Sunday, Lonely Sunday

It's Sunday morning. I used to go to church on Sundays. For most of my life Sunday was “church day,” a “day of rest.” Maybe you can relate. On Sundays Mom and Dad would get into their nicer clothes (Dad wore nice suites for work, but his Sunday clothes somehow looked better). My two older sisters and I would do the same. As we kids got older there would invariably be some amount of chaos in the bathroom as three women got themselves church ready. Someone's curling iron was always broken or left unplugged or nylons ripped or clothes wrinkled. And if it wasn't that, we were just behind schedule for unknown reasons. Overslept a bit, took too long to eat, poorly timed bowel movement etc. Whatever the cause, my memory is of many abrupt departures and slightly illegal speeds on the way to church. But we were always there, and pretty much always on time.

Once there, we did churchy stuff—I learned about Jesus and Bible stories in Sunday School while my parents taught or went to Bible study. Then the service: organ music, prayers, organ music, sermon, organ music, offering, organ music, line up to shake the pastor’s hand on the way out. My dad was an usher. Sometimes I would get to sit in the back with him and his crew (he liked to leaf through the bulletin during the sermons). Speaking of which, the sermons where always the same: "good" Lutheran law and gospel, they would remind us how sinful we were so they could remind us how gracious God was in sending Jesus to save us. It was like an inverted roller coaster every week. They took us down, down, down, so they could shoot us back up and send us on our way for the week feeling uplifted.

That may sound like an over-simplification, but it really isn't. That's how we were "fed." Walk into any conservative Evangelical or Protestant church and you will likely encounter the same. To be reminded of God's love was to first be reminded of our guilt. And that was the story, the "good news," told time and time again. People are sinful, but God is loving. It's not a bad starting point, necessarily, but nor is it always a good one either. It doesn't say much about the messiness and pain of life. Nor does it have much of anything to say about complex social and political issues. (And, it just isn't theologically honest to hold the great, multifaceted mysteries of God and life in such a static and elementary state--not to mention the oversimplified and negative anthropology*).

Anyway, that was Sunday: nice clothes, organ music, and a selection of stories about Jesus. My wife and I have done a similar thing with our kids for most of our marriage. We've had our share of mad dashes out the door too! Which I am both a little embarrassed and kind of proud to say.

But over the years we've found different stories in the churches we've attended. They are still the Christian story, but with various places of emphasis. Some try to avoid the weekly down and up roller coaster by simply focusing on God's love as the beginning and end of the story. Again, it's not a bad way of telling the "good news" (sounds a little better than the other way), but it isn't very developed either. "God loves you, and Jesus was a cool guy, and God still loves you" also doesn't really get into the nitty gritty of life. It's definitely not a bad thing to be reminded of, but it doesn’t push you into deeper levels of conversation.

Other churches we’ve visited have focused almost solely on community. These are usually lovely places with loving people. They use God's love as the complete starting and end point and then simply preach and teach the beauty of fellowship and our relationship to all of life. This seems to invite more thought and engagement with the complexities of life. They talk about the issues facing individuals and society quite a bit. But as with any of these, it isn't very attractive or inspiring to those who aren't already drawn to religious community in the first place (I mean, if you're not into organ music or praise bands why sit through it?). All of these types of churches tend to rely on societal norms that have simply changed over the past 50 years.

About that, the institutional church as we once knew it is dying a long, slow death in the United States and has been for more than 50 years. Let that sink in for a minute. I'm 41 years old. That means that my entire lifetime has been lived amidst the slow decline of the church that my parents knew growing up. And the trends still continue. We are witnessing the painstakingly slow death of institutional Christianity. (Note that I did not say the death of the Christian faith, that is a different thing entirely. It is the institution that is dying away.)

