How the Spirit Moves Me

My senior year of college, I was a veteran member of Emory's Wesley Fellowship. I'd been on the Student Leadership Team for three years, the treasurer my sophomore and junior years, and the “university liaison” my senior year. One of my best friends at the time was a veteran of the group and its leadership team. We came from similar backgrounds in a few ways: we both had parents who were still married, we were both raised among “conservative” relatives and family friends, and we were both (mostly) raised as United Methodists.

More importantly, we came to the conclusion halfway through that year, after much soul searching, that we were going to label ourselves “Christian Agnostic Deists” (or CADs, for short). We felt that this reflected several things about our world-views. As I mentioned, we were both raised Christian. This was the tradition we were most familiar with, most comfortable with, even if we didn't always agree with what was said to us in church. We were both students of the hard sciences – he was actually a physics major at the time; I, though I majored in Anthropology, spent significant time in the chemistry and biology labs. Our scientific minds led us to want true proof of things; neither of us wanted to reject religion outright, but nor did we have the faith necessary to really be more than Agnostics practicing at one faith or another. We ultimately tacked Deist onto the end not just because it made for a fun acronym, but also because we both agreed that somewhere, somehow, we felt there must have been a creator. Maybe not the Judeo-Christian-Islam creator, but a creator nonetheless.

My lack of comfort – that exists to this day – comes from a bouncy personal religious history, I suppose. Spent the first few years of my life in a family that felt,to me, more secular than not, then jumped from non-denominational to Baptist to Presbyterian (USA) to United Methodist in rapid succession. Was baptized at age nine (thanks to my mother's Southern Baptist heritage) as a Methodist, and confirmed at age thirteen. My parents still attend the Methodist church I was confirmed at, but all was not yet settled. I attended Catholic high school, and found many things to love about that faith. After being Methodist in college, I spent a year teaching for a school run by the Presbyterian Church of America. Following that experience, I rebelled against religion in general – in some ways – for a year and a half, before returning to the calling I'd felt three and four years earlier – to pursue seminary. And that brings us to here :)

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Christian Love

Preached (in part) 12 September 2010 at Asbury Grove Contemporary Service by Cassie Helms
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Prayer
Lord, Bless my words today, that those listening may know they come from you, and be open to them. Let all know that they are delivered with love, and let them be received with love.  In your name, Amen

The Sermon
Maybe I'll call this my “summer of love.” It seems like everywhere I went this summer, the question of Christian love came up, and whether we were living and acting it according to God's word. Then for my Grandfather's funeral two weeks ago, my Grandmother requested a scripture on love. And then only one week later, a professor lectured on another passage about love. It's only fitting that I close out the summer with a class assignment, and an opportunity to preach, that allow me to delve a bit deeper into Christian love.

Most of us don't get on a subway train expecting to be spit at. But in the former Soviet Republics? Pretty much anyone who falls into the very broad category of “black” experiences that – and worse. At night, they run the risk of being beat up by skinheads. They always know to have identification with them lest the police stop them – and maybe arrest them – simply for walking alone in a certain area of town. Most of these actions are perpetrated by Christians.

You might say, “Well, we've moved past that stage here in America!” And you might be right. Then again, I don't envy those who are Muslim and living peacefully in America these days. Or even those who are of Middle Eastern descent. Or, for that matter, someone who vaguely resembles someone who could be Middle Eastern. Not long after the "original" September 11, I traveled with a group of classmates, one of whom was a darker skinned Christian. He was stopped and searched at every security checkpoint in the airports, going both to and from our destination. He was the only one in our group.

But wait. Yes, yesterday was September 11. No, this is not going to be “that kind” of sermon. So let's step away from that, at least for a moment.

I spent the last week of August in a classroom rather than here at the Grove enjoying the sun, pool, and last days of summer with the kids. Most of you know that. What you may not know is what the class was all about. The title was “Race and American Christianity.” We were given rather free reign when it came to our final projects, so long as they related to the topics of the class, so I decided to preach a sermon. At this point, some of you that know me well might groan, as the light bulbs go on above your heads. You're starting to get, by this point in the year, how I'm such a stickler when it comes to race, even about the “minor” jokes you might hear on Comedy Central.

