“This Gospel” of Radical Inclusion

Happy day of Epiphany!

Here’s a snapshot of Sandy when we were enjoying the Christmas lights at Calloway Gardens.

May the light shine and unfold for you the mystery of the ages, hidden in Christ and now revealed. Paul describes “this gospel” as one of radical inclusion (not just personal salvation) in Ephesians 3:5-10:

“In former generations this mystery was not made known to humankind, as it has now been revealed to his holy apostles and prophets by the Spirit: that is, the Gentiles have become fellow-heirs, members of the same body, and sharers in the promise in Christ Jesus through the gospel. Of this gospel I have become a servant according to the gift of God’s grace that was given to me by the working of his power. Although I am the very least of all the saints, this grace was given to me to bring to the Gentiles the news of the boundless riches of Christ, and to make everyone see what is the plan of the mystery hidden for ages in God who created all things; so that through the church the wisdom of God in its rich variety might now be made known to the rulers and authorities in the heavenly places.”

Amazing Quote From the Late Rachel Held Evans

“They said that if I questioned a 6,000-year-old earth, I would question whether other parts of Scripture should be read scientifically and historically. 

They were right.  I did. 

They said that if I entertained the hope that those without access to the gospel might still be loved and saved by God, I would fall prey to the dangerous idea that God loves everyone,  that there is nothing God won’t do to reconcile all things to Himself. 

They were right. I have.  

They said that if I looked for Jesus beyond the party line, I could end up voting for liberals. 

They were right. I do (sometimes).  

They said that if I listened to my gay and lesbian neighbors, if I made room for them in my church and in my life, I could let grace get out of hand. 

They were right.  It has. 

They told me that this slippery slope would lead me away from God, that it would bring a swift end to my faith journey, that I’d be lost forever.

But with that one, they were wrong. 

Yes, the slippery slope brought doubts. Yes, the slippery slope brought change. Yes, the slippery slope brought danger and risk and unknowns. I am indeed more exposed to the elements out here, and at times it is hard to find my footing.  

But when I decided I wanted to follow Jesus as myself, with both my head and heart intact, the slippery slope was the only place I could find him, the only place I could engage my faith honestly. 

So down I went. 

It was easier before, when the path was wide and straight. 

But, truth be told, I was faking it.  I was pretending that things that didn’t make sense made sense, that things that didn’t feel right felt right.  To others, I appeared confident and in control, but faith felt as far away as friend who has grown distant and cold.

Now, every day is a risk. 

Now, I have no choice but to cling to faith and hope and love for dear life. 

Now, I have to keep a very close eye on Jesus, as he leads me through deep valleys and precarious peaks.  

But the view is better, and, for the first time in a long time, I am fully engaged in my faith. 

I am alive. 

I am dependent.

I am following Jesus as me—heart and head intact.  

And they were right.  All it took was a question or two to bring me here.”

- Rachel Held Evans 

(June 8, 1981 - May 4, 2019)

My Brother Richmond's New Book

To honor Richmond after his death, our family finished having his new book Frozen Ghost published. He had turned in his final draft to the self-publishing company, so we picked up the ball. I wrote a foreword for his book and approved the final drafting stages.

It is now available for purchase online. Here is a link to it on Amazon. You may also find it on Barnes and Noble here.

Below is the foreward I wrote for his book. May it honor him, and may he rest in peace.

Foreward

When I read Richmond’s first book, The Deviants, I was sure it was the wildest thing I had ever seen. Yet his subsequent books, Your Yesterday Is My Tomorrow and Witch Hunt, never failed to take me on voyages through unconventional waters. His writing is gripping, if out of the ordinary.

Even as his fourth book, Frozen Ghost, was in the process of publication, Richmond’s life ended too early. He died suddenly of a heart attack after spending the day with family touring the National Memorial for Peace and Justice, informally known as the “Lynching Memorial,” in Montgomery, Alabama. On his very last day, he was longing for justice, something that was deeply important to him.

My father, my other brothers, and I decided to honor his life and memory by following through with his plans to have this book published. It is with bittersweet joy that we share it with you.

I could tell you about Richmond’s relentless love for God, for Christian theology, for world religions, for philosophy, for social justice, and for the Church. I could tell you about his amazing academic accomplishments. But what I really want to tell you is this. He had a brilliant and beautiful mind.

I sometimes say he could waltz into a room and teach a course in world religions that would knock your socks off, but he might not be able to find his own socks. The unfolding of his beautiful mind started when he was teaching and involved in his first doctoral program, before mom died eighteen years ago. I say that not to call attention to his suffering. I say that because more than anyone I know, he was an overcomer. This is what inspires me the most about his life.

