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Silver Learnings, Part 2: Masks In February I was on a flight from San Francisco to Chicago, and a guy across the aisle from me was wearing a very sophisticated-looking facemask. I don’t fly much, but I’d been following the news about COVID-19 closely since January, and I wasn’t surprised to see the precaution. They were saying at that point that masks don’t really prevent the spread of the virus, but I certainly didn’t fault the guy for wearing it. An airplane has to be one of the most problematic places to be during an outbreak. Still, I have to say, the mask provoked an ominous feeling in me, and it wasn’t just because it broadcast a reminder that there was a pandemic on the horizon. I couldn’t help feeling that my neighbor on the plane thought of me and everyone else on board as a threat, someone he needed to guard against, to protect himself. Again, I didn’t fault the guy. But I’ve long had an unmistakable feeling of sadness whenever I see people in person or on the news (not just lately – any time) wearing masks in public – it strikes me as symbolic of an isolated and suspicious population, in which everyone sees everyone else as dangerous, like we’re no longer human beings to each other, but something more like a contaminate. A mask says, ‘stay away, you’re not getting me’ I know this is not what the people behind the masks are thinking, for the most part. But the thought comes to my mind whether I want it to or not. All that said, I’m quite happy to share that my point of view on masks has changed in the past week, and it’s a change that’s brought real peace to my mind and heart. The public health officials, of course, are now recommending the use of masks by everyone out in public (and I’m as irritated as anybody about the fact that contrary advice had been given previously), but the rationale for masks isn’t what my reflexive reasoning has always been. While a good facemask provides some protection to the wearer against infection, the greater value is in preventing people from sharing whatever viruses and germs they’re unknowingly carrying. You wear a mask to protect the people around you, not just to guard against them. This expansion of perspective is the kind of thing that restores my soul. With my old frame of mind, if I went to the grocery store and saw a bunch of shoppers in facemasks, I’d jump to the conclusion that everyone around me was leery and self-serving (even though I don’t want to think about people that way). But if I see the mask as a tool for caring for others, I can appreciate those same shoppers as community-minded people focused on the common good. It’s the same piece of cloth and elastic, but the mask has changed from being an indicator of private protection, to a sign of mindfulness, generosity and goodwill. Friends, whether it’s a mask or something else, what signs of these times have you been responding to in a spiritually impoverished way? It may be that a new perspective is making its way toward you, and you’ll soon feel much better.

Silver Learnings, Part 1 I always resist calling a good thing that comes in the midst of a bad situation, “A silver lining to a dark cloud.” That expression feels like a cheap dodge, a way of saying the bad thing is really not so bad. Still, I almost always learn something important from hardship, something I wouldn’t have understood otherwise, and in that way I often find myself grateful, or at least sort-of-kind-of grateful, for the gifts that come by tribulation. If there’s wisdom to be found through catastrophe, I’ll try to dig around in the rubble - who knows what’s in there. So I won’t ever say this pandemic is a good thing, even if undeniable good is found in pockets and moments. But I’m going to try and articulate some insights and reminders I am growing with during this strange time. Call them silver learnings. Is that cheesy? I can live with it… Pt. 1: Lenten Promises My family has a devotional practice of not turning on lights during Lent. We use what the sun gives us and make do with candles after dusk. We tried this for the first time 9 years ago, and it’s become a tradition. The 40 days leading to Easter is a time of receding darkness for the six of us - each day we get a couple added minutes of sunshine, plus the fake bonus of Daylight Savings Time, which steals from the morning to push back the night. Darkness comes with real and very frustrating challenges. You better make sure the Legos are picked up while you can see them, for one. And don’t ever cook bacon without a light on. Even with the headaches, we’ve kept the practice because it’s undeniably good for us. A dark home is a quieter home, a more peaceful home. But more important, darkness demands humility. You see your limits, in fact your limits are all you can see. You must tread slowly and with care. You must remember where things are. You must accept it when the day is done. This year during Lent (which began Feb 26), I added to our shared commitment a personal choice to give up both alcohol and caffeine. I chose this mostly for health reasons, to be candid. I’ve never had trouble falling asleep, but for a while my rest has broken up by fits of midnight wakefulness, and I feel very tired, a lot of days, as a result. The benefits of dropping all caffeine and alcohol have been incredible. I can’t remember when I slept this well, and even if I get fewer hours, I feel more rested. No kidding, I’ve been getting up earlier than on school days, without an alarm clock. It’s