I’ve been spending a bit of time in New York City of late, which is great. And it has reminded me of an experience I had when living there a few years ago. The observation came on occasions when I was driving a car in the city. I remember coming to an intersection with a green light. I intended to make a turn. Invariably, as I sought to make the turn, there would be a pedestrian taking his or her sweet time to cross the street. I guess it was their right, annoying as that felt. After all, they had a walk signal. There was nothing to do but wait, despite cars behind me beginning to honk. I remember thinking how inconsiderate pedestrians (as a group of human beings) were in New York. Didn’t they realize they were holding up traffic? Couldn’t they pick up the pace? Did they think their slow pace was more important that other people’s schedules, specifically mine?

Then I would park the car and instantly become a pedestrian. Role reversal. And when I came to an intersection, I would take my sweet time crossing the street, even if it frustrated drivers and elicited honking. It was my right. I remember thinking how inconsiderate drivers were (as a group of human beings). And why were they driving anyway? Too good for a bus or subway? Didn’t they care about their carbon footprint?

All of which is to say that I noticed how easy it is for me to make judgments about other people. Beyond that, it is easy for me to regard the other as opponent. In many ways, it’s my default position. I suspect I’m not alone in that. Weirdly, in my case, in a matter of minutes, I became the person I had previously viewed with disdain.

Travel of all kinds will do that, whether it’s in an airport or in traffic. Road rage shows that to be true. If I’m late for a plane, I’m angry if they don’t hold the door open for me. But if I’m on time for the plane, I’m angry if they hold the door for someone else who should have been on time. If I’m made to wait a little bit on line at a store, I can make all kinds of judgments about the capabilities and character of the person behind the cash register. Maybe Covid has exacerbated the crankiness. But it’s always been there.

A similar dynamic happens on social media. It’s easy to express anger, irritation, fueled by some prejudice, some broad stroke perspective on the other. There’s often a thoughtless, thuggish character to these communications, even among church folk. Our political system does that on steroids these days, fueled by news channels that paint in broad strokes. It happens in churches of all places. We make judgments about people of other denominations, theological slants, liturgical preferences, worship styles, dress codes. All of these tensions and divisions happen at least in part because there is no real meaningful human interaction, no relationship, no place for empathy, no effort to listen, no practice of compassion (which literally means suffering with). As St. Paul asked: who will deliver us?

My observations from the streets of New York remind me of what Jesus said in the king’s English: Judge not that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye shall judge, ye shall be judged. (Matthew 7:1) If we live life in a judgmental frame of mind, we may well find judgment visited upon us.

But is there an alternative? The baptismal covenant helps. Seek and serve Christ in all persons. Respect the dignity of every human being. The teaching of Jesus, echoed throughout the New Testament, helps. That teaching issues a call to love not only our friends but our enemies.

Remember the story of Zacchaeus, a tax collector who apparently ripped off a lot of his neighbors. (The story is printed in the column on the left.) He met Jesus and his life turned around. But as Jesus grabbed lunch with Zacchaeus, the religious leaders of the day criticized, judging Zacchaeus and Jesus in the process. Jesus responds: He, too, is a son of Abraham.

What would it all look like if we could view each other, in traffic, in church, in households, in the body politic, if we could treat each other as Abraham’s children, each and all of us flawed, each and all of us blessed by God? Can you join me in working on that this week?

-Jay Sidebotham

Yesterday in church, we observed the Feast of Corpus Christi. It’s a good follow-up to Pentecost and Trinity Sunday, with its focus on God’s holy presence with us in the eucharist.

Yesterday in church, I celebrated the eucharist for the first time in too many months. That was after 30 years of celebrating the eucharist multiple times each week. It was moving to stand at the altar again. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it, or how important it was to me. Truth be told, I was a bit nervous about stepping into that presiding role again, wondering first if I would remember what to do, and second, wondering if I would melt.

We can never forget the pain inflicted by this pandemic over the past months. First and foremost, the hundreds of thousands of lives lost. Months ago, on my office wall I hung a copy of the front page of the NY Times the day they printed just a portion of the names of the first 100,000 who died. It was shocking. I didn’t want to get used to that shock. We’re now approaching 600,000 in this country and countless more around the world. Taking that all in is beyond comprehension. Stop right now for a moment of silence in remembrance.