No matter what the obstacles, he was eternally fascinated with theology and philosophy and loved to find hints of it in movies and fiction. He refused to stop creating. He finished a Ph.D. at Purdue in philosophy and literature, and this was his proudest moment. He simply loved to write.

I once told him that his writing “defied genre.” He took that as a huge compliment, which it was meant to be, and then used that phrase on the back cover of a subsequent book. The threads he could weave between philosophy, comics, vivid memories, fantasy novels, painful past experiences, science fiction, and theology gave me insight into the beauty of his mind. Writing was his way of making sense of things, of finding peace, and of blessing the world.

As I read this book, I mused on his story of the broken mirror, and Richmond saying, “I just looked at it and it broke!” I know that really happened, for I was the brother who teased him about it for years. I pondered the technical term “audio pareidolia” he mentioned, clearly a symptom of his condition which he had become educated about. I vividly remembered conversations we had about the voice of Diana, who was speaking to him from across the stars. As always, I found reminders of the intricate way he wove various threads of his life together through writing. It is truly a tapestry.

I have learned more from my brother Richmond than anyone I have ever known about courage, determination, and relentless creativity. I’m delighted that after that long mental, intellectual, and philosophical journey of his beautiful mind, he had unwavering faith. In recent years, he loved going to church and being involved in teaching Sunday School, singing in the choir, and ministries of addiction recovery.

He died too early. But my heart is full of gratitude that he died happy, stable, creative, and excited about this book.

Richmond would have been thrilled to know that at his funeral, I would close my brief remarks with the famous quote from Captain Kirk at the funeral of his dear, Vulcan friend Spock. “Of all the souls I have encountered in my travels, his was the most … human.”

And it was.

Stephen Pierce West

Brother of Richmond Pierce West

August 2021

Clearing

A poem by Martha Postlewaite

Do not try to save
the whole world
or do anything grandiose.
Instead, create
a clearing
in the dense forest
of your life
and wait there
patiently,
until the song
that is your life
falls into your own cupped hands
and you recognize and greet it.
Only then will you know
how to give yourself
to this world
so worth of rescue.

We're Grounded

I am reading Grounded by Diana Butler Bass. I feel led to post a few direct quotes from the introduction to the book. It gives me great hope.

"Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the Lutheran pastor awaiting execution in a Nazi prison, understood that the three-tiered universe with its majestic God had been swept away by the war and argued that a new 'religionless' Christianity must emerge from history's ashes." (5)

"In the decades that followed, it became increasingly evident that you cannot revive a God for a world that no longer exists. Venerating a God of a vanished world is the very definition of fundamentalism, the sort of religion that is inflicting great pain and violence on many millions of people across the planet and is leading to the rejection of religion by millions of others." (5-6)

"Some stubbornly maintain that a distant God sits on his heavenly throne watching all these things, active as either a divine puppet master or a stern judge of human affairs, ready at a moment's notice to throw more thunderbolts or toss the whole human race into an eternal lake of fire. But this is a vision of God whose time may be up, for such a divinity looks either increasingly absurd or suspiciously like a monster." (8)

"In its crudest form, the role of religion ... is to act as a holy elevator between God above and those muddling around down below in the world. Despite my familiarity with conventional theology, I do have experience of another sort of language for God, for throughout my life something odd kept happening to me. God showed up ... For whatever reason, my soul has a mile-wide mystical streak." (12)

"The language of mysticism and spiritual experience cuts a wide swath through the world's religious traditions, and it presents an alternative theology, that of connection and intimacy." (13)

"The language of divine nearness is the very heart of vibrant faith." (14)

A former Catholic told her, "'But these other things - the Spirit all around, caring and praying for people, working for a better world - they ground me.' Her tale was similar to many stories in circulation about leaving religion behind in favor of spirituality. But it had a twist. She felt grounded by God." (17)