Again, this isn't a bad thing, necessarily. It's just a thing. People are changing. Society is changing. We don't gather regularly as we used to, we don't join organizations like we used to. This can all seem a bit unsettling, I suppose, but then you realize that we didn't used to do those things before we used to them either. That is to say, if the institutional church is dying and needs to be reborn, it's not as if it is just now, in our lifetimes, changing for the first time in 2000 years. The church is always changing. There was a time before organ music and wooden pews. There was a time before praise music. There was a time before vehicles and roads made it possible for people from far and wide to gather easily every week. There was, apparently, a time when the "followers of the way" met every day for the reading of scriptures and prayer and shared all of their possessions in common! That time just happened to be what we now call the early church and our society and norms certainly don't compel us to do anything like that anymore... The point is, things change—get over it.

And yet, the title of this piece—I am lonely on Sunday mornings. I can fill them with youth sports or projects or the NFL or fishing or work or friends or whatever. Seems like that’s what most of us try to do. But I want more. I want to be part of a community, something bigger than myself or my friends. I need it. And I want a regular chance to connect with something bigger in a meaningful way.

I’ve always looked to church to fill that desire for committed, intentional community, and spiritual growth. But here’s the thing, even when I do go to church these days, I feel lonely. Something isn’t quite right. The churches that I want to attend tell a beautiful, compelling Christian story of God’s love for the world. They are inclusive and loving places doing their best to be the kingdom that Jesus proclaimed.

Yet they are also fractionalized; their energies are split as they attempt the impossible task of being both open and responsive to their community while also propping up a substantial version of the old way of being church for their more traditional, often older--and often affluent--members (i.e. the ones who have the resources to keep the doors open--you see the dilemma). So the energy is off. The story hits home, but the life is restrained and channelled into dying forms (traditional programs and committees and rhythms) that simply require too much energy. Members are anxious or burning out trying to do both (especially alongside societal expectations that they can have it al in work and family lives as well).

So no matter what I do on Sunday, it feels lonely. And maybe just naming it is the first step toward something better. Maybe stopping long enough to feel lonely and owning that feeling can help me figure out just what it is that I’m looking for. Maybe it is a nudging of the Spirit. At the very least it is honest. Perhaps it is enough to simply rest in that for now.

Dust to Dust: Who is my Neighbor?

"Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

- Traditional Ash Wednesday Liturgy

In Sebastian Junger's book, Tribe, he points out how people in truly dire circumstances pull together and look out for whomever is in close proximity no matter their background. Whether in times of war, famine, flood, or other catastrophes, it is a beautiful truth about our human race that we react to such frightful times by looking out for one another. And as Junger points out, we do so by essentially following the rules of the tribe, with all who are able working toward a collective good that is bigger than any one individual's self interest.

Indeed, in times of crisis, neighbors tend to help neighbors and the lines of division that exist when times are good become completely meaningless. People work together in egalitarian ways. Leaders emerge but do not dictate, nor do they take advantage of their role. There is no rich or poor in the middle of a war zone, there is no black or white, east or west. For those on the ground, there is only neighbor helping neighbor. And, as Junger reports from his experiences in war-torn Bosnia, not only do people pull together to survive, they actually form bonds of community that are stronger and more life-giving than during other times. Apparently, when the going gets tough, human beings care for one another in community in profound ways.

Interesting that what we think of as the highest moral directive, that we would "love one another, as we love ourselves," might not be something so lofty that we can barely dream of attaining it, but rather that it is something so close to us that we only find it when we are able to forget ourselves and simply "do what must be done." Of course we have instincts to protect our own, but it seems that when times are tough enough, "our own" comes to include anyone and everyone. When we are most aware that we are dust then we are most able to truly love our neighbor and see all of humanity as such.

What does it mean that we return to ourselves in this way? What does it mean that in times of peace and prosperity we lose track of this basic way of being together in community?...

I have spent my life in the safe, sterile affluence of American society at its peak. From a historical perspective, growing up in a middle-class home in a small midwest American town during the 1990's, probably puts me in the 0.0001% of human history in terms of safety and comfort (and theoretically, therefore, the opportunity to grow and thrive). I have lived a privilege beyond the comprehension of the vast majority of those in human history (not to mention the poor and outcast from our own time!).

