Landing On Your Feet

After Vacation Bible School this summer, Rev. Kay gave me a gift. It’s a little wind-up plastic monkey. When it’s wound up, it does backflips. Backflips!!!

And here’s the amazing thing — it lands on its feet every time. EVERY. TIME.

It’s become my favorite desk object.

Anytime I go through a rough patch, I wind that monkey up and watch him flip. I’m always amazed that he lands on his feet. In fact, there’s always a little bit of dramatic tension just before he jumps, because I worry that maybe this time he won’t make it.

But he always does.

I don’t know how he does it. Yet that’s how I want to be.

I always want to land on my feet. I never want to be brought so low by a circumstance or piece of news or life situation that I can’t get back on my feet and keep moving forward.

Compared to most people, I am extremely fortunate. I have been blessed with good health, and my family and friends have, too. My parents are still alive, and I’ve never lost anyone close to me yet. I have always had employment, and I’ve never worried about feeding my family. We’ve always lived in a secure and stable environment, and we’ve reaped multiple benefits from being American citizens.

However, I have had professional disappointments. Having to leave Cameroon was the most difficult thing I have ever had to do, and it caused me some personal distress. It took me several years to get over the pain of leaving early.

Somehow I “landed on my feet,” and regained a sense of purpose and meaningfulness again.

After leaving Cameroon, I experienced another major disappointment in my appointment to the church in Rowlett. As I rebooted my pastoral ministry in America, I ran into another obstacle when part of the congregation resisted my interactions with the Muslim community, as well as some of my public social justice work.

This, too, took the wind out of my sails, and I found myself reeling yet again.

But I “landed on my feet,” and found myself with the appointment of a lifetime — Kessler Park!

Ministry isn’t easy, of course. The grind of church politics and administrative minutiae sometimes makes me want to reconsider my life choices, but in the end, I come back to the call of God on my life. I remember that I am tethered to that call, and that it gives me meaning and purpose.

One of the Scriptures that has helped me “land on my feet” time and time again is a story at the end of the Gospel of John. Poor Simon Peter denied knowing Jesus three times on the night of his arrest, and he is still wrestling to absorb the fact that Jesus has risen from the dead. He finds himself sitting on the beach, when Jesus leans over and asks him, “Do you love me?” Peter is quick to respond, “Yes!” Jesus says, “Then feed my sheep.”

This exchange takes place three times. Each time, Jesus’ question is met by Peter’s “Yes!” Each time, Peter’s “Yes!” is met with Jesus’ command to feed his sheep.

Jesus concluded the conversation by saying, “Follow me.” Peter did, and it’s fairly obvious that he landed on his feet quickly. He weathered the personal storm, the shame of having denied his Lord, by becoming the de facto leader of the nascent Christian movement. He got on with the business of feeding the sheep, of leading the flock with a gentle and deft touch.

Every time I feel shame and insecurity, I imagine that Jesus is asking me, “Do you love me?” I always answer, “Yes of course, you know I do!” And he always replies, “Then feed my sheep, and follow me.”

You have to be on your feet to follow Jesus. That’s why I’m confident I’ll always find myself standing in the end.

Something's Happening Here

You have a lot of churches to choose from.

Let’s be honest — some of them have much better preachers than me. Some of them have better music programs; if you like rock music, there are churches that have services designed specifically for you. Some churches have much bigger choirs, orchestras, bands, and multiple children’s choirs.

There may not be many church buildings more beautiful than ours, but there are buildings that are bigger, with more comfortable seating, with big screens and fancy visuals, with bigger stained glass compositions.

Don’t get me started with the children’s and youth programs: some churches have built entire buildings to house those booming ministries. Some churches have rock climbing walls, castle playhouses, and gymnasiums for their kids; some even have entire departments staffed by multiple pastors.

Some churches have a lot more money than ours; they have famous people, athletes, big-name CEOs, and celebrities making regular donations. Some churches are so financially successful that their pastors have their own private jets.

There are churches that are high-church, with lots of liturgy, fancy robes, and incense; there are churches that are low-church, with simple prayers, hand-clapping, and shouted amens. Some churches are full of white people, while others are mostly brown or black, and some are even a diverse mix of colors.

And, yes, I suppose that some churches have more active laypeople, more volunteers, more competent members who have more time to give to the church.

You could attend any one of these many churches in the Dallas area. Or you could drive over to Fort Worth — it’s not that bad of a drive on Sunday morning.

