Author: Pat Liberty

“Seventy percent of Americans agreed the U.S. Constitution would not allow ‘the U.S. government to declare the United States a Christian nation….’” There is some encouragement in this, but it doesn’t change the fact that sixty-one percent of Republicans said they favor “the United States officially declaring the United States to be a Christian nation” (The Religious News Service and a University of Maryland poll). The rise of christian nationalism (I can’t bear to capitalize either word), is the blending of a particular and peculiar religious fervor with a political agenda. It is reaching a frightening level in our country. According to Amanda Tyler of the Baptist Joint Committee for Religious Liberty, “christian nationalism is the single biggest threat to America’s religious freedom.”

The most famous period in history when Christianity was declared a state religion resulted in the Crusades. Over a period of two hundred years in the high middle ages, millions of people were murdered for refusing to convert to Christianity.  The utter disconnect of this never ceases to blow my mind. Granted there were many other factors that contributed to the Crusades, but most of the time they were wrapped up in a “christian” box and tied with a very bloody bow.

Back to the present moment and the rise of christian nationalism. According to Tyler, “christian nationalism, (is) the anti-democratic notion that America is a nation by and for Christians alone. At its core, this idea threatens the principle of the separation of church and state and undermines the Establishment Clause of the First Amendment. It also leads to discrimination and, and at times violence, against religious minorities and the nonreligious.”

Enter the Supreme Court. Most of the Justices appear to be losing their collective mind. Gratefully there are still a few notable exceptions. The issue begins in the state court of New York, where under state law “private schools are responsible for providing students with an education that is substantially equivalent to what public schools are expected to provide.” The schools on the front line of the impending fight are yeshivas, conservative Jewish schools run by Hasidic communities (the most conservative Jews). The schools argue an exemption from the secular subjects of education because they are religious schools. The Supreme Court is likely to agree with them given some of their recent rulings on religious schools.

This puts the christian nationalist agenda and the potential for a High Court ruling on a collision course. We cannot claim the United States to be a Christian nation while giving special dispensations to religious schools from other traditions. I doubt an Islamic school would receive the same dispensation, but that is another blog for another day.

The point here is that while evangelical “christians” are pushing a christian nationalist agenda, another branch of government seems to be moving in the opposite direction. According to our political structure, the Supreme Court is the keeper of the Constitution. The establishment clause of the first amendment clearly states that the government cannot establish a state sanctioned religion. Neither can the state prevent the free exercise of religion.

A legal precedent set in 1971, Lemon v. Kturzman, states that the “…government can assist religion only if (1) the primary purpose of assistance is secular, (2) the assistance must neither promote nor inhibit religion, and (3) there is no excessive entanglement between church and state.”(United States Courts).  

It can be argued that by ruling in favor of the yeshivas, that the primary purpose of the ruling is not secular, but religious. It can be further argued that the assistance promotes religion and that there is excessive entanglement between church and state.

Regardless of whether one agrees or disagrees with the likely ruling of the Supreme Court on this matter, there is a likelihood of conflict between the christian nationalists and the High Court. It further muddies the waters on the complex issue of the separation of church and state (which seems to be a rapidly eroding reality), increases the potential for violence among varying religious traditions and makes the rollback of civil rights for LGBTQI likely.

It’s easy to think that a bunch of obscure little schools in New York not wanting to teach reading, writing and ‘rithmitic has nothing to do with us, but nothing could be further from the truth. The lineup of smaller cases set precedents for larger cases. Larger cases are bound to collide with divergent political agendas in the realm of religious practice. What gets caught in the mix is the very essence of our Democracy. As the old saying goes, “if you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention.”

If there’s one thing we can say for the British, they surely know how to do ritual. The exact choreography of the Queen’s funeral was a sight to behold. The attention to detail was astounding, right down to her beloved Corgis waiting for her at Windsor Castle.

 The route of the funeral cortege was lined with thousands of people, some of whom had waited as long as twenty-four hours. Millions of people around the world rose early in the morning to see what was reported to be the most watched event in television history.