Yet, I also know how many from this background struggle to feel at peace, how many deal with depression, anxiety, and a lack of meaning in our lives. And I have seen the vain ways we attempt to fill that void--with more and more consumption of material goods or experiences. We've been given the world, yet we've lost track of how to enjoy it together. We long for the connection of true community, a tight-knit neighborhood or tribe of people caring for one another, but we don't know how to find it. We accept endless consumption as a cheap substitute with no seeming knowledge of the actual costs of that consumption to ourselves or our world.

In the time of the greatest wealth in human history, we have the largest and most pronounced gap between the rich and the poor in our nation's history, while also approaching a tipping point in global environmental degradation. Our consuming habit (or defense mechanism) is killing our planet, it is eroding the bonds of our communities, and it is slowly suffocating our souls.

Yet we keep moving, keep buying, keep running to avoid the risk of feeling what we lack--meaningful connection to our local community, our actual neighbors (i.e. the actual people we live and work near, the ones we walk past on the street or in the aisles of the grocery store).

What would it take to remember that we (all of us, neighbor to neighbor) belong to one another? We can imagine the very real threat of global climate catastrophe or a nuclear-armed enemy, but even these actual threats can remain distant and abstract enough to ignore in our daily lives.

In the 90's we liked to imagine the end of the world. We watched movies like Armageddon, Independence Day, and Deep Impact. Thankfully, humanity always managed to pull together in those stories. We didn't pay much attention to how natural that was even as we rode the euphoric high of the imagined, global near-death experience back out of the theater doors into the physical world of our hometowns. But nor did we question, unfortunately, why we couldn't carry the good feelings of cooperation elicited by these stories over into real-life cooperation and connection with those around us.

For if there is anything true and good in those movies it is that they strike a chord of harmony, cooperation, and care for all within the human heart, yet we discount the "deep impact" of emotion as a manufactured yank of heartstrings and ignore that it points to a very real truth: ultimately, when we allow ourselves to feel it or are pushed to the brink together, we know that we belong to one another.

"Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

Dust to Dust, Embracing The Human Tribe: An Ash Wednesday Prayer

"Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

- Traditional Ash Wednesday Liturgy 

It has always bothered me that the good news of Christianity is anything but the "good news that will cause great joy for all the people (As Luke's gospel put it)." 

No, for too many the Christian message has become at best a point of contention, at worst an excuse for tribalism. It has become news that "is good for me and my group, but not so good for you." With the you being sinners of all sorts—non-believers, liberals, homosexuals, immigrants, conservatives, fundamentalists—whoever is in those "other" groups. Or, perhaps more often, this good news for all people becomes news that is "fine for you, just don't push it on me." With the you in this case being the Jesus freaks, Catholics, Pentecostals, liberals, Baptists, Lutherans, conservatives, Evangelicals, whoever those people are gathering for their so-called worship every week and neglecting to engage with the rest of us (which, by the way, is just fine with us).

I suppose it is natural. It is only human that any news to be shared would also have the potential to divide. For anything we might call "news" must certainly contain some form of knowledge to be transmitted as content. And wherever knowledge exists as such, there is also the shadow side of knowledge—as power to be exploited. Indeed, good news is hard to find! Even the good news. For it's not good news if I am certain of it and you have to agree with my certainty. Then it is dogma, then it is the letter of the law, which Paul tells us will surely convict us all in the end. 

No, good news cannot be about your certainty. But it can be about your convictions. Paul's words in Romans 8 come to mind, 

"For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord." 

What a beautiful sentiment. Paul is convinced of these things! See how that strikes you as a the reader? He's not imposing anything upon you, simply sharing a deep conviction of his own and holding forth a lovely list, enumerating the many obstacles which he believes to be nothing before the all-powerful love of God in Christ. He is making a proclamation. He is sharing news, but he is doing it in a way that does not impose.

