Nice White People

We have a unique opportunity right now in America. To move from Paternalistic Racism to partnering and listening and working for justice.

If you recognize yourself in this article, and it makes you cringe or feel embarrassed or even makes you mad, Hi, Me Too.

If you recognize yourself in this article, and it makes you cringe or feel embarrassed or even makes you mad, Hi, Me Too. I encourage you to keep reading. We have a unique opportunity in America right now, and so it's time to tell the truth—even when it hurts.

***

One of the proudest images shared here in Minneapolis after the tragic murder of George Floyd by the Minneapolis police, is a picture of mountains of food donations delivered to the South Side neighborhood where Floyd was killed.

Food donations in Minneapolis after George Floyd's death at the hands of white Minneapolis police officers

So much food. Mountains of blue boxes of macaroni and cheese. Lucky Charms cereal. Golden Grahams. Canned corn and beans and bags and boxes of rice. Bottled water.

There was so much food that some donation sites had to ask people to stop bringing it. They suggested diapers instead. Or cash donations.

We got an email from the Minneapolis Public Schools asking people not to bring donated food to their sites for school lunch pick-up.

Still, the donations kept on coming.

My husband, Ben, was raised in Missouri. He didn't really get the food thing—the rush to donate food in the aftermath of police brutality and racist violence.

I explained to him the easy answer, that neighborhood stores had burned and grocery stores were closed and people needed food and people living in poverty didn't have huge stockpiles, etc., etc., etc.

That was the easy answer.

Here's the hard one.

We know how to donate food in the aftermath of racist violence here in Minneapolis because so many of us have been raised in a dominant white culture that tells us that black people are forever and desperately in need of our help.

I know. I grew up with it, too.

Growing up in an overwhelmingly white suburb and attending overwhelmingly white schools and churches, I learned early on about slavery and the Civil War and the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

I learned about poverty-stricken neighborhoods in North Minneapolis, and in nearby Brooklyn Park, where black people lived.

In the absence of a vibrant black culture where I lived, the lessons I learned led easily to what I've experienced—and acted out: "The Paternalistic Racism of Nice White People."

We are so comfortable being the charity providers, lamenting racism far away, in the South, or on TV, or in the opposing political party. We are not so comfortable stepping back and listening to the black people right in front of us tell us that our well-meaning efforts too often perpetuate racism, too.

I grew up thinking that there were lots of things you could do to not be racist and to work for equal rights. You could volunteer at homeless shelters and donate food and sort it at Feed My Starving Children. You could go on mission trips to other places and work in neighborhoods much more diverse than your own, because those neighborhoods and those places and those people needed your help.

Eventually, Jesus challenged these notions.

It took a long time. It's still taking a long time, inside of me, too, to move from Paternalistic Racism to partnering and listening and working for justice.

It began by attending college in Missouri and participating in a culture that was decidedly less white than the Minneapolis suburb where I grew up. My college had its own well-documented issues with race. But that's partly because it actually had a significant population of people of color. It's easy to pretend you have no issues with race when the non-white population is made to be invisible, and "othered."

My education continued as a white sportswriter often covering stories of athletes of color, by attending Baptist and non-denominational churches in Florida, and "broadening my horizons."

I came back to Minneapolis in 2009. I was working with a group to research churches in predominately black North Minneapolis, predominately black because racist housing rules enacted in the mid-20th-Century effectively pushed black families out of many South Minneapolis neighborhoods and surrounding suburbs. It's shameful, but it's true. I grew up thinking that North Minneapolis was dangerous and full of gangs and drugs and murders. This is what happens when you enact rules to keep businesses and capital and investment out of neighborhoods, when you limit public transit in particular neighborhoods, when you base school funds on property taxes. Still, North Minneapolis was much more than I ever understood it to be.

So I came back in 2009, with a group of mostly white researchers researching churches and neighborhoods. We pored over statistics and charts and interviewed pastors at predominately white Lutheran churches, because at the time I was studying to be a Lutheran pastor. Fun fact: the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America has long been America's whitest denomination.

We interviewed people from the neighborhood, most of whom were black. Many—not all—of the people who attended the white neighborhood churches had moved out of the city and drove in for church. These nice white Lutherans were struggling to reach out to their neighborhood. They desperately wanted to connect, but like I'd been taught, they also wanted to "help."

So they put that Scandinavian work ethic to work and they set up food pantries and community meals and job training sites. They organized English classes for English language learners, for neighbors who had recently immigrated to the U.S. They did amazing things. They worked hard. People of color from the neighborhood attended the classes and ate the meals.

Sunday morning remained a segregated hour.

We interviewed some of these neighbors, most of whom were black.

The words of one of the women we met, all these years ago, still ring in my memory, fresh as we confront anew the truth that my state has been among the worst places to live in America for black people, as opposed to white people, for whom it is among the best places to live in America.

"When we need food and services, we come to the Lutheran church," she said. "But when we want to hear the Gospel, we go to the Baptist church."

It's my shame that I don't remember her name. I had a chance there, to learn more. Instead all I have left are her words. And ignore the denominations if they bother you. Here's what I took from it, and what sticks with me over all these years.

White Christians knew how to provide services. But our offerings rang hollow with Jesus, without offering ourselves.

The heartbreaking thing is that sometimes our efforts and donations were papering over long-held and destructive racism, racism that assumed that black people needed our help.

That racism denied the important truth, that we needed each other. That white people needed black people as much or more than they needed us. We went to them too often as helpers and saviors instead of fellow bearers of the image of God, seeking genuine connection and relationship.

We blamed it on discomfort. Or on an ability to want to show the Gospel without having to talk about Jesus or the Holy Spirit.

Look at what we did! The glittering new shelter. The mountains of food. The pounds of Feed My Starving Children packages sent away to Africa.

At night cars were pulled over in North Minneapolis. Heads were slammed to the pavement. Children attended decrepit schools.

We lamented the "achievement gap." We hid statistics about how black people were doing in Minnesota. We crowed about our average income and educational achievements. We voted in black people to prominent positions in government, because tokenism is a part of Paternalistic Racism of Nice White People, too. Not that the people of color who hold prominent positions don't deserve them—they do. But too often white Minnesotans pointed to those leaders and elected officials as proof we weren't racist, instead of building genuine relationships across a broader community. In the absence of relationships, all we had were our ideals, and many of them hid a paternalistic racism that savaged our state.

***

I began this article saying we had a unique opportunity right now in America. People who've never talked about race are using their platforms to start conversations. Massive peaceful protest marches are taking place across America. White and black clergy marched this week in Minneapolis for justice.

So in the midst of this unique opportunity, I think it's important to talk about those things that make you the most uncomfortable. This is my contribution: a challenge to all of us who consider ourselves not at all racist, who'd never use the "n" word, who see our role as Christians to work for racial justice.

The mountains of food signify a desire to be involved, a desire to help. That is a good thing. An important thing. But maybe we have a chance, right now, to do even better. Instead of seeing our black siblings as desperate people in need of our saving, maybe we step back. Listen first. Look in your community, as close as you can, for who the black leaders are. Follow their work. Figure out what they're already doing to work for the causes you believe in, too.

Build genuine, honest relationships, relationships that will last before, during, and after the next instance of racist violence against black people. Find yourself quoting black leaders, listening to sermons from black preachers, and when you're looking for leaders in the battle for justice and hope in America, look to the black community.

In saying this, a caution. Part of the trouble with the Paternalistic Racism of Nice White People that has been a part of my own experience, is that white people assumed we were to serve as saviors. A quick mistake all of us often make when attempting to change this is to reverse it. And quickly we look to the first black person we're in relationship with to be our savior, to imagine that now instead, it's their turn to save us.

Part of being a Christian, for those of us who are, is knowing that there's only one Savior, and that's Jesus. We shouldn't make gods of others just as we can't make gods of ourselves. So in working to build relationships, to create a more equitable community, we have to remember our shared humanity first. White people don't need to save black people, and black people also don't need to save white people. Jesus promises to save us all.

But while we're here on this imperfect, imploding, beautiful, colorful, massive planet: Jesus asks us not to save each other but to figure out how to live together in harmony and at the very minimum, refrain from killing each other. Jesus asks us to look at each other and see life worth saving.

***

Nine days after George Floyd was murdered by a police officer's knee in bright daylight on a South Minneapolis street, I'm crushed but not defeated. I'm hopeful because I see nascent relationships beginning to form. I see people starting to listen. I'm trying to shut up and listen. I write, too, because this is what I can do. I'm a crappy organizer, I don't follow directions well, I'm impatient, I'm inconsistent. God gave me words, and so I try to use them. God gave you your gifts. All we each can do is try to use them.

Two-thousand years ago or so, the Apostle Paul wrote letters to a wealthy church in Corinth, which was undergoing great upheaval and trying to sort out social differences in the midst of a Gospel of Jesus which insisted upon no human distinctions, but unity in Christ Jesus.

Paul says we have this treasure in clay jars, and I look down at my white arms, covered in freckles and moles, my itchy scalp, my dimpled thighs. My ancestors were oppressors and Civil Rights marchers, poor whites and German immigrants, people who struggled to get by and battle their demons and try to follow Jesus and keep their families fed.

My vessel is imperfect. I was born in a culture that taught me to sin, and into a family that also taught me to love. In this imperfect jar I can lament my imperfections or I can whitewash them and cover them up with good deeds and nice words and passive aggressive utterances of racism.

Or I can stand, blemished and unblemished, at the foot of the Cross. I can try to tell the truth. I can try to work harder for justice. I can hand off the microphone. I can build authentic, honest relationships with white people and black people alike. I can confess my sin, I can be forgiven, and I can forgive others.

America is changing. Justice is rolling down like waters. I want to bathe in the truth, and let it finally set me free.

"But we have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us. We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be made visible in our bodies. For while we live, we are always being given up to death for Jesus' sake, so that the life of Jesus may be made visible in our mortal flesh. So death is at work in us, but life in you."
2 Corinthians 4:7-12

Used with permission. Originally posted on A Good Christian Woman blog, June 3, 2020.

