Archive for stewardship

Imaging Love

Posted in Homilies with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 19, 2017 by timtrue

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Matthew 25:14-30

1.

It’s not lost on me that today’s Gospel falls on our Ingathering Sunday.

This parable involves talents. Talents are money. Lots of money!

And it’s Ingathering Sunday, the day where we collect all our pledge cards and offer them up to God in hopes that we will be blessed in the coming year. And by “we will be blessed,” you and I both know what I mean: that the church will make ends meet and then some!

Oh, the temptation!

“Don’t be like that third slave,” I could preach, “for he took his talent and suppressed it. He buried it in the dirt; and ended up in that dark place where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth. We don’t want to be like him, do we? Well, here’s your chance. Pledge!”

Or, I could exhort, “Be like the first and second slaves. They took huge economic risks with their master’s money. And these risks paid off! Don’t you see? God wants you to take huge economic risks in what you pledge this year. Do it! And God will reward you.”

I could preach these kinds of things, sure. And, sad to say, many preachers will in fact expound along these lines today.

But—at the risk of losing a sales-pitch opportunity—my conscience steers me in another direction. I don’t think that this parable is telling you and me to empty our pockets for Jesus (though, if you want to interpret it this way, I won’t stand in the way!).

2.

Rather, the point of today’s parable is about how we understand—how we image—God.

We touched on this a few weeks back. The religious leaders that Jesus confronted had imaged God as a king, largely removed from the lives of his people. God is often likened to a king in the scriptures, after all.

But there are many other words, other images, associated with God in the Bible: father; mother hen; fire; wind; word; lover; friend; etc.

Do you image God as king? as father? as fire?

Or how about harsh taskmaster? For you, does God reap where he doesn’t sow? Does God gather where he did not spread seed? Are you afraid of God?

That’s how the third slave saw his master.

And, after all, he’s the focal point of today’s parable.

The first and second slaves do what is right: they’re the ones who take their master’s resources and double them, riskily living out their calling, as Jesus teaches his disciples to do.

But the first and second slaves are nearly identical. Other than the difference in amounts of resources, both go out and double what they were given; both do it in the same way; and both are welcomed and received by their master with the same words.

These first two slaves, much as they might teach us about stewardship, are merely setting the stage for what is to follow.

And what does follow is a sharp contrast:

in the way the third slave stewards;

and, especially, in the way he views, or images, his master.

“I knew you were a harsh man,” he says, “reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you did not scatter seed; so I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground.”

Unlike the first and second slaves, who feel absolute liberty in using their master’s resources, and are themselves received with similar liberty, the third slave is afraid, constrained by his image of his master.

It’s not that the master is harsh at all. Rather, everything about his actions demonstrates generosity. It’s all in how the third slave views his master.

This third slave is like the religious leaders Jesus has been confronting since he arrived in Jerusalem some days ago. Long had they imaged God as a distant, aloof king who rules by law and judgment, a deity to be feared. And thus, in accordance with their image of God, they had established a religious system that held its people under a cloud of fear.

3.

Which brings up a good point: a good way to discern how we image God is to examine our own behavior. Whether we realize it or not, we act like the God we image.

So, for instance, how do we address God in prayer?

As a church, we say the Lord’s Prayer together weekly: here we address God, “Our Father in heaven.”

Also, I thumbed through fifty-one pages of collects in our BCP (pp. 211-61) and found these addresses:

Almighty God; Merciful God; Lord; God; Eternal Father; Father in heaven; Almighty and everlasting God; Most loving Father; Gracious Father; Almighty and everliving God; Lord God; Almighty Father; King of glory; Almighty and merciful God; Lord of all power and might; Blessed Lord; Everliving God; Lord of glory; Lord God Almighty; Gracious God; Almighty and gracious Father; Eternal Lord God; and Merciful Creator.

Rich and varied as these addresses are, most of them suggest distance, as if God is away from us, in heaven, ruling and reigning from on high—from somewhere else. A few, like “God” and “Gracious God,” are ambiguous: distance is neither suggested nor not suggested. But none of them addresses a God who is already present.

These are our collects. These are the prayers we say as the liturgy begins. The implication is that God is far off in a heavenly throne room somewhere until I, the ordained celebrant, summon God to be present with all of us.