No, the good news cannot be an imposition. It cannot play on power dynamics. It cannot be something that I have and you need, that I know properly and you know mistakenly, that I will share when I think you are ready, that I have and you don't! What is good about that? Jesus never talked like that. He announced freedom and forgiveness and healing. He announced the kingdom of God. Period. His words were not held as power, but given as gift. 

(Of course some will say, "But, but what about when he said he was 'the way and the truth?' What about when he said that no one comes to Father except by him?" To which I would simply ask "what was that way that Jesus was?" It was a way of humility and peace, a way of submission, yes even submission unto death—that was the way! In fact, Philippians tells us that "[even Jesus] who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited." So yes, of course he was the way, and is the way, and his life showed the fullness of that submissive, giving, way.)

Today is Ash Wednesday. Today is the day that many Christian churches begin a slow, solemn march toward the sorrow of Holy Week and its surprising, culminating celebration, that highest day of good news sharing in the church—Easter Sunday. It is fitting, then, that we would begin this season in humility, that we would at least attempt to avoid the haughtiness of a certainty that would set us apart and remember our humble place within the great tribe of humanity. 

"You are dust and to dust you shall return."

For who can hear the ancient Ash Wednesday reminder without a full recognition of our exact equal footing with every other person who ever was and ever will be? Who can hear these words without the stark realization of our true standing before that which transcends all of the here and now? Who can hear these words and draw any lines between themselves and another?

Perhaps we can take a cue from this stark reality, this "bad news" reminder with which we start the Lenten season. Perhaps this news, stunning and humbling as it is, could be the template for how to speak of our Easter convictions without turning them into lines that divide.

What would it be like to "know" the good news of resurrection in the same way that we know our ultimate fate as dust? Could we hear it like that? Could we "know" it while holding our place of equal footing with others (therefore not judging or rating others in their standing before God)? Could we hold the good news of the gospel in a fundamental way, a way that joins us to one another, a way that allows us to see that we are all in this together, to actually believe that we are ALL the body of Christ, just like our Sunday school teacher said? 

What would it be like to hear the good news of Jesus as such? It might, rightfully, seem as if we were starting to achieve that dream that Jesus had for us, that vision and prayer he had that we might "be one as he and the Father are one."

Hmm... Could that be true for us, mere dust that we are? Why, to hold the story of Easter like that? It might start to actually sound like it was good news "for all the people." Even more, we might start to act like it.

One

... One of twenty-six thousand, two hundred and ninety-three,

Hold on.

One of five point seven nine five million,

Stop.

One of three hundred twenty-five point seven million.

Please.

One of seven point seven billion.

Stop!

No.

1 of 1. Here. Today. Here, now. Alone. Reaching out.

One of seven point seven billion,

Stop.

Nameless, faceless--

No!

1 of 1. There. Everywhere—right now. Alone.

Alone with everyone—driving, pushing, pulling, tossing.

Dancing?

Are you dancing?

Stop, but don’t stop...

Come, listen.

Talk, but don’t talk.

Touch, but don’t touch.

See…

1 of 1

Seven point seven billion of seven point seven billion.

One of one.

"Sing this with me this is 40..."

I turned forty this past summer. I’m trying not to think about it. It’s weird. I don’t feel that old and most of my friends will tell me that we’re still young, still in our prime. “Forty is the new thirty,” they say, “maybe even the new twenty-eight.” But let’s be honest--the perspective has shifted. Forty is forty. It ain’t young. My body is starting to tell me I’m getting older and the guy in the mirror certainly doesn’t look as young as he used to. The odds of my family line tell me I am closer to death than I am to my birth, and that is a stark realization no matter how juvenile my friends and I may still act.