In addition to showing the world’s eternal interest in all things royalty, it hints at the meaning and power that attend life cycle rituals. A funeral brings people together for a common expression of shared mourning. It creates a socially sanctioned expression of grief for those impacted by the loss. Further, a funeral is often a way to express feelings that have no words.

According to Rebecca J. Lester in an article in Psychology Today, “One of the most important features of rituals is that they do not only mark time, they create time. By defining beginnings and ends to developmental or social phases, rituals structure our social worlds and how we understand time, relationships and change.”

A funeral marks a moment in time, the end of a unique and unrepeatable human being. It also marks a different time going forward. The funeral of a husband or wife marks the end of the marital relationship and the beginning of a new social status as widow or widower.

There are several trends in our society that alter how we experience ritual. First, the pandemic fundamentally altered what was possible for rituals. Thousands of people were denied the ability to gather together with their extended family and community of meaning to acknowledge the passing of their loved one. Second, people may decline to have any kind of ritual because they think it is “easier.” They fear being emotional in front of other people or not being able to handle the starkness of a funeral. Finally, more and more people no longer participate in organized religion because the church has become irrelevant to them. In losing that community, they also lose access to life cycle rituals.

Rituals have been part of the human experience for thousands of years. They take on increased meaning in times of uncertainty and change. The death of a loved one can be the greatest upheaval one experiences in this life.

Dimitris Xygalatas, in an online publication called The Conversation writes, “Rituals are highly structured. They require rigidity, and must always be performed the “right” way. And they involve repetition. The same actions are done again and again. In other words, they are predictable.”

It is precisely the rigidity that turns so many people off when it comes to religious rituals. But the unintended consequence is that the anchor rituals provide is lost. Rituals can ground us when we feel unmoored from everything familiar. This grounding helps to reduce anxiety and stress caused by the death of a loved one.

For millions of people around the world who were enamored with the longest reigning Monarch in the United Kingdom, the pomp and circumstance and ritual provided a structure and a socially acceptable opportunity to grieve. Every person in the massive crowd was there for the same reason. There is tremendous affirmation of one’s feelings when they are shared by others who gather for the same ritual.

Rituals are part of what build resilience in us. They provide us with something to hang on to when it seems everything else is falling apart. The sense of control rituals provide is illusory to be sure, but they offer a measure of comfort for the moment that allows one to move forward in the grieving process.

This is not a pitch to get people to go back to church for the sake of life cycle rituals. It is, however, a plea for considering the place and power of ritual in the changes that happen in life. A ritual can be anything you need it to be. A gathering of people, some music, a little poetry, some story telling. The possibilities are endless. Regardless of how the ritual is put together, it is an anchor in the midst of change that helps define next steps.

Having time on my hands gives me time to think and reflect in ways that wouldn’t happen if I were busy in usual day-to-day life. The tailgate continues to be my teacher.

Lesson Number One: Mistakes are part of life. I no longer beat myself up (well maybe a little). I try to have the compassion for myself that I have for others. In any given situation I do the best I can. If it turns out to be a disaster, there is an opportunity for learning and growth. Just beating myself up occasions no opportunity for reflection. Every day awaits my unique fingerprints and teaches me something if I am paying attention. I had a boss who was fond of saying, “The day you don’t learn something new, grab your lily and lie down.” Good advice.

Lesson Number Two: What other people think of me is none of my business. I never cared much what people thought of me. I care even less now. Like me, don’t like me, I don’t care. It’s just that simple. What you see is what you get. Ministry is one of those situations where, if you worry too much about pleasing people or being liked, you will make yourself crazy. I figured out early on, with the help of wise mentors, that being faithful is the primary task of ministry. Some people are okay with that, others not so much. Either way is fine with me.

Lesson Number Three: Wise people are a gift and not all of them are older than I am. Children are marvelous teachers. I had the occasion to go out for pizza with a congregant and her young daughter. Turning the paper placemat over, Anna began to draw a picture. She made a house, lollipop trees and a bright yellow sun. Then she drew Daddy and herself and paused. Mommy asked, “Where’s mommy?”  Without missing a beat Anna said, “Mommy, you are still in my crayon.” There’s no other way I could learn that except from a child. People of all ages see life differently. I learn from them and like to think it gives me more tolerance for people whose lives are very different from mine.

