Then I heard the Lord’s voice saying, “Whom should I send, and who will go for us?”

I said, “I’m here; send me.”

Isaiah 6:8 (CEB)

This post originally appeared as part of the email devotional ministry of the Portico Collective.

I spent most of Hurricane Harvey sitting on the same couch that I am writing this from. The nice, comfortable, dry couch in my nice, comfortable, dry living room in my nice, comfortable, dry house. I did this for a number of reasons.

• The city officials told people to hunker down to wait out the storm.

• It was raining. A lot.

• My street, and streets around me, spent a significant portion of Friday through Tuesday functioning as rivers rather than thoroughfares. (This is actually an intentional design function of our road system here.)

• I don’t have any special skills, nor a boat, nor am I a first responder.

• A very large oak tree fell across one of the two roads out of my house.

Pretty good reasons, right? You know what they didn’t prevent?

Feeling like a dark mass of guilty nervous energy as I cooked things, watched Netflix, and hung out with my wife and my three dogs.

I say this to tell you that you don’t have to be in another part of the country or the world to feel an overwhelming sense of powerlessness in the face of this disaster. We are feeling it here, too. Even though we are crying, “here I am, send me!” many of us are finding that there aren’t neat and easy and accessible ways to respond.

Our need to be helpful and to do so on our own terms doesn’t often end well in times of disaster. The sentiment of people who are hellbent on donating supplies instead of money is a common one. Also common? Stories of unnecessary donations overwhelming the infrastructure and logistics of recovery efforts, and countless donations going to waste.

So what the heck do we do after we say, “Here I am Lord, send me?”

Research. Ask. Listen.

The things that have happened here are really, incredibly traumatic. We would love to be reminded that people all over are pulling for us.

Know somebody in Houston? Reach out and tell them you love them. Ask them what they need.

Want to help? Nobody likes this response, but we could really use some cash. Money given to organizations like the United Methodist Church’s UMCOR gets to the disaster and makes a huge difference in long and short term recovery.

Really want to come help? Line up someone to work with first. I know, that’s lame. So was hiding in my house. But it wasn’t lame to avoid becoming someone who needed saving because I got in over my head out of a well-intentioned desire.

Still certain you want to make in-kind or material donations? Figure out what the shelters are asking for, and don’t turn your nose up at the requests. Sometimes, the best thing you can give really and truly is a box of tampons.

One last thing: pray for us. For real. Recovery work is long. It’ll be happening for years to come. We’ll need support: physical, emotional, and spiritual long after the news crews leave.

I can't sleep. My alarm will go off in a few hours and I'll get to gather together with faithful people seeking to find deeper meaning and connection to God in a broken world that looks especially ugly today.

When the world feels like it's on fire, I can't help but think about what I know is true about the God of Jesus.

God is incomprehensibly, recklessly, absurdly committed to a boundless sort of love. A love that nobody can hide from, that pursues us relentlessly. And that is true for every last one of us.

But this reckless and absurd love is not impartial.

In the midst of pain and hurt, God picks sides. But God doesn't pick sides the way the world does.

If you are scared and hurting tonight because of the color of your skin, the country of your birth, or the accent of your voice, God is on your side.

If you are mad as hell that somehow, in 2017, thousands of people are reviving anti-Semitic, anti-minority, anti-immigrant cheers and thoughts and actions, God is on your side.

If you had the courage to peacefully stand up to people with racist, white supremacist, bigoted beliefs, God is on your side.

If you were plowed into by a car driven into the crowd, killed or maimed by hate-crazed violence, God is on your side.

If your little island finds itself a pawn in the angry posturing of world leaders and you are living in constant fear for what tomorrow brings, God is on your side.

These are things I know to be true because of how I read my Bible. Because again and again and again the God I worship looks at conflict and hate and pain and picks the side of the underdog, the despised, the outclassed outcast, and says, "this is where I will stand."

There is hope here for all of us. Even those of us who don't find ourselves in the people with whom God is standing.

Because God's grace is available to all people. Full stop. No exceptions.

Because all of God's beloved children are called to stand on God's side, no matter where their birth family or life circumstance places them.

Because God's kingdom is real and present and right now and forever, and it compels us to grab a hammer and start building.

God's heart breaks tonight. My heart breaks tonight. So I will pray with my eyes closed tight, and then I will open them wide. I will open them wide, seeking to see the world the way God does:

As a place to build a kingdom of peace and justice. As a place where people don't find themselves superior based on the color of their skin or the nation on their passport. As a place where the lion lies down with the lamb.