also been a total drag, let me be clear. Especially the caffeine part. Man. I drink a lot of coffee, okay? And let me tell you, you miss it when it’s gone. And beer? Yep, there’s nothing like abstinence to teach you how you really feel about a thing. And I like beer. But that leads to the deeper value of the Lenten promise. Like choosing darkness, choosing to go without these chemical inputs is an exercise in humility. Just like I lie to myself that I don’t need stillness and quiet when I flood my home with light at 10pm, I use caffeine to defy the truth of my exhaustion, and I use alcohol to relax my nerves and ease painful emotions. When I make an active choice to forgo these escape mechanisms, I’m forced to confront my limitations and the truth about my life. And frankly, reminding the guy in the mirror that he can’t have whatever he wants at the moment, is just a good idea. Of course, when Lent began, I didn’t know COVID 19 was going to shut the world down, although the virus was in the US news a lot by February. But as the fiasco of cascading closures and cancellations unfolded, and as all of the restrictive measures have been instituted, suspending normalcy throughout our society, I’ve been thankful for the practice of deprivation I’d already undertaken. Ok, let me be a little more honest than that. I’ve had a lot of times since schools have been closed when I really wanted a beer, and even more times when I really wanted a cup of joe. But still. The Lenten discipline for me is all about illuminating and accepting my limitations. And practicing that spiritual truth has been supremely relevant in this season when we are prevented from doing much of what we’d ordinarily do in our day-to-day. Maybe the simpler way to put it is, when you practice saying no to yourself, it’s less of a shock when the world says no. When all this passes, and society reopens, and we get to go back to church and restaurants and baseball games, I pray we’ll savor these experiences with a newly-formed gratitude, and a sharp awareness of how life itself, and every good thing in it, is a gift, truly. But long before then, starting even now, we are invited to embrace the truth about ourselves - when we can go and when we must stop; what we understand and what we do not; what we control and what we cannot control. Be in the light, even as it’s fading, with trust that a new day is coming. Because it’s only within hard limits that we divine what truly matters, and how we really ought to live.

Fear A few years ago, my family took a rafting trip, with a big group of people, down the Colorado River, and the guides had us beach the rafts near a certain bend. At this spot the water was very deep, and there was a giant rock, a cliff really, that you could climb up and jump off. Yes, my kids were goading me, and no, I wouldn’t have done it otherwise. But up the rock I went. Of course, there were warnings. First, the guides cautioned that the jump LOOKS WAY BIGGER from the top of the cliff than it does from the bottom. The second warning was actually a rule. We were all in bathing suits and swim shoes, and the formation of the rock was such that climbing up was much safer than climbing down. So the rule was, if you climb up, you have to jump. No getting up to the edge and having second thoughts. About 20 of us ascended, and since there was only one spot from which to jump, we stood in line waiting our turn. Wouldn’t you know it, there was a person who got to her turn, looked down at the water which appeared to be about 800 miles below, and panicked. Couldn’t jump. Paralyzed. So the rest of us waited. And waited. And people tried to give encouraging words, which became impatient words, trying urge this person to just jump. You can do this. It’s not that bad. Just get it over with. Any day now, I’m growing a beard over here. Can you picture yourself in this situation? Well, it’s not just a story about jumping into a river. We live in a fearful time, and I think this story matters deeply, for two main reasons. 1. I soon stood in the spot where my terrified neighbor had stood. When I got my turn, I looked down, and said to myself and the Lord Jesus, “Oh S---! It really is a long way down. What was I thinking? Why did I climb up here? I can’t do this.” And of course, all the assumptions and judgments I’d been making about this other person who’d had a hard time jumping, disappeared instantly. Because I suddenly fully understood the fear they had been feeling. And that’s a very important lesson. It matters a great deal that we understand how our experiences are shared. We may not literally stand in the exact spot, and deal with exactly the same circumstances as someone else, but the fundamentals of human fear are universal. And if we ever think we can distance ourselves from the things other people are dealing with, and thereby congratulate ourselves for not being fearful, life has a way of reminding us our turn is on it’s way. We need to remember that, as kindred in the human condition, we really are all in this together. Whatever’s coming for you is coming for me, too. 2. I realized there’s no denying fear. When you stand on the edge of a cliff, staring down is terrifying. Let’s not kid ourselves. In troubling times, we do ourselves a disservice by pretending that there’s nothing to be afraid of. Of course there are things to be afraid of! But we have to confront fearful things. We need to remind ourselves, and each other, that we are capable of standing strong, meeting the moment, and doing what needs to