"In Christian theology, the word 'ground' conjures a very particular image. In 1916, a young German military chaplain named Paul Tillich was stationed on the front lines of World War I. The war undid all Tillich's youthful confidence in the world and in faith ... After the war, Tillich made it his work to find dependable theological ground. Eventually, he proclaimed that God is the 'Ground of all Being,' the 'centered presence of the divine'; the 'whole world' is God's 'periphery.' Human life may be finite, destined for dirt and death; but the ground and all that came from it and was connected to it, claimed Tillich, was drenched with the divine, the source of infinite holiness. This insight appears in many of the world's faith traditions. Most tribal religions are based upon the absolute connection of God (or gods) and the earth. Buddhists see 'the world as it is' as the stage of spiritual activity. For Hindus, Brahman is the source of all life, represented by the sacred word Om; the world itself is the expression of Brahman's dream. Judaism, Christianity, and Islam share a creation story in which the earth is the embodiment of God's breath and insist that God is present everywhere and in all things ... Indeed, the primary hope of the ancient Hebrews was for 'Immanuel,' or 'God with us,' the God who dwells with humankind in love and justice. Christians refer to God's embodiment as 'incarnation,' God made flesh in Jesus, who is called Immanuel, and believe that God is present through the Spirit sent into the world after Jesus's death and resurrection ... in an age of profound, perplexing, and even frightening change, millions of people are rediscovering from the deepest human wisdom a simple spiritual reality: we're grounded." (17-20)

A Meditation on Sauty Falls

“A Meditation on Sauty Falls”

by Steve West

The water keeps coming.

It keeps coming, coming, coming.

Across the span of history in a way that’s timeless ... from my limited perspective, anyway ... it keeps coming.

Sometimes it’s bigger, louder, and faster. Sometimes it’s smaller, quieter, and slower.

But it keeps coming.

It’s not only the seasons that affect the flow. Year by year, there are changes. They are so subtle you can’t see it. But I trust it.

Sometimes a stone or tree falls in, and the water finds a new way to flow. Sometimes it carves out something entirely new as a result. Sometimes it takes a really long time.

Then sometimes it’s own creative tendency to make crevices of natural flow is reason enough to find new paths. Sometimes, part of the water ventures away from the central flow. That’s okay too. It’s just another part of the beauty.

When people like me come along to have a look, or take a picture, it’s stunningly breathtaking. But the flow is always secretly, subtly changing.

The water keeps coming. It never stops. That’s how it blesses the world.

Why? Because it’s living water.

It’s Living Water.

That’s what it means to me to be part of God’s Church.

This is a picture I took during meditation time after hiking to the falls in Buck’s Pocket State Park.

A Thought from Kahlil Gibran

This thought resonates with me today from Kahlil Gibran.

“Speak to my soul, oh Lord. May it continue to unfold itself unhindered. May the treasure you have placed in me be revealed to my eyes. My ears indeed thirst for my heart’s knowledge.”

This is what draws me to the table in my studies, because it gets at the heart of me, and the heart if the matter, in ways beyond words.

Bound by Love

“As a Christian, when confronted by a tension between a religious certainty which leads me to violate the law of love and a deep unknowing that still moves in the direction of ‘loving my neighbor as myself,’ I am bound to choose the latter course.”

Cynthia Bourgeault 

The "Book of Nature"

This is my column that appeared in the June 6, 2017 issue of "The Arab Tribune."

Displayed is my photograph of the scene at Bon Secour.

It's that time of year.

I imagine you love to get outside as much as I do, now the that the April allergies are a thing of the past. Open the door, here I come!

Even the last few days, I have enjoyed walks in the park with my wife and bicycling around the neighborhood behind us.

My family started responding to the call of the outdoors early this season, taking a week of vacation in the first of May. It's the first time both of my adult children and my daughter's serious boyfriend could join us at the beach.

We enjoyed the food, the sand, the ocean, my first experience with a family "breakout game," and just being together. We also got to take in a deep breath of nature, between parasailing and biking and trying out a Segway tour (that was a new experience for me and my wife!).

My family had to leave toward the end of the week and I had a day or two to myself. This quiet retreat was yet another layer of blessing. I must have biked 35 miles at the state park greenway.

One afternoon, I found myself beholding the most glorious sunset. It was breathtaking as I sat on the edge of the pier, gazing endlessly. I've discovered that if we would just pay attention, we would find that God is speaking.

The "book of nature" is an ancient Greek Christian and philosophical concept. The idea is to view God's creative works with an eye for deepening our understanding of the mystery of God. When it is "read" along with sacred scripture, the "book" of nature shows us God himself.

I suppose I had my own revelatory experience at one special moment during the week. I took my bike to visit Bon Secour. It's a beautiful wildlife reserve along the eastern coastline of a secluded bay which adjoins the edge of Mobile Bay.

I never will forget gazing back upon a stretch of walkable sand that I had already traveled over, a stretch of land which separated two bodies of water in close proximity to each other. Reading about what I was seeing on an informational display, I realized the profound uniqueness of what I was looking at.

On the left side of the slender strip of land was a salt water bay, and on the right side was a fresh water lake. There it was, two sides of liquid reality almost touching.

