Marching In

Six members and friends of our parish spent the fourth week of October in New Orleans. As part of the Episcopal Diocese of Louisiana’s relief effort, we helped gut and rebuild homes damaged during Hurricane Katrina more than two years ago.

Some facts: Katrina flooded More than 100,000 homes. 80 percent of the city flooded. More than 1,600 people died. When a barge broke off its moorings, it exploded a 300-foot hole in the levee protecting the 9th Ward. A 30-foot wall of mud, water and debris slammed into one of the poorest sections of the city.

It’s impossible to describe the devastation adequately. Huge sections of the city remain virtually empty today – the houses are there, but people don’t have the resources to rebuild. Trailers take up many front yards. The Lower 9th Ward looks like a bomb went off. Imagine your entire neighborhood with two or three houses left; the rest only slabs and vacant lots, front steps leading to nowhere, scattered debris. That’s what it’s like in the Lower 9th – only worse.

Though it is slowly recovering and rebuilding, this great U.S. city still suffers. But it’s not suffering alone, and it’s not suffering unaided. There are dozens of organizations involved in the rebuilding process. As you might expect, Habitat for Humanity has a large presence there. Every mainline church has teams on the ground. They are responding as Christians do: not running from suffering, but entering it.

We’re promised that that is where God is to be found. I haven’t spoken about this with the individual members of our team, but I think I can speak for all of us in saying that we experienced the truthfulness of that promise last week. If you want a deeper relationship with God, service like this is a good place to start. We don’t have to be physically strong or have a lot of stamina. We just need willingness to help in any way we can. God takes it from there.

Off To New Orleans

Tomorrow morning (Sunday, October 21) 23 of us from Episcopal Churches in southern Alameda County (Bay Area, for those of you not here) will leave for New Orleans for six days. We'll be working with the Episcopal Diocese of Louisiana, contributing what we can to the rebuilding work that's still going on after Katrina. Please keep all of us in your prayers for safe travel and lots of energy!

Jesus-Centered and Progressive an Oxymoron?

I've been thinking a lot lately about my personal mission of "building Jesus-centered, progressive and powerful congregations." I know all of these words are loaded with baggage, so I'll give a couple of quick definitions of what I mean.

"Jesus-centered" is the easy one, in a way. It means a community where Jesus Christ is understood to be the center of the community, drawing us together and sustaining us through easy and difficult times. We understand ourselves to be his followers or disciples, broadly and dynamically defining those terms for ourselves, in community, over time.

In short, a "Jesus-centered community," as I understand it, is a place where people can hear Jesus gracious, gentle call and decide for themselves how they want to respond. If they want to become his disciple, we help them in any way we can to do so. Our concern for them does not rely at all on what they choose. We serve others in his name, as well.

By "progressive," I mean that our faith in Jesus Christ generates a profound desire to meet real human needs and learn how to hold up the injustices in our day to the Gospel message. It gives us courage and creativity in dealing with today's problems -- particularly in addressing the systems that create so much suffering in our neighborhoods and around the world.

I also mean something else by the word "progressive" -- something even more radical than normally meant by it. For me, a deepening faith in Jesus Christ generates an interest in how other people understand God -- and even a celebration of it.

It means focusing on my own walk with Jesus and learning from how others walk with the God of their understanding. I don't have to change them, or make them bad and wrong. In fact, their practices and disciplines (Zen meditation, for example) can actually add to the richness, depth and power of my Christian experience!

I'll say much more about this in the months to come, but it's important to get the conversation going. So many "Jesus-centered congregations" are anything but progressive, and so many "progressive" congregations seem to be mushy and vague about Jesus.

I believe we can, and should, put them together. After all, Jesus' core message was progressive to the extent that it focused on the poor at the expense of the rich (he was the original class warrior) and was powerfully transformative and disruptive to the status quo (and incredibly threatening to the power structures of his day). That's why they had to kill him.

So I'll say this. I am proud to call myself a "Christian progressive." And I am such to the exact extent that my faith in Jesus -- my relationship with him, really -- generates an interest in and concern for others, opens me up to the new, to the different, and to the creative, and gives me courage and strength to contribute to what God is doing in the world: transforming it all.