be done, even though the situation we’re in is really, really scary. We mustn’t deny our fears. We must face our fears. Now, you might be thinking, “Hey, you never told us if that person in front of you in line ever jumped.” Well, yeah. She jumped. Took a while, but she managed. At the bottom, I heard her say that it was the most terrifying moment of her life, and the stupidest thing she ever decided to do. It didn’t turn out to be ‘not so bad’. But she did it, because she had to, and it was okay. Hang in there, friends, and may the peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you. The Table is a Christian church in Davenport, Iowa, seeking transformation: from greed toward generosity from violence toward peacemaking from isolation toward neighborliness from fear toward faith Worship Sundays at 5pm 102 E. 2nd St. Davenport

One time a friend of mine was on a bus that had only a few passengers, including a man with three young sons. These boys were extremely rambunctious, running around, walking on the seats, bumping into people. They were really getting on my friend’s nerves, and it was extra irritating because their dad was just sitting there staring into space, not seeming to notice the trouble his kids were causing, not making any effort to get them to behave. My friend was getting more and more frustrated, and then one of the boys ran up the aisle, stepped on his foot and got mud on the cuff of his slacks. He’d had enough. And here’s Dad, still sitting there, not paying any mind. My friend gets up, full of righteous indignation but trying not to lose his cool, and says to the man, “Sir, your sons are out of control. Can you please get them to settle down?” The father was clearly embarrassed, but had an utterly dazed look on his face. He was courteous and apologized, but then said something my friend would never forget. He said, “My wife died a few hours ago. We’re going home from the hospital, but the boys don’t know yet that they’re not going to see their mom again. I’m trying to figure out what to say to them.” Now it’s not hard for us to imagine how my friend’s entire outlook was transformed in that moment. He no longer saw this family in terms of his own inconvenience, and how they affected his ability to have a peaceful ride home. He took himself out of the center of the story – this situation wasn’t about him and whether or not he was justifiably irritated. All he was thinking about from this moment on was what this man and his sons were going through – their suffering, their loss. All the bitterness and judgment that he had been feeling toward them was gone in an instant. He sat down next to this person whom he’d been so angry with a moment before. And he called out to the boys, “Hey fellas, come here – I’ve got something to show you.” And they crowded around him and he took out a pen and a pad of paper and started showing them how to play tick-tack-toe, and how to draw pictures of animals that he knew how to draw. They came to the family’s bus stop, and it wasn’t his stop but he got out with them, and there was a restaurant there and he bought them a meal to take home, and said a prayer for them. These acts of goodwill would of course not diminish the pain and the grief the father and sons were entering, but it was nevertheless a moment when anger and judgment were transformed into compassion and kindness. Now, here’s a question. What does the word ‘epiphany’ mean to you? Casually, this word is used to describe an ‘aha moment,’ like when you realize two things are connected, or maybe when you’re trying to figure out a problem and the solution suddenly occurs to you. I’ve had people say they had an epiphany when they realized where they left their car keys. The Christian meaning of epiphany is an experience of divine illumination, when God’s truth is both revealed and perceived, albeit within the limitations of human comprehension. If an epiphany is an ‘aha moment’ it’s of the supreme and transcendent variety, when our perspective is broadened, our outlook re-shaped, and our ideas about the way things are get taken apart and replaced with a new understanding. Epiphany is an experience of transformation, an moment of new understanding and indeed new life, throughout which we cannot remain unchanged. It’s disruptive, but also a profound opportunity, because when our understanding and expectations are dismantled and reassembled, this is a moment when grace can take hold of us, inaugurate a new season of compassion in our lives, and convince us of our own great capacity for generosity, peacemaking, neighborliness, faith and love. Because epiphanies happen, our lives, and the world around us, can change for the better. Blessings to you, this holy season of Epiphany. The Table is a Christian church in Davenport, Iowa, seeking transformation: from greed toward generosity from violence toward peacemaking from isolation toward neighborliness from fear toward faith Worship Sundays at 5pm 102 E. 2nd St. Davenport

