Search Results

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” the saying goes. But why is that? The wisdom here is about our individual and collective capacity for self-deception. My “good intentions” are often self-righteous, self-serving, self-justifying stories I simply made up. They mask my bad behavior. I can and do insist my intentions were good despite clear evidence of a negative impact on myself and others. Wrapped in the cloak of care and concern for you, I deny my responsibility. What I did and did not intend shields me from hearing both your pain and God’s loving invitation to me to change. Thankfully, Jesus taught us to see the truth about intentions and outcomes. Clinging to my “good intentions” is like washing the outside of a cup, while the inside molds over. Or dousing the whole house in Febreeze while, hidden under the sink, garbage rots. A beautifully-landscaped, well-paved road to hell is still a road to hell. God sees through this all-too-human nonsense, and the cross of Jesus gives us eyes to see through it too. As we move from violence to peacemaking, we must come to terms with pain—our own pain and others’ pain. Ignored pain molds over. It rots like garbage. Ignored pain is pain not felt, not expressed, not heard, not grieved. And what is not grieved cannot be healed. Ungrieved pain expresses itself as violence. Violence is a symptom of ignored and ungrieved pain. Peacemaking starts with feeling ignored pain. Feeling pain is an act of Christ-like love and courage. Uncaring words, physical violence, emotional abuse, addiction, and the violence of racism, sexism, and homophobia—all violence can be interrupted by feeling the pain. Theologian and psychologist John Bradshaw says, in feeling ungrieved pain, “intentions are never relevant. What is relevant is what actually happened.” What actually happened? What did you feel? What did I feel? Under the influence of Jesus’ own vulnerable grace, we can be the peacemakers who ask questions like these and listen deeply to the responses. The road to heaven is not paved. It’s muddy and messy and, in places, flooded with tears. All the same, the road to heaven is crowded with people like you and me. People moved by love uncounted and unearned—from violence toward peacemaking and from grief toward joy. _________________________________________________________________ The Table is a Christian community of transformation: from greed toward generosity from violence toward peacemaking from isolation toward neighborliness from fear toward faith

Like most people, I am heartbroken and angry about the massacre in Orlando. I spent many hours on Monday and Tuesday trying to write something meaningful about the tragedy, but like many pastors I know, I felt inept at articulating hope in the context of such viciousness, and I wasn’t sure what I had to say that might help the larger conversations. Then I had a friend on Facebook share the insight that, because the victims in Orlando were gay, and it’s the wider LGBTQ community that’s most traumatized by the shooting (even though, of course, all communities are hurt by these events), it’s actually fine and probably better for well-intentioned straight pastors (like me) to chill for a minute, not rush to speak and write about the shooting. Instead, she suggested we spend time intentionally listening to the gay community and what they have to say about the tragedy, and if we post things, to share others’ voices on our platforms. Focus on receiving what LGBTQ neighbors are willing to share about their experiences with homophobia, being targets of violence, and what it’s like for them to process the news from Orlando. I am very, very thankful for this recommendation, and I’ve spent the week reading a lot of really important testimony and wisdom from my GLBTQ kindred and listening in personal conversations to my gay friends tell me how they’re doing. Beyond a doubt I am richer for it. Making an intentional commitment to simply hold space with others, not assuming that you have anything brilliant or inspiring to say to them, not needing your own voice to be particularly prominent, but just listening closely to other people share their life experience and their perspectives on events and issues - this is what makes beloved community possible. I say this as a Christian pastor, someone to whom people turn to for my views and opinions and faith teaching on important matters. If I, who am called to speak the truth in love, shut up and listen on a regular basis, I increase the likelihood that I might say something good when I do speak, later. Listening helps us learn and relearn the truth about each other, and it’s critically important when people have been hurt. If you hear about a victim of rape, or a racially marginalized group, or a community that’s been targeted by gun violence, or any other mistreatment of people, the ones sharing the story - whether it’s the media or your neighbors down the street - may believe they’re on the side of the victims, but still inadvertently perpetuate labels and categories, and amplify associations that devalue the victims’ experience. That’s not to say that we shouldn’t try to responsibly share information about other people’s traumatic experiences. Of course we should - we can’t only talk about important things if we’re personally part of the group most affected. But, if we’re NOT part of the group most affected, it’s also critically important that we listen closely to victims’ own words about their own experience. So this turns out to be the simple message I felt was actually worthy of me writing down and sharing with you. Often, especially in times of trauma, the best thing to do is shut up and pay attention. When terrible things happen, when people raise their voices in anguish and rage, when folks cry out for changes in how we order our society so that their devastation might be repeated less frequently, we need to listen, first and foremost. For real, LISTEN. Many people who want to change the world don’t consider that they may need to be changed, themselves. But we do, all of us. If we’re ready and willing to listen, learn, and be changed, we will find God using us to create the world we long for.

