Tribal Church

I’m over at Adam Walker Cleaveland’s blog this afternoon, participating in his Plurality 2.0 series, along with a lot of wonderful people.

Please, make your way on over to Adam’s blog and look around for a while. It’s worth a visit.

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I’m learning a lot about different continuing education formats. The most challenging format: having one keynote and  50 workshops of really dynamic people. Then, we have to choose one, when we really want to go to ten of them. Another difficulty: having a pep rally experience, where we go, hear a speaker, get all pumped up, and then leave with nothing. 

Of course, some of the most important things to come out of these event are the lasting relationships and a vision for effective change in our congregations. 

I’m going to be helping to lead this series that has taken these challenges into account. They have designed a wonderful course with amazing leadership (which sounds really bad after I just said I was helping to lead it… but seriously, check out this list). There are a lot of leaders in missional thinking and spiritual practice. 

The participants will be meeting for six three-day workshops over the course of two years. Each workshop will focus on a sacred practice (visioning, discernment, relationship, prayer, proclaiming and interpreting Scripture). Our time together will be marked with practice and interactions.

The information can be found here. I just found out that there are still some spots available.

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My daughter prayed for snow last night. 

I wanted to tell her not to do it. You know, on the grounds that praying for the weather is typically a selfish endeavor. If God granted the wish of every person who wanted sunshine for her picnic day, we would not ever get any precipitation. Plus, God is not our personal, private genie, granting us snow on one day and a pony on the next. 

But, honestly, I wanted to tell her not to pray for snow because I was nervous. My daughter is not much of a pray-er and I didn’t want one of her first requests to be shot down. I wanted her to pray for something… well… that was going to have a high likelihood of actually occurring.

I started to talk her through a theology lesson on what she should pray for and what she shouldn’t. But I stopped myself. I mean, if she wants to pray, who am I to stop her?

After all, I have always been told what to pray for and what not to pray for. Don’t pray for selfish things. Do pray for others. Don’t pray for small things. Do pray for the big stuff… on and on it went.

It got to be rather stifling actually. I was a pray-er when I was my daughter’s age, and even as a teenager. But when I went to seminary, I felt like I had to figure every request out theologically before uttering it. Every time I would begin to pray, my brain would stop it. My internal, snobbish, master of everything divine would kick in and say, Now, really, Carol. Do you really think that God has time for that?

I’ll tell you a moment when I knew it changed. It had to do when I prayed the most selfish prayer of all. We were in Rhode Island, and I was the pastor of a tiny church. We had enough money so that my husband could spend a couple of months looking for a job. But, after a couple of years, he still didn’t have one (not a lot of Presbyterian Churches in RI…).

It was great, in one sense, because he was able to take care of our daughter during her formative years. Although, financially we couldn’t make it. We began to cut corners. Then, we looked for every bit of change that we could possibly carve out of our budget.  Then we began to sell our stuff at pawnshops, consignment shops, and yard sales. Then we started running out of stuff to sell….

I was totally stressed, running numbers in my head all the time, trying to figure out how the ends would meet. When another mom working in the church nursery pointed out that my daughter’s dress was too small and that I needed to buy her some new clothes, I almost burst out in tears. We were relying on hand-me-downs. I knew we couldn’t afford new clothes for her.

Finally, when I was completely at my wit’s end, I prayed a completely selfish prayer that went something like, “God, I know I’m a pastor, and I’m not supposed to care about money. I know I’m supposed to be above it. I know I’m not supposed to pray these selfish prayers. But we can’t pay our mortgage. We don’t have another penny to spare. We can’t do it any longer. I just can’t handle this. I am powerless over money, and my life has become unmanageable. You have got to restore us to sanity. You’ve got to figure out a way out of this for us.” 

And somehow… the prayer was answered. We didn’t win the lottery or anything, but I suddenly saw a clear shining path in front of me. Very quickly. 

I don’t tell people what they cannot pray. It’s just not my business…. Instead I encourage people to talk to God about anything and everything.

So, how did seminary change your spiritual life? What do you tell children about prayer? What do you believe about it?

The photo is by *Piney*

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We have a running point of disagreement in our home regarding the nature of atonement. My good husband (please correct me if I explain this incorrectly…) does not buy into any sort of substitutionary atonement at all, penal or otherwise.