 Lesson Number Four: Shit really is my favorite word. It can be a noun, a verb or an adjective. People can be dumb-shits, shit-heads or dipshits. Anger can be known as being rip-shit or ape- shit. False information is known as bullshit or horseshit. Days can turn to shit. It’s like the other curse words aren’t even trying. Shit is such a versatile word. You may be surprised or scandalized by this. Please refer to Lesson Number Two.

Lesson Number Five: Being retired is a gift. It took me a while to get to this one. I had no intention of retiring at fifty-seven. My body had other ideas. After a few years of being angry about it, the gifts of this time in my life are becoming clear. I have more time to putter around with my hobbies, more time to spend with my family, more time to reconnect with old friends, more time to write and do some coaching as well as preaching here and there. I loved every minute of my active life in ministry, but living a different season of ministry is a new kind of gift.

Lesson Number Six: Aches, pains and paralyzing fatigue are the outcome of breaking most of my bones at some point in my life and living with a few chronic diseases. I can spend all my time griping about what I can’t do, or I can get underneath this and see there is genuine grief for the losses that illness, injury and age have brought to my life. Tending to that grief is important. There is a reason it is called grief work. It is mental, emotional and spiritual work. If I dig a little deeper, I see clearly that this new season has its own unique gifts and graces. Enjoying life at a slower pace, savoring experiences by paying closer attention, more time for reading and reflecting are just a few things that lie on the other side of grief. I also like to think that joining the rest of the world with a few aches and pains plants some seeds of compassion.

Lesson Number Seven: I would much rather have learned all these lessons from reading a book. But somehow I don’t think it would be quite the same.

You step onto the bus. It’s a three hour ride to your destination. The bus is full, so someone sits down beside you. The six hundred thousand dollar question: Do I strike up a conversation with this person?

My default answer is “no.” I am an off the chart introvert. It means I get my energy from being alone. I am not anti-social; it’s just that talking to people is work. I smile as they sit down. Then I put on my headphones, get out a book, don’t make eye contact and communicate in the strongest possible way that I have no desire whatsoever to talk to them. Call me rude, I can live with it.

A recent column by David Brooks, “Why Your Social Life is Not What it Should Be,” https://www.nytimes.com/2022/08/25/opinion/social-life-talk-strangers.html suggests that, according to researcher Nicholas Epley, our social lives would be greatly enhanced by striking up conversations with strangers on public transportation or other settings. He posits that people underestimate how much they will enjoy chatting with a stranger, how much they would relish in-depth conversations, etc. In a perfect world this might be true.

We do not, however, live in a perfect world. David Brooks’ position is a typically white male perspective. It assumes a certain amount of safety and power to be the one initiating the conversation. As a professional woman often traveling alone, this same behavior can be downright dangerous. I’m not paranoid, I am a realist.

In our world, a Muslim, a Sikh, a person of color, an obese person, a person with a speech impediment or learning disability does not enjoy the same freedoms as an intelligent, articulate, privileged white man when it comes to conversation. We are not all valued equally or given the same opportunities. People like Muslims and Sikhs are probably just happy to get home without someone spitting on them or yelling at them to go back where they came from. We may be social creatures, but we are also people who judge books by their covers.

In a perfect world, it would be safe for everyone on the bus to talk to everyone else.  The truth of every faith tradition is that each person is a beloved of the Divine. My own tradition, the Judeo Christian tradition, makes it clear from the beginning that humanity is made in the image of the Divine. Creation is made in the image of the Divine. It means that everything is holy, including us and including everyone else. Introverted women, people who wear distinctive clothing because of their faith, people who have difficulty communicating or look different because of physical characteristics are the beloved of the Divine just as we are.  