And that is only one aspect of the loss. Children have lost a year of school. I suspect they’ll always be affected by that loss. Children in communities that lacked resources have been especially hard hit. Brave healthcare workers and others who kept us going will be shaped by this experience. There’s been widespread economic upheaval. As I walk the streets of New York, so many livelihoods have been taken away. Amidst it all, it has been a year of racial reckoning that causes us to realize how much we are missing as a community

Amidst the loss and longing, there are lessons. There are glimpses of what we have come to see as important. Community. Kindness. Care. There are discoveries about what we have missed. There are glimpses of new and deeper meanings that I hope will bring me to a new place in the days ahead. What have been those discoveries for you? For me, one of them is appreciation of the eucharist in my own spiritual life.

As I was thinking about the eucharist, my thoughts turned to the four verbs in the liturgy. The bread is taken, blessed, broken and given. (For a beautiful, wise and gracious exploration of these verbs, pick up Henri Nouwen’s book Life of the Beloved.)

I have missed taking the bread. In the eucharist, we place something basic, everyday at the center. After Covid, as we come back, maybe we can learn to see all of life as something we can offer to God for holy transformation.

I have missed blessing the bread. In the eucharist, we ask God to bless that very basic thing, to make it holy. It is God’s work. After Covid, as we come back, maybe we can learn to see all of life as an opportunity for God’s blessing. Perhaps we can extend that blessing to others, especially those who drive us nuts or wish us ill.

I have missed breaking the bread. In the eucharist, we recognize that God works in us in our brokenness, in our need for healing, a need that is universal. After Covid, as we come back, maybe eyes will be opened wider to the brokenness that surrounds us, and see that crack as a place for God’s light to shine through.

I have missed giving the bread. In the eucharist, we share that which is taken, blessed and broken. After Covid, as we come back, maybe we can grow in generosity. As the liturgy for ordination puts it, we nourish God’s people from the riches of God’s grace. Not our own grace, our own magnificence, but the boundless grace of God, broader than the measure of our minds.

Take time today to think about what you’ve missed. Maybe it has to do with your spiritual life, in one way or another. Maybe not. As you reflect, say prayers for those whose loss has been greatest. Then take time to think about what you’ve learned. This kind of reflection is a way of citing what we value. Those lessons provide opportunity for hope, as we make our way back into community. It’s hope that this season of brokenness will lead to new life, that it will be blessed and shared, as in the words of Howard Thurman, we place our lives and problems on God’s altar.

-Jay Sidebotham

I came across a verse last week which I’d never noticed before: “Turn my eyes from watching what is worthless; give me life in your ways.” (Psalm 119:37) Centuries ago, I don’t know what the psalmist had in mind when writing about what was worthless to watch. Maybe the psalmist was predicting contemporary entertainment, social media, 24/7 news channels. Your guess is as good as mine.

The verse caught my eye because there’s a lot floating around which is available to watch, but that is probably not worth watching. There’s a lot floating around that is not edifying, to borrow a New Testament phrase. It may be okay, but it doesn’t build up. It’s not constructive. What we watch, what we pay attention to, what we think about shapes who we are. Don’t just take my word for it. Consider various scriptures.

Proverbs 23:7 for instance: “For as (a person) thinketh in his heart, so is he.” Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount put it this way: “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” (Matthew 6:21) St. Paul coached the early church to think about what they think about: “Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.”

Those truths have been picked up by others. Ralph Waldo Emerson said: “You are what you think all day long.” William James said: “A great many people think they are thinking when they are merely rearranging their prejudices.” Jean Yves Leloup, writing about monkey-mind as part of his discussion of the spiritual dynamic between Buddhism and Christianity wrote: “The ego is like a clever monkey, which can co-opt anything, even the most spiritual practices, so as to expand itself.” Even Winnie the Pooh got into the act: “Did you ever stop to think and forget to start again?”

Think about what you think about. Think about what you watch. Is it worth it? Is it worthwhile? How is that shaping you? Maybe our culture’s focus on mindfulness has to do with setting an intention about where we give our interior life. We all have to decide what’s going to occupy our thinking. It’s easy to let that interior life be a place where resentments and grievances incubate. It’s easy to let anxiety dominate our thought waves. It’s easy to give into images that are not healthy or holy, let alone satiable. Toxicity abounds these days, easily accessible, at our fingertips. But we are not without options.