I carefully traced the contours of each shoreline with my eyes. Even the vegetation was dramatically different. Both sides were water, and both sides were teeming with life. Yet one side seemed to represent the salty side of things, and the other side the fresh experiences life brings.

On the one hand, life is full of tears. There is a certain weight to the water and a depth of soul. Being immersed in the salty side has an almost a healing quality, and though you can't see it on the surface, you know that life lays deep within.

On the other hand, life is a fresh adventure, a flowing mystery to drink in freely. There is a freshness, a clearness, and a clarity that comes from bathing in the fresh side of life.

I recalled that in the scripture, Christ spoke of "living water". He was offering a woman fresh water from a well to quench her thirst (a way of offering her himself), but I couldn't help but wonder. I was gazing at two sides of the world's water, and both were full of life. One I could drink in, the other I could float on. I love both salt and fresh water, yet a swim in each is a very different experience.

Such is the way of immersing myself in the two sides of life.

Bon Secour is French for "safe harbor," and I suppose its seclusion is part of why I enjoyed the quietness of these moments pondering what was before my eyes. In this beautiful display of glory God created, I was reminded that life has both a fresh side and a salty side. God made it that way, and seeing a visual reminder got me in touch with the stirrings of my own soul.

And for that, I am truly grateful.

Steve West is a husband, father, minister, musician, and writer who pastors Arab First United Methodist Church. His blog "Musings of a Musical Preacher" is found at www.stevewestsmusings.blogspot.com.

Embracing Mystery in a Culture of Certainty

This article was published in Alive Now, a periodical publication of The Upper Room, in the November/December 2015 issue. The theme for the issue is "mystery."

A version of this article also appeared previously in the "Faith and Values" section of the Huntsville Times.

I remember the moment I met Jeff, who led the praise band for the church I had come to serve in Huntsville, Alabama. “I heard you are a rocket scientist,” I said. “Yes,” he replied, “but I don’t do that here!” He smiled with a width I’ve grown to love and went back to playing his guitar.

The church I served at the time was fruitful in the context of a highly technical culture. We worshiped ten minutes away from the NASA space flight center where Space Shuttles were designed and built. Nearby was the arsenal where missile command for the United States was controlled.

One parishioner's full time job was to write the computer programs that test the computer programs that operate the Shuttle. I once found myself at a church social event with someone who flew helicopters, someone else who tested helicopters, and yet another person who did the computer support for helicopters. It was a culture of engineering, mastering information, and exacting personalities.

Yet I discovered that the people had a corresponding hunger for mystery. In Ephesians 3, Paul describes his call to preach the “unsearchable riches of Christ” and “make plain the mystery.” Do we dare claim a faith that is about something bigger than what we can identify, control, or explain?

I come from a long line of pastors that go back to the days of riding horseback. At my great, great, great uncle’s gravestone these words are chiseled: “For 50 years preached the unsearchable riches of Christ until his decease.” Those words echo Paul’s words and continue to touch me deeply.

Years prior to arriving in Huntsville, young in ministry and dealing with my first frustrations and disappointments, I went to that uncle’s grave and knelt. I considered the hardships of the early circuit riders. My heart melted in realization that my struggles were not just about me. The difficulties I was going through placed me in the company of generation after generation of people who had experienced the unfathomable richness of Christ’s love. Seeing my life in context of a bigger mystery gave me a great deal of hope.

While serving in Huntsville, I felt led to write my own mission statement. I kept it by my desk the whole time I was there. It read: “I have been placed here in the Huntsville culture to help people who are conditioned to think they can fix any problem, explore any place in the galaxy, or settle any conflict by force to live a life that encounters mystery and embraces uncertainty.”

I tried to live by it, but God had a great surprise in store for me. The people taught me much more about how to do that than any insight I could have brought them. They already longed for mystery; that’s why they were there. They implicitly knew this, and lived faithfully in that creative incongruity. I suppose all of us do.

Each year during the season of Epiphany, we remember the wise men who saw a bigger picture and followed a star. The King had been born right under the noses of the people of bustling Bethlehem, and it took some stargazing Persian astrologers to see it.

Sometimes we are so concerned with what’s right under our noses that we miss the mystery. We water down the gospel to acquiesce to a culture of work and rewards. We reduce the message to a few principles to follow in order to make our lives a little better. The problem with all that is that we’re still in control. Face it, we’re control freaks.

