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This week, our “home” is being used as an Advance Polling Station for the upcoming provincial election.

This fact is a timely reminder for followers of Jesus that we are to be society’s most valued citizens- not in the interest of any given political agenda- but towards the best of all people- specifically beginning with - the "widow," the "refugee" and the "cripple." Scripture repeatedly reminds us of this.

This is no simplistic command- but it is ours.

Some thoughts as I reflect on this divine mandate -

First, we are commanded to have decorum in how we express our opinions, remembering that our insights are limited. Careful analysis and direct engagement are vital, especially with scrupulous regard for an honest distinction between facts and opinions. Fact-checking never ends. We have more tools than ever—to that end. Let’s use them.

Second, we pray a blessing on leadership candidates of all stripes and then a blessing for those who gain power, regardless of who they are. Remember that the early Church’s injunction to honour “Caesar” was given in the context of the infamous Nero. May we, Jesus’ followers, lead by example.

Third, Jesus’ followers are, by their fundamental identity - “not of the world order.” This is a mysterious fact of our identity but should give us a desperately needed, dispassionate perspective from which to engage in complex conversations. In this regard, may we behave as exemplary citizens of where we find ourselves.

Please exercise your vote. It is the gift of participation we have.

"Losing Balance"  Searching For Sunday- August 11, 2024

It was painful to watch.

The balance beam was the last gymnastic event in the 2024 Olympics. I don’t follow gymnastics, but the inspiring story of Simone Biles made a watcher of me. So, we watched the final even with anticipation.

And then things went wrong. One after the other the competitors fell off the balance beam, in the end- 4 of 8 including Biles. The crowd was in stunned silence.

Losing balance is infectious and compounding- and an integral, but very hard part of life. 

I’ve had my own journey with losing balance. In December 2020 I had an accident while building a shed roof- and broke my neck and back. C3 and T3 for those who know these things. There I lay on the ground- unable to move. Thankfully, the story ended well. After a helicopter ride to the spinal unit in Vancouver and neck surgery I began to walk again and now live mostly the way I had before. I am deeply thankful.

But I had to learn to find balance again. Like breathing, balance is something you don’t think about, until there is a problem. Suddenly something that was so simple and unconscious- becomes a tangled web of confusion and stumbles. My surgeon assured me that I had good hope for recovery but said- “your balance muscle memory will need methodical rebuilding, Balance is a multi-system collaboration. Your systems will need to learn to communicate in new ways. The old paths of communication between them have been disrupted. Many people before you have done this journey. We learn from them. This will take time- but you can do this.”  

And thankfully I have. 

But I’ve also learned somethings about life- from the 2024 Olympic balance beam event and my fall. First, loss of balance is contagious and once second guessing enters the psyche that causes all kinds of weird problems. And “weird” was used repeatedly by gymnastics commentators.

At one level physical loss of balance is “easy” to take apart. The commentators of the balance beam event- took apart each misstep and then fall, in slow motion. 

Even though emotions are definitely a big factor in getting my balance back- I am always assured that, at its core, my loss of balance is part of a natural and progressive restructuring of the nerves between my muscles, my eyes, my inner ear and a brain that had a shock.

In my case, concurrently with the loss of balance from my broken neck- I was also going through a deep loss of balance in several relational areas of my life. That has been an even more vexing, journey. In the psyche the wounds and resulting pain are almost impossible to quantify. The inevitable prognostications sound far more like guesswork than hard analysis.  There are no slow-motion replays about where a foot landed, to replay. 

But now after several years- reflecting on my physical loss of balance and the recovery journey- I find the imagery and lessons of that, relate exquisitely to the healing of a psyche that has lost balance.  For me this has made me very hopeful- and I go back to my surgeon’s encouragement- “You can do this.”

Emotional and interpersonal loss of balance is as ancient as humanity itself. And for thousands of years these have been recorded. On record are both helpful and unhelpful quests for healing. The look into those journeys comes from ancient wisdom literature. And ancient wisdom has been tested in failures and successes by billions of people over many millennia. 

The well of ancient wisdom literature from which I draw are the ancient Scriptures. The story is far bigger than a short mediation can cover, but let me propose 3 parts to moving to regained balance.

First, it begins with facing the problem squarely. With an x-ray of a broken C3 to point to- that was easy. That’s why I stumble. It is not nearly as easy admitting to and identifying a psyche that is off balance.

But an unbalanced psyche needs to be “owned”. That is often a huge challenge. These wounds are invisible and can sometimes be easy to mask over. Imagining all’s well, rarely leads to healing. Like repeated stress on a damaged muscle or bone, the damage only becomes worse. 

“Ownership” is also important because an off-balance psyche doesn’t stop with the wounded person. An insight that quickly emerged in my long journey as a pastor of a church is- “Wounded people- wound people.” The panic that comes from pain results in broken perspective on problems that might otherwise be routinely dealt with. A spilled glass of milk becomes a heated battle.  When I physically stumble- an emotional panic reaction does kicks in. But there I know the stumble has a “simple” cause and I manage that panic under that rubric. 

My Scriptures are full of the anguish that begins the acceptance of loss of balance. The first step of AA’s 12 is admitting there is a problem. The journey begins there.

Second, once owned, comes using the tools that help get balance back. 

Normal walking is two points of contact. Balance improves enormously with 3 points of contact. My first steps from the hospital bed were done- holding onto things. Then a cane does amazing things for balance recovery. Now I walk fairly comfortably but I am far more aware of railings that I was before. 

In my Scriptures is the statement- “a 3-strand cord is not easily broken.” Relationships rather than isolation are a huge piece of finding balance again- even though the natural fear of them can be very real. The fear has “grounds” because most of the pain we experience comes from broken relationships but walking through that fear, both carefully but deliberately, into relational connectivity is a vital tool in recovering balance. 