As St. Paul invited early Christians to focus on what is pure, pleasing, commendable, excellent, we can always turn our thoughts to praise. Worship is really a matter of worth-ship. We can always turn our thoughts to thanksgiving, finding the healing power of an attitude of gratitude. We can always turn our thoughts to good intention towards others, even those who’ve done us dirt. Maybe St. Paul told us to pray without ceasing as an alternative to plotting revenge on the jerk who just cut us off in traffic. In all of life, we have the chance to turn our attention to the mind of Christ (see above). We have agency in this. And if we feel like we need help in this, we’re told that such help is available as well.

In Psalm 51, the psalmist asks God to create a clean heart, to renew a right spirit within us. As Jesus addressed the anxiety which comes our way, he reminded us to consider the lilies, the birds of the air, in other words, pay attention to something worth watching. (Matthew 6) As St. Paul contemplated the grace of God, he invited early Christians to a renewing of their minds.

Think about what you think about this week.

-Jay Sidebotham

The familiar story of the Good Samaritan came up in the daily lectionary last week. I tried to read it as if I’d not read it before. In doing so, I thought about who I would identify with most in the parable. The inconvenient truth was that I’m probably most like the Priest and the Levite who saw the man who’d been beaten and left to die. They saw the man and kept on going, for whatever reason. In my attempt at fresh reading, the phrase that came to me were the words: They passed by on the other side. That was their choice.

Who knows why they kept going? Maybe they were scared. Maybe they were concerned about religious defilement. Maybe they were really busy, an important church meeting to get to. Jesus didn’t seem interested in explaining why they did what they did. He just puts it out there. They passed by on the other side. That was their choice.

I recognize how I do that, not only in passing by people seated on the sidewalk or standing at an intersection, asking for money, though I do that often. There are other people I pass by, for all kinds of reasons. That passing by on the other side, a mark of privilege, can be an expression of indifference to the suffering of the world. It can be an unwillingness to engage. It can be an expression of fatigue. Problems are too grand or intractable or numerous. It can be an expression of fear. It can be an exercise in protecting boundaries. “I’ve done enough. I’m a priest, for God’s sake.”

I was bothered by the choice implied in those words “on the other side.” Where else had I heard those words? Here’s a slightly random connection. Related words surface in the end of John’s gospel when the resurrected Jesus shows up on the beach, scrambles some eggs for the disciples and gives those hapless fishermen some advice about how to do their jobs. (Note: The gospels never record the disciples catching anything without Jesus’ help.) The disciples had been fishing all night and caught nothing. Jesus tells them: Cast your nets on the right side, in other words, on the other side of the boat. They choose Jesus’ way and catch more fish than they know what to do with.

So I began to wonder, as I compared these two stories: Is Jesus calling us right now to cast our nets on the other side? We’re coming out of Covid-tide, probably fatigued, maybe fearful. In some respects, like the disciples, what we’ve been doing is not working so well. We may have been tempted like the disciples to go back to old ways, even if we weren’t very good fishermen.

These two stories present us with a choice. Going back to the Good Samaritan parable, choosing the other side may mean that we can stay in our safety lane, stay in our bubble, get to our next item on the to-do list without interruption. In that story, the other side means a pathway that dismisses or denies the needs that surround us. That may come out of a place of privilege, fatigue or fear. Where are you tempted to choose that path, for whatever reason?

Or we can hear a call to choose the other side to which the resurrected Jesus calls us. We can cast our nets for something different, something brave, something that bears fruit. As we come out of Covid, we don’t need to do what we always have done. We can hear Jesus’ invitation to something new, something beautiful for God. Where do you hear an invitation to that path this week?

-Jay Sidebotham

The mission of RenewalWorks is to help churches (and individuals in them) refocus on spiritual growth and identify ways that God is calling them to grow. Now is a great time to engage this process and chart the course forward. We would love to help you on that journey. Contact us if you would like to learn more about RenewalWorks, or if you have other thoughts and ideas about fostering spiritual growth as we emerge from the pandemic.

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Around the church, we often say that praying shapes believing. What we pray, what we ask for, what we think about, determines where we give our heart, one way of describing belief. As Jesus put it in the Sermon on the Mount: Where is your treasure, there will your heart be also.

I often tell folks that if you want to know what we believe about a particular liturgy, about baptism or eucharist, marriage or burial, look at the prayers in the service. Do a deeper dive by looking at the verbs in those prayers. They tell a lot about what we affirm, why we even bother with the service, and what we hope to become.