Or, to put it in words that we can all get our heads around, he rejects the notion that “Jesus died for our sins” if we mean that God had to have some sort of sacrifice in order to be appeased. He is horrified by the idea that we have some sort of blood-thirsty God who needed a son to be murdered in order to pay for the wrongs that we have committed. For him, it’s tantamount to divine child abuse.

I look at it a little differently. I part from many feminist theologians on this account, I think.

Do I think that there is some sort of cosmic accounting of our sins that can only be rectified by death? No. I don’t believe in the death penalty. It doesn’t make sense in our human courts, so it certainly doesn’t make sense in a theological realm.

For me, the forgiveness of God comes to us, not because a sacrifice has been made, not because of death, not because we satisfied God’s bloodlust with the murder of God’s son. Rather, it is because our world is ordered by the love of God, a God who is always longing for life and reconciliation. I cling to the view that it is through the life of Jesus that we learn abundance. It is through his teachings and his example that we learn to be fully human.

And yet, I cannot ignore power in the story of sacrifice that still impels me. There was, for some reason, this thought in so many ancient religions that in order to atone for our sins, in order to appease God, in order to make peace with the divine, we ought to pour out life-blood, whether it was a pigeon, or a lamb, or what have you. There is this narrative that we carry within us. It is part of who we are as human beings.

And for me, theology is made up of stories, these great narratives that inform our lives. There is something in our belly that makes these archetypes ring true for us. And even in our clever postmodern milieu, we cannot get away from the beauty of this simple myth: someone who was innocent died. And that gift of love made a way so that others might live.

I have been reminded of this compelling story that frames our lives as my daughter consumed Harry Potter this summer. We made it to the end of book seven, and then there was nothing left to do but start all over again. We have been living in Hogwarts for a month now, listening to the intricate details of the lives of Hermione, Ron, and Harry. And it was in the first book that we learn that Harry lived, because his mother died. Her great sacrifice of love created a protection that no evil could ever overcome.

I’m not too ashamed to admit that I cried when I heard it (okay…so maybe I’m a little embarrassed). I don’t know why… there is some gut-level truth that still pulls on me. It connects me to the deep and abiding story of our faith that has formed me. I cannot make sense of why there had to be such a sacrifice. I don’t know who accepts a martyr’s payment. But I cannot deny the salience of the narrative.

Perhaps there is no payment to anyone. Perhaps it is simply the power of the gift.

So what about you? What do you think? Have we simply evolved past the notion of martyrdom and sacrifice? Or, should we be evolving, and is Christianity holding us back? If a sacrifice was made, to whom was it made? How do you make sense of it?

photo by gunnisal

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Adam, at A Wee Blether, and I are having a conversation about Jeremiah Wright. Adam started it out by asking:

With our current media situation, can we in America have a responsible public conversation on race, religion, and politics or are we destined to the lowest common denominator of ten-second sound-bites?

I was serving a small church in Cajun Louisiana. Think The Apostle, Robert Duvall’s masterpiece from eleven years ago, and you’ll know where I was. It was literally filmed down the road from my church.

When I was doing some community organizing, I made friends with Prophetess Perot. She asked me to preach at her revival at the House of Prayer, and I (of course) accepted.

I had no idea what was in store when I drove up to the tiny clapboard house. The building had been transported from a plantation and its walls were soaked with history. Houses of Prayer were the one place on the plantation where slaves met, without any oversight or fear of their owners.

This House of Prayer was where the Bible was read and preached, where revolutions were planned, where hope was reignited. Within those walls, in that safe place, men and women told their stories. They could cry about the beatings, they could whisper the truth about the rapes. The sanctuary was a refuge in every sense of the word.

Upon entering, I found out that the walls were now filled with posters, with the words of Martin Luther King, Jr. written on them, next to the words of the biblical prophets, Isaiah and Jeremiah. I read them as the heat from the room enclosed on me.

The series of services was not a revival in the sense that they were out to save anybody. It was a week to revive the pastor. All the speakers and singers were there to encourage the congregation and the prophetess in her work. The gathering was made up mostly of women, and when we talked, I found out that most of them were professional cleaners.

The deacons had starched white coats on. They lined the walls to make sure everyone was helped. I was thankful that I wore a dress, and my husband was in a suit, otherwise we would have felt quite out of place.