Homily June 24: Clarity and Hospitality

Many of you will remember the church of the 1950s. I don't have personal experience with that -- I wasn't born then, as you all know -- but it must have been a great time to be in church. It was a time when people seemed clear about what they were doing -- participating in and building a community -- and they all wanted to get there together. Our church was overflowing each Sunday. There were fights, of course, but there was a general agreement on direction.

Of course, that changed. The 60s questioned everything, the 70s found everyone focused on themselves and the 80s and 90s were the "greed is good" era. There was a growing sense that everything was up for grabs, that there was no particular truth you could count on. It seemed like if you wanted to be part of a growing church, you had to be part of one with all the answers, simplistic and not particularly thoughtful. Or you could be part of one where you came away with more questions than answers, a kind of ambiguous shrugging of the shoulders.

Along the way, our Episcopal Church often seemed to delight in ambiguity. As we became more concerned about our decline, this tendency naturally increased. Vagueness, it seemed, would ensure that nobody would leave -- that nobody would even be challenged or offended. Insipid mission statements became common -- damaging, because people felt that they were doing something (these statements sounded OK) but not really creating passion, commitment and self-sacrifice. We couldn't say what we stood for, because a) we didn't know b) we were afraid of what knowing would mean or c) we were afraid telling others would put them off.

In their landmark book Death of the Church (which I highly recommend, as it articulates these concepts very powerfully) Mike Regele and Mark Schulz put it this way:

Within the American church itself a serious battle has raged for much of this century (written in 1995) over what the baseline elements of the Christian message are. The essence of the Christian story has fallen victim to the relativism that has entered the church.... While theologians battled one another, local congregations stagnated.

What I notice "on the ground" here in San Leandro, California, is that there sometimes seems to be a fear that if we're clear about what we stand for as Anglicans and Episcopalians we will somehow be seen as unfriendly, closed-minded or inhospitable. (I have a fair amount of this fear myself, so I'm not pointing fingers. Really.) We want to be welcoming and warm, and at All Saints we certainly are both. I love our earnestness and sincere desire to be kind and make a difference in the world. It's a really appealing quality.

But I also worry about that fear of offending, especially in sharing the basic, core beliefs of our faith. We mainline Episcopalians (not all, but it seems pretty common) seem to expect our neighbors to be so gun-shy of any mention of religion that we hold everything back.

It's as if we assume from the get-go that any mention of faith, even offered with great warmth to people who seem to be freezing to death, is somehow going to be seen as an act of hostility. We seem so often terrified that any mention of God, much less Jesus Christ, will be understood as pressure to be part of something stupid, closed-minded or bullying. In this way, we allow others to define for us what it means to be Christian.

This is sad because it seems to be true that (as they say in Alcoholics Anonymous and other 12-step programs) "if you want to keep it you have to give it away." That means that if we don't "give away" the Anglican, Episcopalian faith that has been passed to us -- one of the greatest Christian traditions the world has ever known, a tradition beautifully crafted to thrive in today's pluralistic, global culture -- we will lose it. Yes, we will have been welcoming and very hospitable. And we will cease to exist. There's something wrong in that picture!

It's important that we don't lose sight of our purpose in our desire to be hospitable. Our purpose is actually as clear as it is serious: to create opportunities for men, women and children to hear Jesus' gentle, gracious call and decide how they want to respond. Our concern for them is not dependent on their decision, by the way, but if they want to follow him, we do our best to help them (and allow them to help us, too). We help them by working on our own spiritual growth, listening deeply, and caring -- and knowing what we stand for.

I'm not going to get into a long discussion of the things we do stand for. But a basic, starting list would be this:

1. There is a God. That "Higher Power" creates and sustains all things, including us, and is concerned about and engaged in all aspects of creation. There is no place or person in whom God is not -- who does not get God's loving care.

2. There are many ways to see and experience what God is like. For us, the life, person and work of Jesus Christ -- kind, powerful, compassionate, present, joining us in suffering -- tells us what God is like (and that God is not just a "what," but a "who"). While our individual experience varies widely, as a church, we derive great joy, optimism, awe and gratitude that the entire fullness of God dwells in Jesus Christ -- the "incarnational" theology that is so essential to Anglican understanding.

3. The Bible offers essential guidance for a rich spiritual life. We engage it seriously. And we encourage those of us who see it as metaphor to experiment with taking it literally -- and those who see it literally to take it as metaphor. Both will benefit from the deep engagement this requires.

