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Who am I? (To Mennonite Blog #1)

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by Emily RalphEmily Ralph

The rolling hills surrounding Harrisonburg, Virginia are beautiful this time of year.  In some ways, they remind me of the mountains and farmland back home in Pennsylvania and I’m not surprised that Mennonites migrated here in the 18th century—it must have felt like home!

It’s my first visit to the main campus of Eastern Mennonite University, and as I drove down the highway toward EMU’s Summer Peacebuilding Institute last week, the familiarity of the mountains and grazing cows only fed my anticipation.  I was looking forward to studying with other leaders from around the world, cradled in the arms of a warm Mennonite community of scholars and practitioners.  In other words, it would be a home away from home.

I was in for a wakeup call.  As a Pennsylvania-based Mennonite pastor participating in this event on global peacebuilding, I am an oddity.   Although I recognized, in theory, that I would be surrounded by diversity, I don’t think I truly prepared myself for what I have experienced.  I have found myself floundering, trying to figure out how I fit in here, when the people around me don’t speak the same religious language, when their eyes don’t light up in recognition after I say I’m from Franconia Conference in Pennsylvania, when I struggle to express why I’m at a peacebuilding workshop as a leader in the American church and not as an activist on the front lines of war-torn Syria.

While I am cherishing new friendships with extraordinary people from around the world, I hadn’t anticipated the loneliness, the feelings of separation from my community in a place where I expected to experience that community more strongly.  And the irony of ironies?  I’m taking a class on identity.  Never did I think that I would be struggling with mine, even as I wade through the intensity of this ten-day experience.

Our identities form how we see and are seen by the world.  They are so foundational to our lives that often we are unaware of how they color everything we say and do.  And when our understandings of who we are come into friction with others’ understandings of who they are, conflict erupts.

It’s no wonder, then, that our Mennonite identity has caused so much tension in the church.  Some hold this identity as sacred, while others argue that their identity is first and foremost as a Christian, not a Mennonite.  The rhetoric gets passionate and divisive.

This time, a year ago, I was in a different class, this one at EMU’s Lancaster campus.  We were discussing change and conflict in the church and someone asked the question: What if we saw our roles as verbs instead of nouns?

So, for instance, instead of being a father, one would father.  Or instead of being a student, one would student.  As I pondered this concept, I was struck with a much deeper question: what would it mean to Mennonite?

What if we viewed our identities as followers of Jesus who Mennonite?  What if we saw Mennonite not as our identity, but as our practice?  What would the practices for the verb Mennonite be?

There is something reconciling about using Mennonite as a verb.  It allows us to form a community around these practices, regardless of how long any one of us has been in the Mennonite denomination.  It strips away any claim of ancestry and builds bridges among us, regardless of ethnicity, gender, generation, or life experiences—we can Mennonite together.

Menno Simons, who unwillingly gave his name to this verb, was passionate about the practices of Jesus-followers.  He would have defined Mennonite as doing works of love, resisting temptation, seeking and serving God, clothing the naked, feeding the hungry, comforting the troubled, sheltering the miserable, aiding the oppressed, returning good for evil, serving and praying for persecutors, teaching and challenging with God’s Word, seeking what is lost, healing the sick and wounded, and rejoicing in persecution (Why I Do Not Cease Teaching and Writing).

And so, as I struggle with being one of the few Mennonites on campus, even as I am surrounded by ninety-two other leaders who are working for peace and justice in communities around the world, I ask myself, What makes me Mennonite?  Is it my ethnicity?  My theology?  Where I live?  Or is it a certain way of understanding Christ’s call to radical discipleship, an understanding that is lived out in practice?

This summer, leaders from all over Franconia Conference and beyond will wrestle with these same questions in a new blog series: What does it mean to Mennonite?  What practices shape us as followers of Jesus who Mennonite together?  Next week, we’ll hear from Dennis Edwards, last year’s Conference Assembly speaker and the former pastor of Peace Fellowship Church in Washington, DC.

How do you “Mennonite”?  Join the conversation on Facebook or by email.