But I can embrace a new phase. With age comes wisdom, or so they say. I remember my cousin Tom telling me once when we were kids that his dad claimed that a man wasn’t a man until he was forty. There seems to be some truth to that. Although, it occurs to me now that Uncle Ted was probably right around forty at that time--now he would probably say that a man isn’t a man until he’s 65! It’s all about perspective, I suppose.

But there is a certain perspective that comes with mid-life, and perhaps it is worth putting into words. I’m not an out-of-touch old foggie yet, but nor am I impressed by the latest shiny toy or idea. And my generation, especially my micro-generation, the so-called xennials born between 1977 and 1983, have a unique view of this changing world we all share together. We live in the present, can make use of the latest advancements in technology, and dream of the the future where these will take us. But we also have roots in a time before the connectivity of the iphone and social media, before all information and news (and anxiety) was instantaneously available to everyone with internet access, before community could mean much other than the people around you. We were formed in a far different world than the one we are living in (or I should say, creating) now.

My friend, Nathan, says that once you hit forty you start speaking your mind. Perhaps that is a good thing. Not in the way of the angry old grouch, but in the way of the wise teacher, willing to speak up in humility to share a perspective, to ask good questions, and to really listen to other perspectives. (And it is this last one that takes the most practice and, maybe, the most courage).

I’ve certainly got a lot of questions right now. Questions about all aspects of life: How do we share this planet together without destroying it? How do we raise children to be aware of problems in the world without scaring them? How do we care for one another? How do we truly get to know those who are different from us? What is the good life? Is capitalism working? Why don’t we have hover cars yet or better trains? Why is the gap between rich and poor growing so quickly and why aren’t more people concerned about it? Why is our politics so divided? Why do we let youth sports run (or ruin) our lives? How do we raise young men with a healthy sense of masculinity? What is a healthy sense of masculinity? Why is church so irrelevant? Why is racism so prevalent? Why is it so hard to provide affordable health care while doctors, medical administrators, and insurance companies make so much money? Why do we treat “the market” and it’s so-called invisible forces as natural law of God? How do we get rid of all this plastic? What will happen to medicare and social security? How the hell did Donald Trump become president? How do we cut through media spin? What is truth? When did the national anthem become solely about respect and honor for the military? Seriously! All. This. Plastic…

I don’t claim to have a lot of good answers to these questions (and I’m not sure that “answers” would actually be helpful for most of them), but I do think we need to figure out a way to actually talk about some of these big issues in a constructive way. So maybe forty will bring the courage to question, to listen, and to offer up a perspective more often--to effectively speak my mind in an effort toward the greater good. I'm hoping to at least give it the old midlife try! Something tells me we need to do this now more than ever.

a few Richard Rohr inspired thoughts on trinity, baptism, church, and the very nature of life...

"Go, therefore, and make disciples, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

What does it mean to baptize in the name of? What was baptism when Jesus uttered these words? A washing of renewal, I suppose. What was the history and understanding of this act that cousin John made popular out in the wilderness, and which Jesus himself went through?

It seemed to be a ritual cleaning. Perhaps the ultimate version of such a ritual. To be doused into the water and brought back up was to physically experience the full renewal of turning to the new way demanded by John's "baptism of repentance."

But then Jesus leaves his disciples with this command to go and baptize. Richard Rohr's recent work on the trinity, The Divine Dance, points out the deep metaphysical truths of a trinitarian understanding of the world. Seeing God as trinity, means seeing life as relationship in a profound way. And I wonder what these words of Jesus mean then, if heard with those ears...

"Go, therefore, and make followers of this way by washing their lives in the deep nature of relationship and interconnectivity." Immerse them in it. "Baptize these new followers," doesn't mean to simply mark them. That's what the ritual does, but the ritual points beyond itself. Just as John's baptism was the beginning of an ongoing path, so too baptism is an ongoing affair. To baptize in the name of the trinity is to set in motion an unending deep dive into the meaning of life as created by, nurtured by, sustained by, and also reflecting ultimate being as relationality and love...