Third, patient persistence is needed. The balance beam athletes trained for countless hours to reach the competence level to step onto the beam. Even “ordinary” walking took years to master. It is not until one learns to walk again that one begins to appreciate the practice that this activity has required.

Early in my recovery there was a season of deep frustration. Walking smooth ground was challenging but walking on uneven ground gave me the sensation that I was about to fall. I rarely did. Just walking on uneven ground felt like being on the verge of a panic attack. I told my therapist this and her answer was simple. “Walking on uneven ground is a big part of the path to finding balance again. Keep walking.”

In the emotional journey of finding balance staying only on “level ground” and avoiding all anxiety, not the path to regaining balance. True, one does need to take on the right challenge at the right time but wholesale retreating to safety gains nothing. 

Losing balance happens in life, in many places. Finding it again is also part of life. And we can do it!

“Taking Offense- An Olympic Opening Collage”  Searching for Sunday August 4, 2024

Can you imagine someone brazenly mocking the Last Supper based on Leonardo DaVinci’s iconic image of a sacred moment in Jesus’ life- on a world stage? It appears to have happened at the Olympic Opening ceremony [July 26, 2024]

As would be expected outrage and offense immediately lit up social media. In a program that claims to celebrate acceptance- what could be more egregious than brazen mockery of something two billion people hold sacred? Those claiming to speak for Christians reacted.

Counter reactions from others inside Christianity were quick to follow, and also lit up social media. Surely, those taking offence were misreading culture both ancient and modern.

The Olympics Committee quickly apologized and admitted to an error of judgment. 

But the best response came in a statement attributed to Dallas Willard a Christian writer- “I think a mature Christian is someone who is very difficult to offend." 

After a week, there have now been many good reflections. Let me share mine. It ended up being something of a collage.

First, let’s assume the worst about the intentions of the artists- that this was intentional mockery. After all mockery is stock in trade in social commentary. While there is a lot of room for nuance in the performance- it is hard for me to imagine true innocence. So, if only for the sake of my reflection, let’s assume the performance was done from a place of malicious contempt for things Christian.

And that is why Willard’s statement, from a different place and time- brought much needed perspective. After all the earliest Christians were mocked about their reenactment of the last supper, which they called “Love Feasts”. Their contemporaries were quick to attribute all kinds of extreme sexuality to these events. But the most graphic and shocking claim was that Christians sacrificed babies and used their flesh to represent the body of Christ- which was then eaten. Horrible!

The response of early Christians was deep pain. Can you imagine your neighbours telling stories like that about you? But it was their gracious behaviour in response that spoke volumes- and their communities grew until they made up the majority in many places. 

This is a story that we modern followers of Jesus do well to remember. It is not our rebuttals that speak most loudly about who we follow- but our actions. 

And as Willard implies- perspective is an early step to maturity. 

But was also an- “on the other hand”, that struck me.

As I thought about the outrage of many of my Christian friends- a famous Shakespearean exchange came to mind. Shylock the Jew has been wronged. He is outraged and famously declares- “If you prick us, do we not bleed?” 

“Of course,” is the unspoken rhetorical response- those who are injured feel pain. Pretending otherwise fools no one. 

There are religions in which Stoicism, in the face of pain is celebrated. But that is not what Jesus taught by word or example. Joy, sorrow, pleasure, pain, victory, defeat, are wound into life. Each needs to be taken as it comes. It is why Jesus’ followers pray, sometimes desperately, for relief and peace. It is why, famously- “Jesus wept.” 

Therefore, telling those who wound us- that we have been wounded- is a sign of deep courage because it exposes our vulnerability. It allowed the Olympic Committee to apologize and hopefully learn.

Being honest about the pain contempt causes adds to perspective and can actually grow into actual empathy for “the other side.”

And there is still another layer to the story that Shylock throws bluntly on the table. He literally wants the “pound of flesh” that the contract calls for. 

When we are injured, especially when we feel the injury is intentional- every instinct in our being calls for revenge. The Psalms are full of demands that those who injure us- be punished in kind and more.

If feeling pain is sometimes hard to admit- the primitive demand for vengeance is even harder to admit- but it is very real and usually shows up as passive aggression, as illustrated by the evocative German word, “Schadenfreude,” or joy at the misfortune of others. 

The call for vengeance is wound deeply into human nature- and no person aspiring to maturity can afford to deny this in themselves.  

But Shakespeare’s continuing commentary puts still another layer into the story. Shylock does want his “pound of flesh” from the person who wronged him- and he spells out his justification- 

“If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge . . . The villainy you teach me I will execute . . .”

Wow! What a damning argument justifying vengeance! The law of vengeance has been taught by Christians for the past millennium by their repeated behaviour. Vengeance is the explicit moral code of Christendom. And the response by many Christians to the Olympic event demonstrates it well.

But it is very important to note that this indictment of Christendom, is not coming from some cynical anti-Christian humanist. It comes from a respected Christian at the apex of Christendom. 

As I read this indictment, Shakespeare’s can of worms revealed- I was shocked. “Wow!” rang through my very being. The contradiction built into this indictment is staggering. 

But if Shakespeare was clear in his description of Christian reality- Jesus was even clearer in teaching His followers-

“But to you who are listening I say: Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you. If someone slaps you on one cheek, turn to them the other also.” Luke 6:27-29

By their visible actions Christians have been and are teaching vengeance- the precise opposite of what their Teacher instructs them. 

There is need for careful reflection on the state of Christendom in this contrast between our visible behaviour and our clear mandate.

But as I reflected on the reactions, counter reactions to the Olympic Opening- in the light of Jesus’ teaching- another layer to the story appeared before me. 

I realized that my commentary so far had been- “at arm’s length.” And then Shakespeare’s indictment landed with a thud in my own heart. 