Frankly, this is bad theology, a hangover from the medieval image of God as powerful and aloof king. If we say as a church we don’t view God this way—and we do say this: that God is always present with each of us and all of us—perhaps it’s time to revise some, maybe even a lot, of our liturgy.

Or maybe the reality is that we actually image God this way after all without realizing it.

Well, that’s an example from us as a church. What about you personally?

How do you address God in your personal prayers? Is it always, “Almighty God,” or, “Father in heaven”? Have you ever tried addressing God as “Caregiver,” “Friend,” or even “Lover”? What about something like, “Nurturing Mother”?

I’m not saying you should; I’m not saying you shouldn’t. You have liberty. I’m simply trying to make the point that we understand God largely in terms of how we image God; and we subconsciously live out our faith in accordance with this image.

A good dose of self-examination here can do us a lot of good. It might even motivate us to rethink our image of God.

4.

Of course, Jesus gives us an image: Jesus tells us that God is love.

But how do we image love? Love is an action; an ideology. How do we form an image of action or ideology in our mind’s eye?

I don’t know that we can. Love may be simply too abstract.

But what we can do is recall how it looks when played out. What does love look like? It’s a meal given to a hungry person. It’s a quilt received by someone in need of healing. It’s a kind word spoken at the right time.

Really? Is a hot meal an image of God? Is a quilt? What about a word? Jesus himself is called the Word of God.

Perhaps this is what Jesus has been pointing to all along:

  • Seeing God in the smile on your daughter’s face at the dinner table as you crack a silly joke
  • Realizing that God is everywhere around you as you wait in the checkout line at the grocery store
  • Hearing God in a piece of music
  • Observing God’s hand in nature
  • Sensing God’s very presence in the middle of a heated discussion at diocesan convention

Is this what Jesus means when he says, “God is love”?

5.

I am reminded here of a story about Socrates, that great Greek thinker.

His is arguably the second most tragic death in the history of human civilization.

He walked the earth long before Christ, executed in 399 BCE.

Like Christ, he never wrote a word—that we know of anyway. He is remembered through the testimony of others, especially his disciple Plato.

So, the Greek world of Socrates’s day, as you know, imaged God as a pantheon.

Zeus was the father god of the earthly realm; while his brothers Poseidon and Hades ruled the sea and the underworld, respectively.

Of course, there were also Hera, Zeus’s wife; Aphrodite, Zeus’s daughter (born out of his head, by the way); Apollo, Zeus’s son from an adulterous relationship; Ares, Zeus and Hera’s son, whom (according to Homer) they hated; and so on and so forth.

But, as you can surmise already from the little I’ve told you, the popular image of God in Socrates’s day was nothing short of divine dysfunction!

And Socrates knew it!

So, one of his more brilliant ideas was that, yes, there must be some kind of deity, for everyday life has all kinds of pointers shouting out so; but, no, this deity simply could not be—to borrow from The Kinks—a mixed up, funked up, shook up pantheon (except for Lola—or Hera, as it were).

In other words, for Socrates there was in fact a deity, but not as the popular image portrayed it.

Socrates realized that the world around him, wanting to approach the divine, had fashioned for itself concrete images of the divine. These images were the pantheon, a kind of high court of deities, gods that looked, for all intents and purposes, a lot like regular people, with all their warts and weaknesses—not unlike DC Comics’ Justice League.

Still, Socrates knew, there was something of God in each of these images; yet all of God could not be contained by any of them. Concrete images cannot capture the ineffable. By definition, it’s impossible!

Anyway, Socrates’s downfall was teaching the youth to see through—or beyond—these popular images of deity. “God is not a pantheon,” he declared, “but One. God cannot be contained by images.”

And for this—for leading Athens’ youth astray into what his opponents called atheism(!)—Socrates was tried, found guilty, and made to drink the poisonous hemlock.

Tragedy came upon the world because one man dared to challenge its popular images of God.

Jesus challenged a popular image of God in his day too—the image of God as king; and again tragedy came upon the world.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be like the third slave in today’s parable. I don’t want to view God as a harsh taskmaster, which simply perpetuates the fear, shame, and guilt that already runs rampant in our society.

Rather, I want to be like the first and second slaves. These guys took risks! These guys understood and lived into their freedoms! And in the end they were elevated to a kind of equality with their master.