It might fit yet more pieces into the puzzle if I remind you that I worked at a school in inner city Atlanta that was 99% minority and, rather stereotypically, 76% below the poverty line. And if you need still more, I will be spending the next two semesters working in a multi-ethnic, but historically-black, church in downtown Boston. I've done three major overseas trips that dealt with ethnic, racial, and religious conflict and reconciliation. I saw the efforts at reconciling in each instance, and I saw the resistance. I guess you could say that, by this point, the relationship between race and religion is one of my “things.”

But mostly, I think “love” is my thing. The various letters of the New Testament emphasize and re-emphasize love until, you might say, they're beating a dead horse. As Christians, you would think we wouldn't be able to miss the Biblical importance of love, and yet it seems to be our biggest struggle. Fortunately for this sermon, but unfortunately for human history, examples of race and ethnicity perfectly illustrate our failings in Christian love.

Don't get me wrong: me too. I don't profess to be the best at acting the gospel. I get angry, I make flippant comments, I'm extraordinarily judgmental. I need this sermon just as much as the next person. But I'm aware of it. It's why I put myself in situations which are often unfamiliar and/or uncomfortable. They help me learn. They help me better myself. They remind me that it's not all about me, the people like me, and the things that make me comfortable.

What is Christian Love?
The reading from Corinthians – a famous one, one many of you probably know – goes on to tell us that love is patient. What doest that even mean? Does it mean being the parent in the diner who smilingly allows their child to yell and throw food, much to the irritation of everyone else? Probably not. Ephesians tells us to “keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace.” Christians don't have the best track record with this: just look at the Crusades. Even to this day, many American Indians avoid conversion, simply because Christianity has, for centuries, been viewed as the white invaders' religion – and as the mechanism and justification for that invasion. Though history books often avoid this point, many of those “invaders” were genuine Christians, looking to save souls. If you're from a truly evangelistic faith, you know that many would have seen converting others as important for their own salvation, too. And yes, the Bible tells us to spread the good news – but it also shows us that the God of the New Covenant is a patient God. When we stray, he does not force us into submission, as the Israelites often found themselves subjected to. Instead, he waits, and then welcomes us back with open arms when we repent.

Love is also kind. Jesus died to save us from ourselves, to cleanse us of our sins. There is no kinder act than that, and we cannot begin to measure up, but Matthew quotes Jesus as saying that we should be perfect, as our Heavenly Father is perfect. We can do nothing less than strive for that perfection. But what is this kindness? It is easier to say what it is not. It is not hate crimes. It is not assuming that a segregated part of town is the bad side of town. It is not making sweeping generalizations about a certain faith or ethnic group. It is not “judging a book by its cover.” It is not making off-color jokes, particularly when intending to insult another. Kindness is getting to know individuals, rather than stereotypes. Kindness is working with and for those who are different from you. Kindness is, as Jesus commanded us, loving and praying for our enemies.

Love does not envy or boast, and is not proud. We are not better than anyone else, nor are they better than us. Under the New Covenant, we have been told that there is no man nor woman, no Jew nor Gentile, no slave nor free. We are all saved by Jesus' love. Love is not self-seeking, because we have already gained the most important gift in life, and we have all been given it.

Love is not easily angered, and it keeps no record of wrongs. This is perhaps one of the most difficult things for us. We live in a secular world. We live in an interfaith world. We live in a multi-ethnic world. We have different goals, different ideals, different world views, and it is easy to take offense at actions. It is especially easy to take offense at those actions that are meant to hurt us. But recall – love is patient. We must forgive, and forget, in order to live demonstratively as Christians.

Love protects, and love trusts. These are flip sides of the same coin. Those who are strong – who have power – whether through money, through skill, through employment – should be trustworthy. The secular world puts us in positions of inequality, despite God. God offered us protection from eternal damnation, when Jesus died to save us. Like God, we should resist taking advantage of power, and instead use it in love.

As Christians, we choose to trust God, and accept salvation. For me, trust towards other people is particularly difficult. One of my friends in college used to laugh at how I'd squirm when someone would ask a personal question. I didn't want to answer, because that information could give them power over me - no matter how small. These were people in a Christian group, and I hadn't even learned how to trust them. How could they, then, trust me? If I was so prepared for them to betray me, I could just as easily hurt them, if only because I didn't love them as a Christian should.