You have a choice when it comes to which church you attend. I’m very aware of that fact. I’m always aware that other churches do some things much better than us, and I’m hyper-aware of the things that we don’t do very well at all, including myself.

But I’m beginning to understand that there is something very profound happening at Kessler Park UMC that is unique to this location, to this group of people, to this particular time in history.

We are becoming a community; we are slowly and gradually becoming a group of people who have been called together by the living God. Every single one of us belongs. There are others who haven’t arrived yet, but they’re on their way. In the meantime, we are growing together, and our commitment toward each other is becoming stronger and stronger.

Something has taken root within us, something which I would simply call “love.” I feel it among all of you — you really do love each other. You may not know every face in the sanctuary on a given Sunday morning, but you do your best to welcome, support, encourage, and strengthen each other.

Another word for this is koinonia, the word we use in our weekly liturgy before our “Sharing of Shalom.” Koinonia refers to the kind of fellowship and community which is the consequence of the unity of the Holy Spirit. We are beginning to live koinonia out, and the result is going to be something very special.

Keep loving each other, and keep widening the circle. God is working amongst us!

To Live a Ghost Story

Last weekend, our neighborhood was the site of the sixth annual Oak Cliff Film Festival. Thanks to a sponsoring church member, I had access to a VIP pass, which enabled me to attend quite a few films over the weekend.

I geek out over film festivals; my favorites are the shorts and documentaries. But this year, I also got to see the big closing feature film, “A Ghost Story,” written and directed by local David Lowery.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I saw our very own church members, Margot and Sylvie Tomerlin, in a scene! (Spoiler alert: they played pioneer kids in a covered wagon.) I have no doubt that one or the other will end up being a famous performer; remember that Margot is our star liturgical dancer!

The film itself was an eye-opener. Don’t let the title or the marketing materials fool you; this is not a horror film, nor even a suspenseful thriller. And the one best-known actor in the film, Casey Affleck, spends most of the film under a white sheet. To be honest, “A Ghost Story” fits more comfortably in the “arthouse” genre. But don’t let that designation fool you either — the film is accessible to anyone who has just a little more patience than the average “Fast and Furious” filmgoer.

It’s certainly a different kind of movie from most Hollywood fare. For example, a few of the scenes are single takes that last four or five minutes. In one instance, Rooney Mara, playing a bereaved young widow, walks into her apartment and eats an entire pie. The whole thing is captured in only two shots, each of which seem to last forever. But the scene portrays grief in the most authentic manner I have ever seen on-screen.

The film is also very quiet. There is little dialogue, not much background music. Only natural sounds of night and quiet meadows. And so it gives the viewer the chance to really engage, not only intellectually, but emotionally with the striking images.

Yes, the story is about a ghost. The ghost walks around with a white sheet over his head. It sounds gimmicky, but it works in a very interesting way. He doesn’t come across as spooky or ethereal. Rather, the ghost is a clear symbol of loss, of a void.

The ghost functions as a screen upon which the viewer projects his or her own fears about belonging and identity. As I watched the ghost, I found myself wondering about the weighty matters of faith, love, and spirit. It wasn’t so much about the question of the afterlife, but upon what remains when one dies.

This particular ghost found himself rooted to one specific space; his identity was tied up in one location in a very particular period of time. As the people and things which inhabit his space disappear over time, the ghost becomes more and more disoriented; he becomes rootless and restless.

The point is clear: we humans inhabit time and space. Everything we do is bound by our place on the earth, limited by the seventy or eighty years we are given. We can’t transcend those dimensions as human beings, no matter how much we may strive to make ourselves “immortal.”

Only God transcends the dimensions of space and time. And God’s revelation in Jesus Christ makes plain to us what ultimately lasts, what goes on into the distant future, beyond our limited lifespan. Three things remain in the end — faith, hope, and agape/love — says the apostle Paul (I Cor. 13:13).

What matters is faith — the unconditional trust that we place in God’s love.

What matters is hope — the undying flicker of possibility in the future, however distant.

What matters is agape — the love that gives unconditionally and completely to the other.

These are the things that go on, that remain.

I know that I will die someday. But I sure hope that I don’t find myself in a white sheet, loitering around the house long after my death. Instead, I hope to find myself in God’s presence, enjoying the shalom I have sought all my life.

And I pray that my acts of faith, hope, and agape will last for a little while, at least, if only to encourage those who come after me to do the same.