I grew up with an old hymn that, through my now considerable lifetime [72 years :) ], still rings in my spirit. 

It's me it's me O Lord      Standing in the need of prayer . . .

Not my brother not my sister . . . Not the preacher not the deacon . . . 

Not my father not my mother . . . But it is me O Lord standing in the need of prayer

I was not particularly affected by the Olympic Opening, so my “arm’s length” commentary comes relatively easy. 

But make no mistake- I have a full list of wounds I carry about in my spirit. I know what it is to be hurt deeply. While I’d never be as honest as Shylock- I don’t have to dig deeply to discover a deep deposit of what the German of my youth called, “Schadenfreude”. The truth in the dark places of my heart is- few things give me as much deep satisfaction as somehow seeing the pain of “pound of flesh” inflicted on those who have wounded me. 

In the end, that admission is what the Olympic fiasco of this past week left in my spirit.

Jesus spoke to the powers and the systems, to be sure. He put forward a world transforming challenge to those who make up His community. We, collectively have some serious reckoning to do if we want to claim to be followers of Jesus.

But Jesus calls His followers one at a time- each with their own unique baggage and challenges. To miss that is to miss His call entirely. May I do better, from the inside out. Lord, have mercy.

https://www.rsc.org.uk/shakespeare-learning-zone/the-merchant-of-venice/language/if-you-prick-us-do-we-not-bleed

“A New Page?”         Searching for Sunday July 28 24   

     Years and years ago when schoolwork was done by handwriting, in notebooks- the exhilaration of opening a new, blank, notebook, is a moment I still remember warmly. 

     As a student with the class’s worse handwriting, combined with dyslexia [though unnamed at that time], it was not long before that fresh new page with my name and the date meticulously scribed in the top right corner- followed by a series of carefully written notes- devolved into pages filled with writing illegible to most people, a tangled mess of half-finished sentences, scratched out and poorly erased mistakes, and just plain doodling. I was loath to have anyone see it.

     There was nothing as satisfying as a brand-new page.

     In 331 BC Alexander the Great landed on the coastline of northern Africa to examine a potential harbour, he had read about. It was quickly clear to him that this was a site of great promise. And so, on the broad, sandy and open plain behind the natural harbour, he and his architects proceeded to draw the lines in the sand, of a grand city with palaces, temples, business districts and house sites- all designed carefully around the future harbour. This was Alexander the Great’s new page. It was a unique beginning to a fascinating piece of history. 

     The city would naturally be called Alexandria. To guide mariners into the harbour, a massive, famous lighthouse was built. It remains to this day. Alexandria became the economic center of the Mediterranean, including Christianity, for many centuries before it too devolved into a faint shadow of its intended glory.* 

     For many decades now, “deconstruction,” especially in the context of the church, has been a dominant word and idea. And for good reason. Like the devolution of my fresh notebook and grand Alexandria- the church that began with a beautiful vision and clear, if challenging instructions, became frustratingly ordinary in human history. 

     While there is no shortage of good intentions, the reality of the church through history, is far too often the story of inflicted pain. For me, the epitome of this were the Crusades. For more than 700 hundred years the cross and the sword were grotesquly synonymous. 

     But pain caused by the church is not just distant history, For queer people today the painful reality of the church, needs no further explanation. For those affected by that- the call for deconstruction is obvious. 

     In Biblical history the call to deconstruct is a given. 2000 years ago, when Jesus was teaching His followers, He echoed the words of centuries of Jewish prophets before Him, calling for deconstruction, with the interesting phrase- “you have heard it said . . . but I tell you . . .” Jesus issued a call to radically deconstruct the religion of His community.

     But Jesus was also presenting a fresh new page- a clean landscape on which to construct- for all who would listen. The first steps to taking on this fresh new page was and is simple and clear- “pick up my yoke and follow Me.” 

     But the reality of “page two” was as immediate and messy for Jesus’ followers as it was in my school notebooks. The recorded history of the earliest life in Jesus’ church describes- tangled messes of half-finished thoughts, scratched out and poorly erased mistakes, the best intentions gone terribly wrong- and also shear malice.

     From those earliest days, “Lord, please give us a fresh new page”, has been the cry of those wanting to follow Jesus.

     Years after my beloved fresh page experience, I experienced its counterpart. 

     I was part of a project to deconstruct a building that housed a long standing, working medical clinic and build a brand-new building around it. It sounded like such a good idea, but it was not long before we realized the scale of the challenge. Two challenges in fact- 

     First- the deconstruction process and a working medical clinic have two different interests. The joyful noise of a working deconstruction crew is not joyful next door in a doctor’s office.

     Second, once the project begins, there is no turning back. 

     In fact, this experience mirrors life as I’ve come to experience it- far more than the moments of fresh new pages. There are very few times when a genuine fresh page, or Alexander the Great’s open plain, presents itself. In real life, deconstruction and reconstruction almost always must proceed simultaneously. Life doesn’t stop, so that we can wipe the slate clean, pour new foundations, and start afresh.

     As the people of The Ark, we are working toward creating a place of safety, a shelter from the storm, for people who have been deeply wounded by the church. 

     On the one hand, we are beginning with a fresh new page. 

     To do this major deconstruction must take place. There are things, obvious and subtle that have deeply wounded people. These need dismantling and tearing down. 

     The most obvious of these is exclusion- and maybe worse, methodically designed glass ceilings for queer followers of Jesus. These must be dismantled. We are doing that based on Jesus’ invitation “come all.” “All” really does mean “all.”

     The Ark is the attempt to start from a fresh new page.

     On the other hand, there is also far more going on.

