 When my spirit had grown weak within me, You knew my path.
-Psalm 142:3 My daughter had her middle school musical performances last weekend. It was a junior high-adapted version of Beauty and the Beast. If you don't know the story, I cannot relate to your childhood. One of the songs in this version of the musical was called "Human Again." The servants of the Beast who had come under the castle's magical curse had all been turned into objects: a candelabrum, a clock, a feather duster, a teapot, and more. And they sang a song about their longing. One day, they dreamed, they would be human again. Hmmmmmmm... I want to be human again too. I don't often spend time considering what keeps me human or what keeps me from humanness, but I've tasted both. I know there are days that I am not much of a human being. So let's start there. Let's slow down and choose rest for a moment. Let's practice confession. I wonder sometimes if it's possible to be a human being anymore, when so little time is spent being anything. I think I am a human accomplishing most of the time. Ain't nobody got time to be anymore these days. My taxes need to be done. My car has a red dashboard light that seems to be angry with me. My job has deadlines. Dishes need to be washed. Kids need support. Money needs to be made, then paid, then made, then paid. I also try to stay up on the news all the time because I have a need to be perpetually irritated. And somewhere along the continuum of doing and scheduling and working and accomplishing and scrolling and checklisting and stressing and raging and caring and even all the good necessary things to keep surviving..... I realize that I've spent very little time humaning. And I want to be human again. A few years ago while hiking in Scotland, I met a new friend and we shared a few miles walking alongside each other. He told me that he was practicing seeing the "grain of life." He meant that he was trying to move slowly enough to remove layers of distraction like a woodworker might sand old wood, revealing a finer grain underneath with more detail and beauty. Only in slowness would the next layer be able to be revealed. The day after that walk I took a train. And as I watched the countryside whizzing by me, everything a blur, I knew that he was onto something. I think he was trying to become human again, and I wanted to be like that too. I wish I were better at following what I know is true about being human. When Jesus taught his disciples to consider the flowers that spread across the meadows and the birds that fly above them, he was not only telling people to learn from them. He was inviting them to pause long enough to notice that the world was continuing just fine independently of them. He was inviting them to be present, and to understand that God made people as human beings, not human doings. He was inviting them to live within their limits, and to find worth from their connection and trust in God more than their ability to manage their lives successfully all the time (whatever that means). One of the central pieces of our humanity is learning to rest in God's simple love. I've been teaching the scriptures lately with a lot of cultural detail and background study. And I've been talking a lot with people about the theological intricacies of atonement and justice and nonviolence. Those are all important in our faith, and my goodness, they have a place. But at the same time, I can see the tiredness in people's eyes— the need for rest, and not simply understanding. And today, I'm tired too. And I feel that need for the simple rest that Jesus offers over and over again (especially on a rainy Monday, when I'm writing this.) So in this moment, I am practicing rest, knowing that I'm allowed to stop doing. And I'm inviting Jesus to make me human again. Are you present enough at this moment to join me? God's simple love is big and broad enough to be our hiding place. You're allowed to be worn out by [insert your life reality] and simply lay everything down and be. Like the Psalmist wrote (Ps 73), our bodies and our minds may wear out, but God's presence is more than enough for us. I trust you will find that today, knowing that you are known, you are loved, and you are invited to be human again, in all of its beautiful frailty. Jesus is with you. Jesus, give me grace to recover the beauty of life with you that I have been missing. Peace, Keith
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 Don’t let the sun set on your anger. Don’t provide an opportunity for the devil.
-Ephesians 4:26b-27 Ok friends, let's reflect today on a foundational concept of discipleship: learning to release the things that poison our spirits and hinder our relationships. Let's talk about the spiritual virus of resentment. I love making campfires. Every now and then when I'm backcountry camping (legally OF COURSE) I'll make a small fire for comfort and atmosphere. When it's time to pack up, it's really important to put the fire out well. Somewhere along the line I was given the impression that you could put a fire out by burying it with dirt. Do not do this, friends. Putting some dirt or sand on top of a fire may get rid of the flames and give the appearance of extinguishing it. But in reality, it's not put out at all. In fact, the heat becomes insulated. Rather than the fire being put out, the embers just become hidden. And although there's less oxygen, that allows it to actually burn slower, insulating the coals and allowing them to smolder for hours or days. This can eventually cause roots to start smoldering, working their way up to re-igniting on the surface and doing a ton of damage. Yeah. It's a vivid image, isn't it? Resentment can settle in the heart and damage everything it touches. When we don't deal with our anger or our frustration, but just try to cover it up and ignore it, it stays alive. It's not often loud and fiery. It's personal, and it can even be hidden. But it continues to smolder. And it infects the very roots of our souls. You either know it because you've seen it, or because you've felt it. Something happens that makes you angry- perhaps legitimately, perhaps not. And you dwell on it over and over. And it sinks deeper. And gradually, there are more and more things that you are negative about. And, without realizing it, you've moved from feeling angry to being a resentful person. It went underground, and it started burning roots. Much of our anger these days is well founded. Anger hits us as a result of injustice in the world, the reality of suffering, or the impact of lies in our society. That makes sense. It even aligns with the sort of convictions that Jesus walked in. And when we've been personally harmed or devalued, our anger is certainly valid as well. But resentment grows when those feelings are not processed in healthy ways. It grows particularly well in the isolated mind, where narratives of despair and frustration play on repeat in our heads. They may be about others, they may