We began the service with singing praise choruses and spirituals. And there’s so much I could write about—how the prophetess entered twenty minutes late and was seated in a large wicker chair, how the singers were a family act who traveled about from revival to revival–but I need to get to the point, so I’ll skip all that and tell you about the deaconess who got up to pray.

She was beautiful. Thin, black, with perfect posture. I was about 27 at the time, and she was the same age. When she opened her mouth, there was some sort of power behind her words. A force I can’t explain. But, the preachers reading this know what I’m talking about. She prayed through every part of her body, that her mouth, and nose, and ears, and hands, and feet would all serve God. It was poetry. It’s a prayer form that I’ve tried to copy a hundred times since I first heard it. Except for one part. When she referred to God… at first I didn’t understand it… I couldn’t figure out what she was saying.

And then it hit me. She was saying, “Massah.”

Oh no. It can’t be. I thought. And she said it again. And again. She’s my age. She grew up in the same country that I did. She’s smart. This can’t be.

I had this gut-wrenching urge to plead with her, “You can’t do that! You cannot refer to God as your Master. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t. You are God’s daughter. You are not God’s slave.”

I recall the incident frequently in my mind. And sometimes I still wish that I had been brave enough. But I wasn’t. It was not my place to enter into that sacred house and begin telling her what to do. To tell her how to talk to God. I didn’t think of myself as a descendant of slave owners; that historical fact was far removed from my reality. I keep it there, because of the shame. But she knew that she was a descendent of slaves.

Our history was in the walls, and it was in her veins. And she would pray to God, who was her only Master, in the way that she wanted. It was not my turn to speak. It was my turn to listen, and to pray with her.

There was so much in those walls. We were sitting in a context of history that I could never understand.

And, so to answer the question, I’d say that we cannot have a responsible discussion on race in America in the media, by extrapolating sensational sound bites and listening to them over and over again. It’s not just the full context of Jeremiah Wright’s sermons that we are missing. We are missing a beautiful, sorrowful, and complicated history, an entire tradition of people who could speak freely in their sanctuaries without the fear of censure.

I do not agree with Jeremiah Wright. I am saddened by the damage he has done to Barack Obama’s campaign. I shudder at what he has said about AIDS. I fear when he says, “God damn America.” There’s just something deep within me that worries that God will hear him. That God will honor his plea. I watch the National Press Club clips and shake my head. Rev. Wright has been flippant when he should have been serious.

But I also acknowledge he’s speaking in a context that I will never understand, one that pulses in this country, and goes far beyond the context of the sermon. It is a tradition that began in those Houses of Prayer. In the one place where people could speak freely. Where no one could tell them what they ought to say, and how they ought to pray, and how they ought to sing, and how they ought to talk to God.

And so, it is again my place to listen. Not only to Wright’s sermons, but to the vital tradition of liberation that scares me and gives me hope.

We cannot have a responsible conversation in the media. But we can have it in our spiritual communities. And the words of Rev. Wright have stirred up that opportunity.

So, Adam, let me ask you, what are the theological implications of Jeremiah Wright’s words?

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Doug Hagler at Prog(ressive)nostications issued a challenge:

What if you had to create an elevator pitch for theological concepts? Something that encapsulated what you think is important about the concept for someone to understand, in plain English?

So, here’s the challenge. Choose a theological concept and write an elevator pitch for the concept. The elevator pitch should not be longer than 50 words, and should be as short as possible if you go over the 50. It should express what you think is the core of a theological concept, and be easily understandable by the average 8th grader.

Incarnation—When God put on flesh and lived with us. This intersection between human history and divine history allows us to know a bit more about God.

Atonement—The way we become united with God. None of us have figured out exactly how this happens. But we have some ideas. Most people think that atonement occurs through the life, death, and/or resurrection of Jesus.

Christus Victor—Unity with God happens through Jesus’ resurrection. It is the thought that when Jesus was raised from the dead, he became the victor over sin and death, and so we can be victors over sin and death too.

Satisfaction—Unity with God happens through Jesus’ death. In many ancient religions, there was the thought that to appease the divine, blood had to be offered. In Christianity, substitutionary atonement holds that Jesus was the last of these gifts. Because he died, and he was the perfect gift, God was then satisfied.

(And I would have to add: I don’t believe that we have a blood-thirsty God.)

Moral Exemplar—Unity with God happens through Jesus’ life. Jesus is completely human and completely God, so through his teachings and through his example, Jesus teaches us how to be fully human.