Our family has a tradition of reading a children’s storybook during Advent every year. The book is about a mother bear and her son, to whom she tells a bedtime story each night in December, in preparation for Christmas. In the story, a young bear (obviously quite similar to the cub listening each night), sees a star moving through the sky and, from somewhere deep within himself, feels compelled to follow it. At first he doesn’t know what the star is or where it’s going, but as the journey unfolds, he meets others who tell him about a child being born in Bethlehem, who will somehow bring peace, healing and new life to the whole world. Each short, daily chapter is an episode on the way to the nativity, in which the bear meets friends, struggles through hardship, faces fears and gains wisdom. In the last episode - meant to be read on December 24th - the bear arrives in Bethlehem and sees a gathering outside a humble stable, where a family is celebrating their newborn baby. Many of the characters he met along the way have also arrived, as well as all kinds of animals, and book ends with the young bear, filled with joy, approaching the manger. It’s a quaint and charming tale, but because I’ve read it so many times now, the meaning in the story has deepened quite a bit for me. It’s a story that ends at the beginning. The Christian gospel is so often characterized as faithful people learning to follow Jesus. Listening to his teachings, trying to imitate his example. But central to our tradition is this season of Advent, leading to Christmas. During this sacred time, we choose a spiritual living space in which we are waiting for this teacher, our guide, our healer, the Savior of the world, to arrive. As we wait, we are invited to ponder what it means to follow the Christ who is not yet here, and also to reflect on the reality, the abiding truth, that we may undertake what feels like a great journey, full of adventure and learning and pain and worry and setbacks that we have to push our way through, and at the end of all of that, we find ourselves at the beginning. This is Advent. This is Christmas. As a parent, I’ve often reflected on the journey of pregnancy – all the planning, the care, the worry, the expectation – and how the due date marked on the calendar feels like this moment of completion. All of our concern is focused on getting to a healthy delivery. And this should be our focus, of course! Yet, if we’re blessed to reach that goal, we discover that in that moment the journey of parenting has now fully begun. In the Advent storybook, the little bear learns and draws upon a panorama of Christian principles and virtues, in order to complete his journey to Bethlehem. Things like generosity, forgiveness, service, peace and trust – things we rightly say that Jesus himself offers to us – the little bear relies upon these virtues to find his way to baby Jesus in the first place. It’s a parabolic way of teaching us that Jesus is not only our guide on the way. Jesus is the way, himself. Or maybe, the path of Jesus is what leads us to Jesus, who then leads us on the path. Call that a paradox of grace or whatever you want, but I know it’s true. And frankly, I’m good with Christmas being a paradox, because a paradox has a place for everybody, and that’s how Christmas ought to be. Some of us are old disciples, following Jesus all these long years, through many dangers, toils and snares, and we testify to the faithfulness and trustworthiness of Christ, as a guide and protector in every season. Others of us have never met Jesus. We may have heard a thing or two about him, perhaps even enough to stir a bit of hope within our spirits, but mostly we feel alone on a journey we don’t know how to complete, facing challenges we don’t know how to overcome. If we’re on the way to Bethlehem, God only knows when we’ll ever get there. Meanwhile, every obstacle we climb past, every triumph of goodwill over violence and fear, every unexpected kindness from strangers, feels impossible until it happens, like light breaking into the deepest darkness. And we find a little sustenance, and we take a little rest, and we keep putting one foot in front of the other, on the way that leads to the one who will show us the way. Because we haven’t even made it to the beginning, and yet, we’ve come so far. That’s Advent, that’s Christmas. No matter who we are, or where our feet have located us, no matter our frailty or strength, our clarity or doubt, no matter how familiar or lost we feel, we are all on the same path. And the grace that has brought us this far, is the same grace pushing us toward this new life, swaddled and lying in manger. The Table is a Christian Church in Davenport, Iowa, striving to move: from greed toward generosity from violence toward peacemaking from isolation toward neighborliness from fear toward faith Worship Sundays at 5pm Christmas Eve Service Tuesday, Dec. 24, 5pm 102 E. 2nd St. Davenport Iowa

Years ago I worked as a chaplain at a hospital where a group of women from a nearby church provided a very unique resource: they hand-stitched baby clothes for infants who had died. Specifically, these were babies who were born tragically premature, so early they couldn’t survive. The babies were tiny, smaller than your hand, and no store-bought clothing could serve them. So these ladies would make tiny garments, and if parents so desired, they could dress their child in these clothes to be laid to rest. I think of this ministry from time to time, as I reflect on what it means to give a true gift, from the heart. This time of year, our consumer society is obsessed with purchasing and presenting extravagant and exciting Christmas presents. People are motivated to shop for wonderful things to family and friends, often out of love and a desire to share joy, but also out of social pressure and the daunting need to measure up. We place a lot of our hopes and insecurities into the gifts we give. We want our gift to make someone happy, or to show how much we care, or to make another person grateful and appreciative of us. At the