Angela Denker

Angela Denker, author of Red State Christians: Understanding the Voters who elected Donald Trump (Fortress: August 2019), is a Lutheran Pastor and veteran journalist who has written for *Sports Illustrated, The Washington Post, Christian Century,* and Christianity Today. She has pastored congregations in Las Vegas, Chicago, Orange County (Calif.), the Twin Cities, and rural Minnesota.
To write *Red State Christians,* Angela spent 2018 traveling across America to interview Christians and Christian leaders in red states and counties. While spending time with the people in her book - and her own loved ones living in red states and counties, she found surprise, warning, opportunity and hope. In retelling those stories, she hopes to build empathy and dialogue without shying away from telling hard truths about the politicization of religion and the prevalence of Christian Nationalism in churches across America.
Twitter | @angela_denker
Facebook | @angeladenker1
Blog | http://agoodchristianwoman.blogspot.com
Website | https://www.angeladenker.com

Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Deanna A. Thompson 5/22/20 Deanna A. Thompson 5/22/20

The Body of Christ Made Known on Zoom: A Conversation with Diana Butler Bass, Deanna A. Thompson, Joshua Case, and Kelvin Holdsworth

What does it mean to be the virtual body of Christ in a pandemic?

Church Anew has closely followed the conversation around sharing communion through digital media. We are grateful for the generous contributions to this conversation on the Church Anew Blog by Diana Butler Bass and Deanna A. Thompson, and for the ongoing commitment of the St. Olaf Lutheran Center for Faith, Values, and Community. The video conversation below also features Joshua Case, an Episcopal priest in North Carolina, and Kelvin Holdsworth, an Episcopal Provost and Rector from Glasgow, Scotland. This is posted with express permission from the authors.

Deanna A. Thompson

Dr. Deanna A. Thompson is Director of the Lutheran Center for Faith, Values, and Community and Martin E. Marty Regents Chair in Religion and the Academy at St. Olaf College in Northfield, Minnesota. Before moving to St. Olaf, Thompson taught religion for over two decades at Hamline University in St. Paul, MN. Thompson is a sought-after speaker on topics ranging from Martin Luther and feminism to the intersections of cancer, trauma, and faith, and what it means to be the church in the digital age. She is author of five books, including *Crossing the Divide: Luther, Feminism, and the Cross; The Virtual Body of Christ in a Suffering World;* and most recently, *Glimpsing Resurrection: Cancer, Trauma, and Ministry*.
Nourished by Lutheran tradition, the Lutheran Center for Faith, Values, and Community engages people of all backgrounds and beliefs in deep exploration of core commitments and life choices in ways that foster inclusive community, both within and beyond St. Olaf College.
https://www.facebook.com/deanna.thompson.140
https://deannaathompson.com/

Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Angela Denker 5/19/20 Angela Denker 5/19/20

Coronavirus in America: Politics and Survival

In 2020 America, what does your mask say about you and how you live?

Masks. A sign of saying who we are and how we live personally and publicly.

Today I got ready to visit our local nursery to pick up a plant. I knew I’d be outside, and I’d plan on staying 6 feet away from everyone else.

Then, I had to figure out a mask. I tried on a mask at home, tightened the back strings, pulled off my sunglasses, tightened it again, pulled it down, walked to the car, drove to the nursery, ventured out into the world. I knew people were watching me. I was watching them. When I saw everyone else wearing masks, I pulled mine back up, covering my mouth and nose. We were alone together again, hidden and revealed.

This week in mid-May, after political protests against coronavirus restrictions in several states, and news stories of violence ensuing over mask requirements in Southern California and Flint, Michigan, the prospect of wearing a mask in public had been complicated by political concerns that hadn’t entered my mind when I’d decided to wear one last week to the grocery store. Then it was just awkward and uncomfortable and unfamiliar; now it seemed to be political, with my friends and family dividing over ideological lines about whether to wear masks or not.

It is by virtue of privilege itself that I had plenty of masks to wear and I could wonder whether or not to wear one as I ventured out, not to treat patients or drive a bus, but to buy a plant for my living room, a decidedly nonessential activity. Across the city of Minneapolis from my house, masks were in short supply—despite the fact that most people relied on public transportation to get to essential, low-wage jobs.

The politics of mask-wearing didn’t bother my husband, an engineer, who had grown used to wearing masks everywhere after spending much of the past month working out of town to design an emergency Covid hospital site. The workers I saw every fortnight at the grocery store were used to masks, too, as was my dear friend the ICU nurse, and my neighbor the ER doc.

I had thus far been shielded and sheltered at home, where I broadcast weekly worship services, tried to teach first grade over the Internet to my 7-year-old son and make sure my 4-year-old son didn’t tear the house down.

My “other” job, as writer and speaker, had been dually affected. I conducted interviews by phone and wrote articles in the backyard while watching my son in the sandbox. I canceled upcoming flights to conferences where I’d been planning to share about my book with churches and universities.

I was lucky and unlucky, like most everyone else. I had so far been shielded from the worst impacts of COVID-19, the ones I read about from acquaintances and long-lost friends on social media, who were mourning their loved ones’ deaths, and being laid off from their jobs.

The rest of us—the relatively lucky majority—await deliveries at home and figure out how to wear masks and make frozen meals and water our plants.

In this time, it is a rare gift to have the luxury of defining yourself in the face of a pandemic. The best among us have long declared such questions moot, as they eat and sleep and work nonstop to care for others, whether they’re healthcare workers or grocery store clerks or engineers or delivery drivers.

The rest of us fight over the margins.

What does my mask say about me?

Is survival political? The nearly 100,000 American dead do not fit neatly into ideological boxes. For some this is all a hoax, a plot, not serious, a drain on the economy. Others have ridden our high horses past the city parks, looking down our nose at the teenagers playing there. They aren’t socially distancing!

We’ve become police to one another, judging each other harshly, letting anger shout while grace whispers.

Each side has its villains. The politicians and health care advisors who shut down your business. The group who gathered for a funeral and set off a viral outbreak.

In 2020 America, is this who we have become? A mask cannot just be protective or precautionary: for some it has become be a political statement.

We are expected to line up: mask or no mask, on either side of a binary that threatens to destroy the greatest nation in the world. Because as a life-or-death pandemic swallows America, we remain in the muck of this debate.

Churches and pastors and parishioners line up, too—some toeing the center of the line, others edging toward the extremes of each group. Should we worship online-only for years? Shall we plan a hymn sing at a time when singing is known to spread the virus? Will God protect us? Is God punishing us?

What about offering? Why about witness? What about community meals and food pantries and First Communions and bread and wine and holy water and communal confession and graduate recognition and colorful vestments and administrative assemblies?

A nurse rolls her eyes.

She pulls on her mask without thinking. She washes her hands. Walks into the patient’s room.

Here is the holy, a space removed from hatred and conspiracy and injustice.

At the beginning and the end of life, we are granted permission to be human. We are loved merely because we exist, the same way that God loves us, that God created us.

God promises to renew our lives, even after death, and life remains a miracle, created out of science and spirit and breath after ragged breath.

There are those who are helping us to breathe again. The respiratory technicians, the ventilators, the doctors, the nurses, the CNAs …

The yoga teachers, staring into the video screen.

The mask covers my mouth and forces me to shut up and listen. I breathe in life. I am alive, and I am not alone. Of course it will not matter what side of political divide I chose if my breath begins to fade. They will remember how I cared for those around me, how I chose life: not only for a cluster of cells inside a woman’s body but also for the man across the street from me, for the people who didn’t have the privilege to socially distance, those for whom the mask was not a political statement but a chasm of life or death.

Jesus entered into death so that we might live.

So again Jesus said to them, “Very truly, I tell you, I am the gate for the sheep. All who came before me are thieves and bandits; but the sheep did not listen to them. I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture. The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly. John 10:7-10

Don’t tell me who you’re voting for in 2020, or what news station you watch, or what Internet research you did this spring about coronavirus.

Tell me how you stayed alive.

Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Bishop Michael Curry 5/14/20 Bishop Michael Curry 5/14/20

If You Have Lost Track of What Day It Is, You Are Not Alone

Bishop Michael Curry looks to psalms for comfort and guidance.

Bishop Michael Curry shares a “Habits of Grace” message about time and life during this pandemic.

I don't know about you, but one of the things that has been a bit confusing during this pandemic has been what time it is and what day it is. I've found myself on more than one occasion just asking someone, "What day is today?"

There's a psalm in the Hebrew Scriptures, Psalm 31. It's actually quoted in the Service of Compline which is a late night prayer service. And it's also quoted by Jesus on the cross. It says this,

In you, O LORD, have I taken refuge;
let me never let be put to shame:
deliver me in your righteousness. (v. 1)

And then it goes on and says, Lord,

Be my strong rock, a castle to keep me safe,
for you are my crag and my stronghold;
for the sake of your Name, lead me and guide me. (v. 3)

Into your hands I commend my spirit,
for you have redeemed me,
O LORD, O God of truth. (v. 5)

On the cross Jesus quoted this psalm as he commended his life into the hands of the Father. "Into thy hands I commend my spirit." (Luke 23:46)

Later in the psalm, it says,

“My times are always in your hands.”

It may well be that if we have little reminders, as the day goes on, we will have a sense of time. Not determined by a clock, but determined by God.

In Psalm 55, the psalmist says in the morning, at noon day, in the evening, “I cry out to you, O LORD." Maybe a little habit of grace during this time, may be a moment of prayer in the morning. Another one midday. Another in the evening. Using a prayer book or just a moment to pause in silence. Whatever way you do it, take a moment morning, midday, evening.

Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.
My times are always in your hands.

In 1931, a man named Thomas Dorsey composed a hymn the words of which have been a long standing favorite with many people. President Lyndon Johnson asked for it to be sung at his funeral. Martin Luther King, Jr. asked that it be sung at his funeral. Mahalia Jackson sang it. Aretha Franklin sang it. BB King played it and sang it. Tennessee Ernie Ford sang it. Johnny Cash sang it. It was composed by Thomas Dorsey living in a time when his times were very much discombobulated. His wife died in child birth. Both she and the child died. In his time of grieving, Dorsey wrote the words of the hymn that simply say, "Precious Lord, take my hand."