In a perfect world we would live out that truth whether we talk to strangers or not. As for me, I will do what I have always done, and hope it makes the world a little better. I will give up my seat to an elderly person or a person with a couple kids and twenty shopping bags. I will smile at the Muslim man or the Sikh woman and let them know there is at least one friendly face on the bus. I will share my candy bar with the obese man to show that I bear no judgement. I will greet the young woman being hasseled by a man she is trying to get away from, as if she is my best friend’s granddaughter.

I may not make small talk about the weather, but I don’t think that is what makes for a perfect world.

He was the hero I never met. Frederick Buechner, who died this past week at the age of 96, was my hero. As a young preacher, he made preaching a human task with divine importance. I learned bold humility and vulnerability from him. His words and his preaching shaped my life across the forty-five years I have been in ministry. He told biblical stories that made the characters human, and he usually added a twist of humor. His book Peculiar Treasures tells the stories of many biblical characters with a humorous twist. For example, when writing about John the Baptist he wrote:

“John the Baptist didn’t fool around. He lived in the wilderness around the Dead Sea. He subsisted on a starvation diet, and so did his disciples. He wore clothes that even the rummage-sale people wouldn’t have handled. When he preached it was fire and brimstone every time.

The Kingdom was coming all right, he said, but if you thought it was going to a pink tea, you’d better think again. If you didn’t shape up, God would give you the ax like an elm with the blight or toss you into the incinerator like chaff. He said being a Jew wouldn’t get you any more points that being Hottentot, and one of his favorite ways of addressing his congregation was as a snake pit. Your only hope, he said, was to clean up your life as if your life depended on it, which it did, and get baptized in a hurry as a sign that you had. Some people thought he was Elijah come back from the grave, and some others thought he was the Messiah, but John would have none of either. ‘I’m the one yelling himself blue in the face in the wilderness,’ he said, quoting Isaiah. ‘I’m the one trying to knock some sense into your heads.” (Matthew 3:3)

Buechner taught me the value of humor in interpreting and preaching the texts, while keeping a balance of the wonder and holiness about it all. His humor never disrespected the text, but rather brought it to life in a completely new way. Throughout my life as a preacher I have incorporated humor. In most congregations I have served, I have had to tell them at some point that if they found something I said funny, it was okay to laugh. Not for nothing church people are called God’s frozen chosen. I tried to thaw them out a bit by telling stories with a humorous twist.

Frederick Buechner was a master story teller, and the story he told best was the story of his own life. He wrote with unflinching honesty about the suicide of his father and the near death of his daughter from anorexia. He showed a quality of vulnerability, humanness and deep faith that could model a way through the darkness for anyone. I know he modeled it for me. It is a rare preacher that can tell their own story without it seeming like a psychological strip tease either on the page or from the pulpit.

Short pithy lines were a specialty of his. There are too many for me to quote here, but there was always some line that stuck in my head and unfolded the wisdom hidden in its words.

As a young preacher, I didn’t have much of a clue what I was doing. I tried on a few identities that lay outside of me, for example being a feminist and tearing down the patriarchy of the institution. But that made me too angry. I am a feminist and I have worked to tear down the patriarchy of the institution, but it was hardly an anchor to ground me in ministry. People said that the “in” thing to do was be a woman in ministry and I was just hopping on the bandwagon. I let that feed my self-doubt for a while and decided that didn’t fit either. I finally figured out that the answer did not lie outside of me, but within me. I had a deep sense that ministry was where I belonged, but I had no idea why. The best I could hope for was that God would help me figure it out along the way. All I knew was that the only place I felt the cogs of my life click together was when I was doing ministry.

Then I read these wondrous words from Frederick Buechner: “Vocation is the place where our deep gladness meets the world’s deep need.”

Last week Cracker Barrel restaurant announced it was offering a vegan sausage alternative on their menu. A statistically significant group of people went bonkers. It occurred to me that if people can expend energy on a menu item at a restaurant, they have way too much time on their hands. More interestingly, however, are the names that were leveled at Cracker Barrel. Most significant was the criticism that they are “too woke.” It is a phrase that is lobbed by social conservatives to indicate their displeasure with the tendency or commitment of an individual, group or agency to show awareness of social, political and economic injustice in our culture.