It’s important to see others, and to be seen. But sometimes it seems we have to choose one or the other. It’s evening and you’re standing in your living room with the curtains open. If your lights are on, a person standing on the sidewalk can see you perfectly from outside. But if you look in their direction, you’ll see only your own reflection in the window. If you turn your lights off, and if there’s a street lamp or a full moon, you’ll see the other person easily, but you’ll be hidden from them, because the light imbalance is on their side of the window. You can’t see each other at the same time. There are times you know it’s more important for you to see, listen to, and/or understand someone else, than for you to be seen, heard and/or understood. The lights on your side of the window are turned down, and that’s a good thing. Other times, especially when your voice, presence or personhood has been devalued, it is important to speak up, to shine your light, to make sure others acknowledge that you are here and you matter. Let the light rest on you for a moment. Sometimes you have to decide whose turn it is to be seen. But there are other times, when we’re not separated by windows and walls, and our light, sight and understanding don’t have to be partitioned. Sometimes you walk out of your house to greet your neighbor on the sidewalk, or you are invited into someone’s living room. You meet in a space where the light is shared equally, and you are able to hold one another in mutual positive regard. In such moments, seeing and being seen, listening and being heard, caring and being cared for, feel like one and the same thing.

When I was in seminary in Chicago, my family of four lived in a 475 square foot apartment. We had too much stuff, our home was always a mess, there weren’t enough places to put things. We moved to Iowa City for my wife’s grad school, and apparently space is less expensive there, because we got a house that was like, 800,000 square feet or something. I told my friends, “This is incredible – we have so much room, we’ll never fill it up.” They all responded, “Oh yes, you will. You will accumulate so much crap you’ll be in the same bind you were in back in Chicago.” To prove them wrong, I claimed a drawer in the kitchen. It was my empty drawer. Nothing went in this drawer, because it was the empty drawer. I showed it off to guests: “Look, I have this lovely drawer. Nothing ever goes in it, because it’s the empty drawer.” And all my nay-saying friends were vanquished. I did not fill up the big house with stuff. Then, after four years, my family (now five of us) moved back to Chicago, and we got a house bigger than our first apartment, but much smaller than the house we’d just been in. I’d like to say that in the new house I saved an empty drawer as I finished unpacking. But the truth is, I never finished unpacking. We had too much stuff to find a place for everything. When we moved again after four years (family of six now), we loaded boxes on the truck that we hadn’t opened since we packed them a couple of houses ago. And that’s embarassing. But also helpful. Apparently, I need to be reminded me that I can’t expect to get a bigger house just because I have a lot of things I want to keep. It’s not the size of the container that’s the problem, it’s the amount of stuff I try to put in it. LIKEWISE: It’s not the length of a day that’s the problem, it’s the number of tasks we try to accomplish between dawn and dusk. It’s not the capacity of the mind or the frailty of the psyche that is the problem, it’s the number and intensity of the expectations and pressures and worry that we hold. Sometimes the house is too small, but it’s not the house’s fault. So. Sometime, if you take stock of your life, and you realize you have too much stuff, don’t despair. You might have too many material possessions or too much work, or too many commitments, or too many family dynamics you’re trying to keep from exploding all over everything. Also, there are probably too many Legos in your bathroom. But I digress. If you have too many things you’re holding yourself accountable for, perhaps it’s right to let a few things go. If that’s a frightening proposition, maybe start small, say, a drawer’s worth. Dump it out, and save it for nothing. You might just find that this empty space is one of your very favorite things.