My times are in thy hands, O LORD.
Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.
This morning. At noonday. In the evening.

God love you. God bless you. And may God hold us all in those almighty hands of love.

Used with permission, The Episcopal Church 2020.

Bishop+Michael+Curry.jpg — Bishop Michael Curry

The Most Rev. Michael B. Curry is Presiding Bishop and Primate of The Episcopal Church. He is the Chief Pastor and serves as President and Chief Executive Officer, and as Chair of the Executive Council of The Episcopal Church.

Facebook | @PBMBCurry
Twitter | @BishopCurry
Twitter | @episcopalchurch
Facebook | @episcopalian

Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Paul Raushenbush 5/12/20 Paul Raushenbush 5/12/20

The Virus and My Apocalyptic Son

A father asks Elaine Pagels about our coronavirus world described through his young son’s “Once upon a time” lens.

Paul Raushenbush shares with Elaine Pagels his young son’s stories about his world, our world, destruction, and a rainbow.

Our five-year old son will soon graduate from the pre-school that he has attended since he was two. Like most graduations in 2020, the ceremony isn’t going to be what was expected by his parents, who were anticipating a tearful rite of passage towards his next grand step of kindergarten. Instead, it will be remote, diminished, just like his class hours that went from six hours a day of embodied romping about with art, music and experiments, to one hour Zooming in the corner of our living room, with classmates reduced to pixilated squares, each less accustomed to being muted than the next.

We are clear with him about why this is happening. ‘The Virus’ is the explanation for why most things are not what they were. The virus is why he can’t go to school, why he no longer is learning to swim, no longer playing with his beloved friends or clambering about on a playground. The virus is why he wears his tiny mask with a pirate over his mouth when we go on our short walks outside and veer away from people everywhere. The virus is present, close to home, all around, transforming Walter’s home in Chelsea into a neighborhood without neighbors.

For three weeks, during what felt like the height of danger and death in NYC, Walter and his younger brother, Glenn, never went outside. Instead, they looked through the windows at the buildings of New York City—shouting, clapping, and banging on drums at 7 p.m. every night for healthcare workers and for all of us. A few weeks back, the teachers at his school asked the students to take a picture from their favorite window where they were sheltering in place. Walter picked the one in our living room and insisted that the photo be taken at dusk when the setting sun reflected orange and red on the concrete and glass buildings of Chelsea.

Students were asked to write a story about the view out the window. Walter’s story was titled 'The Crazy Story' and it started with these lines:

“Once upon a time, there was a city full of buildings. One day, the sun was not rising up.”

And the story continued its strange theme,

“Then something worse was happening. All the buildings were wobbly. Crashing into each other. They used the magic wand again. Then something really bad happened. Everyone was falling off the buildings, the humans were switching buildings. So the humans put a magic rainbow. Every building was having little cracks, so then every day they glued them back. And it turns out the whole earth was upside down.”

I should mention here that Walter found the story he had written as very funny, not at all dire, but rather fantastical and like most fantastical stories as true as any fact you might tell him. I, however, was struck by the theme that the city he lives in is falling down, falling apart—where the whole world is upside down. Perhaps it is the minister in me, but I read my young son’s story as apocalyptic literature with resonances from the Book of Revelation with its great imagery of radical transformation and realignment of the world.

A few years ago, I interviewed the great religion scholar, Elaine Pagels, who had just published her book: Revelations: Visions, Prophecy, and Politics in the Book of Revelation and I asked her about the positive spiritual lesson that we can learn from the Book of Revelation. She responded:

“I felt it was worthwhile to see how religion appeals to us. How John wraps up all our fears into a gigantic nightmare—everything you could be afraid of playing out in this terrifying drama—but you don't see it end in tragedy. It is not like Shakespeare where you have bodies all over the stage; but, actually, it ends in a vision of new hope and justice and a new world. So, for me, it is a sense of how much we need hope when we live in a world with so many dangers.”

Then last week I shared ‘The Crazy Story’ with her and asked her how she was now thinking about the Book of Revelation in this time. She wrote me:

"Living in the shadow of the coronavirus, as we all are, I said to friend, an Israeli psychologist, ‘surely this demonstrates—with perfect clarity—how interconnected we all are—not only all humans, but all species—and how we need to cooperate. He replied, ‘Some people conclude the exact opposite: now they have to scramble harder than ever to get whatever they can, take advantage, make sure they're on top and not on the bottom.’

After writing about the Book of Revelation for several years, intrigued that this 2,000-year-old book still galvanizes such intense reactions, I came to see that apocalyptic thinking has shaped our cultural responses to crisis—to envision such opposite—and extreme—outcomes. Apocalyptic thinking also teaches us to interpret conflict in terms of good vs. evil, heaven or eternal hell fires. What we need now, instead, is to pay attention to what's actually going on, so that we can make choices that lead to the outcomes we hope to see."

Almost as if he was responding to Prof. Pagels, yesterday, Walter wrote a story for his school’s yearbook called, 'The Beautiful Rainbow.' While there are similar themes to 'The Crazy Story'—it has a distinctly different ending:

“A volcano was heading towards a rainbow. A beautiful rainbow. The lava was in the street and everyone’s houses. But then they got someone to sweep away the lava. The volcano was under the ground, then the volcano was rising and they got everyone to start sweeping to put it back under the ground. Birds were chirping over the rainbow. An asteroid was trying to hit the rainbow, but then the birds pushed it back into outer space with their beaks. The birds protected the rainbow!”

'The Beautiful Rainbow' is full of threat, with destruction imminent and one can easily replace the images of the lava rising up and the asteroid crashing down with the virus that surrounds Walter’s world. But ultimately, like Dr. Pagels hoped, Walter is telling a story of hope and interconnection. It is a story of people working together to keep the lava at bay and birds banding together to push the asteroid back out to space. Walter’s last story offers a vision for a world in which the virus shall be no more, where we chirp and sing with joy and all recognize, protect and share this beautiful rainbow we call earth. May it be so.

This post originally appeared on IFYC.org, May 4, 2020, and is used with permission.

Paul+Raushenbush.jpg — Paul Raushenbush

Paul Raushenbush is Senior Advisor for Public Affairs and Innovation at IFYC (Interfaith Youth Core) promoting a narrative of positive pluralism in America, while researching and developing cutting edge interfaith leadership. He is the Editor of Interfaith America.
Facebook | @raushenbush
Twitter | @raushenbush

Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Rev. Mihee Kim-Kort 5/11/20 Rev. Mihee Kim-Kort 5/11/20

Church? An answer with inspiration from Rachel Held Evans

What is something that keeps you in the church/Church in this day and age?

A plain and simple question during quarantine stirs poignant memories of church and dreaming beyond.

A recent conversation with a dear friend, Gail Song Bantum, Lead Pastor of Quest Church in Seattle, Washington, brought a lot of warmth and light to me one dreary afternoon. During this season of quarantine, despite feeling some major Zoom fatigue, it was good to see her, to be seen by her, and to catch up, laugh, share and dream a little together. At one point, she asked me a very plain, but ultimately poignant question, especially in this day and age, something I didn’t expect—what is something that keeps you in the church/Church?

A number of images, smells, and voices flitted through my mind: fellowship hour in the basement of my childhood church with the smell of steaming rice and pungent kimchi, savory dishes or fishy, hearty soups, and all our moms in the kitchen cooking and cutting it up together, but each one making sure that everyone had enough to eat. Working and worshiping in 90-degree heat with Pentecostals in the Dominican Republic, playing games in Spanish with children and passing buckets of mezcla for our awkward and inept attempts at construction work. My children’s baptisms. Ash Wednesdays.

And then, remembering one of the connections Gail and I have is through a conference called Why Christian? which was hosted by Rachel Held Evans and Nadia Bolz-Weber for five years. It was a space that held this question of “Why Christian?” and in holding the question, it was the answer in some ways, too. It recognized both brokenness and wholeness as inevitable parts of our faith journey and how essential it was to care for each other in it. Afterwards there were more conversations around the simple question of “why Christian?” and “why Church?” The answers that emerged from people’s experiences continue to stay with me.

Rachel has since passed away—we have just marked the one-year anniversary of her death, and I continue to grieve and be grateful for her presence in the world. I now realize the answer to the question Gail posed to me is presence. It is the cloud of witnesses, it is the saints and sinners, and angels, it’s God’s Spirit—how it shows up over and over with a casserole when a family has dealt with an illness or new baby. How it shows up at someone’s bedside before and after a surgery. How it shows up when the homeless community needs shelter during those unforgiving winter months. How it shows up to celebrate and lift up, to anoint and heal, to witness, to listen, and to give testimony.

This is not to erase the Church’s unspeakable destruction and oppression of various communities—LGBTQ+, people of color, people with disabilities, people of other religious faiths and beliefs, and more. I know. I’ve witnessed how a church has shown up and it was ugly and hurtful—it was violent. These days many still are. So, I deeply believe this is a part of the wider Church’s work today—to confess, to lament, to repair, to make amends because this is one way we can be faithful to God’s loving and listening presence in the world.

I’m thinking a lot about compassion these days because it seems we need it in spades. Millions of people are out of a job, thousands of people are sick, hundreds are lonely and isolated. Compassion strikes me as an extension of presence—it’s the quiet solidarity that emerges when confronting an injustice. It’s the weepiness that accompanies a moment when encountering pain or loss. It’s that wordless gut-wrenching that happens when you walk in someone’s shoes for even a moment. But it’s not an individual act or experience, it’s meant to be communal. I’m struck by these words by Crina Gschwandtner, Professor of Philosophy at Fordham University:

If we truly believe in compassion, we should be at the forefront of creating such change. We must move beyond private acts of charity to address the deep social, economic, and racial inequalities that perpetuate poverty, homelessness, and disproportionate rates of illness and death. There can be no “spiritual” salvation that ignores the suffering bodies of the poor. [1]

Our salvation is tied up in each other. For the church to be the hands and feet, the presence of God in the world, it will require a radical kind of curiosity about the neighbor and stranger, a brave willingness to live out God’s generosity, a passion for telling and listening to authentic stories, and the kind of compassion that involves heart, mind, spirit, and bodies. I continue to be thankful for the artists and poets, pastors and teachers, activists and advocates who quicken our imaginations so we might dream and live out these different possibilities.