     The “house” we are deconstructing was also built on a design Jesus gave. There are many rooms and walls that follow His design- but integrally mixed into it, are additions that go directly against His design. Knowing which walls require removing and which are important- is rarely as simple as it might look. As in any deconstruction process, it is very messy and there are always surprises. 

     But this isn’t a job that can be done halfway.

     The challenge of the deconstruction and reconstruction of the church, is big- so big in fact that the temptation of not allowing any deconstruction appeals to many of its inhabitants.  Likewise, the temptation of abandoning the church altogether, draws many others who are weary and have become disillusioned. 

     Those who join us at The Ark, are choosing the path we believe Jesus set before His followers- on the one hand taking down the things that are causing pain and stifling growth- and simultaneously and thoughtfully building something new. 

     On the other hand, we are working at that while living in the very house that needs both deconstruction and reconstruction. 

     This is not a challenge for the faint of heart- but for those for whom the vision makes sense- join us and we will tackle this complex challenge together.

The story of Alexandria from- “The Rise and Fall of Alexandria” Justin Pollard and Howard Reid.

A Close Encounter Of The Healing Kind

“Do you believe in the King James Bible- or do you use a different Bible?”

I grew up with the King James Bible, as did most people my age. And I know some people who still hold it in a special place. But this question came out of the blue. 

We were in a cab in London. The driver and I had begun the standard tourist exchange with- “And where are you from?” “And you?”
I, the retired pastor from Canada. He, it turns out, is a retired London lawyer, originally from Nigeria. That opened a conversational stream with many potential channels. But it was going to be a long ride- this looked interesting.

“Are you religious?” Not a shocking question from a retired pastor.

“I’m Catholic,” was the quick response. “Are you Pentecostal?”

“Well- no, I’m a Mennonite.” That is not quite like saying, “I’m a Martian,” but not far removed from that either. So I added-

“We started at the same time as Henry VIII broke from the Roman Church. We are like Pentecostals, in some ways.”

“Yes, he wanted a divorce, and the Pope wouldn’t give him one.” 

That was my history teaching as well- so to carry on a meaningful but friendly conversation I asked, “What do you think about the Pope?” 

It wasn’t intended to open a can of worms, but it did. 

“He’s not like John Paul. He wants to allow for gay priests. Crazy, right?” 

“Well . . . We might have to go for an even longer ride then.” I quipped back. 

But it was going to be an hour-long ride, and he was all in. Being a man accustomed to parsing meanings from words he quickly surmised from my answer where I was going, and so jumped in with his opening foray. 

“Do you believe in the King James Bible, or do you use a different Bible?”

What a truly foreign exchange. We both spoke English but were literally from opposite sides of the earth on this topic.

The matter of the King James Bible was easy for both of us to move past. And we did- Shakespeare’s English needs updating, we agreed- but the original text is the same.

“To have a true teaching you need the Bible and the Holy Spirit to interpret it,” he stated.

Then the lawyer put down his opening case- “The Bible is clear- God created marriage for procreation. Gay people can’t procreate. It is against God’s design.” 

That’s not a challenge I’ve faced before- but here it was. 

I answered like a true Protestant- “Procreation is needed on an empty earth, but the marriage text is Genesis 2- ‘it is not good for a man to be alone.’ I think this means God designed us for lifelong partnerships. Procreation is impossible without sex- but a life partnership- based on the God design- isn’t defined by procreation. Marriage is a life commitment- between two people.” 

Being a Protestant, I was obviously speaking a different language on that score- so he didn’t belabour it but I could tell it made intuitive sense to him. I felt like we understood each other, and he could grant me this. 

“But what does the Bible say about homosexuals? There it is clear.”

Interesting. The whole story of the Reformation was “sola Scriptura”- not tradition, not elaborated metaphysics, not papal authority- just the Bible read under the guidance of the Holy Spirit. 

That was supposed to be what distinguished us Catholics. And now a Catholic was challenging me with “sola Scriptura.” Interesting, to say the least. 

I’ve never encountered an evangelical linking procreation to marriage the way Catholics do- but sola Scriptura is the standard evangelical challenge. 

“The Bible says being gay is wrong- unless you have a different Bible.” I’ve heard versions of that scores of times.

“I have exactly the same Bible as you but let me test this on you. You’re a lawyer accustomed to dealing with legal issues. I suggest that the Bible isn’t a flat book with every sentence understood equally in a kind of logical math. There are texts and principles we are to read the Bible through. How these are interpreted is complex in the course of history- and changes over time.”

I hadn’t been challenged with the procreation argument before, and it seems he had not encountered the Bible being treated as a legal text before. But he was obviously very familiar with how laws and applications of them works, from his experience as a lawyer.

“The Law requires interpreting. Jesus says that 2 basic principles apply, “What do the Scriptures say?” and “How do you interpret them?”

That made sense to him.

“So let me suggest, then that if procreation isn’t the definition of marriage- but lifelong companionship is- on what grounds can we deny gay people from something He built into them?”

Even in a whole hour, two people of good will, will not easily come to a simple resolution on a question that divides good people from around the world. And we didn’t challenge each other with agreement, in that hour.

But we did engage a discussion that, I believe, brought insight to both of us.

Jesus’ closing command to His followers was- “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” John 13:34-35

To live out this command, we must have complicated conversations across the great divides amongst us. I believe this is something Jesus has equipped His followers to do- and I think my friend and I were given the opportunity to do exactly that. 

And so, I believe we had a “Close Encounter of a Healing Kind.”

This is a story from some 13 years ago. Its connection to France is quite incidental- but it is there :) It came to mind as I reflected in the challenge of communication across countres and paradigms. 

For The Ark, and the challenge of commuicating Jesus' invitation and our vision, is ours to take in, sometimes in the awkward, stumbling manner this story tells.