Finally, love always hopes, and always perseveres. I hope that we share a common hope for the future. I hope that we are no longer racist, agist, classist, etc. I hope that we avoid stereotypes. I hope that we cease “judging the book by its cover.” I hope that we are not power-mongers. I hope that we choose to help and protect those who need it, rather than making jokes and hurtful comments. I originally wrote these sentences with the words “I hope most of us.” I changed them to “we.” Not everyone in this world embraces love yet, but if love always hopes and always perseveres, then one day, under God's reign, they will.

Conclusion
I have to leave you with a refrain from an old hymn. It's not exactly politically correct anymore, and I'm not sure if the younger generations will know it, but it was almost a song itself in Vacation Bible Schools, once upon a time.

Jesus loves the little children,
All the children of the world.
Red and yellow, black and white,
All are precious in His sight,
Jesus loves the little children of the world.

Prayer
Dear God, We are all your children. Let us go out into the world, knowing you love us, and sharing that love with others. Let us remember the words from your Book, and let them guide us in our everyday lives. In your name, Amen

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Why Can't We All Be So Lucky

Preached 19 August 2010 at Asbury Grove by Cassie Helms
Please don't reuse without permission
With thanks to Kelly, Andrew, and Lourey, who all acted as God's media of inspiration.

Prayer
Lord, bless these words that I am about to say, that they may deliver your will and not my own. Bless the hearts and minds of those listening, that they may be open to your message, and your call. In your name, Amen

Random Chatter from Me

Intro
We heard two lessons today of men who were called into God's service Samuel, an eventual seer, prophet, judge in Ancient Israel, is called to God while still young – called verbally, and reaffirmed in this call by his mentor, Eli. Matthew the Tax Collector is called in person, by Jesus himself. Despite Matthew's sinfulness, or even because he was a sinner, Jesus chose to call him – to eat together, and eventually to partake in God's grace. Stories like these appear throughout the Bible. We know many of them well. We see Moses and the burning bush, we see Paul being struck blind. And moving beyond the scope of the Bible and into the last 2000 years, the men and women who make religious history are most often those who report having an overwhelming conversion experience and call to Christ – St Augustine, St Francis of Assisi, Martin Luther.

So why can't we all be this lucky?

Story Time
Many of you know that I spent the first three weeks of my summer in the Ukraine and Russia. A class from the BU school of theology went and met up with students from the Methodist Seminary in Moscow. We traveled, experiencing the ministry the Methodist church is attempting to bring to the former Soviet Union, and learning from fellow students about the role Christianity has in each of our lives – and what roles we have in the church. Though there were other people who had grown up in the Eastern Orthodox Church, all of the seminary students we met were first generation Christian. Some had grown up in Communist families; one had converted from a rather confusing combination of Islam, Buddhism, and ancestor worship.

One of the favorite questions from everyone we met – as all were, at the very least, first generation Methodists – was regarding personal testimony and call to Christ. “When did you first experience your call? How did you choose to answer it?” One young woman we met – a former Muslim – grew up in Kazakhstan. She was hired to translate at Methodist Conferences, and wound up traveling the former Soviet States with several Methodist pastors for almost a year. During that time, she felt called to convert to Christianity – and Methodism – because what she was translated meant so much to her on a personal and spiritual level. She remained in the Ukraine, becoming active in ministry to the poor, the elderly, to TB orphans, and to families with children suffering from cerebral palsy.

Those of us from BU had all grown up in Christian churches – be they Catholic, Baptist, or Methodist. I had the fortune – though it sometimes felt like misfortune at the time – to be surrounded by folk who had also experienced profoundly moving calls within their Christian faith. Even the Americans had answers to the question of when and how they'd experienced their call. They had detailed and moving testimonies to share. I did not. I was, to put it mildly, a fish out of water. All of this lead me into a summer full of pondering my call, which is, in large part, culminating in this message. Not the call, but the ponderings.

My father was Methodist, my mother Southern Baptist. When I was five, we began attending a non-denominational service at the navy base where my father was stationed. At age seven, just before we moved to Nebraska, the Children's Church leader bought me a book to congratulate me on “accepting God into my heart.” Honestly, I thought she was weird. At nine, I was baptized in a midwest Methodist Church. I was enough of a church dork to think this was really cool, but mostly because no one else I knew could remember their baptisms. At thirteen, I went through United Methodist confirmation – and at the same time started private high school, which included a Catholic Christian Doctrine course taught by a Benedictine Monk who informed us how wrong the Protestants were about a variety of topics. Nevertheless, four years at a Catholic high school influenced my appreciation of many “high church” rituals. So it wasn't all bad.