[1] Gschwandtner, Crina. “Compassion in Crisis: Challenging a Culture of Injustice.” Public Orthodoxy, April 30, 2020. https://publicorthodoxy.org/2020/04/30/compassion-in-crisis/

Mihee Kim-Kort

Mihee Kim-Kort is a Presbyterian (PCUSA) minister, speaker, writer, and slinger of hopeful stories about faith and church. Her writing and commentary can be found at TIME, BBC World Service, USA Today, Huffington Post, Christian Century, On Being, Sojourners, and Faith & Leadership. She is co-pastor with her spouse of First Presbyerian Church in Annapolis, MD and a 4th year PhD student in Religious Studies at Indiana University.

Twitter | @miheekimkort
Instagram | @mkimkort
Website | mkimkort.com

Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Ulysses Burley III 5/5/20 Ulysses Burley III 5/5/20

The Road to Re-open

What factors should pastors consider on the road to re-opening their church buildings?

What the Road to Emmaus teaches us about the road to re-opening our church buildings.

April sure was a long year, wasn’t it? Now that May is here and half of the country is preparing to reopen in some way, church leaders have an important decision to make.

To open? Or not to open? That is the question.

For those of us who follow the lectionary, we just journeyed with Luke the Evangelist down the Road to Emmaus. Roads are a common theme in Lukan stories of the Bible. For example, in the story of the Prodigal Son, a road leads the son back home to his father. Likewise, the primary scene of the Parable of the Good Samaritan is a road. And on the first day of the week, sometime between the resurrection and the disciples self-quarantining in a house for fear of the Jews, the two meet a mystery man on the Road to Emmaus.

For Luke, roads have a way of bringing us together—a way of connecting people of faith in untraditional settings such that roads become a symbol of a mobile faith. The events on the Road to Emmaus foreshadow the future of Christ’s church, and it begins with a chance encounter that has all the makings of modern-day worship, just without the building. Scripture was shared, there was even a little gossip, and then an invitation was extended to fellowship at the table and partake in the Eucharist. This story that Luke the Evangelist writes that no other Gospel tells, is a story about outreach. It’s the story of an agile and flexible faith where the road and the table meet in-spite of the absence of a physical church.

In the same way, God is calling us during this time apart to embrace a mobile model of evangelism that’s emblematic of a church on the move. One of the good things to come from COVID-19 is the opportunity to reimagine the ways in which God has equipped us to do ministry. I think we’ve proven over this last month that the holy spirit can certainly move virtually and even over the phone—reaching beyond the four walls of our faith houses. My small church has enjoyed more participation over the phone than we did in the sanctuary, and we’ve even hosted holy communion with whatever bread, cracker, or wafer one might have in their home accompanied by any fruit of the vine. I can attest that communion has been no less powerful, because God has been no less present.

God has been with us this whole time helping us to deliver what the world desperately needs right now—compassion for bodies beyond our buildings. Compassion for elderly and sick bodies; compassion for first responders who are putting their bodies on the frontline; compassion for black bodies that are disproportionately dying and Asian bodies facing discrimination. Compassion for the body of Christ. Given our current circumstances, people of faith are still in a divine position to deliver the compassion, care, and dignity needed to treat people, and not just disease.

If COVID-19 (and pandemics before it) has taught us anything, it’s that we are all connected, whether by our shared humanity, or globalization and technology, or by faith. In the same way we are experiencing this dis-ease together, our journey down the road to recovery, and ultimately the road to reopen, must also be together. Whether it’s one month from now or one year from now—our roads will again converge at the same table. And it won’t be because we missed our houses of worship so much that we went right back to doing church as usual, it will be because we loved each other enough not to.

So if you’re struggling with the freedom that’s been granted to many of us to once again worship inside our tabernacles, know that it’s a freedom rooted in economics and not epidemiology. Until public health experts give the “OK” to gather, pastors should plan to continue doing ministry virtually and telephonically, because Jesus is there with us too.

Many of us have been challenged to consider who we want to be as individuals when we come out of this. Now, God is challenging us to consider what kind of church we want to be down the road. My prayer is that Church will continue to be a ministry on the move, sent out by a Jesus who walks alongside us even when we don’t recognize him. My hope is that Church will be where Jesus continues to reveal himself through the breaking of bread, the drinking of wine, and tactile expressions of mutual care—the smile, the clasp of another's hand in the passing of peace, perhaps even a warm embrace after months of social distancing—but also a Church that recognizes that Jesus is ever present wherever we are, and even where we are not.

The country might be re-opening against the best advice of experts, but we certainly don’t have to, because God is with us.

The Road to Re-Open BURLEY III 050520.png

Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Diana Butler Bass 5/1/20 Diana Butler Bass 5/1/20

On Hoarding Eucharist in a Hungry World

Can Christians celebrate the Eucharist—the Lord’s Supper, Holy Communion —through technology? Is the sacrament valid if it happens virtually?

In this time of COVID-19 lockdowns and churches moving to virtual communion, Diana Butler Bass reflects on a conversation she had with Phyllis Tickle.

A decade or so ago, about five years before she passed away, Phyllis Tickle and I were talking about how technology would change the church. She was enthusiastic about the Internet, her imagination opened by the possibilities of virtual reality to form new sorts of community. She had recently joined a church in the online world of Second Life, and told me about her avatar (I had no idea what an avatar was!). I remember how excitedly she spoke about how “virtuality” would expand our sense of “reality,” and how that would, in turn, foster a new reformation in Christianity. This technology would be, she assured me, as radical as the invention of the printing press—and this emerging sense of space and time would be as revolutionary for faith as were the first widely available vernacular Bibles.

“It raises so many theological questions!” she exclaimed. “For instance, if an avatar priest consecrates elements online, is Christ really present? Is the liturgy valid?”

“I don’t know,” I replied.

“No one knows yet,” she said. “Because we haven’t thought about it. But pretty soon, we’re going to be arguing over these things. Maybe not about avatar church. But the first time a priest or bishop offers the Eucharist online, it will be like Luther nailing the 95 Theses on the door.”

Phyllis threw her head back, with the laugh for which she was justly famous—half joy, half a sort of gleeful anticipation of how the future was at hand.

I’ve rehearsed this conversation a hundred times in my mind over the last two months. Since the coronavirus lockdowns. Since real-life churches have moved online. The argument she anticipated has started in earnest: Can Christians celebrate the Eucharist—the Lord’s Supper, Holy Communion —through technology? Is the sacrament valid if it happens virtually?

The answers to these questions are intertwined with the diverse theologies of polity and sacraments of different Christian traditions. Indeed, Baptists, Congregationalists, Disciples, free churches, and many Methodists have no problem with online communion. Their beliefs about the priesthood of all believers and (generally) memorialist ideas of the Lord’s Supper have made possible online communion with few theological questions. But more liturgical churches—many Lutherans, Episcopalians, Catholics, and Orthodox—have restricted or denied the possibility of online Eucharist. They say that “online community isn’t real community,” that “physical presence” of a congregation is necessary for the sacrament to be valid, that laity cannot be trusted with appropriate reverence of the elements, and that a priest (or duly ordained minister) must consecrate the elements in person. Indeed, some leaders in these churches have forbidden all virtual communion, warning against any form of lay presidency or consecration, instituting forced Eucharistic fasts, substituting “spiritual communion” for partaking bread and wine, or insisting that priests can celebrate the mass privately for the whole of the church.

Oddly enough, much of the argument against online communion has taken place online. Self-identified “traditionalists” have ridiculed and attacked those who see this moment as a time when churches might experiment with liturgies, including offering bread and wine virtually. On Twitter, I posted about my conversation with Phyllis Tickle, suggesting that online liturgy was not, in effect, very different than the sorts of liturgical innovations of the Reformation, and that this moment of virtual church was a perfect time to imagine church anew—to open ourselves a future where technology reshapes Christian practice as much as it was reshaped 500 years ago.

I’ve worried that in withholding communion, the church has been, in effect, hoarding the bread and wine, restraining the healing beauty of Eucharist when hungry people most need to feast. A forced fast is no fast—it is an expression of institutional power over and against God’s people in a time of emergency. And I can’t help but think the lack of theological imagination at this moment will give people already wary of church another reason to consign Christianity to historical irrelevance. The pandemic, however, has been a sort of Pandora’s box for churches and technology, letting loose the theological questions Phyllis Tickle once predicted with the fierce urgency of suffering and death. The lid is open and can’t be shut. Sadly, some denominations seem incapable of seeing this as gift and possibility, preferring instead to give into controlling impulses and fear.

Despite overall institutional reluctance to engage these questions, some clergy have been hoping their denominations would provide for online Eucharistic celebration—and have been worried and even cowed by pressure coming from those who insist that God cannot use “virtuality” as a vehicle for the sacraments. While online argument might be expected, a chilling episode moved from social media to an “in real life” space. After Easter, a bishop in the Episcopal Church gave permission for his diocese to celebrate virtual Eucharist in an attempt to meet pastoral needs and address some of these issues. He appears to have been pressed by the denomination—the same denomination of which Phyllis Tickle had been a member—to rescind the option he had given to congregations in his care.

Over the last weeks, I've been agitating for better, more creative theological thinking about the Eucharist, virtual community, and new forms of liturgical celebration—all of this in line with two decades of my own research and writing. The questions that were once speculative have arrived, and religious groups are going to have to face them with courage and creativity. The pandemic has forced the issue: God’s presence is uncontained by time and space. We are in need of the healing beauty of bread and wine, to sit at the table that exists at the hinge of time, the first feast of the Age-That-is-to-Come. All of this already exists in virtual time—the virtual reality that is the cosmic presence of God. The last thing we need right now—in a time of food shortages, lockdown, isolation, and separation—is the church shutting the people out of the banquet, unable to recognize that we live in the virtual reign of Christ. Virtuality isn’t just technology; it is theology.