Babel

“That is why it was called Babel—because there the LORD confused the language of the whole world.” Genesis 11:9

            “Button.” It was the only word I understood as I leaned over the battered young man. He was asking for help and his broken body left him helpless- helpless to push a button.

            There were any number of buttons that I could have pushed for him- after all he was wired up to the usual baffling array of technology we expect in hospitals.

            I glanced at the array and looked at him. He did not want me to push any of these.

            There were some buttons I could push. I reached for the call button dangling above his head. No.

            I could also push the buttons to change the position of his bed. No, again. 

            But I was not at his bedside for technical support. I was the weekend chaplain and I had been called in to answer his questions.

            The nurse in charge briefed me before I entered the room. The young man was from France, spoke only broken English and had just attempted suicide. He was awaiting surgery to repair some shattered bones. He had requested a chaplain.

            The challenge was daunting. I don’t even have High School French. There would be no help from that end. 

            By the time the “button” request had been made, we had already spent an hour in linguistic puzzlement. 

            It was not without some progress though, and two questions had emerged. “Why is there so much pain in the world?” and “Where does Jesus fit into this world of pain?”

            I had discovered that, for him “Jesus” was the Catholic Mass and probably not much more. He had also managed to convey grief at the pain humanity was inflicting on the Earth. This seemed to have led to his concluding that one less human being taking up space and energy on earth would be for the best. 

            He was asking very reasonable questions- questions I am trained to answer. They aren’t simple, of course, but for nearly 2000 years the brightest and best theologians, writers and preachers have given brilliant, insightful answers. If only I could cross the language barrier, I would share these with him.

            “I have a friend who grew up in France,” I told him. “Tomorrow I will come back with him.” That was the most sensible part of the conversation- find someone who knew his language. His eyes lit up.

            It was then that we began to wrestle with the mystery of the “button.” I was stumped- so with a Herculean effort he dragged his less broken arm across his chest and reached for his neck. Then I saw it, the neck of his gown was pulled tight around his throat- the offending button strained the fabric of his gown.

            I reached down and in a split second he had the relief he was asking for.

            The absurd comedy of it all was not lost on us. Here I had come to answer the questions of life and death and couldn’t understand his request to undo a button until he nearly accomplished it himself. 

            I couldn’t help laughing and we laughed together. 

            “How are we supposed to talk about life and death when I can’t understand this?” And the solution would be on its way. That was very good.

            My French friend never was available and twice I returned to tell the young man this and each time we talked at length about the problems of Jesus and pain, with all the eloquence and sophistication of 2 year olds. 

            And as we started to understand each other he disappeared into the void. I had written my phone number on a piece of paper for him but the likelihood of that fragment surviving are slim. He has not called. It is unlikely that I will see him again.

            It was a frustrating ending, but I learned something. When two people are determined to understand each other it is amazing what happens. I wonder if I would have accomplished more without the language barrier. I suspect not. The discussion would certainly have been more sophisticated but possibly less insightful.

            And I was also reminded that the same God who confused human language at Babel, has things “revealed to us by his Spirit . . . even the deep things of God.” 1 Corinthians 2:10 

            I pray that in my bumbling efforts and his desperate yearning for answers the Holy Spirit did reveal some portion of those deep things to my friend. 

            I do think it happened.

“Searching for Sunday- in France”

The Ark continues its summer season and is not gathering on Sunday. It doesn’t feel right but is the season. 

This week “Searching for Sunday” finds us in the French countryside of Brittany in a small rural village. 

Here, “Searching for Sunday” comes through a different lens than in Canada. Here Sunday’s “sleepin' city sidewalk” really is sleeping. Don’t try to run to the grocery store for last minute supplies on Sunday. McDonalds is open but little else. 

Sunday is different here- but both the historic and current “search for Sunday” are very visible. It looks different but is also very recognizable. 

Driving through the gently rolling countryside, one cannot fail to see the slender, tall steeples protruding over the trees, on the highest points of land, in each small shire we pass through. 

They are not the massive structures of mega churches or the dark windows of the small churches in their shadows.

Here these steeples are almost always part of structures that go back as much as 1500 years and stand alone- usually one per village. 

But there are conflicting signals, here. 

On one hand, the old churches are revered deeply. In France, many of the great stone churches have been restored, at great expense and effort- after the sweeping devastations of WW 2. Now visitors, like us come to admire them. But there are almost always a few present for whom these churches also translate into recognizable worship as they bow in meditation and prayer in the benches before statutes of saints. 

In Brittany the Christian tradition goes back to the 5th century when Celtic traders and monks brought the story of Jesus with them. Layer upon layer of history stand before one’s eyes. Even in the write-ups each church seems to have, it is also a history of the worse of humanity. Along with the rolling centuries and the message of Jesus, came wars, razings, inquisitions, genocides and the like. These are also written into the layers of stones that are now revered. 

On the other hand, the awe of the ancient places of worship looks far too much like the awe of the other tourist sites, both ancient and modern- to give comfort to the heart searching for Sunday- and here it looks no different than the city streets. 

There is nothing like a spectacular show or spectacle to draw our attention. There is nothing wrong with that- but it is also far less than the search for meaning and purpose that Sunday represents for me.

Compared to Canadian construction, the stone buildings look very impressive. This region of Brittany has an abundance of granite in small and large forms. It seems that from time immemorial, granite has been the building material of choice. Even the buildings of the last 50 years are made of stone- and look ancient by Canadian standards. 

The cathedrals are also constructed of this same granite- but now it is not just baseball and basketball sized pieces, but massive slabs the size of cars, quarried out of mountainsides that also make up the walls and towers. Now old looks permanent. 

But it is not. Over time all structures, including stone, requires maintenance and fundamental rebuilding. An example of this was an apparently ancient wall in an old village, that we walked past- held from toppling over by scraps of woods and cargo straps.