But the good news of the gospel is that certainty is an illusion. It’s mystery that’s real. Christ makes plain the unrevealable and reveals the unsearchable. Christ makes God touchable, lovable, knowable, even feelable. This mystery can’t be encapsulated in a few bullets on a power point slide. It can only be absorbed throughout a lifetime of beholding its light.

Stephen P. West is a husband, father, minister, musician, and writer who serves as pastor of Arab First UMC in Arab, Alabama. His blog "Musings of a Musical Preacher" may be found at stevewestsmusings.blogspot.com.

The Voice of Your Baptism

This is a short teaching on baptism I wrote as part of my studies this summer. It is intended for use in my local church setting.

When I was young, I went through confirmation classes where my father was pastor. It came time for a decision to join the church. I asked my dad if I could be baptized again, since I didn't remember the first time. Dad paused, and with a twinkle in his eye, said "it's not important whether you remember being baptized. The important thing is remembering that you were baptized."

In his gentle and pastoral way, my father pointed to the greatest truth of baptism. Something happens at a place in time, as the church claims us as one of God's own. But it also points to a hidden mystery. The journey of our lives becomes one of allowing baptism to unfold, transforming from historical fact to timeless truth.

What is this truth it takes a lifetime to claim?

Baptism is the very core of who we are. It is a sacrament, an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace. Since the beginnings of the church, it has been the sign of our very identity in Christ.

There is a kaleidoscope of images in scripture which bring baptism to light. In the beginning, the Spirit of God blew across the face of deep waters. Emerging from chaos, water became central to existence. We drink it, we wash in it, and we can't live without it. So it is by the imaginative grace of God that one of the most fundamental signs of life, water, is made holy. It is through water, at the time of the great flood, that we were saved, and it is by crossing the waters of the Red Sea that we were set free.

Likewise, the New Testament gazes at the prism of baptism, revealing rich colors. It is a sign of our new creation in Christ. It mirrors our participation in his death and resurrection and reflects the washing away of sin. In baptism, we claim that we are born from above, receiving the outpouring of the Holy Spirit. We become light for the world, now clothed in Christ. We are set free from the bondage of evil and welcomed into the family of God.

It may seem strange to claim such vast meaning for an event we may or may not remember. But the nature of the baptism is that it is a gift given once. A second baptism would imply that God's grace wasn't good enough the first time. Regardless of where we are in life when we receive it, one baptism looks backwards and forwards to the contours and colors of Christian life. What happens at the font not only illuminates everything else, it draws us into a life beyond ourselves - the life of God.

In our tradition, baptism is a sign of the outpouring of God's grace, not our personal decision. It is at confirmation that we "make firm" the promise of baptism, saying "yes" to God who has already said "yes" to us. As far as the amount of water, I am fond of saying you could be baptized in the ocean, and it still doesn't measure up to the amount of grace it represents. Baptism takes place in the midst of God's family; it is not a private transaction. It is a blessing shared with the whole congregation, who renews their baptisms and helps us live into our baptismal identity.

Among the scriptural images of baptism, perhaps what is most central is the baptism of Jesus himself. Scriptures distinguish the baptism of John, one of repentance, with our baptism in Christ, one of fire and Spirit. At Jesus's baptism, the sky opened and a dove descended. A voice from heaven spoke, saying "this is my beloved Son."

What is this truth it takes a lifetime to claim? The same voice is heard at our baptism. We are God's beloved. We are not what we are culturally conditioned to think we are. We are not consumers, or collectors, or achievers. We are the beloved, in the community of God's beloved. That changes everything. It is the truth we always come back to as we practice the art of life.

After years of reflecting on my father's words, I wanted to learn about my baptism. I asked Dad where I was baptized, and he didn't remember. I asked him who baptized me, and he didn't remember that either. I thought, "I should have asked my mom while she was still alive!" Finally, after some work, the historian of the church Dad was serving found it in their book.

I was baptized on May 30, 1965, by Rev. J.P. West, Sr., my grandfather. I went back to that church to spend time by the font and remember.

Later, I found my baptismal certificate in some things my mom had left me. I laughed. I might have known. It is in community with God's beloved that we remember who we truly are.

Pictured is a baptismal icon by He Qi.

"Spirit of Christmas" on YouTube

"Spirit of Christmas" is a song I wrote a number of years ago, during my first semester in seminary. We had been studying Athanasius, an important fourth century church father, in class.

Athanasius is the one who coined the phrase "he became what we are so that we might become what he is" in his quest to clarify our belief in the incarnation. I often think of him around Christmastime.

A musical version may be found on my "Living Stones" CD, and you can listen to Spirit of Christmas on YouTube.