A clerical-friend (who wishes to remain anonymous) shares my concerns for the bread and wine to be freed into the world, however that happens in this time of crisis. On a day after a particularly strained Twitter argument, my friend wrote this poem and sent it to me. The words capture the sense of urgency and power of Eucharist far better than my halting prose. Sometimes when the church can’t hear even the most loving critique, my hope is that it can still hear poetry.

* * * *

An Order for Communing in a Pandemic

by Anonymous

She took a loaf of bread,
broke it and gave it,
half to the hungry, the poor, the millions
whose gap-toothed pantries
are emptying,
dwindling sand racing
through the widening neck of an hourglass
and she felt the weight
of a sacrament pressing
into her soul
as the body and blood of Christ
spilled out of doors,
into streets,
into homes,
flowing as freely,
as slick and messy,
as uncontrolled,
as it did from his own tortured body,
as if God really could be present
everywhere and in everything.

Church Anew has closely followed the conversation around sharing communion through digital media. Following this blog post, Diana Butler Bass was interviewed by Religious News Service for their article, “Online Communion should be celebrated, not shunned, says Diana Butler Bass.”

Church Anew’s first blog post on virtual communion featured an interview with Deanna A. Thompson, Director of the St. Olaf Lutheran Center for Faith, Values, and Community. St. Olaf published Deanna’s first and second blog posts engaging conversation with Christians across the globe around about Holy Communion during online worship.

Both Diana Butler Bass and Deanna A. Thompson participated in a May, 19, 2020 video conversation, “Being the Church in This Time of Pandemic,” which also features Joshua Case, an Episcopal priest in North Carolina, and Kelvin Holdsworth, an Episcopal Provost and Rector from Glasgow, Scotland. This is posted on Church Anew with express permission from the authors.

Diana Butler Bass.jpeg — Diana Butler Bass

Diana Butler Bass, Ph.D., is a multiple award-winning author, popular speaker, inspiring preacher, and one of America’s most trusted commentators on religion and contemporary spirituality. She holds a doctorate in religious studies from Duke University and is the author of ten books, including *Christianity After Religion* and *Grounded: Finding God in the World, A Spiritual Revolution.* For more information on Diana and her work, see http://www.chaffeemanagement.com/dianabutlerbass
https://www.facebook.com/d.butler.bass/
https://twitter.com/dianabutlerbass

Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Deanna A. Thompson 4/30/20 Deanna A. Thompson 4/30/20

Virtual Communion and Body of Christ: A Conversation with Dr. Deanna A. Thompson

What does it mean to be the virtual body of Christ in a pandemic?

Dr. Deanna A. Thompson, author of The Virtual Body of Christ in a Suffering World and Director of The Lutheran Center for Faith, Values, and Community at St. Olaf College, wrote her first post on the issue of whether or not to offer Holy Communion in the context of online worship on March 26, 2020. Viewed over 8,500 times in less than a week, Deanna’s second post responded to comments from a variety of perspectives as we continue to discern what it means to be the virtual body of Christ in a pandemic. This week Deanna talked to Pastor David Lillejord, Church Anew Executive Board Member, in her first personal interview about this topic.

Pastor Lillejord: How did the issue of communion during online worship become an important one for you?

Dr. Thompson: I used to be really skeptical about digital technology. I didn't own a cell phone and I was really proud of that fact. And my kids didn't own cell phones. I didn't participate in social media and felt really self-righteous about that too, because I really did not see being virtually connected as offering anything value added. And then eleven years ago, I got diagnosed with stage IV cancer, which kind of came out of the blue. And as my world became really small, I went from being very involved in my work, and my kids’ schools and in our church, and that whole world kind of went away. I had to resign from my full and wonderful life. What I started to realize is one of the few ways I could be connected to other people was through digital technology. That experience really transformed my understanding about how we can use digital technology to help us better live into the call of being the body of Christ for one another.

But the issue of having communion as part of virtual or online worship was an issue that once I started writing and speaking about the virtual body of Christ, everyone wanted me to weigh in on. I didn't quite get around to it. I knew it would be controversial and it didn't seem so pressing. When we had all these in-person options of communion, why share the sacrament virtually? But then with the pandemic, it suddenly became much more pressing. And while church leaders were encouraging people to fast or refrain from the practice, I started noticing how more and more congregations were actually venturing into this area. And I didn’t see anyone weighing in on what it means to do this theologically. I thought it would be important to try and think through some of the issues given this was a situation facing many congregations right now.

Pastor Lillejord: And how is your health now?

Dr. Thompson: I am in my third remission, and I'm doing about as well as humanly possible with incurable cancer. It could change at any point, but so far it’s been in remission for about six years. So it feels good. Thanks for asking.

Pastor Lillejord: So why do you think communion in virtual worship is such a controversial issue?

Dr. Thompson: I think the challenge for people is that many see virtual connectedness or being connected via digital technology as diametrically opposed to being related to each other in person. A lot of people don't want to use the term virtual, you know, it means “almost” or “barely,” so it doesn't really enhance the sense that this is meaningful or real. A lot of people see virtual interaction, virtual worship as disembodied because it's mediated through a screen. I think there's a sense that worshiping online, taking communion in the context of virtual worship doesn’t involve the body. A really important challenge though, and this comes from my kind of conversion experience of being quarantined by cancer, is that there's not an either/or when we're involved in virtual worship. Actually our bodies are involved. I have a friend who told me that she found herself on her knees in her living room in the middle of her church’s worship service. She was moved to get down on her knees and pray, which she doesn't do when she's there in person. One person said he cries through every hymn that we sing virtually. In other words, people are experiencing worship in embodied ways. It's not an either/or.

I think sometimes, too, we romanticize in-person interactions. I think all of us have been with people who are physically sitting next to us but are not really present with us. Right? Their minds are somewhere else. They could just be emotionally distant, preoccupied. And one of the things that happened when I was really sick was that virtual interaction became one of the main ways I communicated with others. And in some ways, virtual communication often allowed a kind of intimacy that wasn't there in in-person interactions.

I think part of what we need to say is not all in-person interactions are inherently good and positive and not all virtual interactions are inherently subpar. All of our communication is mediated in some way. Our ways of being in touch and interacting with each other are complex and don't fit neatly into these virtual versus embodied realities. So what I'm trying to do is help people nuance their understanding of the relationship between virtual and embodied interactions and not see them as diametrically opposed.

Pastor Lillejord: So it's not just a theological thing? In fact, many of the things you listed were kind of cultural about what you learned when you had cancer and had to communicate in quarantine virtually, and now many more of us are getting to learn them for the first time through the pandemic.

Dr. Thompson: I think you're right and I wouldn't have believed it had I not had cancer. I would not have guessed that sometimes virtual interaction could be superior to in-person interaction. So I do feel like having had this experience before, or really having to depend on virtual interaction as my one of my primary ways of being in touch, helped me realize the virtual Body of Christ is alive and well and offers healing and care and compassion and support. It's helped me blow up that sense that one is inherently superior to the other.

Pastor Lillejord: What are some cautions for churches who are offering or considering communion, the online version?

Dr. Thompson: There's been a lot of cautioning against it. I think some of the things they're saying make a lot of sense. It is important to reassure people that if they don't get to partake in communion their faith is not at risk. The practice of weekly communion has become more and more popular in the Lutheran Church, so it's assumed that communion is pretty central to being a worshipping Christian. And so I do think there is likely a sense from a number of people who worry about what they are missing out on. To emphasize that the Word comes to us through the reading of scripture, that it comes to us in absolution, that it comes to us through preaching, that it comes to us through the blessing is all really important. The Word of God comes to us and we're not being denied that Word if we don't have access to communion.

One of the biggest issues that has been lifted up is the issue of access. I think that's a really important issue. And the issue of who has access to the internet is a big one. We've got economic disparities that are really significant. I know some of our partner synods globally are really challenged right now by not being able to physically gather and not having the option of gathering virtually. I think that we want to take that seriously.

I think there are ways for us as congregations to find out who in our congregation does not have access and consider how might we offer them access to the sacraments. I think there are ways to get creative about that.

At the same time, I do think that this issue of access is way bigger than internet access. There are a lot of people who can't get to worship when it's in person. Many churches have provisions for bringing people the sacrament when they can’t get to church. But these visits don’t always happen. I was never brought the sacrament when I was sick, I imagine I'm not alone. I think that many people who are really sick, many people who care for people who are sick, many people who work during the times when worship is offered regularly miss out on worship and the sacrament. I think we actually have quite a significant access issue regarding in-person worship, maybe even bigger than the access issue of the internet.

One of the things I’m concerned about is when churches start having in-person worship again is that the most vulnerable among us are not going to be there, right? They're not going to risk that. And so when you've got, I don't know, 30% of your congregation 20% of your congregation coming to in person worship. What is the church going to do?

Pastor Lillejord: This issue of access is going to be with us for a while. I think it always has been with us, or maybe we are paying more attention to it now. It's going be an issue going forward for quite some time. Turning to another issue, what are we learning about the office of the pastor during the pandemic?

Dr. Thompson: One of the things that I started to notice about the way the body of Christ operates virtually beyond the confines of the local church is how many people share in the role of ministry. That's something that I’ve always known, but when I got sick, I saw a new level of shared ministry. Lutherans talk about the priesthood of all believers, the way in which all of us are called to be ministers. I really saw that happening when I was sick, and I see it happening now. All the people who are part of congregations who are really tech savvy, who’ve jumped in to make online worship happen and run smoothly; those who offer musical offering for worship, taping things in their houses, mixing different voices and instruments together. We’re sharing the ministry of contacting people in the congregation to check in on how they are doing. For a lot of churches, of course, shared ministry is not new. But I feel like I'm seeing a shared sense of ministry in a way that, to me is much more visible than when we're not in a pandemic. And I think it’s increased visibility helps us live into that vision that all of us are part of the body of Christ, and every part of the body has a function, and they're all important. So it's really pushing us to live into that polity that we have in the Lutheran Church and in many Protestant communities.