very least, we don’t want to fail to meet expectations in a holiday season that revolves around packages wrapped with fancy bows. The gift of handmade clothing that the women at that hospital gave over and over again, would never satisfy any of these motivations for giving. If a mother and father received this gift, they were receiving it on the worst day of their life. There would be no joy in receiving the gift. The gift had no power to heal their broken hearts, or take away their tragedy. They would never meet or know the givers – the ministry was completely anonymous. But of course, despite the fact that their giving is nothing like what we see in holiday commercials this time of year, I can’t think of any gift that’s truer than theirs. What they offer is extraordinary, a great treasure of compassion. The seamstresses don’t give with any concern for what they might get in return. They receive no acknowledgement, no thanks, certainly no reciprocity. Because they give in secret, their concern is only to offer some small grace to a neighbor with a shattered heart, and to honor a child who never got to grow up. Of course, it’s not actually true that they get nothing in return for their gifts. What they get is a sense of meaning and purpose. They understand in a deep and abiding way that it is good to extend kindness to someone who is suffering, and it’s good even if your kindness cannot end their suffering. These women know that human beings are most fully alive when our words and actions are guided by compassion. If we live in a consumerist society like the United States, we each have to make our own judgment calls about how much, and in what ways, we’re going abide by the pressures and norms of buying stuff for our people at the holidays. I rarely talk to anyone who is completely comfortable with the way they have managed to navigate the commercialism of American Christmas, but I also buy plenty of Legos and candy canes every year. Still, in the moments when we feel disillusioned and out-of-touch with the holidays, because cynical materialism seems to have taken over the whole experience, we’d do well to remember that the spirit of giving itself is not the problem. If we decide to take a breath and withdrawn from the commercialism, or, for that matter, if the circumstances of our lives prevent us from participating in it very much in the first place, this has no bearing on our capacity to share kindness, and to give, from the heart. To give a gift that is true, all you need is compassion, goodwill, and a bit of affection. A generous spirit, a heart for others. The Table is a Christian church in Davenport, Iowa, seeking transformation: from greed toward generosity from violence toward peacemaking from isolation toward neighborliness from fear toward faith Worship Sundays at 5pm Christmas Eve Service, Tuesday Dec. 24 at 5pm 102 E. 2nd St. Davenport

It hasn’t felt much like Spring this Spring, am I right? Here in the Quad Cities, it is raining and flooding – as is the tradition in Spring. But the cold has persisted, like the world has forgotten to put the Midwest on “defrost”. The season doesn’t seem to want to change. I think that reflects us sometimes. We all have seasons of our lives. Chances are you’ve been through a few if you’re reading this. We go from being a baby to a child, from a child to a teenager, from a teenager to an adult with responsibilities. Perhaps you have gone from living with someone, like your parents, to living alone. Maybe you went from living alone to living with a significant other. Perhaps you have left behind independence and freedom and had to take care of someone. These are all changes in our lives that could be counted as seasons. Whether these changes are good or bad, they always come with some anxiety and grief over the changes that our happening. When we encounter these changes, we can either try to live in the past season and deny the change, or we can embrace the change and see what the new season of our life has in store for us. I’m not trying to say changing from one season of our lives to a new one is easy or as instantaneous as making a choice – it can take time. But when we begin a new season of our lives, we can either look towards the change with fear, or with excitement for what is to come. We can view change as either a curse, or a blessing for something new from God. Even a change in mindset might help us get through the difficult change in our lives. This Spring has me wanting to get unstuck, and looking forward, to see the new season right on the horizon. The Table is a Christian church in Davenport, Iowa, pursuing transformation: from greed toward generosity from violence toward peacemaking from isolation toward neighborliness from fear toward faith