Even buildings made of stone require regular maintenance- but also deconstruction and reconstruction. This includes the oldest, massive, and most ancient of the churches here.

It is a good reminder that all the structures and customs of each time and place, that make up the “search for Sunday”- need care, repair and rebuilding, with changing times and cultures. This, as with stone buildings requires careful and hard work- but isn’t optional. Left to themselves even forms that look eternal, decay- even the granite ones. 

Going through a lower corridor of one massive church complex, St Mont Mitchell, which has itself been build and rebuilt for 1500 years- the original stone knoll on which it had been built and rebuild caught my attention- and with it Jesus’ word to His followers that He is rock on which the church is built. 

Stripping structures down to that foundation rock, is needed when times change and that is why the core invitation of Jesus’ “come to Me all who are weary”- is so important. This is the eternal invitation and task.

There are times when the forms that are visible are so decayed and show the signs of so much of the tragedy of the last 2000 years, that it is tempting to give up and move to more attractive looking places and projects.

But at the church, St James of Perror-Guirec, in a leaf-eared information pamphlet, was a powerful reminder to me, that all is not lost even when faith in Jesus looks like a curious, ancient and flawed relic. It reads- 

We have described for you the essence of this stone monument and its interior.

This monument is a sign of God’s people made of living stones and who are edified through centuries-

WE ARE THOSE LIVING STONES . . .

May you be able to feel in this Holy place a life and a soul . . .

May you be able to take with you as a souvenir of your visit here the question of God . . .

The invitation of The Ark could hardly be stated more beautifully.

On Jesus, the Rock we are working to build a holy place where all can come and renew life and soul and take on the quest of “the question of God.”

Join us in this building and in doing become, with us, the living stones of this place. 

The Ark- Magi's Story  June 30, 2024

While The Ark is not meeting on Sundays, through the summer, we keep reflecting on our vision and how we put flesh on its bones.

The vision of The Ark is 2000 years old and grows from Jesus’ astonishing invitation- “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” 

Building a safe community, a shelter from the storm, for those who have been ground down by life- is central to the task represented by taking up Jesus’ yoke. But, putting living flesh on the bones of such a grand vision is no simple challenge- and for 2000 years Jesus’ followers have had to invent and reinvent what His community needed to look like for the times in which they lived. Many times they made a terrible mess of things and the “sanctuary” became a place of further pain. 

We believe that the journey of taking up Jesus’ invitation- begins with each individual weary person hearing Jesus’ call and realizing that there is hope. And thus, it begins with each individual story. 

30 years ago, Magi Cooper- who has done our Land Acknowledgement, Welcome, and Opening Prayer, for the past year, brought her story to me and to the church I was leading.  She not only heard Jesus’ call but has spent her life putting that call into living action.

And now she is doing so, as part of The Ark’s team. As I reread her story this week- I was reminded that Jesus’ call needs to go out to all ages.  The mission of The Ark includes all ages- including and even especially the children. Weariness comes in many forms and from many different hard roads, but the picture of Jesus with the little children is central to how He put His invitation into action. 

To paraphrase one of the early church’s teachers- “How, then, can they take up an invitation they have not heard about? And how can they hear about it without someone telling them His story?” 

Come and tell us your story- and here ours. And let us pick up Jesus’ yoke together.  Working together under Jesus’ yoke, does make the burden immensely easier and lighter- and frankly actually makes the yoke joyful and energizing on the journey we are on.

Thank you, Magi, for telling us your story, for allowing that to be part of our vision, and for picking up Jesus’ yoke with us here in The Ark.

Join us in spirit as we hope and dream about meeting weekly again in September. Connect with us if you have ideas to share.

I have added link to the original article I wrote, below, but here is the full form as well.

A LOVE STORY-  From November 25, 1994

There once was a little girl. She lived in a regular-looking home, in a regular-looking neighbourhood, in a regular-looking suburb. She looked like the other little girls in her neighbourhood. She was pretty the way a six-year-old girl should be. She went to school and music lessons like the other regular little girls.

But this little girl did not feel “regular” and she did not think that her home was “regular.” It felt dark and cold. She knew something was not right, but she did not really know what it was. that was not right. Later in life, she would look back and know that her home was dominated by a violent, alcoholic father.

Living on the corner of this little girl’s street was another family. They were the Jones’s This little girl loved going to the Jones’s house. What her house was to darkness, this home was to light. Every Sunday, the Jones family would get all dressed up and go to church. In fact, Mr. Jones sang in the choir. Deep inside, the little girl wished that her family would get all dressed up and go somewhere special on Sunday morning.

But this was not how things were in her home. In her home, when they said “our father,” they had better be speaking about the man who was sitting at the head of the table. They did not ask God to bless their food before they ate. They did not say prayers at night before they went to sleep. And Christmas was about Santa Claus and Easter was about a big bunny. Her father not only did not take his family to church, he let it be known that he was an atheist.

One day, the Jones family invited this little girl to come to church with them. Imagine how excited she was! Here was her chance! She desperately wanted to go, but she knew that if she asked her father, she would never be allowed to go. So, she made a plan. Early Sunday morning, she sneaked out of her house and headed for the Jones’s.

That Sunday, when she was just six years-old, she heard a story that she had never heard before. It was a story about Jesus, told – as all Sunday school stories are – with a big picture in the background. It was the story about the children coming to Jesus and how angry Jesus was with the grown-ups who wanted to send the children away.

The picture was of Jesus sitting on a rock with his arms oustretched, saying, “Let the little children come to me, and do not forbid them; for of such is the kingdom of God.”

That picture was burned into her mind. She would never forget it or the feeling of awe and wonderment when the teacher said that Jesus loved her. Was that really true? How could Jesus love her? How could he even know her? 