In the creation story of Genesis 1, God spends as much time simply moving stuff around as he does calling things into existence. Read closely and it seems that making order out of chaos is as important as making something out of nothing. Half of Day 1 is spent separating light from darkness. The project for Day 2 is dividing “the waters above from the waters below”, by making a big dome we call the sky. On Day 3, land is created, but not by conjuring it out of thin air - God decides to move the water around, and oh look, there’s land. The waters are further collected and organized into seas and lakes. Day 4 is just God gathering and distributing the Light into the sun, moon and stars, for the purpose of organizing time into days, seasons and years. On Days 5 and 6, God calls forth living creatures, and creation culminates on Day 7 with God’s organization of work and leisure - God rests, and decrees that there will forever be abundant time for work, punctuated regularly by time for not working. Creation is certainly about God making stuff that didn’t exist before. But it’s also about God putting stuff in order. We are conditioned to think of our productivity as our output. If we make something, especially if we make it from scratch, we can point to it, and say, “Look - that’s what I did.” It’s validating and gratifying. But Genesis 1 also describes creativity, artistry, productivity in terms of arranging what’s present all around us. Shaping and arranging what is there, and watching beauty, miracles and life emerge as a result. Ordering things in the right way, in the right place, at the right time. If you are longing for a new thing - a new life experience, a new vocation, a new creative expression, a new way of being in the world - it is natural to believe that this new thing will happen because you call it forth out of nothing, by the sheer force of your brilliance and will. But it’s just as likely that the newest creative miracles you experience will arise from arranging or rearranging the pieces that already make up your world.

Adam Marton tells a story about his car being stolen several years ago. It was taken from an auto shop, just before Adam was set to go on vacation. Insurance covered a loaner. Adam’s livelihood and safety, even his personal comfort, weren’t ever at real risk. But still. I’ve had my car stolen, and it sucks. When you’re the victim of a serious crime, it cuts in different ways. New fears take up residence in your psyche. You become more suspicious of strangers, less expectant of goodwill in others. You have easy access to bitterness and rage; you’re more ready to assume the worst in people and situations. Crime does real damage, even when the victims are resilient. A few weeks after the theft, the police called to say Adam’s car was found, and please come pick it up. He went to the impound lot, hoping the car wasn’t completely trashed, and was truly surprised by what he found when he arrived. There was a car seat buckled into the back seat, and the cab was strewn with job applications. New stereo equipment had been installed. Someone had been driving around, in his car, acting like a real, regular person. Adam was a victim of another person’s wrongdoing. He also had unexpectedly become a witness to another person’s care and aspiration. The car was a crime scene; it was also a window into someone’s life, a snapshot of mundane and relatable human concerns. The thief was a criminal and abuser; he was also a young man who cared for a child. The theft was an act of violence and violation; it may also have been an act of desperation, a misguided attempt at self-improvement or just plain escape. Adam never got to know the man who stole his vehicle, though he later learned more about his life, and his violent death at age 28. The man’s name was Thelonius, and the event that connected them was not Thelonius’ first crime, nor his last. It’s not always possible to see beyond a person’s transgression, especially for the victims of the person’s actions. But sometimes, through a process of discovery and imagination, we feel ourselves drawn away from fear and malice toward understanding and compassion.

The word respect comes from the same root as spectator or spectacle. To respect a person, or a community, or an issue, literally means to see again, or to see anew. This is bad news. Respect is often described as a baseline, a starting point, something we expect people to take for granted, which is why we are dismayed by people who are disrespectful. They seem unwilling to play by the rules of basic courtesy. To say that respect is a new way of seeing someone, a conscientious choice to give real consideration to someone’s point-of-view, experience and personhood, and to say that we have to do this AGAIN, well that means respect requires extra work. And come on. Nobody wants extra work. We sometimes hear: “Why can’t people just respect each other?” Unfortunately, respect isn’t something that happens automatically or easily. Assumptions and bias come automatically and easily. Labels and dismissiveness come automatically and easily. Respect is harder than that. Respect means we deliberately check our hurtful impulses and look deeper, pay attention to things that we might’ve overlooked, try harder to understand someone else. I can only respect you if I’ve really made an effort to see you. Again. _______________________________________________________________ The Table is a Christian community seeking transformation: from greed toward generosity from violence toward peacemaking from isolation toward neighborliness from fear toward faith