Pastor Lillejord: How will virtual communion affect our understanding of church and worship going forward?

Dr. Thompson: One of the things that I've heard people talk about is the concern that if you open the floodgates and do communion at home, people aren't going to see the need for the church anymore. People will think that they don't need to come to church because they can do worship and communion at home in their pajamas. When I talk to pastors, I'm hearing that attendance for online worship is two or three times larger compared to in-person attendance from this time last year.

We had our first virtual coffee hour after church and there were over 100 people. We don't usually get 100 people for a coffee hour for our in-person gatherings. So what does this tell us? What are we learning about what people need and what nourishes their faith? As we move someday out of this pandemic I hope we don’t go back to exactly how things were before but we learn from the ways that the church is now meeting people's needs virtually. A lot of churches have had to pivot and it's been hard and they're longing for the day this experiment is over. And I can relate to that. At the same time, I really hope that we're paying attention to what we're learning.

Pastor Lillejord: What has the overall reaction been to you and your thoughts on the issue of virtual communion?

Dr. Thompson: I've received a lot of really positive feedback. I heard from someone in Indonesia who wanted to translate my writing about it into local languages so that worshipping Christians there could learn how I was thinking about this. I've had a lot of people get in touch with me and be really supportive. There are a number of folks who are religion scholars and theologians who really disagree with the approach I'm taking. And some of the disagreement has to do with the conviction that on-line communion is a disembodied kind of experience. That real presence can't happen because it's virtual. That it's not truly the gathering of the body of Christ because it’s being mediated by digital technology.

And so there definitely are theological objections but also then there's been by some friends and colleagues, objections to me weighing in on this because the Presiding Bishop encouraged fasting from the sacrament. For some people it's been unfortunate that I would publicly want to disagree with that.

The thing that really pushed me into the conversation was actually hearing from a Lutheran Bishop who said, despite what the Presiding Bishop has said, half the congregations in his synod were going ahead with online communion. And at that point, I consider myself a theologian of the church, and this is a topic that I've thought a lot about, and it seemed to me that someone should lay out the theological rationale for virtual communion and how to do it well.

I find that most people who aren't professional theologians don't really have a problem with it. I've had a number of people ask me why others would oppose it. They see us worshiping online and do not understand why people would support worship but not communion being offered at this time of great anxiety and challenge.

Pastor Lillejord: Well, I want to personally thank you for addressing it. Thank you for the wisdom, but also for your personal story. I think the church always has to engage in these discussions and not always agree with one another. This includes discussions about worshipping in person and/or online—before, during, and after this pandemic.

Dr. Thompson: Yes, and this is where many of us have been thinking in an either/or kind of way. Either church is fully in person and that's the way it's meant to be or it's virtual, and we’re being co-opted by market forces and settling for a poor substitute of the real thing. The experience of being terribly ill made me realize that digital technology is a tool that we can use well to help us better be the body of Christ. Or we can ignore it or use it poorly. And I think that we should have some robust discussions about that rather than just assume it's a poor substitute for the real thing. So, yeah, I'm hoping that we're being kind of forced into a conversation that could have been going on for the last 10-15 years.

I hope we will continue the conversation about what it looks like to be the virtual body of Christ faithfully in a time of pandemic. And this is where I think Luther at his best was thinking about caring for and meeting the needs of those who are suffering around him. He writes about the deadly plague because he cares about people who are dying and he wants church leaders and government leaders to respond to that. This is where the image of the body of Christ from First Corinthians comes in. The members of the body who are suffering deserve the most attention. So for me the call of the gospel is to help others know that when you're suffering you're not alone, God is with you and that being the body of Christ together is to be with people in that suffering and hopefully to alleviate some of it. And it seems to me that allowing people to participate in something like communion can bring great comfort and sustenance for their faith right now.

Church Anew continues to follow the conversation around sharing communion through digital media.

We were honored to have Diana Butler Bass write about this topic in a separate Church Anew blog post, “On Hoarding Eucharist in a Hungry World.”

Following her Church Anew post, Diana Butler Bass was interviewed by Religious News Service for their article, “Online Communion should be celebrated, not shunned, says Diana Butler Bass.”

Gloria%2BDei%2BVirtual%2BCommunion%2BThompson.jpg

Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Luke A. Powery 4/27/20 Luke A. Powery 4/27/20

Life on the Other Side of Easter in 2020

How do we press on in faith when Eastertide still feels like Holy Week?

You don’t have to be a super human or a super Christian in this Eastertide 2020. Just be human, a beloved child of God.

Holy Week was about three weeks ago so we are definitely on the other side of Easter. In this so-called Eastertide season in the church, it does not feel any different from pre-Easter days. The COVID-19 crisis is still wreaking havoc and not going away as fast as we want. To be honest these days, every week seems like a Holy Week—a week from hell—as we remember Christ’s own descent and live lament. At the same time, we hear of the hell for many seeking unemployment benefits, grieving over the death of a loved one whom they could not touch one last time, and receiving news that they will be furloughed. Even news from universities like Duke are sobering as they put a ‘pause’ on salary increases and some other expenses while other colleges have to permanently lay off staff.

On Maundy Thursday, I spoke with the head chaplain of Duke Hospital and learned about the Duke Hospital chaplains—those frontline pandemic pastors—putting their lives on the line to care for the sick and dying. Later that same evening, because I am on sabbatical, I tuned into the online evening service from Duke Chapel and watched as my dear colleagues wore masks for the first time as they led worship. The image of these ministers with masks made me say with Jeremiah, “my heart is sick” (Jeremiah 8:18). It was as if they were sick patients in a holy hospital, waiting on the Great Physician to touch them even though there was a governmental order for social distancing. Visually, it reminded me again of how the church is indeed a hospital for the sick.

At the end of Holy Week, there was the horror of Good Friday through the silence of Holy Saturday to the glory of Easter Sunday to the other side of Easter. And now here we are on the other side, still carrying the burden of the backside of Easter. I don’t know about you, but it feels pretty much as it has been. Yet I’m reminded that Easter, the resurrection of Jesus, doesn’t erase our pain or trouble, just as the wounds of the crucifixion on Jesus’ body are not erased by the resurrection. This is the Christian Easter life—a mix of the gory and glory, of sorrow and joy, a sorrowful joy, even as we live into the future God has for us. We live the resurrection by carrying a cross. This is life—COVID-19 or not—on the other side of Easter.

A few weeks into Eastertide, there is still sorrow and there is still joy. Even in the gospel accounts of the resurrection, after the resurrection, on the other side of Easter, some of the followers of Jesus experience fear, doubt, confusion, sadness, uncertainty, and more. Some weep in the face of resurrection, even as global human tears have flowed during this pandemic. But some disciples are amazed. Some do worship. Some experience joy too, but it’s amid sorrow and fear and other emotions. There’s a full range of responses to that first Easter and that breadth of responses is not erased, so we are in good company with the saints, regardless of where we may be right now in our own lives.

During this pandemic, I know there have been days when you’ve been down and days when you’ve been up, days full of hope for the future, and then other times when your cup of hope has felt empty. I’ve been there and this is real life. But I want to encourage you to embrace the wide spectrum of what it means to be on the other side of Easter. You don’t have to be a super human or a super Christian. Just be human, a beloved child of God. Just be.

On the other side of this Easter, even if we don’t expect Jesus or recognize him, as it was with his followers post-resurrection, Jesus shows up anyway in our lives and in our work. As Episcopal Bishop Michael Curry preached on Easter, “Easter comes anyway” regardless of our reactions or circumstances. Christ’s presence isn’t dependent on our belief or disbelief, our fear or joy. His presence is dependent on his promise to never leave us nor forsake us and to be with us till the very end (Matthew 28:20; Hebrews 13:5). Easter is a sign of this promise for us all. A new hymn composition, "Christ Still Rises," by Ben Brody and David Bjorlin, speaks to our reality:

Christ still rises when fear grips our city,
when death takes no pity,
when much is unknown.
Christ still rises when friends are divided,
when joy feels misguided,
when we are alone.
Christ still rises when churches are shuttered
when praises are muttered
when prayers go unsaid.
Christ still rises when peace has all faded.
when we are most jaded,
when faith turns to dread,
when faith turns to dread.

Christ still rises, Easter has come—COVID-19 or not—and I’m grateful to God that we are not alone. Christ still rises. God is with us as we walk or Zoom this uncertain road with our full range of human responses.

On the other side of Easter, we may not always sense a resurrection reality, but something new is being born in us, through us, and around us, even as we wait for what is to come. May we have the faith to see it and possess the strength and courage to embrace it.

Luke A. Powery

Luke A. Powery is the Dean of Duke University Chapel and Associate Professor of Homiletics at Duke Divinity School. His most recent book is *Were You There? Lenten Reflections on the Spirituals* and he also serves as a general editor of the nine-volume lectionary commentary series for preaching and worship titled *Connections: A Lectionary Commentary for Preaching and Worship*.
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Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Justo González 4/25/20 Justo González 4/25/20

A Poem for the Season of Easter

Jesus is still crowned with every crown that we may fear – even with this corona that presses on the world’s brows. Inspired by the hymn “Crown Him with Many Crowns”, Justo González reflects on this “zoomed” Easter season.

A reminder of the wondrous mystery of a “zoomed” Easter season, inspired by a beloved hymn.

Crown him with many crowns;
behold his hands and side:
rich wounds, yet visible above,
in beauty glorified.
No angel in the sky
can fully bear that sight,
but downward bends his burning eye
at mysteries so bright!
(Matthew Bridges, 1851)

Easter has literally “zoomed” past us.
It was not an Easter like any other.
This year, like many others, we went through Lent

looking forward to the promise of resurrection.
Fasting would soon give way to feasting.
Pain would be overcome by joy.
The empty tomb would help us forget the painful cross.

