Closing Ceremony

This is my last newsletter article as your pastor which means that it’s also … AWARDS TIME! Yes, it’s that time in which I look back and reflect on the best (and worst) moments of my pastoral appointment at Kessler Park UMC.

Before we begin, let me say that it has been sheer joy to serve as your pastor. It’s truly been a great appointment, and I have appreciated every moment of it. Thank you for your generosity, your kindness, and your patience.

But now to the awards …

Best Worship Moment: I have a multitude of specific memories from our worship together, including all the special services for Holy Week and Christmas, as well as funerals, weddings, and other times. But our best moments together were when we were at Holy Communion. There is no moment more sacred for a pastor than to serve the elements to each of his members, one by one. Over time, I knew what to expect from each of you — how some of you like to have the bread placed in your hand, others reach for it, some clasp my hand as I give it, some make the sign of the cross before receiving. I learned that Susan Baxley, Paige Bell, and Margot and Sylvie Tomerlin needed the gluten-free bread. I loved giving bread to small children and saying, “This bread shows you that God loves you!” There is nothing like the act of serving communion; thank you for receiving the sacrament from me these past five years!

Worst Creative Worship Idea: There are a lot of candidates in this category, I’ll admit. For example, I dressed up as Captain Bluetastic for a Children’s Time, brought a huge Jenga set onto the chancel, did an improv sermon with my comedy coach, and used all sorts of props. Some things worked, others didn’t. At least I tried to liven things up, right?! But probably the worst idea I tried — the one I cringe at when I bring it to mind — was a Christmas Eve children’s service a couple of years ago when I dressed up as a tour guide for Tony’s Holy Land Tours and led kids around the sanctuary visiting various scenes from the birth of Jesus. Probably the worst thing about it was my obnoxious faux Italian accent.

Favorite Children’s Time Moment: When Paige Bell was our Children’s Minister, she made the mistake of teaching the Hand Prayer to the children in worship. This is a method which involves a different kind of prayer corresponding to each different finger on one’s hand. From the moment she started, we all knew that disaster loomed … and sure enough, Grey Mecca was the one who proudly showed us all his middle finger!

Favorite Special Music: I loved hearing church members use their musical talents outside of the traditional music ministry. Some of my favorite memories include: Mattie Jette singing solo, a cappella, without a microphone because if she did, the roof would be blown off the building!; Nathaniel Ogren playing guitar and singing original compositions; Rob Ballard singing, “Give Me Jesus”; Jim Shoecraft singing “The Old Rugged Cross”; Hannah Price playing every time she was home from college; and every time any one of our children has ever sung, played piano, played violin, or performed in a musical. Honorable mention: even though this didn’t occur in a Sunday morning worship service, I was blown away by the woman who “played bowls” during Jeff Chandler’s memorial service. The music she made was intensely peaceful and calming.

Best Potluck Dishes: This is a dangerous topic because I am likely to leave out someone’s mother’s beloved casserole, but I’ll go out on a limb anyway. I will miss Oscar Brown’s BBQ meatballs which he brought in a crockpot. There were always leftovers which I managed to sneak home to the parsonage. I will also miss Mary Ann Climer’s gumbo and paella which also often happened to make it to the parsonage. Anything baked by Phyllis Smith is worth paying attention to; she often brought fresh-baked warm banana or pumpkin bread to staff meetings, for which I am eternally grateful. And by the way, Eugenia Williams always brought food, even if she never made it herself. She gets brownie points nonetheless.

Best Outdoor Event: Every chance I get, I remind y’all that your property is a blessing, one of the biggest assets that the church has for ministry and mission. I loved the various ways in which the church uses the campus for creating community, from movie nights to community picnics, from Stations of the Cross to Easter egg hunts. But my favorite outdoor event has to be the Palm Sunday service. I recall having the idea of bringing a live donkey to my first Palm Sunday service on the front lawn; the last two years, we’ve had a blues service on the east lawn. I hope you continue the tradition of outdoor worship at least once a year; it’s a beautiful way to take the church outside its own doors.

Finally, the category you’ve all been waiting for … Best Church Member! And the winner is …

You! Congratulations!!

My Useless Protest

Some of you might have caught a glimpse of me on the ten o’clock news on Sunday night. I took part in a demonstration outside of Cowboys Stadium with conducted a mock funeral in honor of two men recently killed by police officers — Botham Jean and O’shea Terry.

We wheeled two caskets up to the stadium. I was one of the pallbearers, dressed in my clergy robe and stole, along with a number of other pastors. A crowd of laypeople followed as mourners.