I share the lyrics in hopes that it helps you fathom the mystery of the incarnation during this holy season.

Spirit of Christmas, O come to us
As you came to the wise men of old,
As you came to the shepherds who found their way home
In a manger, so loving a fold.

Spirit of Christmas, you came to us
As a mother and father, so kind,
Surrounded the babe with a blanket of love
That the world, so hopeless, would find.

For God sent the Son to reveal to the people
A love unlike that which was known.
The Spirit of God came down from above
That we might be brought from below.

Spirit of Christmas, O come to us
As we follow our Morning Star,
Our minds be uplifted, our hearts rejoice
In discovering whose savior you are.

Spirit of Christmas, O come to us
As we seek to bring life to the world.
Abide in our hearts, let us rest in your care,
That the Spirit of love be unfurled.

Copyright 1994 Stephen P. West, all rights reserved

Churches Are So Full of Drama!

Usually when people talk about all the “drama” at their church, it’s not a good thing. But this week? It certainly is.

Holy Week is the most dramatic week imaginable for people of faith. We began yesterday with grand processionals and palms, acknowledging the kingship of Christ who reigns in glory. During the services themselves, we moved our thoughts toward the passion of Christ, who emptied himself, taking on the form of a servant. We began to fathom the wondrous love this is, that he would pour himself out for others.

During the week, our thoughts and liturgies will move toward the cleansing of the temple, when Jesus made his boundaries clear that cultural and commercial religiosity is not acceptable to the heart of God. When Jesus got angry, we need to pay attention to it.

Then there is the betrayal and denial. I can’t imagine the sorrow Jesus felt when he was betrayed and denied by such close friends (as we all know, people you don’t care about can’t hurt you as much as someone you love). I often reflect that out of 12 disciples, which Jesus had spent 3 years closely with, one of them betrayed him, one denied him, and two of them couldn’t see past their own desire for status and position. In the end, 1/3 of the disciples let him down.

Then there is Maundy Thursday, when Jesus shared Passover with his disciples, dramatically changed the symbols of the night to become about his body and blood and sacrifice, instituted our precious sacrament, washed the feet of his disciples, and gave them a new commandment that we love one another as he has loved us.

Then we arrive at Good Friday, when Jesus died on the cross and gave himself for you and me. How strange that we should call it “good” when it is a day so full of darkness. Yet we call it good because it is holy darkness; this is how God chose to save and redeem the world. Then we pause for the darkness of the tomb on Saturday.

Then we will gather for Sunrise service and breakfast on Easter. We are always (and have always been, and always will be) people of hope! All of our liturgies and activities lead us through this dramatic journey. I hope you will participate as much as you can.

But the drama of the story itself is greater than anything we can possibly dramatize. Let the week move your heart and deepen your soul. Let it bring you to tears and cause you to struggle. Let it be dark night of the soul, which brings us to the joy of Easter light.

It’s a good thing there’s a lot of drama at your church. That’s just what the world needs.

Pictured is Antonio Ciseri's "Behold the Man"

Raccoons Are Welcome

I've gotten a lot of mileage from my raccoon story, the folksy mystical experience that revealed to me the joy of forgiveness. I've shared it on my blog before.

The version below is published in the upcoming March/April edition of Alive Now. I am honored, and I hope others who are discovering the freedom of accepting the raccoons in their life might find it helpful.

The early years of ministry left me with scars. I had a nagging ability to hold onto residual pain from occasional conflicts.

One spring, my family went camping at a wildlife preserve. Our site came with two poles. One held a lockable cage to protect food from raccoons. The other hung the trash out of their reach.

One evening, I neglected to tie up my trash. I woke to the noises of plastic ripping and metal clanging. The raccoons had come.

Standing in the midst of a mess, I pondered three things. First, "This is what raccoons do. There's no reason to be angry." Second, "They really didn't hurt me." Finally, and most importantly, "Next time, I'll tie my trash up higher."

I listed the raccoons of my life, people who had sorted through my trash for something to criticize or consume. I prayed over them in light of my revelations. This is what raccoons do. They didn't hurt me, not really. And maybe it's time for me to establish a few boundaries, keeping my "trash" tied up higher.

I was led to Philippians 1:15-18. Paul writes of raccoons - not unbelievers, but other preachers who had been sorting through his trash.

"Some proclaim Christ out of envy or rivalry ... others proclaim Christ out of selfish ambition, not sincerely but intending to increase my suffering in my imprisonment. What does it matter? Just this, that Christ is proclaimed in every way, whether out of false motives or true, and in that I rejoice."

What acceptance!