The Good News will triumph. This is as true today as it was yesterday. It will be true tomorrow. But this does not let us off the hook; it does the exact opposite.

It compels us to live boldly. Fearlessly. Justly.

And it compels those things now.

–N

On Sunday, I got to preach a sermon where I told one of my favorite stories about my grandmother and her “pizza plant.” It’s really fun to be in the place with a new congregation where we are still learning about each other: Who we are, where we’ve been, and where we’re going.

This reminded me of an exercise I did as part of a pastoral leadership development program I’m in. We were asked to write a poem about our spiritual biography. Remembering Gigi and Aiee (what I called/call my grandmothers) was as pretty special thing for me, so I saved the poem. After you read it, I encourage you to think about who shaped your faith and your story. Write it down, and, if they’re still living, share it with the people who have helped make you who you are!

 

It’s my grandmothers.

There have been others

and there have been places

and there have been experiences

and there was that time the cross fell at CAC,

and the conversations with Jay,

and the broken cement mixer in Juarez

that made me pretty sure

I

was

going

to

die

but it’s my grandmothers.

 

Yes the Hindu one, too.

 

I learned to pray in Sunday school, I guess.

But to really pray,

To take the big questions and the ideas

and the words about God

and the readings from seminary

and the anger

and the love

and the scary stuff;

That was all about talking to Gigi all these years after she died.

 

Aiee taught me that God shows up when you throw a party.

That faith and friends and fun and life are totally linked.

That it’s more important to take the fruits and throw them off the bridge

Or to go to the temple and be blessed before moving across the country,

Than to know the particulars of Hindu eschatology.

That love is transcendent and people are weird.

And that God shows up when you throw a party.

 

The other stuff matters.

 

But.

Really,

it’s my grandmothers.

 

 

–N

 

 I’m gon’ praise him, praise him till I’m gone

I’m gon’ praise him, praise him till I’m gone

When the praises go up, the blessings come down

When the praises go up, the blessings come down

It seems like blessings keep falling in my lap

It seems like blessings keep falling in my lap

I don’t make songs for free I make ’em for freedom

Don’t believe in kings, believe in the kingdom

Chisel me into stone, prayer whistle me into song air

Dying laughing with Krillin saying something ’bout blonde hair

Jesus black life ain’t matter, I know I talked to his daddy

Said you the man of the house now, look out for your family

He has ordered my steps, gave me a sword with a crest

And gave Donnie a trumpet in case I get shortness of breath

Chance the Rapper, “Blessings”

Sunday night I saw Chance the Rapper in concert with 16,000 people in Cynthia Woods Mitchell pavilion.
For those of you thinking, “I didn’t think you were nearly cool enough to go to a Chance the Rapper concert,” you would ordinarily be right! But some friends of ours invited Sarah and me to come with them, and we did. Thank God we did. 

Because it was incredible. I am a nerd and I didn’t know anything about Chance the Rapper, so I did extensive research about who he is (aka I read his Wikipedia page). I listened to some of his music on Spotify. 

Then I watched a performer be incredibly spiritual and vulnerable on stage, slipping between performance and prayer, acknowledging pain in his life, and building to an altar call. 

Interspersed between the praise songs, prayers, and sharing about the death of a family member were songs like “We Don’t Do the Same Drugs No More,” clouds of pot smoke, songs full of language that some folks might find offensive, and other things you’d expect at a giant concert. And in profiles in GQ and other places, Chance doesn’t shy away from substance use. 

But in the song “Music is All We Got,” Chance the Rapper fought back tears as he substituted in “Jesus is all I got” for one of the refrains. 

But three or four times Chance slipped from performing artist to child of God deep in prayer. I know this, because I had never seen someone command a stage and cover ground like he did, moving and engaging the audience and captivating 16,000 of his closest friends. But then he would shrink himself down, close his eyes, nod his head and with both hands on the mic clearly start talking with God. Even from the lawn at a giant concert, it felt incredibly intimate.

But there was an altar call at the end of the service in his reprise of the song “Blessings” (apparently this happens at most of his concerts). “If you feel like you were brought here for a purpose tonight; if you feel like you were brought here for a reason tonight, turn to Him. Turn to Him.”