According to Vox, being “woke” was a watchword in Black communities. “…staying ‘woke’ and alert to the deceptions of other people was a basic survival tactic. But in 2014, following the police killing of Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri, ‘stay woke’ suddenly became the cautionary watchword of Black Lives Matter activists on the street, used in a chilling and specific context: keeping watch for police brutality and unjust police tactics.”

Language is always fluid. The meaning of words change, new words are added to our vocabulary and other words are deleted as out of fashion or no longer meaningful. Being “woke” has evolved in a very short amount of time to mean an awareness of systemic racism, social injustice and political marginalization of historically marginalized communities. It is a moniker claimed by the left and denigrated by the right.

Aside from the blatant cultural appropriation of the phrase, which is in itself a problem, the notion of being “woke” is batted around in many contexts and many social circles. Where you are on the political spectrum largely defines how you view the term.

If being “woke” means:

• Being aware of systemic social injustice in our culture;
• Looking deep inside to see our own internalized racism;
• Constantly learning about the experience of others who are recipients of injustice and advocating for them;
• Being vocal in our communities, state and country about the economic, social and political injustice of the systems, structures and processes at every level of social and political life;
• Learning to see all the colors that make up our country and celebrating the diversity of cultures that are part of the USA;
• Making reparations to descendants of slaves who were brought here against their will beginning in 1619;
• Making reparations to Native Americans whose land was stolen during the colonial period; and
• Reading books like 1619 to educate ourselves about America’s original sin.

If all that and more is what it means to be “woke,” SIGN ME UP. I am woefully ignorant about much of our country’s history. I hope one day to be more fully “woke” so I can be a more responsible citizen of this great country and push back against the racism, sexism and every other “ism” that divides people into “us and them.”

If all that means that I am trying to be “politically correct,” SIGN ME UP. Being “politically correct” basically means we can’t trash-talk people who are different from us. It is a conscious decision to speak respectfully about people who are different from us until that conscious behavior becomes internalized into our language without effort. It means working at compassionate speech until it is no longer work, but rather second nature. It means believing what you are saying and living it out.

Being “politically correct” means:

• Learning and using correct and respectful language when referring to a person or group that is different from you;
• Honoring people’s self-definition even if it is something you do not understand. People who identify as transgender, non-binary or gender-uncertain do not need your permission to be who they are. They do, however, need your understanding and respect;
• Working to understand what it means for someone to identify as transgender, non-binary or uncertain about their gender identity;
• Not using judgmental or hateful language when speaking about marginalized individuals or groups; and
• Speaking up and speaking out for what is just and right.

Being “woke” and being “politically correct” are terms that are denigrated by those who want to see things stay the same or are unwilling to learn/accept that our times and our culture are changing. I believe that being “woke” and being “politically correct” are actions of compassion and acceptance that model the gospel.

Jesus regularly ate with sinners, outcasts and those whom society dismissed as insignificant. He drew them to the center of his life and ministry and foresaw a time when all people would be treated with the same love and respect. For Jesus, there was no “us and them.” If this is what it means to be “woke,” then SIGN ME UP.

While I have been griping about not being able to do what I did when I was in my thirties, I have been overlooking the things that are true in my sixties that were not true then. Some things I just didn’t know in my youth; others I was leery of admitting. Having lots of time on my hands occasions reflection about how the years pass and what happens in the process.

Lesson Number One: Youthful exuberance is tempered by experience. I graduated from seminary and was ordained at twenty-four. I didn’t know enough to be scared to death. I had a rose-colored glasses view of the church and what was possible. I believed I had the capacity to remake the church and bring it to new levels of faithfulness and insight. Forty-five years later, I see that there was quite a bit of arrogance to my youthful exuberance. I also have come to value the experience that years in ministry have taught me about dealing with a very human institution filled with very flawed human beings, including myself.