be about the world, or they may even be about ourselves. It went underground, and it started burning roots. This is why the scriptures invite us to practice confession and forgiveness in the open air of community. And it's why we see the Psalmist shaking his fist at the universe and screaming "what the heck is going on, GOD??" (that's a paraphrase). When we get things out in the open, they won't burn us slowly at the root and destroy us. Instead, we'll be invited to release those feelings to God, and to let the truth of Jesus move us to see through a lens of hope. And when we process our feelings with others, we'll get a glimpse of tangible love in front of us. And that reminds us that our ever-growing story about how horrible the world is... is not the whole story. Because we're the world too, after all. I'm convinced that the anger and despair in the world right now is too much for us to bear. It must be extinguished by the cool and refreshing water of the Holy Spirit, and poured onto us by the hands of compassionate community. When our anger is plunged underneath the waters of baptism, the burning finally cools. So today is a chance for a simple check-in, as you consider people and situations that have been making you upset. Are there areas where your anger has sunk deep, and you feel it damaging your roots? Take a few moments for an examination of your narratives: Am I repeating a negative story over and over? What might be the reason? Am I assuming the intentions of others that I don't actually know? Is there a way I can use my mental/physical energy to practice goodness and healing, rather than endlessly dwelling on all that's wrong? What good and beautiful things are true today that I've overlooked? Who do I need to forgive again today? What do I need to release today? I've been mentioning Lent every week. Lent is where we admit that we need God's grace in our weakness, and where we receive it. So breathe. And receive God's grace once more. Beloved, every time we realize how much God loves us, a wonderful thing happens. And the thing that happens is that God starts rubbing off on us, and we start to become more grace-filled to the world around us. Don't believe me? Make a little more space to dwell on your own belovedness, and see if it doesn't slowly start to shape you back into a more loving person to others. Transformation knows no other way. Your frustration is valid. Your losses are real. And life can be discouraging. But Jesus is eager to offer cool, living water in those moments. Water that refreshes the soul, energizes the body, and cools the coals. That's a better way to deal with fire, any day. Jesus, reset my nervous system today with reminders of your unending love for the world, of which I am a part. Peace, Keith  And the Lord—who is the Spirit—makes us more and more like him as we are changed into his glorious image.
- 2 Corinthians 3:18 Years ago in I participated in a small weekly cohort with other pastors, designed to process our own calling, exhaustion, wounds, and hopes. The goal was to create spaces for honesty and healing as we prepared for our next seasons of ministry. It became a very intimate and holy space for us. In one of our weekly conversations about growth with God, I found myself writing this: '“I feel like my normal day-to-day work and life require the current ‘me’ so much that there isn't sufficient space to explore the ‘me’ that God is drawing me to become next. Sit with that a moment. Do you feel that way sometimes? I still do. The discipleship journey is intended to be one of "becoming." Literally, the word in the Bible for disciple itself means "learner/apprentice." We are lifelong learners, different tomorrow than today. As scandalous as it sounds, God not only empowers us in that, but also leads by example. One of the most famous theological statements in the Bible, from John the evangelist, is that "the Word became flesh and dwelt among us." God became something new. So Christian disciples are people who are becoming new—more like Jesus daily (at least, that's the hope). We are constantly changing, all of our lives. But like, who has time for that? I can't get my to-do list done most days, and I have things on my schedule for the fall already. Life is set more than I want to admit. I certainly believe in the value of living in the present. But there's a problem when we are so absorbed with our current realities that we lose the ability to notice what's within us.... and therefore, what we're being invited to become next. This is how we learn to live a life with God that's worth living. I'm realizing more and more how much our society, our pace of life, and our devices are shaping us to be reactive much more than reflective. So we lose room for wonder, room for imagination, and room for God to challenge us slowly. It requires real discipline to sit and listen to Jesus long enough to perceive what the next version of you could look like. There's a well-worn concept called "the tyranny of the urgent." Whatever is the loudest and the most pressing is what gets our time. Yet these things are rarely actually the most important. So we spend each day dealing with everything that feels urgent while letting our lives pass by without considering what's most important— like the type of people we're becoming, what Jesus is calling to do, who Jesus is calling us to love, and if we're actually living an abundant, free life. The lent journey mirrors Jesus' forty days in the wilderness. In those long days Jesus wrestled with temptations about how to use his power and influence (written about vividly in Luke 4). But those forty days must have also had plenty of less dramatic time—where Jesus simply reflected on who he was and who he was becoming. One of the great gifts of walking with Jesus is gaining the courage to become the next beautiful version of ourselves, by God’s grace. Lent is a chance for that. Maybe those things are deeply internal for you, like the way you deal with anxiety or disappointment, or how you think about yourself. Maybe they are external, like seeking to love your neighbors in new ways or pursue activities that challenge the static assumptions and habits that keep you from growing. Only Jesus knows. So I'm going to wrap this up to give myself an extra 30 minutes today for that. No phone, no news, no pressure from Jesus to be perfect, no required outcome. Just an opportunity to listen for the next step in becoming the next version of me in my discipleship journey. Maybe you've got a few moments to do something similar. It won't feel urgent. But it's important. There's too much swirling around us all the time these days for us to skim across our souls as if they don't hold the depths of the oceans inside. Consider this your invitation to pause and listen for who you're meant to be, today and tomorrow. Jesus, still the noise so I can hear your voice. Peace, Keith *artwork by Joby Baker  Jesus answered, “My Kingdom is not an earthly kingdom..."