It’s 2017. I know statistics about church attendance, especially amongst younger people. And let’s be real, I was an old guy at a Chance the Rapper concert. Most of the people around me were not in a church that morning, and this concert was full of overtly Christian language, ideas, and even directives from the stage. And the people around me were incredibly receptive. 

Chance the Rapper was preaching the Gospel and people were listening. Thousands and thousands of people. 

In the church, we often feel like the world doesn’t want to hear what we have to say. But I can’t help but wonder…

Why can so many people show up to a venue on Sunday night and hear the Gospel in a profound way?

How would we respond if somebody like Chance the Rapper or his 16,000 fans showed up on Sunday morning? 

I made it through, made it through, made it through
And everything I gave to you, I gave to you, I gave to you
You got it, you got it, you got it, it’s coming, coming, coming
So are you ready?

Are you ready for your blessings?
Are you ready for your miracle?

Chance the Rapper, “Blessings (Reprise)”

They prayed, “Lord, you know everyone’s deepest thoughts and desires. Show us clearly which one you have chosen from among these two to take the place of this ministry and apostleship, from which Judas turned away to go to his own place.” When they cast lots, the lot fell on Matthias. He was added to the eleven apostles.

Acts 1:24-26 (CEB)

to see the resolution discussed in this post, visit 18for20.wordpress.com

This past weekend, we celebrated the defining and central moment in the Christian faith: God’s redemptive work in the resurrection of Jesus Christ. In the next few weeks, we’ll share stories of the resurrected Lord during worship at churches all over the conference (and the church universal, too).

And then, a few weeks from now, we’ll remember the ascension, when Jesus returned to heaven. Do you know what comes next in our story?

The answer is a vote.

Well, prayer and then a vote, to be more accurate. Faced with the overwhelming responsibility of taking the message of the Gospel to the world, the followers of Jesus prayerfully considered two men to fill the role of twelfth apostle, and then cast votes.

I think that United Methodist Christians should approach our election of delegates to general and jurisdictional conference with the same reverence and awe as the first Christians.

Several months ago, I started meeting and praying and thinking with a group of pastors from around the Texas Conference. We’re from all over the map geographically, theologically, politically,  and in terms of age and appointments. But we’re all people who want to be deeply intentional and prayerful with the election of our next delegation. With the coming 2019 special session of general conference, it is imperative that we approach the election of the people involved in decision making about the future of our church with prayerful humility and thoughtful discernment.

As we came together, we realized a few things:

• We should start praying, talking, and thinking about how we elect delegates now.
• We are in a historic, crazy time in the history of the UMC, and so we should be really intentional.
• There will likely be a lot of weighty things at the 2020 General Conference, so giving that delegation time to grow together and learn would be a really good thing.

In light of these things, we decided that electing our 2020 delegation in 2018 would be a really good thing. This will allow the 2020 delegation to attend 2019 as observers, to be fully versed in the outcomes there and better prepared to “hit the ground running” in 2020. I am excited about this possibility, excited about the future of our church, and excited most of all about the conversations people are having about our beloved denomination. It’s good to have holy conferencing and conversations!

I’m supporting this resolution, and so are a lot of people who are much smarter than I am. I invite you to do so, too!

–N

Finally, brothers and sisters, good-bye. Put things in order, respond to my encouragement, be in harmony with each other, and live in peace—and the God of love and peace will be with you. Say hello to each other with a holy kiss. All of God’s people say hello to you. The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all.

2 Corinthians 13:11-13 (CEB)

Nobody is better at saying goodbye than Paul. He ends so many of his letters with words that inspire, instruct, convey love, and are also clear in their finality.

And that makes sense, since the Tentmaker from Tarsus spent his whole ministry on the move, listening for where God was calling him to go next. Sometimes it was another community, sometimes it was somewhere familiar.

Sometimes it was back into a jail cell.

Thankfully, it is much easier to be a United Methodist Elder than to be Paul of Tarsus. But still, I’ve found myself in a position where I am saying goodbye to a community I love.

The bishop and cabinet of the Texas Conference have appointed me to be the senior pastor of St. Stephen’s UMC in the Garden Oaks/Oak Forest neighborhood of Houston starting July 1. Sarah and I are unbelievably excited to learn what God is doing in the people of St. Stephens and the surrounding community. We can’t wait to join into the life of the St. Stephens community.

But saying goodbye is hard. St. Peter’s has been so, so good to me these past four years.

Thank you for showing me so clearly what a church full of people who love each other looks like.