Who am I?  (To Mennonite Blog #1)
Serving Christ with our heads and hands (To Mennonite Blog #2)
Quiet rebellion against the status quo (To Mennonite Blog #3)
Mennoniting my way (To Mennonite Blog #4)
Generations Mennoniting together (To Mennonite Blog #5)
Body, mind, heart … and feet (To Mennonite Blog #6)
We have much more to offer (To Mennonite Blog #7)
Mennonite community … and community that Mennonites (To Mennonite Blog #8)

Sometimes the Spirit shows up

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Reflections with Jews, Muslims, and Christians in the Old City Jerusalem.

by Stephen Kriss, skriss@mosaicmennonites.org

Jerusalem
Jerusalem. Photo by Dave Landis.

There were about a dozen of us gathered around fresh squeezed orange juice and a couple of tables just inside the Damascus Gate in the Old City.  Our group had been traveling for a few days in Israel and the Occupied Territories as part of the partnership between Franconia Conference and Biblical Seminary for intercultural education. It was the third time in a few years that I’d been back, engaging with initiatives supported by Conference congregations—Deep Run East, Philly Praise, and Franconia.  In some ways, the once exotic holy land was starting to feel both more familiar and more frustrating.

We were gathering after a long day to meet with two seminary students, both American Jews living awhile in Jerusalem.  I had met one of the students at a coffee shoppe in Philadelphia.  The second guy was his housemate, a Reformed Jew.   Our group had just returned from several days of staying with Palestinian Christians in occupied Bethlehem.  We’d heard their stories and seen the dividing wall.  It had been overwhelming and gut-wrenching, as usual.

It was tough to turn toward a conversation with Jewish students.  I had strategically set it up at a small refreshment stand, owned by a Muslim guy who had spent a lot of time in California.  He agreed to stay open late this night for the conversation.   The two students told their own predicaments, their own call as spiritual leaders, their struggle as Jews in Israel in the midst of injustices.  They told of slipping scared into Palestine, trying to hide their own Jewishness to see the other side of the story.  They admitted that they were a little afraid to come and visit with us in the Muslim Quarter of the Old City.

The conversation was both beautiful and tough.  The seminary students—both Christian and Jewish—shared openly from their own perspectives.  They asked questions.  They shared perplexities.  There was both wincing and hoping.

But maybe the most remarkable thing that happened that night was as our time was concluding, the shopkeeper chimed into our conversation.

He said, “Listening to you guys gives me hope.”

He said, “We have a long journey together to figure this out.  We have much to overcome.  It will take many years.  But maybe because we gathered tonight it will only take 189 years rather than 200 to move toward peace.”

Our Jewish friends trembled and teared up.  We witnessed something holy and lovely.  It was listening, it was acting, it was hoping, it was sharing space and moving beyond fears. It was next generation leaders receiving a blessing from a Muslim man probably older than their parents in the Muslim Quarter in front of a group of American Christians.

The moment was pretty amazing.  In these kinds of learning experiences, we do a lot of setting up, a lot of planning, but the Spirit shows up wildly and mostly unpredictably in the circumstance.  It’s something we hope for as leaders in our preparing and our journeying, something we wait for, but something unexplainable in the careful question, vulnerability and risk; in the exchange across boundaries, between young and old, in the midst of moving toward understanding.

This is why I believe in intercultural education, in missional movement across the globe. It’s the Spirit’s showing up when we take risks. It’s listening across misgiving.   Sometimes it requires movement and travel across thousands of miles and sometimes it only requires us to walk across the street, where we encounter the Divine in the face of fear, frustration, difference.

Why I skipped church on Mother's Day

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by Dawn Ranck, Plains

I don’t normally journal . . . or blog . . . I rarely write anything except sermons. So why am I sitting at Starbucks writing about skipping church on Sunday to spend a day in Philly with seven friends?

First, a bit about me and church. Yes, I am a pastor, so being at church on a Sunday morning is duty, part of my job, an expectation. But, for me, church is much more than that. Sunday morning worship is a spiritual practice; it is as important to me as breathing.  Something is profoundly missing in my week when I don’t worship with God’s people on Sunday morning. I have started to attend church when I am on vacation, often alone as my friends lounge or sleep in.

A part of me–a big part–craves church.  The singing, the scripture reading, the sermon,  the atmosphere, the reality that where 2 or 3 are gathered (even those as imperfect as myself and the others I worship with), God is there!  Something happens to me each Sunday morning–a recharging.  It’s hard to explain, but I know I need it to the depth of my being.