But it was not to be.

Instead of new dresses, we went to church in our pajamas.
Instead of a joint cup of blessing, we each sat there, sipping at our private cups of coffee.
Instead of a joyful song we raised mournful plain.

Yes, we sang the old hymns about joy, and victory, and the end of death.

But joy was far. Victory was doubtful. Death was still prowling…

Years ago, the disciples gathered behind closed doors because they were afraid.

Our fear is such that we cannot even gather.

We heard, yes, the witness of those who said that He Is Risen.
We believed, yes; but, did we really?

Thomas, doubting Thomas, lurked inside each one of us.

Unless I see the marks of the nails in his hands…
Unless I put my hand in his side…

And he came!

And we cried: “My Lord and my God!”

But this time it was different.

We did not cry simply because we could now believe that he is risen.
Our cry was not just because he had conquered the tomb.

We cried in awe because…

… because he still bore the mark of the nails on his hands and the wound on his side!

Even after Easter he still bears the scars of the cross.
Even after Easter he still bears the memory and the anguish of pain.
Even after Easter he is still the one who cried: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Even after Easter he is still one of us.

One of us in our pain.
One of us in our anguish.
One of us in our forlornness.
One who can still cry with us: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

We have now zoomed through Easter,

and are zooming toward Ascension.
When we will celebrate his rising to the highest power in heaven.
When we will once again sing: “Crown him with many crowns.”

But this time we must remember.

We must remember that he still bears the marks of the crown of thorns;
that his hands still bear the mark of the nails,
and his side the wound of the lance.

He did not just zoom through earth,

and life,
and pain,
and injustice,
and death.

He experienced the abandonment of friends.

(which was more than social distancing).
One of them betrayed him for economic gain.
Another denied him out of fear for himself.
Most others simply fled.

He experienced the frustration of religious leaders bending to the will of the powerful

– elders, experts in Scripture, priests, theologians – kneeling before the Baal of power.

He experienced the consequences of political leaders claiming no responsibility,

washing their hands, passing the buck.

He experienced the frivolous cruelty of political leaders taking his name in vain, giving him mock allegiance:

“Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews”

All this he experienced.

And he still does!

As he rose from the dead, he took his wounds with him.
As he ascended, he took his wounds with him.

The marks of the nails. The wound on his side.
He took them with him, for these are part of who he is.

As he ascended, he took our wounds with him.

He took our doubts, our rebellions, and our fears.
He took our frustrations with governments that tell us to wash our hands, while they wash their own hands of all responsibility.
He took our yearning for the message of empty tombs and empty morgues.

He ascended, but he is still with us.

He is crowned with many crowns.
But he still wears our crowns of thorns.

He is still crowned with our crowns of pain, and doubt, and grief.
He is still crowned with every crown that we may fear

– even with this corona that presses on the world’s brows.
For this too he still takes upon him.

He is still crowned in those who risk their lives for the health of others.
He is still crowned in those who collect our garbage, grow our food, keep society moving.

All of these:

our dead, our heroes, our clowns;
our pain, our grief, our anger, our folly;
our deaths and our lives;
our hopes and our frustrations;
our faith and our doubts;

all of these he took with himself.

He did not leave them here on earth
He took them to heaven with himself.
He took them into the very heart of the Godhead.

So that now, even as we live under the sign of the cross,

We still know – wondrous mystery! –

that our pain reaches into the very heart of God!

Crown him with many crowns;
behold his hands and side:
rich wounds, yet visible above,
in beauty glorified.
No angel in the sky
can fully bear that sight,
but downward bends his burning eye
at mysteries so bright!

Justo+Gonzalez.jpg — Justo L. González

Justo L. González, retired professor of historical theology and author of the highly praised three-volume *History of Christian Thought*, attended United Seminary in Cuba and was the youngest person to be awarded a Ph. D in historical theology at Yale University. Over the past thirty years he has focused on developing programs for the theological education of Hispanics, and he has received four honorary doctorates.
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Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Brian McLaren 4/24/20 Brian McLaren 4/24/20

Rethink: A Conversation with Brian McLaren (part 1)

How do we use this time of COVID-19 to find a new expression of what the movement of Jesus Christ really was supposed to be about?

Tony Jones, writer, theologian, and outdoorsman interviews his friend Brian McLaren, keynote speaker at Church Anew’s Nov. 2019 conference and author of The Great Spiritual Migration. In part 1 of their interview, Brian reflects on his experience starting a church, shutting it down, and starting again. Sound familiar in these COVID-19 times of closed buildings and paused ministry programs? Listen to what Brian learned and how your church might apply that learning as we all look forward to reopening and gathering together again as communities of faith.

In part 2 of this interview, Brian continues reflecting on change. This pandemic is not only a problem, but also an opportunity. Look for that post the week of May 18, or sign up for Church Anew updates and we’ll send you the link!

Brian%2BMcLaren%2B2.jpg — Brian McLaren

Brian D. McLaren is an author, speaker, activist, and public theologian. A former college English teacher and pastor, he is a passionate advocate for “a new kind of Christianity”—just, generous, and working with people of all faiths for the common good. He is an Auburn Senior Fellow and a leader in the Convergence Network, through which he is developing an innovative training/mentoring program for pastors, church planters, and lay leaders called Convergence Leadership Project. He works closely with Vote Common Good, the Center for Progressive Renewal/Convergence, the Wild Goose Festival, the Fair Food Program‘s Faith Working Group, and Progressive Christianity. His most recent book is *The Great Spiritual Migration*. Upcoming writing projects include *Faith After Doubt* (Spring 2021), and *Do I Stay Christian?* (Spring 2022).
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https://brianmclaren.net/

Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Rozella Haydée White 4/22/20 Rozella Haydée White 4/22/20

A Time for Faithful Resilience

How does building resilience during times of hardship nurture faith?

How does building resilience during times of hardship nurture faith?

I’ve experienced my share of personal hardships throughout life. Parents divorcing. Family members dying. Failing out of college. Major depression. My own divorce. Economic uncertainty and struggle.

I’ve also been impacted by societal hardships—situations and occurrences that have affected our collective reality and led to communal trauma. Columbine. September 11th. Sandy Hook. The proliferation of school shootings. The uptick in shootings and police violence against Black and Brown bodies. Me Too. And now, COVID-19.

My life is not that different from other peoples’ experiences. Suffering is a part of the human condition. To be alive is to experience suffering. It’s a fact of life, one that so many try to outrun or ignore. But we are broken beings who live in a broken world. This makes suffering a reality of our individual and collective lives.

In times of hardship, I turn to my faith; a faith that was passed down from generation to generation. A faith that is informed by survivors of slavery and immigrants from the Caribbean to the United States. A faith that is intimately woven into the fabric of my life and my leadership. The faith that was nurtured in me was a faith that was born out of struggle. Its primary marker is resilience and this faith has the power to sustain me during the darkest moments. It’s not a flimsy faith. It’s a faith that is deeply rooted in the stories of my ancestors and the stories of God and God’s people throughout history.

As I’ve grown in leadership and connected with people around the world, I have noticed a faith rooted in resilience and remembrance of the long history of struggle people of faith have endured is not the faith many churches nurture in the communities who gather. And this, is a problem.

I served as the Director of Young Adult Ministry for the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA) from February, 2013-August, 2016. During this time, I had the incredible opportunity to visit various types of young adult ministries across the country. I learned from leaders who served in diverse settings—congregations, camps, campus ministries, and more—and was able to engage young adults in their unique contexts.

One of the ministry settings I was introduced to was that of our Federal Chaplains. Federal Chaplains—those serving in the military and justice system—engage the largest and most diverse young adult ministry in our church. In 2017, the average age of those who serve in the military was 27 years old. 44% of those enlisted are people of color[1]. Because my work was primarily focused on those between the ages of 18 and 30, the cohort of leaders serving enlisted service members was an essential group to engage.

Over the course of a year, I visited multiple military bases to meet with chaplains and learn from their leadership. They shared stories of their vocational calling, and I was introduced to another aspect of ministry in my church. To say I was impressed by these leaders is an understatement. I was overwhelmed by their hospitality and the ministries they were curating within one of the largest and toughest institutions on the planet.

The chaplains arranged time for me to meet with young adult service members who were people of profound faith. After each visit, I would return to my car and sob. These young people, who cared so much about this country, had a belief in a better world for all people. At 19, 20, and 21 years of age, they made a commitment most of us would never make.

I saw firsthand the primary role of military chaplains to accompany the service members, supporting their families, celebrating life moments, attending to grief and death, and building the resilience of those enlisted.

This last piece of their call—building resilience—is something that has stayed with me over the past seven years. This area of ministry was the only one where I specifically heard faith leaders share building resilience was a priority in the faith formation of those they served.

The language of resilience is prominent throughout the military. It makes sense those serving as chaplains use this language. It is contextual and understood by military leadership. What is most profound about this language and the initiative around building resilience? Military chaplains understand their role in helping service members excavate their lived experiences and reflect on their pain to deepen faith, make meaning, and find hope in the most difficult circumstances. I believe the work of our military chaplains offers important insights for faith leaders and faith communities, especially in times of crisis.

Resilience is defined as the capacity to recover quickly from difficulties; the ability of a substance or object to spring back into shape. Those who serve in the military must be resilient. The trauma, hardships, and suffering they witness or have to enact has the power to destroy the human mind, body, heart, and spirit. Over and over again, I heard from these chaplains the absolute importance of helping service members develop a moral compass, supporting them as they sometimes make decisions that go against their personal convictions, and accompanying them as they carry out the work that they have undertaken.

The focus on resilience I encountered with military chaplain ministries has stayed with me because I have not experienced this focus in other ministry settings. Due to the difficult nature of military service, it makes sense those charged with tending to the spiritual lives of people would proactively engage this area. I would argue that—due to the difficult nature of life and the fact that struggle is an intrinsic part of the human experience—we too need to engage the work of nurturing resilience within our communities of faith, now more than ever before.