Imagine having the thing you least want to do, the thing that’s the scariest, the thing you’d avoid 10 times out of 10, become your strong suit. It’s your calling card now, it’s what you do. This happened for Lisa, who describes her vocation as ‘standing in the gap’. The gap is the space between travesty and healing. It exists between shattered beliefs and new understanding. It’s the space between the loss of all security and the discovery of new provision. If at all possible, we deny the gap. We either run for the hills, or try to fill it in. Both of these responses are understandable, but terrible. So you’re diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Half your friends disappear - it’s just too intense and sad to stick around. The other half rally with platitudes and positivity - it’s just too intense and sad to let it be. The last thing anyone wants to do is simply be there, with you. In the pain, in the grief, in the uncertainty. Not bringing unsolicited advice, not trying to outlaw despair, not trying to explain the unexplainable. Lisa was no different, until she found herself a hospital chaplain in a room with parents whose child had committed suicide. Their lives had been unmade, and she had nothing to offer but presence. It would require that she not run away, and not try to make things better, and that was a tall order. But somewhere, somehow, she found the strength to stay, and to hold the hardship with others. Now, this is her life. She stands in the gap, professionally and personally, in friendships and in community. When tragedy strikes, or when conflict is brewing, or when change is laying waste to expectations, Lisa stands with fragile neighbors, on shaky ground, in the gap. Imagine if the good you’re most inclined to avoid, became your life’s work. ________________________________________________________________ The Table is a Christian community seeking transformation: from greed toward generosity from violence toward peacemaking from isolation toward neighborliness from fear toward faith

What is the purpose of an apple tree? To produce apples, right? Actually, no. The purpose of an apple tree is to produce more apple trees. People think apples are the plant’s reason for being, because apples are delicious, and we cultivate the trees to get their fruit. But the tree thinks differently about its fruit. An apple is a delivery system for its seeds. Our lives bear fruit as well, but we lack the clarity of apple trees. Our apples might be money or recognition, or fancy homes and fancy toys, or you name it. With hard work and good fortune, our lives produce all sorts of things that are wonderful and valuable. But these things are not why we’re here. They are gifts, to be sure, but they are a means for delivering the seeds we have to plant. If your life is a tree, you have much to contribute to the world. You have natural talents, and hard-earned expertise. When you use your gifts, you hopefully earn income, the admiration of others, and different kinds of opportunities. The fruit of your labor. But a question each of us should ask is, am I multiplying the life God has given me? This is not about whether or not you have kids. It’s about whether you use your gifts to increase those gifts in the world. Is your goal to stop at fruit, or to actually plant seeds that will grow? A seamstress, for example, may make beautiful clothes that everyone loves, but she also makes others afraid to sew, because she’s so great at it they feel disempowered when they’re around her. Her life will be truly fruitful when she not only makes beautiful clothing herself, but also teaches others to do what she does. This is the way of the apple tree, and the way of Jesus. Jesus wowed a lot of people with his personal wisdom and power and sense of hope. People were impressed. But if Jesus’ ambition was merely to be impressive, he would have been forgotten, erased from history the moment the last one of his personal friends died. Think of the seedless grapes you buy – they’ll never produce a vine. Jesus is remembered because he empowered people to do what he did. He didn’t hold his power over people or make his greatness about himself. Instead, he showed people how the grace embodied in his life could be embodied in theirs, as well. His call to justice became their call to justice. His healing work became their healing work. His resurrection became their resurrection. People empowered by Jesus have been sharing what they learned from him ever since. The purpose of an apple tree is to produce more apple trees. How are you doing, planting the seeds that are yours to plant? _______________________________________________________ The Table is a Christian community of transformation: from greed toward generosity from violence toward peacemaking from isolation toward neighborliness from fear toward faith

Mary Magdalene is known as ‘the apostle to the apostles,’ because after discovering the empty tomb on Easter, she was sent by the risen Christ to tell the other disciples, who were scattered and hiding. She is the first evangelist, the first to share the good news of the resurrection - a unique and vital role in the gospel story. But there’s another way Mary Magdalene is set apart in the Jesus narrative, and the two distinctives are related. Mary Magdalene was personally healed by Jesus. All the disciples, male and female, witnessedmiracles. They saw extraordinary things they wouldn’t have thought possible before they happened. They could testify to the power of Jesus and the truth of his message. But Mary was the recipient of Christ’s healing, in her own person, in her own life. The gospel of Luke says that 7 demons had been cast out of Mary Magdalene. ‘Demons’ referred to all sorts of affliction in those days, so we are left to imagine just what specific hardships were lifted from Mary. She could have experienced a physical restoration, after living with a bodily injury or sickness. She may have been coping with mental illness, which was no longer allowed dominion over her life. She could have experienced the exorcism of self-hatred. She may have been given the strength to live and love after being crippled by grief. She may have been healed of wounds from trauma and abuse. We don’t know most of the details of Mary’s story, but we know that she was healed by Christ, and this is no small thing. Because the time came when great hardship and viciousness was brought upon Jesus, and the healer himself was broken. It was devastating to watch, and most of his followers couldn’t bear to stick around. Mary Magdalene, who understood herself as one had been devastated and redeemed, was among the few who stayed with Jesus through Good Friday, and came to the tomb on Easter Sunday. Most fled during Jesus’ darkest hour, but not Mary. It is possible to allow our personal injury, abandonment and anguish to become compassion and loyalty to others who suffer. Mary Magdalene, the broken and healed, the lost and found, the oppressed and liberated, was compelled to visit Jesus' tomb on Sunday morning. It was she, who had been hurt and helped, who discovered resurrection, and became the first to tell the world.