So, Sunday wasn’t an easy decision for me.  But I went to Philly in solidarity with my female “kid-less” friends.

While my church does little to emphasize the non-religious Mother’s Day holiday, my friends share of painful experiences, of feeling excluded, of the painful reminder of an unfulfilled longing. One lamented that her church was emphasizing “Mothers and Others.” We all groaned…oh the perpetual need to rhyme!!!

(A sidebar: this reminds me of a young adult Sunday School class that named themselves “Pairs and Spares.” My friend, the “spare,” soon found another church. How cruel and insensitive we can be in attempting to be clever!)

The last place many kid-less middle-aged women want to be on Mother’s Day is church. How tragic! And so, some of us flee to the city for a lovely brunch at Cuba Libre and a relaxing stroll through Old City.

When I was in my mid 20s, my sister and I opened our home to a 15-year-old girl who lived in the dorm during the week at the local Mennonite high school. Her mother had experienced a stroke and was in a retirement home. Her dad lived at a distance. And so for 2 years she lived with us on weekends and during the summer. Most of the time I felt unfit and too young to know how to care for her. I muddled through.

Late one night we received a call from the retirement home; we stood with Sue by her mother’s bed as she died. The Mother’s Day service shortly following was led by the youth. Sue shared about her three mothers–her biological mother, her mentor Ellie, and ME!! Talk about a holy moment! It still brings tears to my eyes.

As I listen to my friends who are mothers talk about the sleepless nights, the teenage attitudes, the endless piles of wash, the 24/7 being on call, hauling kids here and there, I recognize the need for a day to thank mothers–a day a year isn’t nearly enough for the selfless way in which they love their kids!

And yet, I wonder, should church be a place where we honor specifics which may alienate others? How do churches encourage mothers and fathers while being sensitive to those who yearn to be parents? How do churches strengthen marriages without making singles feel like second-rate citizens?

I would maintain that we (churches) haven’t done a good job at this balance.  Statistics prove that far fewer singles are in churches than are in the population, and,  if my friends are any indication, the church’s handling of Mother’s Day is questionable.

And here is where I confess I get stuck. I don’t know the answers . . . I am simply aware of the questions. And, perhaps that is where each pastor should be . . . aware of the messiness . . . aware of the pain . . . and open to breaking out of the holiness of the Sunday morning service to break bread with friends in Philly.

Join the conversation on Facebook….

‘Tis a gift to be complex

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by Emily Ralph, eralphservant@mosaicmennonites.org

John Rempel preaching at Salford on Sunday. Photo by Ben Wideman.

We’re a simple people, right?

Yes, I’m a seminary student, but I am often frustrated with those who want to find answers for every single question in the Bible or to debate all the ins and outs of theology.  I’m comfortable with a simple faith that learns and accepts, that ponders and lets go, that embraces the ambiguity.  I only need to understand theology as far as it affects the way I live.

I assumed I thought this way because I’m postmodern, but Sunday evening John Rempel suggested that I may just be steeped in a historic Mennonite worldview.

Rempel, professor at Associated Mennonite Biblical Seminary in Indiana, gave a presentation at Salford on helping congregations discuss difficult issues theologically.  He said that traditionally, Mennonites haven’t tried to create a theology that answers every possible question.  In fact, the Anabaptist impulse was in response to what seemed to them to be too much theology and not enough practice.

The Mennonite ideal has been to keep the question as simple as possible and get on with living the Christian life.  But questions these days are not so simple—in fact, they are growing in complexity.  Unfortunately for us simple folk, said Rempel, the more complex the challenges, the more complex the answers have to be.

And this calls for serious theological reflection.

As Anabaptists, we believe that every follower of Jesus is filled with the Holy Spirit and that God can and will speak through any member of the church.  But we also believe that the Holy Spirit is in community, so we collectively struggle to decide how we are to behave as Christians, Rempel said.  How exciting!

How terrifying.

It suggests that the word of God is living and active.  It suggests that we trust the Holy Spirit in one another to bring us to unity on divisive issues.  It suggests that we struggle and wrestle and persevere.