There were consequences when the little girl came home that Sunday; it was a very long time before she stepped inside a church again. But something had happened that Sunday which the little girl would never forget – a seed had been planted.

Today, a woman is standing in front of a church, telling a story. In fact, this is “her” church. She and her family get dressed up every Sunday to come here. She does not sing in the choir, but, every Sunday, like clockwork, she gathers her energy and teaching materials and sits down with a class of six-year-old children and tells them stories. Stories about Jesus and how he said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not forbid them; for of such is the kingdom of God.” And yes, in her classroom, there is a picture of Jesus with his arms outstretched.

Jesus once told a story. It began like this: “Behold, a sower went out to sow…” (Mark 4:3).

Maggie Cooper teaches Sunday school to the six-year-olds at Neighbourhood Church.

https://mbherald.com/a-love-story/

June 23, 2024

(by James Toews)

“Sunday morning coming down . . .” Kris Kristofferson

The Ark did not meet today. It felt lousy, but it is the season- and it, too, will pass. But as I woke this Sunday, two images came to mind. Two images that speak of two seasons in my life. Kristofferson's song speaks to the first season.

Like many of my generation, who grew up in the safety of an extravagantly blessed community, [and not everyone, even in that community, felt this] Jesus’ story of the prodigal son was not a cautionary tale but an almost presumed pattern of life.

So, as soon as the door opened to step into the exciting world beyond my little nest- in the pattern of the prodigal son- I followed his lead and flew the coup, as it were. And life in “the world out there” proved invigorating beyond even my childhood imagination. It was wonderful- until it wasn’t.

In those moments I remember as vividly as the lyrics of the song-

On a Sunday mornin' sidewalk

I'm wishin', Lord, that I was stoned

'Cause there's somethin' in a Sunday

That makes a body feel alone

And there's nothin' short a' dyin'

That's half as lonesome as the sound

Of the sleepin' city sidewalk

And Sunday mornin' comin' down.

Ah yes, those moments were a painful reminder that took me back to “somethin' that I'd lost somewhere, somehow along the way.”

There were more than a few Sundays like that before. Like Jesus’ prodigal son, I “came to my senses,” packed up my bags, and headed home.

And the reception on arriving home also mirrored Jesus’ story. Open arms awaited me. Immediately, I asked for a meeting with the pastor of the church I’d grown up in. I still remember his somewhat quizzical, intrigued posture as I told him I’d come home. I knew that my prodigal story was far too normal for him- and rather boring- but my need to personally tell him I was back was not as usual and mildly puzzling- though he said all the right things.

But I was back—and for the next 50 years or so, I have lived in that return, with “Sunday morning coming down” ringing in my soul every week. But now I was part of that image from the inside—and for 33 years of that, as pastor of a small church in a small city.

That is the first image of the first season- and today, as I walked on a forest path on a sunny Sunday morning, taking in the beauty of the day- that song rolled through my spirit- as usual- but this time with a new dissonance in it.

This dissonance introduces another image from another season—the season I’m in now. The image is from Rachel Held Evans's book Searching for Sunday.

It is a book not for those who’ve left the church in a quest for “greener pastures” of some sort but for those for whom the church has become painful and hostile—those who have effectively been pushed out of their Sunday morning homes.

Of course, this story is as integrally part of the past 2000 years as the prodigal son’s story. The church has a long history of eating its own young—of inquisitions and crusades, not just against the pagans and infidels “out there”—but inquisitions and crusades against its own who have been deemed pariahs for reasons far too numerous to list here.

I’m a church historian by avocation and I knew those stories very well. The pages of history are full of the systematic burning of heretics by the church. That is dramatic. Less dramatic is the inquisition by gas-lighting. The term, though not particularly recent, wasn’t in my vocabulary until those who were experiencing it started using it. For the most part, I didn’t get it. Hypersensitivity to critique was the explanation I silently placed over those stories.

And then I began to experience it myself- as I associated with excluded people- and worse, identified with them.  I did so, innocently, as it were, because the heart of Jesus’ Good News is so explicit- so often repeated and so universal, compelling and evocative.  “Come all who are weary, and I will give you rest” is Jesus’ explicit invitation. And Jesus didn’t just say that- He went out of His way to demonstrate that sweeping, expansive invitation by His actions.  He went out of His way to associate with all the “wrong” people. And Jesus was famously critiqued for this, of course. All of us “Sunday morning people” know that story like the back of our hands.

For me, Jesus’ invitation speaks to exactly that longing for a safe place, a home, and a time that Sunday morning represented in my own spirit. It seemed to me to be a self-evidently universal invitation to all weary people.

And then, I was no longer welcome in the place I’d called home. It was shocking and deeply counter-intuitive to my spirit when it happened. Surely, as someone who had spent his life working to build a truly safe Sunday- being pressed out the doors he built couldn’t be happening to me. But it was. There was no denying it- though I tried. I was subtly pressed out of the specific local doors of the Sunday I’d physically built and watched over for 33 years.

Meanwhile, I was also being pushed explicitly- not subtly out of the doors of the larger church family I’d been actively part of for my whole life- excluding my prodigal period. That, too, was shocking. 

Being naïve, I tried to query the leaders who were pushing me to the door. “What have I said or done that warrants this treatment?”

“That isn’t easy to explain - but we know you don’t fit into our Sunday morning if you keep identifying with those we deem outside.” It wasn’t a subtle message.

And that is where Rachel Held Evans’ “Searching for Sunday” tells the story of the season I am in now. A warm walk on an early Sunday morning does lift my spirit. I don’t need to be behind a specific set of doors at a specific hour of the week to have rest for my weary soul. We all know that and repeat it endlessly.

But is that as true as the cliché seems to indicate? Today, it doesn’t feel true. In my spirit, I know that, like Rachel Held Evans, I too am- “searching for Sunday.”