Enemies have a way of bringing friends together. You’ve experienced this plenty of times. Someone comes to you and complains about somebody else, and you say, “Oh yeah. She’s the worst.” It’s a moment of togetherness, of solidarity between you, and it feels good. You give each other affirmation by sharing scorn for an outsider. Psychologists call this phenomenon ‘triangulation.’ It can be a method for manipulating people, but it also provides comfort and security. Actually confronting someone with whom we have a problem is a lot of work - it takes a great deal of focus and resolve, and frankly, it can be scary. Triangulation is a way to get around all that discomfort, and to get encouragement from somebody who will just agree with you in your resentment. We recognize this dynamic – that people feel closer when they name the bad guys together – and yet, we have to know that this closeness is not real friendship. Not to say that true friends won’t sometimes dish about people who get on their nerves, but the closeness created by targeting a third party is not a basis for real friendship. Real friends don’t just assure each other that they’re the good guys. Real friends sit with one another through trials and tribulation, delight in one another’s joy, abide one another’s mistakes, and - here’s the really hard one – real friends hold one another accountable in love. Think about a time when you’ve gone to a friend, expecting her to agree with you about how selfish or stupid or stubborn what’s-his-name was being, and your friend wouldn’t just commiserate. “Actually,” she said, “You’re not being fair – you’re contributing more to the problem than you think.” Man, that stings! How could your friend not take your side? Well, it may be a moment like this when a friend shows you how fully they care for you. Because a true friend will always stand with you, but they don’t always agree with you. They don’t always congratulate you. They don’t always assure you you’re right. Over the span of a lifetime you comprehend that the people who really love you will not only defend you when you’re attacked, and they won’t just lift you up when you’re down. They’ll also help you face the facts when you’re in the wrong. Just before Jesus was arrested, he had a last supper with his disciples. He gave them bread and wine that symbolized his sacrifice, covenant and forgiveness. But he also told them something none of them wanted to be true - he knew that one of their group was in the process of betraying him with actions that would bring about his death. Hearing this, Simon Peter, who always wanted to be Jesus’ best friend, drew near to let him know that they were in this together. “Just want to say, I’m one of the good guys like you, Jesus. It’s you and me, Jesus, and whoever this evil-doer is, we’ll face him together.” But this was not a time when Jesus would encourage a friend by condemning somebody else. In this critical moment, he’d only allow the whole truth, hard as it was to accept, or even comprehend. “Peter,” Jesus said. “You will deny me as surely as that other one will betray me.” These were bitter words for Peter to hear, and when he later proved them true by his own actions, he was consumed by anguish and shame unlike anything he’d ever felt. I’m certain he lived with some amount of pain from this failure for the rest of his days. But Jesus’ unflinching honesty about Peter’s frailty did not destroy the bond between them. Quite the contrary, in time, Peter arose from his fear and shame and his life became a courageous testament to the world-changing power of Christ’s Way. Peter’s devotion to Jesus grew deeper precisely because Jesus didn’t make friends by making enemies. The way to get close to Jesus was not then, and it isn’t now, to buddy up by derision, deciding who’s good and bad, who's in and who's out. A life-changing friendship with Christ is forged not by drawing a line that puts you on the side of Jesus, but by living openly and honestly with your own limits and mistakes, and extending grace to all the world’s flawed people. Because not only is Jesus unafraid to name the truth of our problems. He stays through the trouble - unafraid to heal, unafraid to forgive, unafraid to love. Even you. Even me. The Table is a Christian church in Davenport, Iowa, seeking transformation: from greed toward generosity from violence toward peacemaking from isolation toward neighborliness from fear toward faith Easter Sunday Worship - 4.21 at 5pm! 102 E. 2nd St., Davenport, Iowa

My youngest child is wiggling her front tooth. It’s a thrill, it’s a project, it’s unmitigated glee. I’ve seen this before. A kid waits for the first loose tooth longer than they wait for Halloween, for summer vacation. When’s it gonna fall out? My friend’s already lost two. Then one day… a shift. Could it be? Let’s do this! I’m happy for my girl, but I feel waves of sadness breaking over me, here and there in recent days. I’ve been watching my kids grow out of littleness for 15 years. What’s harder about this, now? It may be the denial I’ve afforded myself. To this point, every time one of my children has outgrown some precious stage or season (standing up, tying shoes, losing teeth), there’s been a younger sibling just growing into it. I was a preschool parent for over a decade – didn’t have to believe I’d ever see my last finger-painting. But now, when the youngest gets done with a thing, it’s really done. Jammies are going to Goodwill, not the attic, and the Thomas spoon won’t be in the drawer for much longer. There’s something about the two front teeth, you know? When a grin still has the originals, your baby still looks like a baby. I mean, you know, kind of. But man, when those giant clunky chompers come in, there’s no fooling yourself. Your kid is big. She’s yanking at this tooth and beaming at me. I can’t tell what she’s saying, because she’s got a hand in her mouth, but it’s something about how great this is. I’ve heard church people joke that we made Christmas a holiday because we love babies - the sacred infant is just an irresistible image. I think there’s something to this, but church and life won’t let us cling to beginnings. There’s a thing called the liturgical calendar that charts a path for Christians’ spiritual attention throughout the year - by the second week