He took his seat at the table, and his apostles with him. He said to them, I have eagerly desired to eat this meal with you, before I suffer. - Luke 22:14-15 As Jesus prepared for the worst, he broke bread with his friends. He faced brutality, abandonment, humiliation and death. In the face of all this he chose to gather with people he loved, share time and conversation, and eat together. He wouldn’t flee the evil that awaited him, and he wasn’t gearing up to fight those who meant him harm. Instead, he chose to model an alternative to the cruelty he was going to endure. Sit, rest. Be at peace. Breathe deeply, pay attention, see and hear your friends. Take, eat. This is my body, broken for you. Take, drink. This cup holds a new covenant with God. Will the world exclude and abuse? At this table, we welcome and heal. Does the world judge and condemn? At this table, we listen and grow. Is world full of those who kill and destroy? At this table, we believe in resurrection and new life. Of course, it’s reasonable to ask why it matters that God and some people choose generosity and compassion in the face of hatred and calamity. After all, Jesus was the target of institutional power and the most potent instruments of viciousness and terror the world had yet devised. You and I live in a world largely shaped by destruction and wickedness. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed. Each of us is small in relationship to everything we face. But our smallness or needn’t be a cause or excuse for despair. Jesus was small and frail, and that’s the point. God’s victory doesn’t come from being more terrible than the worst things the world can conjure. God’s victory comes in the resurrection of the crucified. God’s power is shown in small things shared by small people: grace, forgiveness, peacemaking, courage, and new beginnings. Christ instructed his friends to remember him in the humblest of actions - simple eating, simple sharing. In this humility, great power is found. _______________________________________________________________________ The Table is a church in Davenport, Iowa, where transformation is happening: from greed toward generosity from violence toward peacemaking from isolation toward neighborliness from fear toward faith

The Table is a new congregation that is organized around the concept of real change, in the lives of individuals, families and communities. What kind of change are we talking about, here? It’s change from greed toward generosity. From violence toward peacemaking. From isolation toward neighborliness. From fear toward faith. We’re in this for change. Evolution. Transformation. Movement. Conversion. And let’s be real. Change is a process. The wrong motivations exist within every person. Martin Shkreli and Pope Francis. Your landlord and your grandma. Nobody's all good. Everybody is shaped and driven by the wrong things, sometimes. And it’s not just individuals, right? Sometimes a whole family or community or nation is held in the grip of some harmful instinct to build walls, demonize, destroy. We have to acknowledge this. Honesty is a requirement of any healthy self-regard, any healthy relationship (with people or with God), and any realistic attempt at improving lives. In honesty we recognize that greed, violence, estrangement and fear exist within all of us. In faith, we claim that it is possible to move TOWARD generosity, peacemaking, neighborliness and faithfulness. This change is not a light-switch. It’s not a magician’s trick, turning a string of handkerchiefs into a bunch of flowers. It’s not Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas morning. A person may never be able to say, “I used to be greedy, but now I’m generous.” or “I used to be violent, but now I’m peaceful.” Still, it is possible to move in the direction of greater generosity, peacefulness, neighborliness and faithfulness. Toward is a powerful word. It is possible to see compassion, learning, goodwill and sacrificial love become stronger and stronger in shaping people’s lives. It is possible, by God’s grace, to allow our best desires more power than our worst ones. This is the truth of the Gospel, the work of the Holy Spirit, and the way of Jesus Christ. If you would like to move in this direction, and would like to fellowship with others who are also choosing this journey of transformation, please join us at The Table.