4. For spiritual growth, a disciplined practice is required. We believe that we don't earn God's love by the things we do, nor do we change our value in God's eyes in any way by the choices we make. But we do believe that nothing worthwhile is accomplished without some effort on our part.

5. Involvement in our communities, in meeting real human needs, challenging injustice and involving ourselves in the decision-making of our elected bodies (where systematic injustice is both created and fought), is an essential part of Christian life. We engage it without "writing off" anyone.

This is just a beginning. There is much more that we can say. But the point is this. To thrive, as individuals and communities, we have to have a clear story, as Regele and Schulz put it, a "grand story" that helps us understand what we're doing and being in the world. This story must be compelling. They say, "Passion is a response to a hope larger than oneself that compels people to give themselves to the cause." So very true!

Passion and clarity are inseparable. Dithering, insipid, wishy-washy vagueness does not generate either passion or commitment -- what people actually seek from us. We Episcopalians are part of a great story. New chapters are being written right now. We are learning to be one of many great traditions, all with value, while recognizing that for us the Christian story is most transformative and powerful. As we reclaim and proclaim our Christian story, refusing to let others define it for is, we will find our passion rekindled, commitment increased -- and we will thrive.

Forgiving Father

Father's Day Homily at All Saints Parish, San Leandro, California

Today, all around the country, we celebrate Fathers' Day. I'd call it a celebration of fatherhood, but that's too abstract. I think it means a lot more to celebrate Dad, Daddy, Pop, Papa -- or in the case of my dad, The Old Guy, The Major, or just "The Maje."

Some of you know that I had a pretty, well, complicated relationship with my father. A few years ago, I tried an experiment that really improved things. I took a moment to think about what my father had accomplished by the time he was my age.

I'm 45 now. When Ron Droste was 45, it was 1976. He had already been married 22 years -- he'd stay married to the same person until his death in 2002. He had already retired after a 20+ year career as an Air Force officer, was in the middle of a 15-year high school teaching profession and getting ready to start his own business. He was a Vietnam vet.

He had fathered five children, two of whom had died in infancy and are buried outside Travis AFB. His three surviving kids have three college degrees between them, two master's, a PhD in physics and one in a Doctor of Ministry program. He knew how to get things done, and he enjoyed showing others how.

Perhaps his best quality was his high concept of honor -- of what, exactly, was honorable, just and fair. It guided him. I'm really proud of my dad. I miss him. A lot, sometimes.

Now I don't want to get all Hallmark here, with fuzzy edges, like when they spray hairspray around the periphery of the camera lens to get that kind of misty, weepy quality. I'd rather be real. My father was a full human being, a man of real power in himself. That means he had flaws, and our interactions were colored by powerful, deep and often irrational emotions.

He could be unbelievably stubborn (now you know where I get it from), and had a hot temper, and a low threshold for inconvenience. He could be sarcastic and imperious, even contemptuous. He could hurt with a look -- not saying a word. These things didn't make Ron Droste bad. They made him complete.

Most of you know that my father and I had more than our share of conflict. It was sometimes savage. At one point, we were pretty much estranged for six or seven years. I moved all the way across country to get the distance I needed to sort things out -- and I've stayed out here ever since. But over the years three action steps helped to heal the relationship to the point where for the last 10 years of his life they were really pretty wonderful.

These are those three steps. First, I had to make an intentional effort to appreciate what my father had brought into my life. Second, I had to make amends where I had fallen short, and ask forgiveness. (This involved admitting that I wasn't always the perfect son, letting go of the childish self-justification that made everything his fault.) Then I had to accept and forgive where he had fallen short, disappointing or infuriating me. (Please note I didn't say approving or condoning, just cultivating acceptance). Only in doing these things could I come to peace in my relationship with my dad.

It doesn't take much to see our relationship to God mirrored in our relationship to our dad. It's well known that on a very deep level, the kind of God we choose to believe in tends to take on the characteristics of the father we have (or had). Our relationship with that God, or Higher Power, mirrors that relationship with our human father.

This leads to pretty predictable outcomes. We deeply want our fathers' love and approval -- so we naturally want our Father's approval, too. We hold our fathers up to intense scrutiny and expectation -- and so, do we, to our Father. We rebel against authority at the same time we need healthy structure and boundaries -- and we relate to the Father in the same way.