in January we’re supposed to be reading the part of the story when Jesus is baptized as a full-grown man. So much for savoring youth, right? Before there are leaves on the oak at my house, Jesus will be facing death and what lies beyond. At times I feel my own life tumbling forward with such ferocious speed, and I have moments of panic, I won’t deny it. My girl works on her incisor as her brother walks past and grabs the car keys. I see the man he’s very close to becoming, the man I won’t be able to protect as he confronts many fearful things beyond our home. Lent is a journey, life is a journey, and it frays the nerves to consider that we can’t decline to embark. Not only that, as we go we can’t stop, we can’t hardly press pause. We’re moving forward in this thing, like it or not, becoming what we are to be, discovering all we are meant to find. We make choices along the way, and we ought to make good ones, but we cannot claim total control. We can’t remain always safe in our parents’ care, and we cannot save our little ones from every harm. But there’s a kind of trust that many have found a way to embrace on this journey, even when the landscape is unforgiving, and there is danger afoot. It’s a trust that Jesus knew, which never suggests that trouble isn’t lurking. A simple faith lies in wait for any of us to grasp, faith that grace abides, that what is needed will be found, that healing and hope are real, and that joy, even new life, will come in the morning. I smile with my kids as they push beyond childhood, even as I grieve, even as I worry, because most of the time my faith is stronger than my fear. I’m not going to be able to banish from my soul every one of those moments of panic I was telling you about. But I’m working on filling my days with gratitude, courage, forgiveness and trust. You know, the stuff that keeps you hanging in there, taking the next step. The Table is a Christian church in Davenport, Iowa, pursuing transformation: from greed toward generosity from violence toward peacemaking from isolation toward neighborliness from fear toward faith Worship Sundays at 5pm. 102 E. 2nd St., Davenport

9 killed at the Buddhist Temple in Waddell, AZ 6 killed at the Sikh gurdwara in Oak Creek, WI. 9 killed at Mother Emanuel in Charleston, SC. 26 killed at First Baptist Church in Sutherland Springs, TX. 11 killed at Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh, PA. 50 killed at Al Noor Mosque and Linwood Islamic Center in Christchurch, New Zealand. I usually don’t enjoy conversations about how much the world’s religions have in common. Of course, I recognize themes and values shared across faiths, but so often, people talk about similarities in a way that glosses over what makes any one spiritual tradition beautiful, distinct and vibrant. So I mostly prefer to learn as much as I can about the scriptures, theology and history of religions, and appreciate them for their differences. But this week, I can’t stop thinking about something all people of faith seem to share in our time – the experience of being targeted for mass murder while gathering for prayer and worship. It keeps happening, to all of us. It’s a ghastly fact to call our common ground, but it’s a truth we should dwell on. And it’s right to gather here, in compassion and solidarity. The alternative has been tried, of course, and it leads to nowhere good. We’ve always known how to turn against each other in the aftermath of trauma, even when we share the most fundamental concerns. The long history of our violent world is full of arguments about which kinds of religious people are more violent, more guilty of horrendous crimes. A disturbing but logical extension of this debate is the suggestion that some communities are on the whole more deserving of violence being visited upon them. This kind of competitive condemnation is both dehumanizing and futile. We cannot solve problems, we cannot heal wounds, and we cannot undercut the violence we say we deplore by saying that this faith or that is the evil one. What we can do is to see, truly see, how being victims of violence illuminates our shared humanity. Yes, people who’ve claimed our respective faiths are among the perpetrators of vile acts, but the more valuable fact is that we are all targets of violence, as well. Call it pain democratized or whatever you want - we are in this together, and we can do ourselves no greater service than to try to comprehend, at our very core, that the people we see suffering over there, are just like our people here. Their shattering heartache is the same as ours. The fear we feel is the fear they feel. This is what really makes all faiths one: love and lamentation. When we choose kinship in our pain, we embrace the opposite of the killers’ power. They are fueled by demonization and vilification, and they want the world to have more of it. Claiming one another as neighbors, as comrades, as kin, is a proclamation that the murderers are wrong, not only in what they do, but in what they believe. We weep for the treasured ones lost in Christchurch, and for victims of every faith and no faith, everywhere. As we grieve for ones whose prayers and customs and names for God we may not know, we prove the reality of compassion and unity in our time. Our tears become resolve - to raise children who look for friends across difference, not foes, and to defy together the claims of the vicious: We are not enemies. We will not be enslaved to hate. The Table is a Christian church in Davenport, Iowa, pursuing transformation: from greed toward generosity from violence toward peacemaking from isolation toward neighborliness from fear toward faith Worship Sundays, 5pm. 102 E. 2nd St., Davenport #empathy #compassion #grace #violence #victim #faith