So where do those of us who are allergic to deep theological reflection start?  First, find a healthy balance between prophetic leadership and the priesthood of all believers, Rempel said.  Then look at biblical themes (also called “trajectories”), especially those of grace, hospitality, covenant, and discipline… and discern solutions that do justice to all of them.  We also need to accept new understandings of the Bible that adapt to our culture, according to Rempel, while still honoring traditional interpretation.

Am I the only one that feels exhausted?  How many balls do we have to keep in the air?

And yet there is freedom in the possibility that our answers don’t have to be simple, that there is room for nuance.  There is hope if we will give ourselves permission to experiment—together.  There is a promise of peace if we simple folk can learn to embrace a little complexity now and again.

Long Haul Hope: Ash Wednesday Thoughts

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Ash Wednesday thoughts on wilderness, identifying with Jesus, and the tenacity of a few Colombian human rights workers

by Samantha E. Lioi

(This blog has been edited for length.  Download the full article here.)

Driven by the Holy Spirit, Jesus is in the wilderness with a lot of people these days.  It’s crowded, and the scarcity of resources keenly felt.  Even so, it is a place of surprising and dogged hope.

Last July I traveled to Colombia for two weeks on a Christian Peacemaker Teams delegation.  A truly international group of us – from Massachusetts, Texas, Pennsylvania, Ethiopia, India, and Illinois – became a team who would learn from, accompany, and support the CPT Colombia team and their partners, especially leaders of peasant-farmer or campesino organizations struggling to remain on their land or return to it.

Jesus was driven by the Spirit into the wilderness.

More than 5 million Colombians have been driven from their homes by armed men paid by international companies who will strip the land of resources until it is barren, then move on to take more.  Colombians who have done small-scale mining on their ancestral land for generations have been driven into a wilderness of displacement, into life as refugees in their own country.  They have organized to advocate for themselves, their communities and their livelihoods, continuing day after day, month after month into years to call for what is right, to demand that their land, their dignity, and their lives be respected.

Since July, I haven’t found very many words to speak about my time in Colombia.  But when I remembered Lent was coming, one of the Ash Wednesday texts from the second letter to the Corinthians reminded me of the Colombian human rights workers.  And it’s also talking to us.

Now is the time to be reconciled, it says – to God, yes, and to each other.  Now is the day of salvation, that is, holistic well-being and abundant life, peace between parent and child and man and woman and paramilitary and campesino, and peace between peoples and nations.  This is the hope of our faith.

So about hope.

Here in the U.S., especially among Anglos, despair is a very different choice than it is in Colombia.  If we give up hope, if we are no longer able or willing to care, if we become paralyzed by the horror and injustice of the truth of so many people’s lives, and if we become overwhelmed by the weight of evil in the world, nothing happens to our homes or our livelihoods.  Something happens to the kind of people we are – our character, our integrity – but we do not, in choosing apathy or hopelessness, immediately put our lives at risk.

It’s not that I never experienced fear while I was in Colombia. But my experience of being vulnerable to violence felt so minor compared to the fear of our Colombian partners that it mainly served to help me understand my U.S. passport-privilege more deeply.  Unlike some of our partners, I have no idea what it feels like to receive threats to my life and the lives of my family members, season after season, because I am telling the truth and calling for justice. Recently, the high-profile community of Las Pavas, whose people have returned to their land, has been accused of never having lived there to begin with, and are being prosecuted for invading and occupying private land – victims and survivors turned into criminals.  No wonder one finds Jesus among them.

When I came back home and resumed my day to day U.S. life, I asked myself a lot of questions: Why do this work explicitly as a Christian, when Christians are failing to act like Jesus left and right?  Do I really believe the kingdom of God is coming?  It seems far away.  The wolf lying down with the lamb and not eating it?  Really?  Every tear wiped away from our eyes, and no more death? Really?  The end of death?

The end of death?

But as these next 40 days of Lent stretch out in front of us, I still come back, hauling my doubt and cynicism, desiring to follow Jesus into the desert again.  I must believe this craziness.  The Bible itself–crazy and beautiful and comforting and deeply challenging to status-quos everywhere.  A God who brings life out of death.  A God who receives our most disordered, dysfunctional parts and gets them singing.