On Sunday, my sermon was "Raccoons Are Welcome." I encouraged my congregation to let go of what others have done to us. In God's house, raccoons are welcome at the table! If we are bothered that our protagonists are Christians, it helps to remember that Paul's raccoons were other preachers.

On Monday, I felt a nudge. "Steve, do you believe what you preached?" I pulled out a file of old letters from occasional conflicts. Why was I holding on to these raccoons?

On top was a more recent letter, so I thought, "I'd better keep this one, just in case." Laying it aside, I took the file and headed outdoors. One by one, I burned each letter as I prayed for forgiveness. I found release as I poked through the smoldering ashes of past pain.

The Spirit nudged again. What about the letter still in my desk?

Suddenly, I heard a rustle. I opened my eyes. There in broad daylight, just 30 feet away, was a raccoon. He looked at my quizzically. After a moment, he turned and meandered through the trees. Astounded, I thought, "God, you have a sense of humor."

Needless to say I burned that last letter.

Steve West is a husband, father, minister, musician, and writer who serves as senior pastor of Saint Mark UMC in Birmingham, Alabama. His blog, "Musings of a Musical Preacher," is found at stevewestsmusings.blogspot.com.

Invitation to Participants for the Academy for Spiritual Formation

I am honored to be serving as worship coordinator and musician for an upcoming two-year Academy for Spiritual Formation. Academy #33 will be at the Lindenwood Retreat Center near Anderson, Indiana starting in February. Participants, faculty, and leadership team will meet once a quarter for a five day retreat during the two year program.

The Academy experience is a program of the Upper Room for the renewal of the church. For laity and clergy alike, it is a holistic journey of deep spiritual growth that involves a daily rhythm of worship that frames the day, academic presentations exploring the depths of Christian spirituality, assigned times of silent reflection and prayer, the celebration of Eucharist, and evening covenant group. For me, attending my Academy was a life changing experience of immersing myself in the spiritual flow of many centuries of Christian faith. I am glad to give back to others in the hope that they, too, will nourish deep roots in God.

For more information and what the Academy can mean for your journey with God, check out the Academy for Spiritual Formation website. It has a nice video, information on upcoming Academies, registration information, and articles on topics such as what a typical day at the Academy is like.

Incarnational Spirituality

I have shared in previous posts this summer some musings about my spirituality. This has been a wonderful discipline for my personal enrichment, even as I write in order to get to know my new congregation. This week, I pick up where I left off a few weeks ago.

After sharing some of my faith story, I reflected on the dynamic tension between my spirituality of “retreat” and “creativity,” and then between my spirituality of “risk” and “roots.”

Today I’d like to share about one of the two deep mysteries of Christian faith, one which I have embraced as a central part of my walk with God. It’s the incarnation. This is the great mystery that the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, that God crossed over the great divide and the divine became human in Christ. I like to call our journey of living into this mystery our “incarnational spirituality.”

What that means for me is that whenever we gather in Christ’s name, Jesus is here. And he’s real. This is a promise he made that is not just about worship, and we sell ourselves short when we assume that it is. It’s true when we are feeding the hungry, caring for the elderly, counseling the hurting, loving the poor, or teaching God’s children. It’s also true when we hold meetings, tend to the business of the church, or sort out our differences with our brothers and sisters in Christ. Christ is pervasively present and I’m passionate about that.

For me, Christianity is about practicing the presence of God. It’s true in all things, not just some things. There is no divorcing the divine from the human. If we pay attention, we will notice the ways and places God is at work beneath the surface. When I live into that vision, it transforms everything!

My Stained Glass Office

In my new study is a most beautiful pair of stained glass windows. The offices are built into the former sanctuary of Saint Mark, so I start each morning with some quiet time gazing at their beautiful light.

They feature two of the most common and ancient symbols of Christian faith. One is the IHS monogram, the abbreviated name of Jesus featuring the first three Greek letters of his name. The other is the lamb of God often associated with Easter, the "Agnus Dei". It's the symbol of Christ's resurrection victory through his sacrificial love.

These two symbols anchor my day and get me in touch with ancient Christianity. One is a reminder of the human character and story of Jesus in all his humility. The other is a christological statement of faith in Christ who is exalted in victory.

My prayer today is that these symbols also anchor my ministry. Every day, I can be reminded that it's all about Jesus and it's all about Christ. This work I am privileged to be doing is not about me at all!

I am feeling very much at home.