Lesson Number Two: Book learning is informed by doing the work. Sometimes book learning is helpful and sometimes not so much. I am grateful for my seminary education; it taught me a lot of things. I can still get excited about the declension of a Greek verb. My seminary education did not, however, teach me how to be with a mother who came home from work to find her fifteen year old son had hanged himself in the garage. This life in ministry has taken me to places and situations I could never have imagined in my wildest dreams. When most of the world is walking out, ministers are invited in. Moments of greatest pain and greatest joy are places where I was welcomed, not because I was such a great person, but because I carried the trust of the office of pastor. It is the greatest privilege and most humbling experience I could ever have in this life.

Lesson Number Three: The more I know, the more I know I don’t know. While years have brought me experience that I value and that have made me better at what I do, I know there is much I don’t know and don’t have time to learn. Still, the realization that there is much I don’t know keeps me open to new things and new insights. It also teaches me to rely on others whose knowledge and perspectives are different than my own.

Lesson Number Four: I have become strong in broken places. I’m not talking about bones. I have had my heart and soul broken by pain I thought I would not survive. Having a good therapist was a gift I gave myself. For fifteen years I wrenched my guts out in therapy. It’s how I learned to be comfortable in my own skin. It was no fun in the moment, but I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Doing my own inner work is the single most important thing that helped me internalize the role of pastor and human being in the same package. I have periodically gone back to therapy for tune-ups. Life isn’t always predictable and sometimes stuff knocks me off my pins. Knowing when I need help sorting it all out saved me from myself more than once.

Lesson Number Five: I am still my own worst enemy. It looks different now than it did in my thirties. I was more self-destructive then. I no longer drive a hundred miles an hour because life is too precious a gift to waste on speed. My youthful invincibility is gradually giving way to a more moderate view of what I should and should not be doing. I had a momentary blip when it came to the tailgate.  I am and always will be a work in process.

Lesson Number Six: I am more outspoken than I was in my thirties. My passions and convictions are more likely to make it out of my mouth and my writing as I grow older. It is partly because I don’t care what people think, but mostly it is because the gospel convicts me on a daily basis. Faithfulness to my call means I cannot ignore the things that break the heart of God. Ordination vows have no expiration date.  My goal as I age is to be a dangerous old preacher woman.

For the last fifteen years of my mother’s life she was in a wheelchair. The relentless progression of Multiple Sclerosis changed every aspect of her life, and ours. Monday was the anniversary of her death and of course I was thinking about her off and on through the day.

Remembering things we did together, adventures that were just silly and fun helped balance the sadness that remains even now. I remembered one afternoon when we went to lunch at 99, her favorite place. The hostess seated us at a table where mom could sit at the end in her wheelchair. Our server came over and handed me a menu and completely ignored my mother. I handed my mother my menu and the server caught on and gave me another one. A few minutes later she came over to take our order. I told her what I wanted and then she asked me, “What does she want?”  I replied, “I don’t know ask her.” The server leaned over and, in a voice the whole restaurant could hear asked, “What can I get for you today?” My mother responded, “I’m not deaf, at least I wasn’t when I came in here.”

Scenes like this were repeated in some form just about everywhere we went. My mother often blew it off and said it didn’t bother her. It seriously pissed me off. I never missed a teachable moment. It was usually delivered with varying degrees of sarcasm and snark, two of my specialties. I was constantly reminded of the assumptions people make when they see someone in a wheelchair. She must be deaf as a post, blind as a bat and unable to string words together to make sentences. Of course, none of this was true; my mother was an articulate and gracious communicator with a wicked sense of humor.

Beyond the social gaffes that people with disabilities tolerate every day from clueless and insensitive people, there is a deeper issue to tease out. For people of faith the question is, how much of our theology is built around the assumptions of ableism? People see handicapped and differently-abled people as a source of pity or a prayer project. Our family appreciated the prayers of others, especially as her disease progressed. Some people, though, prayed for a cure, prayed for her to walk again, prayed that her vision would improve. In truth, none of these things were going to happen. Eventually this bitch of a disease would end her life. The pity prayers of others that made them feel better did nothing for my mother or our family.