Almost as unbelievably, our partners in Colombia keep going.  With a faith and hope I wonder at and don’t quite understand, they keep struggling.  They keep imagining a time of justice, living their belief that people are created with the capacity to treat each other with dignity.  How can I quit if they haven’t quit?  What keeps me from being as bold and persistent as they are?

Somehow underneath my temptations to despair and give up, I do believe that all creatures, all that was made, all the universe, was created from love and for love.  That this love is underneath everything, that there is plenty of it.  That there is a pull, a wind, the Spirit of Jesus whispering among us, and perhaps shouting above the din, “Come with me and be awake to your hope and your fear.”  Beneath the sounds of killing and anxious constant motion, and in the spaces of clarity and quiet within us, the voice of a poor Nazarene teacher pulling us into the new things that are coming.

Now is the day of salvation – wholesale healing.  Now is the time to choose life, to choose a practice, something simple that will enable us, at the very least, to be aware of our own resistance to following Jesus.  To return to our God, or at least to admit we don’t know how, for that is a step toward a wilderness that could teach us something.  God, with a great sense of humor, trusts us.

Remarkable.

Hope for the duration, for the long haul – modeled for us by people who could have given up long ago.

Read a more detailed update on the Las Pavas community

Download a pdf of the full article.

A thrill of hope, the weary soul rejoices

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by Tom Albright, Ripple Allentown

Christmas Eve, and Allentown has had its 4th murder in a week. What are people thinking? Is it about money? Passion? Retribution? Evil? Fear? Lack of choices?

It is a hard week full of the usual busyness and expectations that accompany the holiday. Where is the Christmas spirit? Where is the hope? I found myself awake at 3am again. It is not fear, but sadness, futility, and concern.

Then an idea–what if we spent Christmas Eve at the site of the double murder six blocks from our home? What would it be like to light candles and sing carols in the darkness of the alleyway where the shotgun had rung out and the car had run over bodies only a few days before? The thought would not leave me.

Christmas Eve morning I decided to walk and pray as I visited the sobering locations of the recent violence. It was cold and windy and I forgot the address of the first death. I walked up and down the street and realized that God knows.

But where are you, God–why do you not act?

The sun was shining when I started but as I walked the clouds increased and it became colder. I tried greeting people on the street by smiling and saying, “Merry Christmas,” but my heart was not in it. I wandered around past the site of the stabbing, and headed toward the site where a young couple was murdered.

I passed am old Lutheran church that reaches out to the homeless through meals, an overnight shelter, and a parish nurse, and I saw a small sign advertising their Christmas Eve service at 10:30 that evening. I found the house and walked half a block with a lady pulling her laundry cart. I asked if she heard about the killings.  “Of course,” she said.  “My husband woke up and heard the shots–I heard when they got run over by the car. I wanted to get out. This kind of thing shouldn’t be happening. The murdered woman was a crossing guard for the kids.”

The neighbor and I stood between the three memorials that had been created. About thirty tall glass candles covered with pictures of Mary, Jesus, and Saint Michael had all been extinguished by heavy rain. There must have been twenty-four colorful silk tulips laid beside the candles.

I got on my knees in front of the candles and prayed. It felt hard and cold and vulnerable. I thought of the carol,  I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day:

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

And in despair I bowed my head:
“There is no peace on earth,” I said,
“For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men.”

I got up off the damp concrete and left with a plan. That evening, my family went to the church’s Christmas Eve service. We sang the carols, heard the Christmas story, received communion, and left the sanctuary at a few minutes past midnight Christmas morning, while the organ played the “Hallelujah Chorus.”  We drove around the block, taking our candles from the church service to light as many of the tall candles as we could – pouring the water off, shielding our small flames from the wind. Together we lit over two dozen candles.

And now there was light.

Then we laid a wreath of fragrant cedar boughs and prayed for the family, for the couple’s little girl, for the community, for justice and peace, for education, for new ways of handling disputes, for safety, restoration, and for hope in Jesus when all hope seems lost. We sang:

O holy night, the stars are brightly shining;
It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth!
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.

A thrill of hope, the weary soul rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Fall on your knees, O hear the angel voices!
O night divine, O night when Christ was born!

Looking back at the candles, up at the stars, and at the lights on the windows around us – I was shaking with cold. We wondered how many people might be watching and if the police might be called. As one young man walked towards us down the windy street I felt tired, hopeful, and overwhelmed by it all.