Yesterday in church, we read a portion of John 17. That whole chapter is a prayer Jesus offers, for himself, for disciples gathered with him on that night before he died, and for those who would come to faith through the ministry of the disciples. (That’s you and me, kids.) It’s enlightening to see what Jesus prays. He prays for protection for the disciples, a recognition that the world is a dangerous place. He prays for joy (different from happiness), a sense of well-being undiminished by circumstances. He prays for unity, for oneness among his followers. He’s not expecting that they will all be the same, or even always agree. How boring would that be? But he prays that they will be pulling in the same direction, bringing their diversity of gifts to make the way of love the way of the world. And since the reading was a chosen for a Sunday to observe Jesus’ ascension to heaven, the passage suggests that Jesus continues to pray for those things for us.

What do you make of the prayer for protection? Where do you feel that need? As Martin Luther put it, we live in a world with devils filled that threaten to undo us. We need a mighty fortress. A pandemic caught us all by surprise, illustrating vulnerability, a stark reminder that we are not in control. Coinciding pandemic of mass shootings and other forms of violence make that prayer all too real. All God’s children, but especially right now Israelis and Palestinians, stand in need of protection at this hour.

What do you make of a prayer for joy? When have you experienced joy, perhaps especially when circumstances told you it made no sense? Who do you know that demonstrates that kind of resilient joy? What makes them able to navigate life with that attitude?

Where have you seen the unity for which Jesus prays? His prayer indicates that the unity of his followers will be a witness to God’s activity in the world. In a time of partisan division in our society it’s often difficult to imagine unity. The message of the New Testament is that the Jesus movement strives for that unity.

The question of what Jesus would pray is instructive. Perhaps an equally important question would be: Why would Jesus pray? The gospels tell us that Jesus was always going off to pray by himself. (When he went off to pray, as God among us, wasn’t he just talking to his holy self?) I often wonder why he spent so much time doing that. He was on a mission to save the world. He had three years to do it. Time was short. Was this the best use of his time? Apparently, he thought so.

Jesus becomes our teacher in prayer. We could do worse that to follow his example and pray for protection for all God’s children, to pray for the joy of abundant life, to pray for the unity of all God’s children, a sign of God’s love at work in the world. Pray for those three things this week with specificity. From what specifically do you sense a need for protection? What do you imagine would be a source of joy? Where is there division that can be transformed into the unity that points to God’s activity in the world?

Make time for prayer. It’s a Jesus thing. Not because prayer changes God’s mind, but because prayer changes us.

-Jay Sidebotham

The mission of RenewalWorks is to help churches (and individuals in them) refocus on spiritual growth and identify ways that God is calling them to grow. Now is a great time to engage this process and chart the course forward. We would love to help you on that journey. Contact us if you would like to learn more about RenewalWorks, or if you have other thoughts and ideas about fostering spiritual growth as we emerge from the pandemic.

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I like my routines. Truth be told, I’m a little nutty about them. Family can attest. I wake up same time every morning. Set my phone for duration of morning devotions. Then a certain amount of time for exercise. Then a walk for another fixed period of time, no more, no less, timed exactly for the top of the hour newscast, which I watch for a prescribed amount of time. Then on to tasks of day, with both a full and an abridged to-do list, ready for things to be crossed off. I sometimes add things to the list that I’ve already done so I can cross them off. Nutty. Even and especially in COVID, it has been important for me to observe rituals, rigidly keeping this rhythm.

Unless, as happened last week, I’m on my fixed period of walking along the shore and up ahead, in the early morning light, I see a crowd gathered. As I near this group, I see that they are focused on about half a dozen dolphins, literally about six feet from water’s edge, as close to the shore as I’ve ever seen. It is simply beautiful. I stand and watch. I walk back and forth with the dolphins, joined by some other folks. Not much else mattered in those moments. Time kind of stopped. Well constructed morning routine became irrelevant. Beauty and grace interrupted daily ritual.

The church where I serve these days is observing the Easter season by focusing on the beauty of holiness. Members of the congregation engaged with creative activity (music, art, poetry, architecture, liturgy) share how those explorations bring them in closer touch with God. After a year of COVID, amidst seasons of violence, it feels meet and right to focus on the lovely and loving ways God’s holy presence can still shine through. Of course, we add to those artistic endeavors the celebration of the beauty of creation. We just observed Earth Day, which tells us that we are surrounded by the results of the divine intention to create beauty. As the psalmist says, the earth is filled with God’s love.