Yet even more than that, I want to be like Jesus, who imaged God as love. For in imaging God as love, we become love.

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Practicing the Common Good

Posted in Homilies with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 26, 2017 by timtrue

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Matthew 20:1-16

1.

The Acts of the Apostles relates that members of the newly formed Christian church shared all things in common:

Now the whole group of those who believed were of one heart and soul, and no one claimed private ownership of any possessions, but everything they owned was held in common. With great power the apostles gave their testimony to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus, and great grace was upon them all. There was not a needy person among them, for as many as owned lands or houses sold them and brought the proceeds of what was sold. They laid it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to each as any had need (Acts 4:32-35).

Similarly, other groups in and around early Christian Palestine—and the Jewish sect known today as the Qumran Community—attempted to live a communal life together.

People in these communities worked. At the end of the day they’d return and the community’s resources were pooled. Regardless of how much or how little each individual member of the community brought in, from this pool the community members were able to live lives of relative equality. Each member drew from the pool as he or she needed.

Discussing these communities one day in seminary, and referring to today’s Gospel, my church history professor posited this question:

“Was Jesus’ vision for his new realm one of communism? That’s what this sounds like to me—or something very much like it. Of course, we’ve seen that communism as a political ideal has failed. But the world’s twentieth-century experiments in communism were atheistic, largely devoid of God. What if God were central? Could a kind of Christian communism work?”

I shot my hand up in the air, along with several other classmates. After a few had shared their affirming thoughts—a few younger, idealistic classmates—it was my turn.

“Try raising five kids,” I said, “and you’ll see right away that communism doesn’t work.”

I was thinking of dishes, for example. Nobody in my family wants to do the dishes; everyone sees them as a chore. When it’s their turn, the family members with a lazier disposition (not to mention any names) don’t do a good job, or don’t do them at all, leaving the more industrious family members to clean up after them. Sharing the chore is supposed to be for the common good; and yet the result is guilt, frustration, and resentment. Christian communism is a nice ideal; but the reality just doesn’t work.

Later that week, at a community picnic, my young professor, whose wife was expecting their first child, pulled me aside and said, “You know, Tim, that was a really profound statement: ‘Try raising five kids; communism can’t work.’”

And I said thank you and smiled politely; and silently wished him good luck.

2.

Now, we can bag on communism all we want; for we live in a culture that values free speech and other liberties that are self-evident. But, at the same time, I’m pretty sure Jesus’ vision wasn’t western capitalism either.

Just look at the parable:

First, early in the day, a wealthy land owner hires some workers. The mutual monetary agreement between them is a denarius, a day’s wage for a laborer. It’s not much; but it is enough for daily bread.

Next, three times more, every few hours, the land owner hires another batch of laborers. Each time a wage is not specifically stated; but it will be a just wage, the land owner assures.

Finally, at the eleventh hour, an hour before the sun sets, the land owner hires additional laborers one last time. This time there is no mention at all of a wage.

So, when the workday is done, the land owner has the laborers line up, the last to be hired at the front of the line. When he pays them each a denarius—same as the agreed wage for those hired early in the day—naturally, some expectations in the back of the line surface: the laborers hired last worked only one hour; it seems only fair then that we who worked the entire day should be compensated more for our troubles.

But when those hired in the middle of the day come forward and are given a denarius and no more, these expectations turn to feelings of entitlement: we who were hired early on did so much more for the land owner; don’t we deserve more compensation?

At last, when those hired first are paid a denarius just like everyone else, there is frustration and resentment. They grumble against the land owner. They feel themselves superior. They voice their complaints. “You have made them equal to us,” they say (v. 12)—as if equality is a negative value.

The land owner wonders out loud if these first hirees might be envious at his generosity.

Envy—ding! ding! ding! That’s one of the seven deadly sins.

Now, the point of this parable is God’s generosity. God treats all people equally, regardless of socioeconomic status, race, gender, or whatever other category we want to place people in. God is generous, benevolent, and good.

Nevertheless, for many of us this parable is unsettling. Dissolved boundary lines aside, it feels unfair; maybe even unjust—like when I end up doing someone else’s dishes.

But I wonder how much of this unsettling feeling has to do with the ideal of western capitalism.