Maybe that is what we need, someone to show us our weary souls and their true worth, and to rejoice on this night of our Savior’s birth–and every night.

I realized how little I truly understood of the pain, hopes, and fears of this place where I live. But I have fallen on my knees and perhaps heard a faint sound of the angels’ voices. I have seen a bit of the manger – that rough, earthy feeding trough where God was laid, so vulnerable out on the streets.  God was there and is there on the streets of Allentown on that Holy Night . . . and tonight.

[Join the Ripple community at 3:15pm on Sunday, January 8, 2012, for prayer and candlelighting at the Peace Pole in Allentown, followed by activities at the church.]

Leading without fear: being missional Christians in a fear-filled world

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(adapted from Mark & Kathy Weaver Wenger’s message at the Pastors & Spouses Appreciation Breakfast on December 6, 2011)

“But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.’”  (Luke 2:10)

Kathy and Mark Weaver Wenger speak about leading without fear. Photos by Tim Moyer.

Fear is one of our deepest instinctual responses from the “reptilian” part of the brain.   To live without fear is unrealistic.   Impossible.  We may as well try to live without pain or suffering.

“Be afraid, be very afraid” – The fear-industry is Big Business that sells us lots of things – insurance, weapons, health products, relationships, consumer products.  Fear, dread, worry, concern, anxiety.  It’s a powerful motivator.

“Do not be afraid”  is specifically mentioned 70 times in scripture.  Some examples:

  • The Lord to Abraham – “Do not be afraid, I am your shield, your very great reward.”  (Gen. 15:1)
  • Moses to the Israelites as the Egyptians closed in for the kill – “Do not be afraid. Stand firm and you will see the deliverance the Lord will bring you today.”  (Ex. 14:13)
  • The Lord to Joshua after Moses’ death – “Be strong and courageous.  Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.”  (Josh. 1:9)
  • The angel to Joseph—“Do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife.” (Matt 1:20)
  • Jesus to his disciples:  “Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.” (John 14:27)

Fear is usually portrayed negatively.  It’s a bad thing, to be controlled and to be avoided.  We are told to “lead without Fear” and that “There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear.”  (1 John 4:18)   But a fuller reading of Scripture gives another twist to the language of fear that we don’t pay much attention to:

  • “The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom, and knowledge of the Holy One is understanding.” (Proverbs 9:10)
  • “Show proper respect to everyone, love your fellow believers, fear God, honor the emperor.” (1 Peter 2:17)

Fear God???  What is going on?  This sounds contradictory and confusing.  Is God an enemy or cheat or torturer or tyrant or bully?

We get a sense of the “fear of God” in The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis – Aslan is a Lion, the Christ-figure.  His roar shakes the mountains.  Aslan is not a “tame lion” Nor is he a “safe lion.”  But above all else, he is good and he is loving.  He’s the King.

What does it mean “to fear God?”  C.S. Lewis says it is to “feel awe and wonder and a certain shrinking.”  It’s mystery.  It is to acknowledge that God is sovereign and recognize and defer to God’s power, love, majesty, and superiority.  It means respecting, reverencing, honoring God as sovereign and Lord.

Maybe this ancient language of “fearing God” provides a CLUE for “Leading without Fear in a Fear-filled World.”  Being in right relationship with God is the key.  To grasp deep in our souls (deeper than reptilian brain) that God is sovereign, God is the “Untamed One,” the “Not-to-be-played-with-Lord,” of the Universe.  And that God is Good, God is Love.

And that God comes close to us at Christmas.

We can be come immobilized or possessed by terror when we forget God’s greatness and goodness to us in Jesus Christ.  “The Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of the Father’s only Son, full of grace and truth.”  (John 1:14)

In the Bible, God’s words of reassurance, “Don’t be afraid,” often preceded a great event.  How many times have we missed God doing something good or great because we were afraid of something or someone, instead of trusting God?  The angel’s reassurance to the shepherds turned them loose to find Jesus and tell the whole neighborhood about God’s good news.

Take a moment and reflect:  What is a fear that gnaws at you?  What anxiety keeps you from venturing into deeper water with God?  What are you afraid of as a pastor, or as a pastor’s spouse?  What are your co-workers and neighbors afraid of?  What keeps them stressed and up at night?