-John 18:36 Last week I was in Washington DC when I bumped into an old friend who reminded me of an amazing quote from Karl Barth. We were both there as a part of Faithful Resistance, a public witness for immigrant justice organized by the Methodist Church and led by thousands of clergy and faith leaders from different traditions. I went with some other local pastors. We worshipped and prayed together, and then we walked down to the Capitol to call publicly for reform in how immigrants—both documented and undocumented— are being treated in our country. It was so incredibly hopeful to see thousands of Christian communities represented, working together in the name of Christ's mercy. There were some politicians there, too. In fact, after the public witness, a small group of us from Delaware met with our state's congressional offices. We genuinely thanked the ones who had been working to pass laws that supported human rights and due process. We asked them to take it further and resist harm and help shift the very real culture of fear that exists right now. It was a very meaningful day to be a part of. As I've written before, I have always felt a tension when I'm in environments that can be deemed "political" (though what environment isn't political these days??). Even when I see leaders who support things that Jesus prioritizes, I know that power and money and elections and constituencies are all in the mix. And each of these things can corrupt the moral center that God has given us. So I feel a whisper in my soul to be careful in those environments. Admittedly, that has often kept me away from any civic involvement at all. In a brief conversation with my old friend, he felt similarly and reminded me of Barth’s statement. Karl Barth was a Swiss theologian whose work on God's self-revelation in Christ made him one of the most significant Protestant voices of the twentieth century. He was a key leader in the Confessing Church, the Christian opposition movement to Hitler and Nazism in Germany. Barth wrote, “If the Church is to practice the teachings of Christ, it must be ‘an unreliable ally’ to every social, political, and governmental order of this world.” Wow, did that ever resonate. I realized that yes, that's the line that feels faithful. Not just in the political realities that we may find ourselves in, but in ALL realities. All allegiances. All commitments. Anything that could court us for loyalty. Our calling to the systems of the world—whether they be countries, political ideologies, political parties, religious traditions, or charismatic leaders— is to be remain intentionally unreliable anytime they stand in opposition to the goodness of God's kingdom. Jesus came to invite us out of the world's systems, while still living right in them. My kingdom is not of this world, Jesus said in John 18. And yet only a few hours earlier, Jesus had prayed plainly that God would not remove his disciples from the world, but rather that the Father would protect them from evil— evil that pulls at one's identity and tempts one to forsake their integrity. The call isn't to be outside that world, but to function within it in a different sort of way. Jesus knew that we'd have to navigate the world's systems, and he knew how tempting power and loyalty and tribalism can be. So he prayed that they would be able to live in the world, but never see themselves as fully belonging to it. I think, maybe, that's what it means to be unreliable allies. We would link up and work together for goodness and mercy and justice and forgiveness whenever we can. And we would never become so fully aligned with any system that we lose our ability to name it when it causes harm. Jesus' prayer in John 17 remains powerful for us today. When we find ourselves leaning toward allegiance to a lesser kingdom that isn't reflecting the character of Christ, our support and cooperation should not be given. We ought to challenge anything that does not care about the poor, the mourning, the meek, the hungry, the beat up, the broken down, and the condemned. We learned this from Jesus. I'm learning to live in the tension—to be willing to partner with systems wherever there is goodness, mercy, and justice—but never to the point of loyalty to anything but Jesus. I want to be an unreliable ally. Our country has just begun another war. And lives that are precious to God will be lost, and new enemies will be created. Because that is what war does. It creates the next generation of enemies. War is hell. Please refuse to sanitize it. I expect that wherever this conflict leads, we who follow the Jesus who weeps for our violent culture (Luke 19:41) will find ourselves in a lonely place. We who follow the Jesus who loves our enemies (Matt 5:44) and died to save them (Rom 5:10) may find no perfect political home. But our God, who takes no pleasure in even the deaths of the wicked (Ez 33:11), will lead us always in a movement of compassion and nonviolent action for all who are suffering. I hope we can link arms with whoever is also advocating for the value of all human life wherever possible. So, my friends, let's keep being allies wherever we can, working together to impact the social, political, and governmental systems of the world whenever they can help bring the things that make for peace and human flourishing. But stay unreliable when any system demands your allegiance, because Jesus is calling us to build something far more beautiful than any human system can contain. Jesus, give me discernment, courage, and love today. Peace, Keith |
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