I noted recently that Christ Church Cranbrook includes “Sharing Beauty” in its 4-fold vision statement. That comes from Strategic Planning conversations where a team identified the unique ability for art and music to mediate differences and distances (such as urban Detroit and suburban Bloomfield Hills), but also culture, race, as well as its unique power to speak the gospel. (Check out the Cranbrook Project, the programmatic arm of that vision, as well as partnerships with the arts community of Detroit. The Cranbrook Project – CCC

The goals of the Cranbrook Project are to:

• Enhance cooperation between different religious, ethnic, racial and economic communities in Metropolitan Detroit;
• Encourage collaboration between activists, artists, academics, and members of the interfaith community in Southeastern Michigan;
• Foster greater social engagement and responsibility through Jazz, Contemporary Art, and the Environment;
• Support Christ Church Cranbrook as a beacon for community engagement, leadership, and care for the wider community.

And all of it has to do with beauty.

Undergirding all of this is the beauty of God’s love. Grace, a rich word, suggests unmerited favor. It also suggests beauty. Isaiah puts it this way: How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of the messenger who announces peace, who brings good news, who announces salvation, who says to Zion, “Your God reigns.” (Isa. 52:7) So we gather, even in COVID-tide, called by the refrain throughout the psalms which invites us to worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness.

Newsflash: There is much in our world that is not beautiful. Our reflection on beauty does not deny that harsh reality. But maybe this week in the rhythms and rituals of our lives, we can take the time and make the space, allowing beauty to interrupt, giving thanks for where we see it, recognizing it as reflection of God’s nature, in the process allowing us to build bridges where there is division.

Here’s a thought: each day this week, take a few minutes to savor a work of art, or listen to a piece of music, or get out in nature where God’s creativity interrupts. Let it lead you to worship. Let it bring you joy.

-Jay Sidebotham

Each year as we make our way through the Easter season, I’m reminded of a powerful book by Jonathan Kozol, educator and advocate for children, especially children who have been pushed to the margins, children who contend with what he calls savage inequalities. The book I have in mind is entitled Ordinary Resurrections. It describes Dr. Kozol’s relationship with a group of children, students who attended school in one of the poorest parts of the Bronx and also those who participated in an after-school program at a local Episcopal Church (St. Ann’s). It’s a loving account of his relationship with these young people, and a hopeful testimony to their resilience.

It’s from this book that I first learned of the etymology of the word resurrection. It really means to stand again, which strikes me as a beautiful way to think about this season.

As we move through this season (It’s more than just one day), we certainly focus on the events of the first Easter morning which brought the amazing news that Jesus, Lord of the dance had indeed been knocked down but he leapt up high. He stood again after confronting the worst that his world could dish out. But Jonathan Kozol reminded me that stories of resurrection unfold in all kinds of places.

For those of us in the Christian tradition, we hear the word that because Christ has been raised, we also can be raised. As we reflect on what the past year has brought to us, to our individual lives, to our church, to our nation, we can safely say that we have been knocked down. The promise of the Easter season is that by grace, we can stand again. The longings and losses of the past year are not the final word.

So maybe you feel like you have been knocked down. Maybe your loved ones are having that experience. If that’s the case, imagine ordinary resurrections. Embrace the Easter promise that we can start again. We can stand again.

Maybe your faith has been knocked down, by the inexplicable pain of the world, or the failures of the church, or the appropriation of Jesus’ teaching for political advantage. If that’s the case, imagine ordinary resurrections. What would that look like in the course of your spiritual journey?

Maybe your church feels like it’s been knocked down. Many churches lived on the edge prior to pandemic. The challenges of the past year only deepened the anxiety. If that’s the case, imagine ordinary resurrections. What would that look like for your faith community?

Maybe you live in a community that has been particularly hard hit, knocked down in one way or another. Recent waves of gun violence and racial division provide examples of this. If that’s the case, imagine ordinary resurrections. That may not be easy to do. But Jonathan Kozol reminds us that they can happen, through amazing grace (the title of another of his books). Perhaps the first step is simply believing it’s possible.

-Jay Sidebotham