Salvation—Is when we let God help us. Sometimes it’s a moment-by-moment thing.

The Gospel—Is good news in the form that we need it the most. When Jesus spread the gospel, sometimes it was through healing, sometimes through teaching, sometimes through feeding people. 

The Holy Spirit—Is a person of the Trinity. The Spirit is the bond of love between God and Jesus, and the Spirit pours out upon us, as a bond of love. The Holy Spirit moves in us and among us, helping us to learn, giving us courage, and empowering us to seek justice and lift up the oppressed.

Creation—The ongoing process of God making us and the world. Since we’re made in the image of God, we are also partners in creation. As created beings, we are creative beings.

The Sovereignty of God—The idea that God’s ultimately in charge. It’s often a confusing concept, because we make choices, so it feels like we’re in charge of our own lives.

Sin—Actions that separate us from God.

The Fall—The myth of when humans first sinned. It

Heaven—In the Bible, heaven’s often the word for sky or the cosmos. I believe that when we die, God will enfold us into God’s love. We will return to God. And that’s heaven.

Hell—Separation from God.

The Crucifixion—It’s a form of execution and it’s how Jesus died.

Mission—The act of sharing the good news in the form that people need it the most. Whether that means helping to provide food, resources, water, medical supplies, care, compassion, or help along the spiritual journey, mission comes from our deep sense that we’re all made in the image of God and the hope that we might have justice and peace.

Immanence—The sense that God is close by.

Transcendence—The sense that God is beyond us.

Theodicy—That’s when we try to make sense of three things: (1) God loves us, (2) God is all-powerful, (3) bad things happen.

Biblical Inspiration—The idea that God inspired the words of Scripture.

Biblical Inerrancy–The idea that there were no errors in the first manuscripts of the Bible.

Biblical Literalism—The idea that the Bible is a chronological, historical account, and it is the only authority in our lives, in all disciplines, including science.

Okay, so I’m a geek. I had to add a couple of theories of atonement. 

Anyone else up to the challenge? Anyone want to add to or rip apart my answers?

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I got tagged by Drew at Notes from Off Center.

Here’s the game:

Books are scarce in the world. They are illegal in some provinces. They are not easily replaced if not impossible to replace if lost in many if not most circumstances. If you can replace a book or buy one it is usually through the black market at astronomical costs that you cannot afford. Yet you have been able to maintain one of the best collections in the world. If your entire library was about to burn up (think of the firefighters in Fahrenheit 451 invading your home) and you could only have one* book to take with you other than the Bible, what would that be and why?

Simple Rules
Answer the question. Offer one quote that resonates with you. Tag five people whose response is of genuine interest to you and inform him or her that they have been tagged. Cheers!

*And it cannot be an entire series of something, that’s cheating.

This was hard, because I don’t read many books more than once, so I kept thinking I would want to take something that I haven’t read, but can I take that chance? I mean, what if it’s terrible? So, I decided on one of the few authors that I do read again and again. That would be Meister Eckhart.

I’m continually inspired by Eckhart’s dynamic relationship between the Creator and the creature. He talks about a woodworker, who has the idea of a chest of drawers. And then the craftsman makes the piece of furniture, but the ideal still rests in his mind. In the same sense, we are made in the image of God, and we reside in the mind of God.

As a Christian and as an artist, Eckhart’s words captivate me. They make me sense this inner life: a reality in which as I create, I am more fully created. I begin to understand that being made in the image of a Creator means that we’re makers. As Eckhart says, “Words derive their power from the original word.” And “every creature is a word of God.”

There are parts of his wisdom that I don’t understand and I’m not sure I agree with, like, “The eye with which I see God is the same eye with which God sees me.”

And there are abiding truths that resonate with me, even in their paradox: “You should know nothing is as dissimilar as the Creator and any creature. In the second place, nothing is as similar as the Creator and any creature. And in the third place, nothing is as equally dissimilar and similar to anything else as God and the creature are dissimilar and similar in the same degree.”

Sadly, I don’t know German, so I have to take an English translation with me. And, it’s probably cheating (I always cheat on memes…), but most of his English works are compilations. So I have to say, The Complete Mystical Works of Meister Eckhart are coming out (McGinn does it again!). A big, fat 600+ pages. I’ll take it with me.