My friend, Rev. Dr. Michael Waters of Joy Tabernacle AME opened the service and gave several pastors an opportunity to pray, including Imam Omar Suleiman, another friend. Rev. Freddy Haynes of Friendship West Baptist Church gave the eulogy. Then we knelt in defiance of Jerry Jones’ insistence that his players always stand during the singing of the National Anthem. And then we left, as quietly as we arrived.

While at the stadium, I texted a longtime friend of mine. He’s always amused at my rabble-rousing. Here’s how part of our brief exchange went on Sunday evening:

Me: I might get arrested tonight.

Him: Why this time?

Me: (sent two photos of our procession)

Him: Useless protest

Useless protest?

I understand his complaint. If we measured street protests by the visible and discernible effects of such displays, then we might conclude that most protests are useless. And our little march on Sunday night was useless, in the sense that I doubt Jerry Jones was even aware of our presence. I am quite sure that neither Mayor Mike Rawlings nor Police Chief Renee Hall will make any decisions as a direct result of that event. I am not convinced that it will have any impact on the rapidly unfolding events in the Botham Jean investigation.

I can look back on a lifetime of showing up for protests and seeing very little results. After all, I remember marching against the very first Iraq war, back in 1990 in downtown Los Angeles. We went to war anyway.

Then again I marched in the gigantic downtown Dallas protest against President George W. Bush’s Iraq war many years later. That time, I was convinced that we could actually prevent the coming invasion. We went to war anyway.

I have appeared at various immigration rallies, against the Muslim ban and against family separation. Nothing has changed. I marched in the recent student march against gun violence, and even led a prayer vigil outside of the NRA convention this past summer. Nothing has changed.

So yes, protests and marches are “useless” if you’re looking for a quick result. They are a waste of a perfectly good evening if you want an immediate change.

I had to think seriously about whether I wanted to spend my Sunday evening outside of the stadium, or on my couch watching the game.

Yet showing up in the streets is not simply about forcing results. Protest is a complex animal. There are many good reasons to march in the streets. One reason I attended the Botham Jean protest was to show solidarity with African-American clergy. Police brutality affects their constituents much more directly than mine; when the shooting of an unarmed black man occurs, it is an existential crisis in their communities, not mine.

I am also acutely aware that, when a police officer shoots and kills an innocent victim, white folks are far more likely to trust the criminal justice process. African Americans and Hispanics feel quite differently. Their history has taught them to be wary of the process. I don’t understand this suspicion, so I try to put myself into situations where I can feel it for myself.

After spending time talking to the attorney for Jean’s family, and some of the clergy at the march, there are significant questions about the police department’s handling of the case. It’s clear that some media outlets in town were complicit with the police in releasing information about Botham Jean that would tarnish his reputation on the same day that his life was being mourned by hundreds of friends and family. My black colleagues taught me that this is common in these situations: “First, they kill the body. Then they kill the name.”

After the march, we all went home. Nothing changed.

Yet everything changed. I came home different. I came home with a new empathy and sensitivity for the situation of the African-American community in today’s America.

Let’s also recognize that thousands of people witnessed the weird sight of pastors pushing two caskets through the parking lot outside Cowboys Stadium. I anticipated that we might receive some hateful stares, rude gestures, or even some shouted curses.

Instead, people seemed to stop and stare reverently. Lots of people pulled out their phones to record the event. Some raised their fists in solidarity. Others said, “Thank you!” and “Amen!” They seemed to understand, if only momentarily, that there are some things going on in Dallas that are more important than a football game.

The action was seen by a larger group than even the fans who were present; video of the march was shared on social media, most of the local news stations covered it, and I can’t help but think that some people were talking about it around the water cooler this morning.

Then again, maybe it doesn’t really matter if it was “useful” or not. There is something valuable simply in the fact that it happened. A good protest is like a ritual; the value of it lies largely in doing it. It is a performed action, and it doesn’t depend on how many people participate in it.

A good protest is like Holy Communion, which is one of the most “useless” things we do. Think about it — we take a little crumb of bread, which doesn’t actually satisfy any part of our appetite, and we drink a few drops of grape juice, which is hardly enough to wet our throats. We’re supposed to believe that Christ is present, but there’s never any visible evidence that he actually shows up. And nothing changes because we’ve taken Communion; the world is still evil and broken. If an outsider were observing a Communion service, she might say, “Well, that was pointless.”

But you and I wouldn’t say that, would we? Because we participate in it. We eat the bread and drink the cup. We act in faith. We know in that holy moment that nothing changes … and yet everything changes.

That’s how I feel about Sunday night. It was glorious.