Capitalism teaches us from birth to compete against others, excel, and distinguish ourselves. If we go to the right college, earn the right degree, and work for the right company, why, aren’t we then entitled to receive a higher income than the person who didn’t? And when someone seems better off with fewer credentials, aren’t we prone toward frustration and resentment? Even envy?

And envy—ding! ding! ding! That’s one of the seven deadly sins.

3.

But there’s another option that stands between the human ideals of communism and capitalism: the Christian practice of the common good.

This phrase, the common good, shows up in many places in our Book of Common Prayer. A few examples:

  • In the Good Friday Liturgy, we pray for those who serve the common good, including the President of our country, Congress, and members and representatives of the United Nations.
  • In the Collect for Vocation in Daily Work, we pray, “Deliver us in our various occupations from the service of self alone, that we may do the work you give us to do in truth and beauty and for the common good.”
  • In the Prayers of the People, Form IV, we pray, “Guide the people of this land, and of all the nations, in the ways of justice and peace; that we may honor one another and serve the common good.”
  • And in the Great Litany, we pray, “That it may please thee to inspire us, in our several callings, to do the work which thou givest us to do with singleness of heart as thy servants, and for the common good.”

I’ve said it before: our calling in Christ is not just about a personal relationship with Jesus. Christ’s mission and ministry are for the common good; or, in other words, the best quality of life we can experience together, as a community.

And while our community starts with you and me as individuals, it flows outward, like circles after dropping a rock into the still waters of a pond, to our church, city, state, nation, and the world; from Jerusalem to Judea and all Samaria, even to the ends of the earth.

That’s the idea of the common good. Which is a big part of our calling as followers of Christ.

But, of course, our reality is modern-day America, a highly individualized culture. Ideas about the common good are seemingly lost in a vast sea of individualism.

So then, how do we practice the common good in our cultural context?

4.

Well, I’m glad you asked. Our annual Pledge Drive affords us a wonderful, tangible example.

We will be launching our Pledge Drive soon.

All too often, financial stewardship is addressed from a very individual perspective. We’re asked to be introspective, to look at our personal budgets, to pray individual prayers about what we can reasonably afford to give to God, and figure out a way to give from what is rightfully yours.

But in our financial stewardship, God doesn’t call us just to be individuals, as if stewardship is merely a personal exercise just between me and Jesus.

Yes, personal introspection is a very real part of faithful stewardship; but it is not the complete picture. God also calls us to consider the common good.

Thus, when we pledge, in addition to our introspective, personal considerations, we also need to consider the bigger picture of this church body, its unique and particular makeup; its unique and particular needs.

And we need to consider the biggest picture of all: God is generous, benevolent, and good.

In pledging to the common good, then, we are merely managing what is already God’s: our pledges are acts of love to the Lord our God; and to our neighbor.

And what happens when we pool our resources together for the glory of God? We enable ourselves to live into our common life: we enable ourselves to work together as equals—no competition, no distinctions, no status; no frustration, no resentment, no envy—in order to accomplish Christ’s ministry and mission in Temecula and the world.

The Housesitting Experiment

Posted in Homilies with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 27, 2017 by timtrue

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Matthew 16:13-20

1.

Authority is a curious idea.

Here’s what I mean.

Let’s say, for example, that Holly, the kids, and I are going away for a week on a family vacation. It’s June; the kids have just finished school; and we decide it’s a good time to get away for a spell.

Now, let’s say, too, that there’s a parishioner named Ulysses. (Is anyone here named Ulysses?) And Ulysses has a son, Virgil, who has just graduated from high school.

By this time I’ve been in Temecula long enough so that Ulysses and I have struck up a good friendship. So I ask, “Hey, Ulysses, would your son be interested in housesitting for us while we’re away? We need someone to take care of the dog, get the mail, water the plants, and so on. I’ll leave the fridge stocked.”

So Ulysses brings Virgil into the conversation, we discuss logistics, and agree to this housesitting experiment.

The day comes. We’re about to leave. Virgil arrives. I hand him the keys to the house, the mailbox, and the community pool. And we say goodbye.

Now, in handing over the keys, I’ve just given this kid a certain amount of authority. In exchange for feeding and walking the dog, getting the mail, and watering the plants, he has the place to himself for the week. The fridge is stocked with user-friendly meals and stockpiles of beverages for the underaged. TV, sound system, video game consoles, baby grand piano—they’re all his for the week.