In his book The Death of the Church, Mike Regele notes that in times where authority and institutions are built -- like the 40s and 50s, God "the Father" made sense. It was comforting. People believed in the benevolent authority of a Robert Young, for instance. In periods of great mistrust, on the other hand, like the 60s and the present, we chafe under Father language and try our best to ignore or replace it. Who, after all, would want a God like the Donald Sutherland character in Ordinary People or Archie Bunker? We resist the concept. Yet we can't escape it.

We can use some of the same techniques for coming to peace with our relationship to a "Father God" as we can to our human fathers. An intentional, ongoing practice of gratitude can go a long way to help. Looking at our own faults clearly and compassionately, and asking forgiveness. And the third -- we can accept and forgive God where we believe God has let us down.

You're probably saying to yourself, "Wait a minute. Forgive God? Who am I to do that?" Forgiving God is almost as difficult as, well, forgiving our dads. It implies that God can somehow make mistakes, that we can somehow judge God. I'm suggesting that not only can we do so -- but that it can help us get much closer to God than we are right now. That it can help us deepen our relationship to God, as Father.

In railing against God and holding God accountable, we have good company. Daniel Migliore, of Princeton Theological Seminary, once wrote of this in his wonderful book Faith Seeking Understanding. In it, we learn of an approach from no less a theologian than Elie Wiesel -- who says that the Jewish people have every right to call God, their Father, to accountability for the Holocaust. This comes as a result of being of one another in special, familial relationship. And think of Job, righteous old Job, sitting on the garbage heap demanding that God account for himself. In both cases, they own one another. They belong to one another.

For us, forgiving God is part of that kind of deep relationship. It's about us finally exhausting ourselves with resentment and anger toward God the Father, and saying "I just want to be free. I forgive. I love feeling forgiven by you. I know judging you is about my limitations, but it's the best I've got. I forgive you, too."

In the movie Smoke Signals, a remarkable film based on Sherman Alexie's remarkable book, the main character, a young Indian man, searches for his father. At the end, over a beautiful montage of shots of a flowing mountain river, the narrator asks a series of questions. I don't have them verbatim here, but the sense of it is this.

Can we forgive our fathers for being who they are? Can we forgive them for being too involved in our lives or not involved enough? Can we forgive them for working too hard or being lazy? For burning with rage or freezing with contempt? Can we forgive them for being too strong or too weak? For being around too much or never there?

Of course we can. Or at least we can work toward it. We love our dads, and we love that part of God, or Higher Power that we would consider Father. In allowing ourselves to forgive them both, we open up a broad channel, a real relationship. A relationship of power.

What Christians Believe

Adapted from a leaflet distributed at York Minster, in England. I found it to be clear, simple and helpful.

Many people believe in God. Indeed, there are worldwide religions professing such belief that are older than Christianity, and have more adherents. But only Christians believe that God reveals himself in his Son, Jesus Christ.

Jesus was born in Palestine nearly two thousand years ago and was crucified when he was just over thirty. God raised him from the dead -- and thus guaranteed for all time that good will triumph over evil, love over hate, and life over death.

Christians believe that the spirit of God is always active in the world, and that the members of God's church can share in Christ's work -- loving, doing good and sacrificing themselves for others.

Sometimes Christians feel confident in their faith. At other times they are full of doubt; life seems futile, cruel and overwhelming. Most of the time, Christians live in an unexciting middle area, neither powerfully convinced nor totally faithless.

Christians know, however, that Christian life is an adventure, a voyage of discovery towards a final and permanent vision of God. Life is a journey to that moment when we will share the life of God forever.

Inspiration from England

Meditation
Where Can We Find Answers?
Adapted from a leaflet distributed at York Minster, in England.

Life of course makes men and women ask questions. Why are people killed in wars and earthquakes? Why do people suffer cancer and insanity? Faith in Jesus Christ shows the direction in which the answers are to be found.

In one of the most cruel deaths men have devised, God appears to us. On the cross the Son of God carries the burden of the world's sin and suffering. He is submerged in human misery; yet to those who trust him, he gives a joy they could not make for themselves.

This man with outstretched arms and with nails through his hands is the signpost to the mystery of God. He is a truth more marvellous than anyone could imagine.

Questions for reflection/meditation

• How is it helpful to you to think that God is (or even might be) "submerged in human misery"?


• What helpful or hopeful information does the signpost of a crucified man give you about the nature of God? God's mystery?


• What might this meditation invite you to know about God and your relationship to God today?