Meditation on a Shooting Star

Every once in a while, I talk to my mother. That may not seem strange to you unless you knew she died about seven years ago. I just feel like talking to her, and know with every fiber of my Christian faith that she can hear me. Sometimes I can almost feel it. Years ago at the communion table, when I was walking back up the steps from serving the congregation, in my mind's eye I saw, in a flash, a vast choir gathered around the table. Mom was there smiling at me. In my meditations, I always think of this as my "Hebrews 11 & 12" moment.

This week, I was walking and praying in my neighborhood. I was struggling with a difficult and emotional situation and felt led to talk it out a bit with Mom as my way of praying. I remember asking for her to show me wisdom from her heavenly perspective.

Suddenly, I saw a shooting star. It was a long one that lasted about two seconds. It was bright and burning, then it was gone. It seemed so quiet, so gentle in its presence though I know the scientific reality of hotly burning gases and minerals.

You might call it coincidence or call it "God incidence", and maybe the gift is the heightened sensitivity I was given to notice. But it gave me a sense of hope. All that might seem like it's brightly burning right now will soon pass, and somehow, the sight of it is beautifies the skies of the earth.

Thanks, Mom.

A Contemplative Vision of Light

Last week, I posted my grandmother's beautiful "prayer in color" and mentioned that it came to her during one of the darkest times in her life. I know this to be true because of the papers it was found with.

My Uncle Marvin was killed during World War II. He was in the navy, on a tanker in the Atlantic which was torpedoed in 1942. According to the best evidence recovered, he jumped off the ship after the explosion and drowned. In the family papers, you can see a spiritual and emotional progression - a worried letter asking him why he is not writing more often, a notification that his ship had been lost at sea, continued communication leaving the family hanging, desperate letters asking for information or belongings, the consoling letter of a survivor about what had happened, and finally an announcement one year later that Marvin had been declared dead.

My grandmother had some contemplative and mystical experiences during this time that are part of the fabric of my own spirituality. As I read through these bits of lingering grief, I can feel the agony a mother must have felt over her lost son. But I am struck by her faith. She writes of her spiritual exploration during this time of darkness.

She writes in her journal "This is the record of the peculiar and supernatural things, and impulses connected with our sorrow, and the disaster of the Fall of "42." She recalls a burning impulse to lay hands on his head and pray blessings on him the last time she saw him and her regret at not following the impulse. She relayed the experience of taking him to the bus station, and her husband saying "that may be the last time we'll ever see him," and her resistance to feeling that way. She talked of her husband's depressing resistance to going to Annual Conference in October of 1942, when Marvin had died but they didn't know it yet. She ended with the experience of peace and the sense that "God is so good" even while they awaited confirmation for many months. As she wrote these things in her journal, she still had hope that somehow he might be all right.

The one that caught my attention the most was a dream she had soon after they saw Marvin last. She saw a convoy wrecked and felt all the shock and horror that she felt when later she "received the fatal telegram Nov. 19." In the dream, she felt a peaceful calm, and saw a light or halo which settled, framing the face of one of her boys. She awoke and called her husband, feeling the dream was some sort of warning or message.

Granny was not the first person in history to have a mystical experience of light shining in the darkness. I have often wondered why this image has always been so powerful for me in my prayer time. I think now I've discovered why.

The Spirit's Flow Around Rocks and Logs

The Spirit has led me this week to meditating with a new lifegiving metaphor. I imagine myself as a great river, or rather as part of a great river, moving and flowing quickly with an almost musical rush and rhythm. I imagine a couple of stones and logs in the path of the white water rapids.

I think of these stones and logs. Are they interruptions to the water's flow or are they part of the beauty of the river? Are they obstacles to the flow or does the river simply flow around them? And if the flow is redirected, is that not a good thing? It is as if the river works with the rocks and logs in an almost mutually beneficial way. They give the river beauty and interest and direction. The river, in time, smooths out the rough edges of that which is in its path.

One of my deepest spiritual struggles, part of my spiritual personality, is that too often I tend to see problems and even difficult people as obstacles. Are they interruptions to my life or are they part of the beauty of my life's flow? And if I flow around them, is that not a good thing? Does it not give my life beauty and interest and direction? And does my flowing not smooth out the rough edges of others I choose to love, if flowing in a way that surrounds and accepts?

Lord, I'm not sure why I fret and stress over the things in my path. Yes, I function well and work with others just fine. But in my heart of hearts, I know that anxiety about this is my greatest spiritual struggle. I lose sleep and expend emotional energy over the things and even people in my path.

Help me to flow with the flow of the Spirit and trust that there is beauty in the flowing. Help me to flow around them in a way that loves the beautiful dance between water, rock, and log.