But somewhere about midweek the cogs in Virgil’s mind jam. He’s been given authority over the house by me; so he decides to use this delegated authority—or, should I say, to abuse this delegated authority—by throwing a wild party for forty-two of his closest friends and associates.

Now, you and I—and Ulysses—all know what happens when forty-three fresh high school graduates get together for an evening of unsupervised fun. (For we were all fresh high school graduates ourselves once.) But Virgil hasn’t thought it through too well. The cogs were jammed, remember?

For starters, the dog didn’t get her walk that night. Instead, she somehow was fed or got into some substances that didn’t agree with her stomach. “I thought I cleaned it all up,” Virgil admitted later, “but, yeah, I guess the kitchen still smells pretty bad.”

Then, two of the Wii remotes ended up broken and somehow—“Don’t look at me!” Virgil said—the satellite dish had gone out of alignment.

There were footprints on top of the baby grand piano too, like someone had been dancing on it.

And, maybe worst of all, seventeen of the kids ended up in the community pool and hot tub, many of them freaking out the neighbors and otherwise calling attention to themselves because of their improvised swimsuits.

I said maybe worst of all because we’re allowed only six pool guests: now I’m in trouble with the Homeowner’s Association!

Finally, the cops showed up at about midnight, due to noise violations, they said; and the kids all went home, leaving Virgil alone with his thoughts and to clean up.

Needless to say, yes, Virgil abused the authority I’d delegated to him.

Now, let’s tease this scenario out just a little more.

We’re going to be having a conversation about all this, yeah? Virgil and I—not to mention Ulysses, members of the Homeowners’ Association, several neighbors, and maybe even the police—are going to sit down together over some beverages for the underaged and talk it out.

Maybe I expected too much of Virgil.

Maybe I should have been clearer in my expectations.

Maybe Ulysses should have talked through things a little more with his son ahead of time.

Or maybe, just maybe, Virgil should have acted with more maturity and prudence.

Yes, Option D, we all agree, is the best one.

Finally, let’s say a year rolls by—time has a way of healing past wounds—and Holly and I plan another weeklong family vacation. Do we ask Virgil to housesit again?

2.

Now, how do you think Jesus felt when he handed Peter the keys to the kingdom?

Peter! He’s that impulsive apostle.

A few weeks ago, on the Mount of Transfiguration, he’s the one who spoke first. Something absolutely mind-blowing had just taken place—Jesus turned bright as the noonday sun before the disciples’ eyes—and Peter, uncomfortable and awkward, broke the silence, speaking before thinking. The Bible even comments: he did not know what he was saying.

Two weeks ago—remember?—he was panic-stricken one moment and walking on water with Jesus the next.

And looking ahead, right after today’s Gospel, right after Jesus hands him the keys to the kingdom, Jesus actually calls him Satan!

Handing Peter the keys to the kingdom surely must have been something like handing the house keys to Virgil for a second time.

Yet Jesus does it anyway: Jesus delegates the authority of his very kingdom to Peter, the rock on whom he will build his church.

Peter will carry on Jesus’ mission. Peter will possess the power to bind and loose. Peter will begin a kind of apostolic succession that continues to this day.

And that’s because Peter is a rock. Peter is a solid foundation. Peter is nothing like the sand, unstable and uncertain. Right?

He would never do anything like deny Christ, right?

3.

Authority is a curious idea.

Was Jesus leaving his church in good hands when he delegated his authority to St. Peter the Impulsive?

But let’s think about the idea of authority.

What mom has ever acted perfectly in her inherent authority as a parent?

Did your mother always make the right decisions? Did she always allow you just the space you needed—not too little or too much; but just the right amount—to grow and mature from child to adult?

What about your dad? Like moms, dads possess an inherent authority over their children too, simply by nature of being a parent. Does that mean dads act perfectly, always and everywhere, as dads?

Or look at it this way. After becoming a mom or a dad, does a parent always make perfectly right decisions for her or his children? Do they never say a word to their children out of frustration, anger, or impatience?

Why, it’s ludicrous even to suggest it! We all know that such perfection is humanly impossible.

Nevertheless, each mother or father since time began possesses an inherent, God-given (if you will), authority.

It’s the same with bosses and employees; and teachers and students. Do bosses or teachers always make good and right decisions simply because they possess authority over their employees or students?