That is why, nearly a year ago, we opened the Sunday morning doors of The Ark. It came out of my own need to have a place and time -  a time and place dedicated to tuning and tuning again, in small and large adjustments, my orientation on the eternal Way.

The eternal Way is the Bible’s description of congruence with Creator. It is a Way that everyone knows about, is the right Way, even when they like the prodigal son, chose not to walk in it. It is the Way - even when its markers aren’t clear. And it is the Way when the path is harder than I feel capable of.

And the Way can be a hard path. Jesus’ invitation “Come all who are weary” is part of a fuller message that doesn’t presume a life of lounging poolside in eternal bliss - “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”  Good. Don’t we all need that rest? I know I do.

But Jesus completes His invitation- “Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30). Jesus’ path can and does challenge our capacity.

Now, for 2 months The Ark does not have a time and place. But this is not a time of hibernation.

The Ark remains there to help the prodigal hear and understand the Creator’s voice: “Come home, all who are weary.”

The Ark keeps putting out the call to those wounded and pushed out of the Sunday morning doors of the very place Jesus instructed His followers to create- a place of healing and rest and of hearing Creator say, - “Your hard service has been completed” (Isaiah 40:2).

And The Ark is also a place to join us - working at the task of the prophets of old- “In the wilderness prepare the way for the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God” (Isaiah 40:3). Saying something is a safe place, a sanctuary to use Bible language - is easy. But far too many have heard that exact invitation, only to find glass ceilings.  Building Isaiah’s straight path and removing obstacles on that road is a task we desperately need help with.

So, if “Sunday morning coming down” or “Searching for Sunday” resonates in your heart in the next two months, connect with our team. We need help clearing obstacles on the eternal way—even as we are trying to walk it ourselves.

Pride Reflections- June 2024

This past Sunday, our church, The Ark, did not gather at its normal time and place but walked with our queer friends and allies and their friends in the local Pride parade.  It felt so right.

This is the 10th time Janet and I have joined our local Pride family in its annual gathering in Nanaimo.

The first time was far more tenuous for us. My new friend E.T., then head of Nanaimo’s Pride organization, invited us to come and see. It was a simple enough invitation but felt strangely momentous.  It was an invitation to a world we knew and talked about and had begun to try to understand- but this invitation felt like it came to a place as distant from “home” as we could imagine.

And now a friend was inviting us- as if this were just another community group- like the youth soccer and school associations we were part of. And why not go?

E.T. and I had met because we were antagonists on opposite sides of a local war between the evangelical churches I was a leader in and the local gay community she was a leader in. Out of that encounter, we’d become friends. So why not take up the invitation? On what basis would I not? I didn’t have an honest answer.

So we went to the Pride picnic, wondering about this strange “new” world we were stepping into. Even as we went, it occurred to me that this was exactly how the post-Christian denizens of our fair city must feel when they receive an invitation to a church event.

The picnic was shocking in its ordinariness and, from our end, winsomeness. It was no different from the picnics our church puts on regularly, with families doing all the ordinary picnic things. Strange.

Of course, being the visible guests of a leader meant we were introduced—“These are James and Janet. They are the pastor couple of a local church.” The looks and responses felt like a mirror of our own spirits—polite but cautious and a little surprised. They were surprised because we, too, were far less sinister in appearance and posture than they had visualized. Shock at the banal face of one’s enemy when it is encountered is as ancient as humanity itself.

E.T. was extraordinarily brave in not only extending the invitation to us but also graciously introducing us as her friends, as if we were just ordinary people—which, of course, everyone knew we were not.

This year’s Pride Parade was sunny and warm, and the crowd was joyful, warm, and overflowing. It had not always been so. There were times when the community's pain and anger were raw and on full display. There were also times when their enemies loudly and aggressively showed up. “Repent or go to hell!” was shouted out with great authority and enthusiasm—in words and banners.

But this year, it felt merely normal in the best sense.  The beautiful vision of the Biblical prophet Micah came to me- “Everyone will sit under their own vine, and their own fig tree, and no one will make them afraid, for the Lord Almighty has spoken.” Micah 4:4

Even as I basked in the day's spirit, I knew that dark clouds and, worse, remain in the land- especially in the religious community I am part of.  Few of them have had my experience and journey- frankly, having had it myself, I was now part of their dark clouds and worse.

And I also knew that the pain of the queer community, while not on display this time- is real and continues and remains tragic- and must not be ignored.

Behind the warmth of the day is a long history of rejection, both aggressive and active and passive and persistent.

The vision of another Biblical prophet came to me- as a prayer and behest- for a crier to my people- who “will go on before the Lord, in the spirit and power of Elijah, to turn the hearts of the parents to their children.” Luke 1:17

What’s our hope and dream for The Ark?

That The Ark does become a safe home for our queer friends, their families and their allies here in Nanaimo. That safety in word and deed will become part of the fabric of the life of a healing community of real people with flesh and blood, with a time a place that both is and visibly demonstrates safety and healing. And that it becomes the place for planting gardens that nurture and produce life.

Even as we at The Ark prepare to step back from regular Sunday meetings after June 16th  until September- may we continue preparing for our mission. 

And what do I wish my evangelical religious family could see? I wish they could understand the plaintive sign on one of the floats that speaks to humanity's common quest: “There's No Place Like Home.”

I wish they could see women standing on the parade route  with signs that read- “Mom hugs if you need one.” Maybe then they would hear the words of the prophet and stop rejecting their queer children and congregants.

I wish they would see queer people being squeezed through the hole of a theological puzzle that has captured their imaginations.

Then I wish they would join us in the Pride parade next year and walk with their brothers and sisters, fellow beings truly created beautifully in the image of Creator God.

(James Toews, The Ark Pastor)

Next week we are back at Costin Hall at 11 am.