Now, I tag Ruth Everhart, Reverendmother, Diane Roth, Aric Clark, the Pastor of Disaster (Tee hee hee. He didn’t know that it was part of the marital covenant that he would have to answer every meme!)

And what about you? What would you take?

photo’s by Scott Dungan

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We watched Be Kind, Rewind a couple of days ago. When we were picking out movies, my husband accused me of having a “thing” for Jack Black. Which might be true… I do laugh every single time I see the panda telling us not to text message. And who couldn’t love High Fidelity? And Nacho Libre?

School of Rock’s a family favorite at the Merritt Ranch. We’ve watched it as much as most families have seen Nemo. And my cute girl knows that she can make me laugh by saying, “What? You’ve never gotten the Led out?” Or “Cello!”

But, the reason I liked Be Kind, Rewind was not because I have any thing for Jack Black. It was more about the director, Michel Gondry, who also did The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

The story in a nutshell: a video store’s about to go out of business. In order to save the store, the owner goes out of town to see how the big DVD places run. Meanwhile, the worker and his friend accidentally erase all the videos. They decide to remake them, as well as a “documentary” about how Fats Waller was born in the video store building.

There were so many themes running through the movie that reflect our current culture–and even our churches.

I love how my generation has a longing to stop media in the 80s. Just like Hi Fidelity can’t get over records, Be Kind can’t get over VHS. The nostalgia reflects a general frustration that growing up in the era of big business brings–the idea that when something works, then it has to work for everyone. It must be mass-produced and brought to every community, even if it’s not a reflection or a product of the people. The fact that we want to keep to our neighborhoods weird, but we’ve watched those corporations drive out so many of our beloved local, quirky businesses.

This is why so many people in my generation hate the mega-church model so much. Too slick. Too commercialized. It’s not an expression of the community’s creativity. And they put the mom and pop churches out of business.

As in Eternal Sunshine, Gondry went back to explore the idea of memory, and what an important part it plays in relationships. But this time, Gondry played with the idea of how our narratives form our histories, as communities. And he tells a story of the losers making the history.

We know the saying, “The winners tell the history.” In other words, when an entity wins a war, they not only win that piece of land or access to power (or whatever they’re fighting about), but they also win a much greater power. They win the right to tell the story in the way that they choose.

On a grand scale, this has to do with nations and wars. But it also has to do with our interpretation of Scripture and who writes our commentaries. It has to do with who forms our systematic theologies and who gets to say what’s orthodox. It has to do with the minutes of our congregational meetings and our church histories. It’s always interesting to see what discussions the church leaves out of the notes. Or how the history of the church changes when the pastor’s been there for a while, she gains some trust, and some of the “losers” of the church battles begin to open up. Or she gets to know some of the people who left the church over the years, and she finds out a whole new narrative.

As Gondry reminds us in the film, there’s a shift occurring. Even with the film’s nostalgia for older media, he reminds us that with access to new media, we’re able to publish things (like essays about obscure movies) that would have never made it through a publishing company or editorial board. And people are reading them. The vetting process is still there, certainly. But the power’s moving subtly. As a society, we’re no longer able to control who tells the story. The losers are talking too.

(Warning. Parenthetical spoiler. But, I have to point out that in Be Kind’s case, the “history” isn’t true, so there’s a reminder of the slippery accuracy of stories as well.)

The movie tells so much about media and big business. But, the most important theme–by far–is the importance of community. Intergenerational, diverse community, that accepts and even celebrates the misfits and the outsiders. The type of community that respects older generations and allows the innovations of younger ones. Community that encourages local creativity. Even if it’s the sort of art that would not be a big hit across the nation, it’s the kind that emerges out of a safe environment and mutual love. It is the kind creativity that makes us proud to be a part of something.

And as I think of all of the imperfect, soul-stirring pageants, solos, and prayers that I’ve heard over the years, I know that no one does these things better than the mom and pop church.

photo’s by R Scott Olson

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I’m turning thirty-six today, which used to be considered mid-life, but not now that we’re living longer. Now the middle point’s at forty-five, and perhaps it’s even later for women. So I won’t be getting a red convertible this year. Not that I’m going to want one when I’m forty-five either….

I feel far from crisis. In fact, thirty-six feels like a comfortable age, a forgiving age. I handle myself with a little more grace than I used to. When I look into the mirror, I no longer rush in to examine every flaw. I step back a bit, and I don’t allow myself to focus on every imperfection. And even with the deficiencies in view, I have a strange gratitude.