The theology of ableism sees the handicapped as broken or “less than.” This is reflected in worship and theology despite the efforts churches have made to make sanctuaries more accessible. Most churches have some sort of ramp and a place where wheelchairs can be parked. Interestingly, those places are either at the very front of the sanctuary where the person is on display, or the very back, which prevents the person from seeing anything. I once suggested to the trustees of a church that they cut the ends off a few pews to make room for wheelchairs. They were almost apoplectic. It made it worth showing up for the meeting. Churches would rather maintain the aesthetics of their worship spaces than make them truly welcoming to all.

Making worship spaces comfortable and accessible to people who are differently abled is a spiritual duty. Making worship accessible to a wide range of populations with differing abilities is one way of being open and affirming. Churches routinely say that all are welcome. Then people are greeted by the absence of large print bulletins or other aids for low vision people, no sign language interpreters, and no spaces where those who are overstimulated by loud noises can find respite. Even passing the peace and the forced touch it involves can be triggering to someone with social anxiety or a trauma history.

Oftentimes people with disabilities opt out of church all together because they feel there is no place for them in the community.

The biggest issue, though, is attitude. Seeing someone who is disabled triggers a whole set of assumptions that are rooted in our own ableism. Being able is better than being disabled. Rooting out that assumption that lives deep within is a spiritual duty. People who are disabled are vehicles of God’s grace and love just as much as those who able. Instead of looking at them as defective, we need to view them as people who can teach us and lead us to different understandings of what it means to be human.

We can learn to read scripture differently. The bible is full of people who had some sort of disability. Moses was “slow of speech and of tongue.” Elijah struggled with depression; Jacob walked with a limp; Eli was blind; and Paul had a constant thorn in his side. The prophet Micah declares that God shall take the lame and the afflicted and make them the remnant, the beginning of a strong nation. The book of Ephesians declares that we are God’s workmanship. It says nothing about only the able bodied being included.

Confronting our theological ableism is the first and most important step to becoming accepting people and becoming a truly open and affirming community.

The Webb Telescope is a lot more than just amazing pictures. It is a summons to contemplation and faithfulness. Sure, the pictures of Jupiter were amazing, and the clarity of stars never seen before stunning. But, it’s not about us. It’s about being part of something to which we are only infinitesimally relevant. Years ago the PBS gift catalog advertised a sweatshirt with a picture of the Milky Way on it. There was a tiny dot off to one side and the caption was, “You are here.” I wore mine until it was in tatters.

The Webb Telescope is confirming what we have long suspected was true; that the universe is a lot larger than we ever imagined. It contains two trillion galaxies with hundreds of billions of stars in each galaxy and keeps expanding! We are learning that the universe is 13.8 billion years old. The view from the Telescope is confirmation of what Thomas Aquinas wrote in the thirteenth century, “Revelation comes in two volumes: Nature and the Bible. In the cosmology of Aquinas, these two sources of revelation were equal. Let that sink in. They were equal. Seeing the universe from a distance is therefore a summons to contemplation in search of a new and deeper revelation of the Divine. (Daily Meditations with Matthew Fox)

As we come to see the universe and our place in it differently, it seems to me we need to learn to pray differently. For me, the words of the Lord’s Prayer are particularly problematic. The three story universe of heaven, the earth and the underworld reflect a cosmology our modern insights no longer support.

The three story universe was the cosmology of the ancient world. Originally, the heavens and the firmament were above the earth, the earth was in the middle and the netherworld was beneath the earth. There was no inherent goodness or punishment in the heavens or the netherworld. As the Greeks had more influence in the development of thought, the idea of “heaven” as a place of reward and “hell” as a place of punishment took firmer shape. That led to a whole lot of bad theology that exists even to this day. The idea of a “father God” in the heavens out there somewhere just doesn’t work when you look through the Webb Telescope. It’s an outdated cosmology that stifles our understanding of who God is and how the universe is put together. And if we are praying with an outdated cosmology it will lead us to outdated ideas and actions.

And for the record, Jesus didn’t say, “Pray with these words or you are going to hell.” He said, “Pray like this.” It is intended to be a model that acknowledges who God is, how we relate to God, one another, and to the created order.

From the view of the Webb Telescope, here is my version of the Prayer:

Loving God, within us, around us, and beyond us

Your Presence is holy, infusing all creation.