The arrow of Christmas is pointed directly at addressing and shrinking those fears,  putting them into living relation to God, the Lord of Universe.  The One who comes to us in Christ Jesus to save us.  The One who will never leave us.

A parable: When I (Mark) was five, we lived in Ethiopia. Our family went on an evening picnic with several other families along the Awash River. After supper the grown-ups got to talking; we children raced and squealed in a game of tag. The sun set and dusk began to lower over the African landscape. Heedless in my dashing, I ran off the top of a bluff, tumbling about twelve feet to the bottom of a dusty dry creek bed. When I stood up, it was utter darkness. I could see absolutely nothing. I started howling at the top of my lungs, “I’m blind, I’m blind, I’m blind.”  My dad heard my cries and came running. He couldn’t jump off the bluff; it was too high. So he had to take the long way around. He scooped me up, held me, and took me to the river. He washed my dust-coated eyeballs and I could see again.

Leading without Fear is born by calling out to a great God who in fact is reaching out to us.  Leading without fear is undergirded by the character of God, the words of God – Do not be afraid.  “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.” (Ps. 23)

Young people need to be part of renewing the church

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By Sheldon C. Good
Mennonite Weekly Review

I might get in trouble for saying this, but I think religion is failing young people. I believe the church is the living body of Christ, the primary vehicle for extending God’s love. But bad religion, and in some ways the church, is stifling good religion — our ability to more fully join in God’s movement in the world.

Young people can and must be part of renewing the church. There’s a movement of young people right now who are fired up about moral and spiritual issues. We need to tap into this energy.

A bit about people under 30: We’re some of the most educated, technologically savvy, globally connected people ever. But we’re coming of age in turbulent economic times and in a polarized political and religious climate.

Many young people love the church. They may have been baptized in a congregation and may have lots of church friends and mentors. But for many of us, church isn’t working and has been or perhaps still is painful.

So how and why is religion failing young people?

Partly because of increasing polarization, according to Robert D. Putnam and David E. Campbell. In the landmark book American Grace: How Religion Divides and Unites Us, they show how since the 1990s young people have disavowed religion at unprecedented rates.

Many young people, the authors say, are uneasy with the linkage between religion and conservative politics. The number of religious conservatives and secular liberals is growing, leaving a dwindling few religious moderates.

Pew research shows that more than a quarter of people under 30 say they have no religious affiliation — four times more than in any previous generation when they were young. People tend to become more religious as they age, yet young people today are the least overtly religious generation in modern U.S. history.

Yet those of us under 30 are fairly traditional in our religious beliefs and practices. We pray and believe in God at similar rates as our elders. We are no less convinced than previous generations that there are absolute standards of right and wrong. We believe the best faith is lived out in creative, Christlike love.

For too long, the church has  reflected the polarization and miscommunication of society. Life isn’t about being right or wrong, Democrat or Republican, Cath­olic or Mennonite. Good religion addresses the world’s deepest moral and spiritual questions.

Young people need to be on the vanguard of renewing the church and the world. In fact, we already are.

Young people today are building bridges across faiths. Young people are challenging assumptions of what worship looks and sounds like. Young people are on the front lines, leading protests at military academies and protesting economic injustice and greed in Occupy demonstrations.

Here are two more opportunities for renewal in ourselves, in our churches and in our world.

1. We need to do Christian formation together. Though texting and Facebook are compelling ways of staying connected, young people want and need deep, face-to-face conversations. We need to move from living as individuals in worldwide webs of communication to intimate communities of believers sharing God’s redeeming love.
2. We need to heal our broken world together. Young people are increasingly liberal on social issues. We care less about the culture wars and more about broader social, economic and environmental justice. Rather than allowing our differing viewpoints to hinder conversations, we need to honestly listen rather than jump to defend ourselves.

I don’t think young people want to be less religious. We are plenty spiritual. But our generation will continue losing our religion unless we find ways to live and share the peaceable way of Jesus with a broken world.

Adapted from a chapel presentation given Nov. 30 at Christopher Dock Mennonite High School in Lansdale, Pa.  Reprinted by permission of Mennonite Weekly Review.