What about deacons, priests, and bishops? The road to spiritual authority, for most clergy I know anyway, is long and hard. Once they’ve earned it, does that spiritual authority then guarantee that they will lead and guide Jesus’ flock as faithful shepherds?

Not at all!

In fact, it’s kind of the other way around. Mistakes are the norm, not the exception. We humans are wired to grow and mature; and we make a lot of mistakes along the way. If wisdom and maturity were prerequisites, there would never be any parents, bosses, teachers, or clergy.

But someone’s got to carry on the mission.

And in the case of Jesus’ mission, that someone was St. Peter the Impulsive.

4.

Which brings up a very important point.

Earlier this summer my family did in fact take a vacation. (And, in case you’re wondering, yes, we did have someone take care of the dog; but, no, there were no wild parties.)

This vacation was a family reunion at Lake Tahoe.

Mealtimes were very revealing. I sat with different extended family members at each meal; and I never brought it up; yet, somehow, at each meal, the discussion would turn to religion.

That’s one of the byproducts of being the token family priest, I suppose.

Anyway, more often than not the person on the other end of the conversation would say something like, “Well, I don’t go to church anymore—gave that up a long time ago! But I am a Christian. I do believe Jesus is my Lord and Savior. And according to the Bible that’s enough. So why should I go to church?”

Have you heard these kinds of statements too? Statements like:

  • What gives the church the right to tell me how to live my life?
  • Pastors are just after my money anyway.
  • Who needs church at all? I’ll just go spend some time at the beach. That’s my church. That’s my Sabbath rest.
  • I’m spiritual but not religious; I worship God in my own way.
  • Besides, organized religion has done a lot more damage in the world than good: there have been far more wars fought over religious differences than for any other reason.

Well, the answer to this question—Why should I go to church at all?—is because church is where we find Jesus Christ’s authority on earth.

Of course, people today like to question authority. People don’t trust the church’s authority anymore. People want to question Jesus’ decision to hand the keys of the kingdom over to St. Peter the Impulsive.

But is it worth it?

To walk away from organized religion is to abandon the only institution that inherently possesses the spiritual authority of Jesus Christ. To walk away from organized religion is to make oneself a spiritual orphan. And who wants to abandon Mom and Dad?

Jesus did not delegate his authority to Christian radio; or to Christian authors; or to 501(c)(3) non-profit religious corporations; or to public education; or to a political party; or even to individuals like Paul, Apollos, Peter, the Pope, Michael Curry, Billy Graham, you, me, or any other single person. Jesus Christ’s authority rests only in his church, collectively; for the church is his body: where he has chosen to dwell on earth.

5.

But this brings up another very important point.

There are times when a family becomes so dysfunctional that intervention is necessary: abuse, neglect, and abandonment—to name a few examples.

Maybe church decline is a sign for our family, the family of Christ. Maybe people are leaving the church—maybe they do not trust organized religion anymore—precisely because the church has abused, neglected, or abandoned them.

Fair enough.

I have two things to say in response.

The first is to those who are thinking about running away: Don’t give up.

Yes, the church family is full of annoying siblings, moms and dads, teachers and bosses, and many other people who are growing and maturing and making mistakes all along the way. Nevertheless, the church is the institution on earth where Christ’s authority rests.

Jesus was patient with Peter, so much so that he handed the keys of his kingdom to him. You can be patient with Peter too. Don’t give up on your spiritual family.

The second response is to those who have already left the church: to those who feel the church has in fact abused, neglected, abandoned, or otherwise failed them; to those who feel they would rather be orphans than a part of our spiritual family. And it is this: Maybe you’re right. The church has fallen short. But why walk away? Can’t we at least talk about it?

This is my response to those who have left the church. But, of course, they’re not here! Because they’ve already left!

Which brings it all back to us, doesn’t it? We are left with something of a challenge, aren’t we? This challenge is called reconciliation.

How can we go out and find those who feel abused, neglected, or abandoned by the church? And once we find them, how do we begin the process of reconciliation with them? They’ve left the church already; so how do we get a conversation going with them?

Well, I don’t really know.

But I have a hunch about where to start.

Why not begin with Virgil, Ulysses, the neighbors, the offended members of the Homeowners’ Association, and the police? Why not begin with those we already know?

And so, yeah, Virgil will be housesitting for me again this summer.