When somebody gets baptized in church, it's a celebration. People go out to lunch afterward, or somebody hosts a party. Gifts, cake, lots of hugs. Read the gospel stories of Jesus’ baptism, and at first you’d think things were going just that way. The moment in the river was certainly grand - water dripping from his frame, Jesus saw a dove coming down from heaven, and heard the voice of God - you are beloved. Cue the band, let the festivities begin. But there was no party. Nobody celebrated this big moment in Jesus’ life - no cards, no cookies. If you read closely, the bible doesn’t indicate that anybody around Jesus even saw the dove or heard the voice that he did. Jesus’ baptism didn’t lead into affirmation and comfort; it led directly into hardship and struggle. He left the river Jordan and entered the wilderness - one account says he was driven into the wilderness - where he spent 40 days isolated, vulnerable and famished. This is where the Christian tradition of ‘giving something up’ for Lent comes from. We let go of comforts and privilege, we forsake predictability and security, in an effort to draw near to Christ. Jesus teaches that faithfulness to God is not always about abundance; sometimes it’s about deprivation. God’s calling may be toward ultimate safety and joy, but the path goes through danger and destitution. In fact, the only material comforts presented to Christ after his baptism are tools of the devil. Satan attempts to persuade a weakened and disoriented Jesus to forsake his calling from God, in order to get relief from the hardship he’s experiencing. The devil offers food, political power, and physical strength, if Jesus will turn from God’s path, and worship him. But Jesus declines, because the harder way is the way to life. He trusts he will eat again, and find the strength to carry on, so he accepts the struggle. And he leads us today, on this path he forged in ancient stories. Although it’s been by tread by generations of saints before us, it’s still not easy travelling! Once, on this path, Jesus’ companions gave food away to thousands, when they barely had enough to feed themselves. Other times, they committed to forgiving their enemies, though they’d been wronged terribly. It’s a difficult path. One desolate Friday, Jesus was brutalized by people who hated him, and he showed that it is possible to break the cycle of violence, by refusing to repeat and multiply the harm that was done to him. Holding true to this path wasn’t easy for Jesus, and it’s not easy for those who follow him. But that’s the revelation of love. The harder way is the way to life. The Table is a Christian Church in Davenport, Iowa, pursuing transformation: from greed toward generosity from violence toward peacemaking from isolation toward neighborliness from fear toward faith Worship Sundays at 5pm 102 E. 2nd St. Davenport

C.S. Lewis says this about forgiveness: “…You must make every effort to kill every taste of resentment in your own heart-every wish to humiliate or hurt him or to pay him out. The difference between this situation and the one in such you are asking God’s forgiveness is this. In our own case we accept excuses too easily; in other people’s we do not accept them easily enough.” In our age of social media and instant information, we have news stories thrown at us from every direction. These stories can range from corruption of a politician at a local level to horrifying crimes that make the headlines of every news station and beyond. Sometimes these stories relate to us personally and we feel the urge to do something about it, and sometimes we sigh, shake our heads, and move on to the next post. In the age of rapidly spreading information these stories hit us every day, changing constantly. We rarely ever get the full story, but our minds are made up immediately. There is simply too much going on to research every new thing that shows up on our feeds, our walls, on trending news. So, we make our judgments and move on. We may never meet the accused or the convicted in our lives – but we’ve made our decisions about them. If we take the words of Jesus seriously, “But if you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins,” then this offers us a problem. When we do not forgive others, we risk not being forgiven by our Lord in Heaven. Yet, it is unjust for us to stand silent in the face of injustice and oppression. What do we as Christians do in situations like these? I would like to point out that forgiveness is not acceptance. Forgiving someone for what they have done is not waving it away as if it never happened. Forgiveness is an active process that can rarely is instantaneous. Forgiveness is a gift we give to someone, realizing they are human too, and loved by God. Forgiveness is a process that takes time – and time is not something encouraged by the internet’s constant updates. I’m not saying you shouldn’t speak out against something you disagree with. Christ calls for us to stand against oppression – so it is right to speak out against it. But we also must remember to take the time to forgive those who we so often personify as the enemy, whether they are guilty or not. Forgiveness leads to freedom and love for both the victim and the abuser. It may take time – but time is something that we all need in this high speed world.