What would it look like if we baptized as such? What would it mean to the church to understand the charge to make disciples in this way? It seems to make it easier--it seems to be a blueprint for how to do it. How do you make disciples? You continually wash them in the deep nature of reality as interconnected and relational. Does it involve teaching and knowledge? Yes, but it's not a matter of cognitively knowing the right doctrines. Does it involve practice? Of course, but it isn't a matter of simply following the right rules.

Ch-ch-ch Changes

[This post was delivered as a sermon on January 7, 2018 at St. John's Episcopal Church, Wausau, WI. Lectionary readings for the day were Genesis 1:1-5, Psalm 29, Acts 19:1-7, Mark 1:4-11]

Well, it’s the New Year—the time of resolutions, the time of change (sometimes big announcements are made…) There is a certain energy to the new year, to turning the page and looking ahead. We have celebrated the coming of the light at the beginning of the church year with Advent and Christmas and now as the calendar turns we look ahead to all the of the life and movement that 2018 will bring. We imagine, we envision, we dream about what will become of this year ahead.

Of course, we almost always greet the new year with freezing cold temperatures here in Wisconsin. And as you know, in the cold, things slow down. The very molecules that make up all mass move more slowly as they cool to a frozen state and we move more slowly too. We hunker down and stay indoors. When we do go out, we take things slowly and carefully, as we should. So we begin the year in tension.

The New Year is latent with possibility, but that possibility is not yet ready to be realized. It is a threshold, it is a time of transition.

We have many of these in our lives, don’t we?

Some are thrust upon us: We lose our job, we get divorced, we lose a loved one, or become limited by injury or age. Suddenly, life looks differently. Other transitions we choose: we change jobs, we move, we go off to school, or retire from our career.

But whether we choose to make change or whether it is put upon us, we will always face this in-between time, a time when things are no longer as they were before but not yet how they are going to be. So, what do we do in these liminal spaces, as they are called—the space between? What can we do?

In the New Year we make resolutions, right? We make up our minds to do things differently. Raise your hand if you’ve tried this before. Now keep your hand up if you’ve ever made a resolution that you failed to keep. Okay and let’s be really honest with each other-- keep your hand up if you’ve made a new year’s resolution and broken that resolution within the very first week of January.

Resolutions aren’t easy. We aren’t always ready for the change, even when it is a change we wish to make. Of course, it doesn’t hurt to try and sometimes we succeed. Sometimes we make a resolution and we find ourselves in the right mindset and with the right circumstances to succeed. You might say that we somehow manage to find the right spirit to enact the change we seek.

Maybe we’ve resolved to do something for years and years without success, but then finally, we get extra motivation and we somehow find ourselves ready to finally get over the hump and actually make the change that we seek. In some instances, it might even feel easy. We’ve somehow captured the spirit necessary for the change we had sought for so long.

Or think of other changes. Some who have changed their lives through recovery will talk about hitting rock bottom. It sounds like this experience is about things getting so bad that there just had to be a change. People might say it was basically, “get clean or die.” I don’t doubt that is the case, but what makes an addict realize this?

In other cases, I’ve been told that it was a combination of circumstances working in them to create a new vision of what life could be--a new vision of hope, and a yearning for more out of life.  What causes this vision? What moves people from addiction to hope?

Some accounts of deep depression tell of facing a hopelessness so utterly overwhelming that it leads to a final, internal crack, a breaking of one’s illusions and to finally letting go—letting go of control, letting go of judgment, letting go of the feeling like you have to somehow keep it all together all of the time. It’s in the letting go—in the opening up—that a new spirit enters in.

Now if you’ve dealt with depression or addiction, then you will know that nothing that I can say up here will do justice to the profound journey that you have been through in your life. Please excuse my brief sketch of these subjects. But I can’t help but think that there is a lesson for us all in these dramatic life-changing and life-giving experiences of transition.