May your Kin-dom come throughout out all the galaxies and

even on the planet we call home.

Remind us that there is enough for everyone’s need

but not everyone’s greed.

Create in us new hearts that are passionate about

the plight of all your people and our world.

Your will be done by all people of all faiths;

your will of love, justice and peace for all creation and all people.

Forgive us when we fail you and help us forgive others

when they fail you and us.

Make us strong to resist temptation and

keep us from attraction to the evils around us.

For all things everywhere are your holy creation.

To you belong honor, praise and glory forever. Amen.

I encourage you to play around with your own version. You won’t be struck by lightning, I promise. The process is as important as the finished project. Write multiple drafts and see how your perceptions are changing as you ponder humanity’s place in the universe. May your prayer and reflection time be blessed.

Sunday morning breakfast occasioned a conversation about Vlademir Putin. We agreed that we pretty much hated him. Then, as further thought unfolded, we added exponentially to the list. Representative examples included Joe Manchin, Marjorie Taylor Green, Ted Cruz, the majority of the Supreme Court and, well, you get the point.

But the question came up, “What about Jesus’ command to love one another?” We agreed that loving these morons was a pretty tall order. The definition of love, however, needs some expansion.

Love has become sappy unicorns and rainbow sentimentality. This is complimented by cupid zipping around shooting people in the butt so they fall in love with some other poor slob who has also been shot in the butt. Our cultural image of love is that it is primarily an emotion, and a cheesy one at that.

Or, sometimes we can affirm that we love the person and hate their behavior. That’s a cop out, and it isn’t the kind of love to which we are called. It’s not what it means to love our enemies.

We read 1 Corinthians 13 at weddings and think it was written for a couple as they pledge their love to one another. In truth, 1 Corinthians 13 was written to a church, a group of people who came together around their faith in the realm of God as taught by Jesus. Unfortunately, they couldn’t agree on much else. They fought about everything and Paul had his hands full keeping this scrappy bunch on track with the teachings of Jesus. First Corinthians 13 was written for us and the way we live in the world every day. It is a manifesto on what it means to be human and, among other things, to love our enemies.

Loving someone else means desiring for them a relationship with God that makes them whole. It doesn’t have to be the way we believe, but rather to find what is transformative in their understanding of God. It is holding them in the light of Love that is the very element of everything that has ever been created.

Loving someone with whom we disagree doesn’t mean tolerating their bad behavior. It doesn’t mean you have to be best buddies. It means desiring for them the kind of spiritual life that transforms the way they live in the world. We can liken it to the way our faith transforms us and how we live in the world. I suspect most of us will find that less than an ideal example. This means we pray for ourselves the same way we pray for our enemies.

A relationship with God is intended to change us. Such a relationship leads to deep healing of what is broken inside of us. It changes our priorities, what we desire for ourselves and what we desire for others. A relationship with God changes the way we interact with all people. It draws us into a web of relationship with the whole created order and changes the way we live on the earth.

To pray for our enemies is to desire for them the kind of relationship with God that will profoundly shift what makes them tick. Praying for our enemies is not for the faint of heart. It requires courage, patience, perseverance and a true loving ache for the part of them that is deeply broken. One cannot demolish a country, show antipathy toward the people they are intended to serve, consistently obstruct measures to protect our earth, and take away the rights of over half the people in this country without having something deeply broken inside of them.

We know something of that brokenness because it has been at work in us from time to time. We may not be leveling countries and doing all manner of evil things, but we do our share of missing the mark in loving our enemies. When we pray for our enemies, we discover that it changes the way we pray for ourselves. We cannot pray for someone else to be transformed without praying for ourselves to be transformed. Jesus spoke of it as the log and the speck. We cannot go after the speck in another’s eye and miss the sequoia growing out of our own face.

I believe in the power of prayer to change things and to change us. I believe that our prayers join with the prayers of others and have the capacity to shift the energy of the universe. When we genuinely pray, stuff happens.

Praying for our enemies is one thing we can do so we don’t feel so powerless in the face of such rampant evil. Alfred, Lord Tennyson wrote, “More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.”