Questions for Reflection:

Why is resiliency important for faith communities to explore?
What would it look like for faith leaders to take seriously the call to build resilience as an essential part of faith formation?
How might the leadership of military chaplains inform our ministry in the time of COVID-19?

[1] KIM PARKER, ANTHONY CILLUFFO AND RENEE STEPLER. “6 facts about the U.S. military and its changing demographics.” Retrieved April 21, 2020. https://www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2017/04/13/6-facts-about-the-u-s-military-and-its-changing-demographics/

For additional reflections about faith in these times, check out the Love Big Collective with Rozella Haydée White, a community of people learning to love self and others in ways that bring about life-giving and justice-centered restoration, hope, and wholeness.

RHW%2BHeadshot%2B%231.jpg — Rozella Haydée White

Rozella Haydée White is a public theologian, spiritual life coach, leadership consultant, inspirational speaker and writer focused on nurturing life-giving love in this world. She engages issues of faith, justice, self awareness and love, mental illness, and the radical and transformative love of God as embodied in the person of Jesus.
Author of *#Love Big: The Power of Revolutionary Relationships to Heal the World*, Rozella is known as the #LoveBigCoach. She is the owner of RHW Consulting and believes that everyone is gifted and has the power to transform themselves, their communities and the world when they take seriously their healing, fall in love with themselves and others, and align their actions with their values.
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Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Meta Herrick Carlson 4/15/20 Meta Herrick Carlson 4/15/20

The Sunday After Easter: A Blessing for Thomas

How are we connected to the disciple Thomas this Easter season during COVID-19?
(John 20:19-31)

How are we connected to the disciple Thomas this Easter season during COVID-19? (John 20:29)

This week I offer a blessing for Thomas and for those who need to see to believe — not because their faith is weak, but because they feel dismembered by the [COVID-19] situation and cannot bear it all alone.

Honestly I spend the first few days of each week thinking about the characters in the Biblical text I am preaching on the following Sunday (John 20:19-31). My relationship with words requires a blessing to form before a sermon will. It grounds my process in empathy and curiosity for what their story reveals about God, my own faith, and the community in which I am preaching.

When I begin with blessing, I get the sense that the blessing is mutual and the character is with me in the process of finding a sermon. It makes the writing a little less lonely, especially during a global pandemic and church from home. My faith and leadership lean hard on the mysterious and spiritual elements of our tradition. I find comfort and courage in teaming up with characters across time and space.

The communion of saints is alive and well. Perhaps you are rediscovering this while we worship apart/together, discern whether and how to share sacraments from a distance, and how to connect and care as church both quarantined and unleashed.

It helps to remember we are not new to this. We have stories from Acts and the Epistles. We believe in the God who was, who is, and who is to come. We celebrate Jesus begotten from the beginning, in human flesh on earth, and seated forever on the Throne. The cast of characters stretches just as far — and every week I am blessed by a few who remind me we do not bear these things all alone.

For Thomas

They won’t stop talking,
remembering, celebrating
what they have seen —
the grand miracle I missed.

We are all on lockdown,
but I alone am lonely.
They are one living body
and too much to bear.

So I do not bear it at all.

Out of faithful solitude
and sore defiance,
I announce what I need
to mend and live:
my eyes on his wounds,
my hands in his side.

It is a single breath
and a lifetime but then
he appears, reaching for me.

I see his wounds,
our tender stories tangled
together, affirming
my quiet and achy hope.

His suffering contains mine.
His body remembers and
re-members my whole life.
And still I touch them to feel
what I already know is true:

There is no bearing it alone,
though I may try,
for now my story is written
in the hands and side of
the One who bears all things,
the One who Lives.

Meta Herrick Carlson

Meta Herrick Carlson (she/her/hers) is a pastor and writer living in Minneapolis, Minnesota. She serves a two campus congregation all learning how to let go and lean in for the sake of a shared future. At this time, Meta is safe at home with three children who cannot ration snacks. Meta’s first book *Ordinary Blessings: Prayers, Poems, and Meditations for Everyday Life* proves a worthy gift in these uncertain times. Her second book *Speak It Plain: Words for Worship and Life Together* with more ordinary blessings and resources for church nerds and liturgical communities is scheduled for publication fall, 2020.
https://www.instagram.com/metaherrickcarlson/

Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me_ Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”.png

Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Kate Bowler 4/9/20 Kate Bowler 4/9/20

Not a Pastel Easter: A Conversation with Kate Bowler

What aspects of the Gospel story we hear year after year might we see in a new light this Easter?

The Rev. Dr. Eric D. Barreto interviews Dr. Kate Bowler, author of Everything Happens for a Reason: And Other Lies I’ve Loved, about the story of Easter in a new light due to this COVID-19 moment in time.

Eric: Many clergy may be reading this, and it feels like we are ministering to what you have called, “a community of affliction” right now. That image is really sticking with me: a community of affliction, headed towards the cross and the resurrection. I'm wondering about Easter morning when a bunch of Christians are gathered around their screens and devices in their homes for worship:

What do you hope they and we hear?
What Easter message?
What message about the resurrection?

Kate: For so many years, we have used Lent to play at death. We go through the motions. And now we're not playing. We're not going to feel Easter in the same way. I mean, most of us won't, because we're not messing around anymore. And so I think we just have to do what the early church did, which is we say something like,

“Hey, did you see what happened?”

And then we just ask each other,

“Show me . . . were there any witnesses?”

Then we look, and we ask for hope. We trade little secrets of what hope feels like, and we do that until it feels “real-er” and “real-er” and “real-er”. I know I just made up a word! More and more real. But we do it until we find it. We're searching until we get there, and we trade with one another. We trade the little glimpses that we see because we're not going to see it for a while. I think that's our job.

It's just that the kingdom of God is so . . . sneaky. I mean, when I was really, really sick, I used to feel really angry about it. I was, like, God, I know you’re here and everything, but, like, not quite enough.

And then, a year later, I can see daffodils popping up. And I think, oh, you're already here. So in times of deep despair, I think that's when we need one another to act as witnesses. So we know what to look for.

Eric: It’s striking to me that in this moment, when we're supposed to be physically distant, this is the moment we most need to bear witness to one another to the resurrection. In the middle of so much loss, so much illness, and so much death.

Eric: When we think about the story of Easter, the story that we hear year after year, I wonder if there are aspects of that story that we might see in a new light due to this moment in time:

What small details will loom large in this moment?
What neglected characters might come to the fore?

Kate: Can I ask you that question first? What do you think about? I promise I'll answer, but I really do want to know your answer.

Eric: First, I wonder if we'll notice the length of the days. I think often Good Friday to Sunday feels fast because we're preparing, and we’ve got family and we're doing all that stuff, right?

Kate: Yeah.

Eric: And now I wonder if the time between Good Friday and Easter will feel different this time. In this moment, there are days that feel like weeks and weekends that feel like a month. So, maybe the three days in the tomb will feel different now.

I’m reminded that the disciples on the road to Emmaus say something like, “We had hoped he was the one to redeem Israel.” Had hoped. That hope was gone. And it was three days of darkness and loss that brought them to that moment. So I wonder if we'll know a little more what it feels like to not know that Sunday is coming.

Kate (chuckling): I'm so sorry that I'm like a garbage American religion historian, and I forget the biblical text. But isn’t there a phrase “while it was yet dark?” Is that the phrase?

Eric: Yes, when Mary Magdalene goes to the tomb?

Kate: I like your answer then. I think we will be thinking about Easter as a story of “while it was yet dark.”

Eric: That's really good.

Kate: We’re good. We love this story.

Eric: Yeah, it's really powerful.

Kate: And we will fumble around, and we won't recognize Jesus from the gardener. We won’t. The things that look beautiful will not be beautiful to us. The feeling that we won't know what is what – what will sparkle. You know, like when the light hits it, you get a little glimpse of the thing that's beautiful. And then you spend the rest of your life trying not to forget that. And I think that when things are really the worst, and you see these gorgeous moments of people — nurses, first responders, people sheltering homeless people — saving each other. Now, that is the time when I understand that there's a thing that is good and beautiful.

We might miss it. If we're not looking for Easter.

Eric: I wonder too. I think for a long time I was holding on to this hope that, you know, whenever we get back we're going to have like second Easter, no matter what Sunday it is.

But more and more it seems clear that it's not going to be a moment – but a trickle. That there will be these stages of going back to a place that won't be what it was but whatever the new normal is going to be, we'll slowly go back to that. And I wonder if that's what Easter felt like for those first disciples. That it wasn't just this moment, “Jesus is with us. We get it. We're celebrating.” But that Jesus had to keep coming back. He had to keep appearing for forty days. And even then, the community had to figure out, “Wait, what do we do now?

Kate: I think it's kind of magical that we are going to have the least sentimental, least pastel Easter in living memory. I think that might be good for us.

From all of us at Church Anew:

During global pandemic and global crisis. This least sentimental and least pastel Easter in living memory. May this Easter bless you and those you serve in new ways:
May you wonder about that first Easter.
May you notice the length of the days between Good Friday and Sunday.
May you see daffodils popping.
May you trade little secrets of what hope looks like.
May you know and celebrate Jesus is with us!
And be communities of faith figuring out, “Wait, what do we do now?”

Kate Bowler

Dr. Kate Bowler is an associate professor of the history of Christianity in North America at Duke Divinity School. Her first book, *Blessed: A History of the American Prosperity Gospel*, received praise as the first history of the movement based on divine promises of health, wealth, and happiness. In 2015, she was unexpectedly diagnosed with Stage IV cancer at age 35. In her viral New York Times op-ed, she wrote about the irony of being an expert in health, wealth and happiness while being ill. Her subsequent memoir, *Everything Happens for a Reason (and other lies I’ve loved)*, tells the story of her struggle to understand the personal and intellectual dimensions of the American belief that all tragedies are tests of character.
https://www.facebook.com/katecbowler
https://twitter.com/katecbowler
https://www.instagram.com/katecbowler/

Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

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