Somehow, through what is certainly pain and struggle, a new spirit is born. Where does it come from? How is it captured? It seems to have to do with realizing and admitting one’s brokenness, but it isn’t just that. It’s not just breaking, but a breaking open.

Although not obvious at first glance, I think our readings for today have something to say about this as well. Each reading represents a transition, a significant shift, and each reading involves a particular movement of the Spirit. From Genesis, we have God in the first act of creation.

“In the beginning… the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters.” The word for ‘wind’ here in Hebrew is the same word as breath or spirit, so the line could just as easily read that “a spirit (or The Spirit) of God swept over the face of the waters.” Before change, we have a movement of the Spirit, somehow preparing the way.

In the baptism of Jesus, we of course see the Spirit at work, coming down in the form of a dove, while a voice announces Jesus as the beloved son. Here again, the spirit is at work preparing the way, pointing toward this something new that was about to come into the world with the ministry of Jesus. And in some accounts the Spirit then leads Jesus directly out into the wilderness to be tempted, continuing this time of transition.

And then in our New Testament reading, we have this odd story in Acts 19 where Paul is engaging with some new disciples in Ephesus. Certainly, they are in a time of change along with other members of the nascent Jesus movement. Things aren’t how they were for these disciples—they’ve been changed—but nor are things like they are going to be—they haven’t yet been fully baptized. They haven’t even yet heard of the Holy Spirit. They are in one of these threshold moments. They are in the midst of transition. So Paul asks them, “into what, then, were you baptized?”

And they answered, into John’s baptism…

Remember John preached “a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” The word repentance could be literally rendered as to turn around. It has to do with changing directions. But more than that it has more to do with a change of mind—like a paradigm shift.

So these disciples had heard the call to repentance. They knew that they wanted to turn around toward a new way of being, they wanted to have a new mind about them as part of this new movement. But it wasn’t just going to happen. They were a lot like us with our new year’s resolutions. They had an idea of change, but they weren’t quite there yet.

So Paul tells them, “John baptized with the baptism of repentance, telling the people to believe in the one who was to come after him, that is, in Jesus."  And with that simple line they are given a bigger vision of what life could be. It’s about this man Jesus, and the way he lived and the things he taught us. It isn’t just about turning around or away or about a paradigm shift it is also about what you are focused on. And in that vision of Jesus, a new spirit is born.

Our text goes on to tell us that “they were baptized in the name of the Lord Jesus.” And, “when Paul had laid his hands on them, the Holy Spirit came upon them…”

With something—or someone—to focus on they were then open to and ready to receive the spirit.

Of course, it doesn’t always happen as simply and quickly as this makes it sound. What changes and transitions await you in the year ahead? We will have change here together at St. John’s obviously, but we will all face many other changes in our lives as well—some big, some small. No doubt, the old adage is true, “the only constant is change.”

Does this mean that we live in fear? Does this mean that we are never settled? I don’t think so, but perhaps it does mean that we hold life a little more loosely, that we recognize it as gift and are aware that we are always becoming, we are always in process, and that life is about continually opening up to the movements of the spirit in our lives, wherever and however they move us.

Remember Jesus said that the spirit moves where it pleases. Like the wind, you can hear its sound, you can see evidence of it, but you do not know from where it comes or to where it will go—where it will lead you. Can we be open to such a spirit? Can we even embrace the in-between times that come with change and transition? Can we heed the words of the book of Isaiah where God says, “Do not hold onto the old ways. For see, I am about to do something new?” Or if the voice of the prophets doesn’t do it for you, perhaps the stark words of the late David Bowie can achieve the same thing: can we “turn and face the strange?” It might be that when we feel most lost or broken that we are finally ready to be led into something new.

So, happy New Year! May the changes that lie ahead for you personally and for this congregation bear much fruit. May we be open to the movements of the spirit, wherever they may blow, and in that gain awareness of how precious our time is here together. Amen!