In my home church, I was involved in chancel choir, praise choirs, bell choir, and youth group. I was an acolyte, a liturgist, a VBS teacher, and, during youth services, a “preacher.” I went off to college, joined the Wesley Fellowship – or United Methodist Campus Ministry – for which I was on the student leadership team, and eventually the treasurer and president. I graduated, moved to on to teach at a small Christian school that was, in name, non-denominational, but in practice, belonged to the Presbyterian Church of America.

There's no question that I was always in the church – or a church, but if you can find the well discerned call in that brief history of my life – please. Pull me aside after the service and point it out to me. I know it took me a long time to find anything, and I still have questions.

Hear the Call
We live in an era of science, and an era of instant gratification. We like to know that our car is going to work because the science that put it together makes sense. When said car breaks down, there's a reasonable explanation. We like to know that, when watching a TV show, the world's problems will be neatly wrapped up and solved in a half hour or an hour. It's almost intolerable to see that dreaded “To be continued” at the end of an episode.

I was and am absolutely a product of this culture. I hated that I couldn't figure out immediately what my calling was by the time I was supposed to declare a major in college. I grew up with video games, with sitcoms, with quick-read novels, and then I graduated college with a science degree. When, after a year of teaching I knew that I was “almost happy” - but not quite – I went back to school for a Masters. Within three weeks of making the decision to do so, I had taken all entrance exams and fully applied to four schools. I got my degree in 12 months, from May to May, student teaching during the week, taking classes at night, and working at a science museum on the weekends.

I took a job teaching science in an inner city Atlanta high school, but I still wasn't satisfied, and, for a time, I didn't know what would make me happy – or more importantly, what would be “right.” Eventually, I made a decision that, to my coworkers, my family, and some of my friends, appeared to be another one of my random flights of fancy. I started applying to seminaries.

Faith
Sometimes, if we're lucky, we're like Moses, or Samuel, or Matthew, or Paul, or any of the other biblical figures who are called specifically and directly by God. We know, in our ministry as God's people, what's expected of us and when. For me, and probably many of you? Not so much. Looking back, I probably felt the call to youth ministry as early as high school, when I watched the youth group at my own home church begin to implode. My love of science, however, and my ability in the classroom, made it easy for me to ignore that tug from God. I toyed with the idea of seminary in college... I toyed with it again in my first round of teaching. I suppressed the call though, as many of us do, because I was good enough, and kind of satisfied maybe, when doing other things.

Sometimes, too, if we're UNlucky, we're like Moses, or Samuel, or Matthew, or Paul. There's little room for deviation, for personal exploration – and certainly no room for excuses. The young woman I met in the Ukraine was facing the expiration of her Visa towards the end of June, and the government was refusing to renew it. She was stuck with two tough choices: to remain in the Ukraine illegally, which the Methodist Church could obviously not support, or to return home, where she would be shunned by her family and face potentially dangerous and violent persecution from former friends and neighbors. She had received her call, and she had no question that it was the right one – but she had her cross to bear because of it.

The “problem” of call always comes back to one thing. Faith. One of the youth told me the other day that they like to have proof about things. And, Amen – saying that to me is preaching to the choir. I'm all for scientific experimentation, repetition of data, so on and so forth. Why can't God just contact us all in a moment of prayer? Or, better yet, through a miraculous burning bush? Why, if we do get a special call, must we face such struggles to answer it? Why, for the vast majority of us, must discernment be so hard? These questions are what make faith important – after all, as the Lord's prayer tells us, we are doing God's will on Earth, not our own. If these choices were easy, pleasurable, obvious – well, we'd already be making them, and making them for ourselves, not avoiding the cross Jesus asks us to bear.

Where will your call come from? Or, if you're one of the lucky ones, where did it come from? How do you respond to it? Do you have the faith required to recognize God's call – whether it's within or outside of organized religion? Do you have the faith required to fulfill it?

Pray with me:
Prayer
Lord, we ask, today, that you open us to hear your call, that you make us ready to do your will. We ask that you strengthen us against any hardships we may face, preparing us to fulfill our roles in your church. We give thanks that you are with us, and always ready to welcome us back after we've turned aside from your call. In Jesus' name, Amen.

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