When I was in college there was this guy–an international student–who would always try to pick me up (along with countless other women) by using the unforgettable line: “Aahh… now you have child-bearing thighs.” He continued to use the opener, even though I’m sure the look of horror on my face could translate across all cultures.

But I think of the words now, and they have new meaning. They still make a deplorable pick-up line, but I smile when I think about them. My belly’s never been flat, but now wonder has replaced the self-hatred. I have more fascination when I look at it. Mine was never supposed to be flat. It was supposed to be the place where my daughter was formed. It did its job well.

And the grace extends to the interdependence of my being.

I remember first reading Karl Barth, the words moved me deeply as I began to understand God as an act, more than a being. I had a childhood full of harsh, abusive images of God as an angry patriarch. But as I read, I learned to release my vengeful noun for loving verbs. I began to relate to God’s self-description, “I am who I am.” Even more than that, I embraced to the beauty of the words, “God is love.” I started to understand that the very being of God is ever-flowing action.

While growing into adulthood, I longed for independence. But just as I came to that freeing understanding of God, I learned that my own being is made up of action. I can no longer be myself without the interdependence of community–the connection of friends and family–because that’s where love abounds. I understood that just as I am in the image of God, so my being is made more full in doing, in loving and being loved.

And on this Eve of the incarnation, I feel another shift, as the nouns and verbs are beginning to mix together. God’s skin allows God to walk among us, to get entangled in the human messiness of love, with all of its passion and betrayal. And as love takes on bone, I can begin to understand the beauty of imperfect flesh and the allure of living in complicated community.

photo’s by nerdvin

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During this time of year, when our breath is full of the longing, “Come, Lord Jesus, come,” I cannot help but remember what those words meant to me as a child.

Growing up as a conservative evangelical, we didn’t talk about Jesus coming back much during Advent. And I couldn’t be happier about that fact. You see, there was a year-round sense that Jesus was going to come at any moment. But this time, Jesus was all grown up and furious. He was returning to judge with that double-edged sword coming out of his mouth. The end of the world was drawing near; the thousand-year gloaming would begin, as the sun would grow as black as ashes, and the moon would be full of blood.

These disturbing images haunted me for eleven months of the year. They grew up inside of me along with the news of nuclear bombs, the cold war, and arms races. The apocalyptic visions made too much sense as our country was learning about the long-term effects of radiation. I was actually pretty happy to get a break from them during December, when we would sing carols and talk about the first time Jesus came, as a baby in a manger.

For the rest of the year, I never understood the glee that the preacher had when he talked about the second coming. He couldn’t wait for the day–the dispensation when Satan would roam and rule the earth. Of course, there was a good chance that we would be raptured, taken up into heaven before all of the destruction. That way we could gloat. We could watch all the suffering from our cloudy pillows, and finally get some payback for all the persecution that had been heaped upon us.

That was a tenuous “we,” because from the preacher’s calculations, there were only about a handful of people who were going to be taken up. There weren’t a whole lot of people who were saved enough. I always felt like I was in limbo. Strangely, the rapture option seemed even worse to me than living with all the wars.

Every few years, someone would come up with an actual date when all of this would occur. I always tried to laugh it off. But I’d be scared. To calm myself, I would ask, “What will I say to Jesus when I see him?” And then I’d try to imagine a Jesus without the white hair and fire eyes.

Of course, my experience was probably unique. I was growing up in the South, in a very conservative, religious family. But, then again, I can’t be the only one with these childhood fears cooked up in my congregation.

I couldn’t help but notice how the Left Behind series sold millions. Jerry Jenkins was the writer in residence at Moody Bible Institute when I was there. When I was in Louisiana, some members of my congregation couldn’t get enough of the books. LaHaye and Jenkins obviously tapped into a very vast stream of fear and thrill in our country.

For me, the prayer “Come, Lord Jesus” is scarier than just about anything I can imagine. Of course, I’ve reconstructed my view of the Kingdom of God, tapping into the hope of Moltmann and the inspiration of Rauschenbusch. But, even as I write, as a grown woman, I have that same fear growing up from my belly and clenching my throat. It has become a part of my emotional intelligence. And it makes me wonder: How many people in our congregations had this experience?

The photo’s of a Japanese clock that was melted by a WWII nuclear bomb, taken by maebmij

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