Thank you for celebrating with me when I met, fell in love with, and married Sarah.

Thank you for teaching me what it means to be a pastor.

Thank you for standing with me at my ordination.

Thanks for encouraging and shaping me as a preacher, teacher, and leader.

Thank you for letting me make mistakes.

Thank you for letting me take risks with you that succeeded.

Thank you for giving me mentors, role models, and friends that will truly last a lifetime. I will carry a lot of who you are with me, because it’s part of who I am, too.

In the next couple months, I’ll say more personal goodbyes. But it really is hard to top Paul. So may the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all.

Then the Spirit led Jesus up into the wilderness so that the devil might tempt him. After Jesus had fasted for forty days and forty nights, he was starving. The tempter came to him and said, “Since you are God’s Son, command these stones to become bread.”

Jesus replied, “It’s written, People won’t live only by bread, but by every word spoken by God.”

After that the devil brought him into the holy city and stood him at the highest point of the temple. He said to him, “Since you are God’s Son, throw yourself down; for it is written, I will command my angels concerning you, and they will take you up in their hands so that you won’t hit your foot on a stone.”

Jesus replied, “Again it’s written, Don’t test the Lord your God.”

Then the devil brought him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their glory. He said, “I’ll give you all these if you bow down and worship me.”

Jesus responded, “Go away, Satan, because it’s written, You will worship the Lord your God and serve only him.” The devil left him, and angels came and took care of him.

Matthew 4:1-11 (CEB)

This may not surprise folks who know me well: I really like food. I like to eat it, cook it, talk about it, plan it, make it for 100+ people, share stories over it, think about it, I even used to blog about it. 

And so hopefully I’m not biting off more than I can chew by taking on fasting as a spiritual discipline during Lent this year. By fasting, I don’t mean doing what my Muslim friends do during Ramadan (consuming nothing from sunup till sundown). Or what tradition tells us that Jesus did, which is more or less consume nothing for 40 days before staring down the devil.

I may love food, but I don’t always have the best relationship with it. I eat when I’m bored. I make unhealthy choices regularly. I sometimes decide that even though I love to cook, it’s much easier to eat a sleeve or two of crackers and cheese for dinner than to make something that’s, you know, good for me.

So I’m going to simply and clean up my act this lent. I’m going to eat less often, eat better, and only eat the following things:

Vegetables.

Fruits.

Meat.

Eggs.

While I certainly expect to see some health benefits, I’m really hoping for a clearer mind that I can turn towards Christ. Each and every time I wish I had a tortilla or a cookie, I’ll (attempt to) stop, pray, and think about what I might do to help bring about the Kingdom of God. This is obviously very different than whining about a lack of tacos.

In worship at St. Peter’s this Lent, we’ll be talking about spiritual disciplines including fasting during our “Spring Training” series, and I’ll be reflecting on how this clean eating fasting is going for me, and what I’m learning about myself and God. I hope you’ll check back in with me! I also challenge anyone reading this who participates in the season of Lent to take something on that you can use to turn your head and heart to the places God might be calling you to look this season.

Brothers and sisters, don’t say evil things about each other. Whoever insults or criticizes a brother or sister insults and criticizes the Law. If you find fault with the Law, you are not a doer of the Law but a judge over it. There is only one lawgiver and judge, and he is able to save and to destroy. But you who judge your neighbor, who are you?

James 4:11-12 (CEB)

Confession: I have never understood the anger people feel about “political correctness.” Clearly I’m missing something, because I see over and over again people excited about people who  cut through political correctness and “speak their minds.” The anger folks feel about the tyranny of the PC is real, even if I don’t get it.

The folks over at the source of all knowledge, Wikipedia, say that:

Political correctness (adjectivally: politically correct), commonly abbreviated to PC,^[1] is a term which, in modern usage, is used to describe language, policies, or measures which are intended not to offend or disadvantage any particular group of people in society. In the media, the term is generally used as a pejorative, implying that these policies are excessive.

Wikipedia

I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why addressing people as they want to be addressed, that addressing individuals as individuals and refusing to lump groups of people together is a cause of pain and frustration for people.

Maybe I don’t get it because political correctness matters to me personally, because I am biracial and an immigrant’s child. But I don’t look that way. So when I tell people about my heritage, about my love of my grandmother’s chapatis and my regular itch to get some pakora and samosas for dinner, they look at me with skepticism. I had an Indian friend in college who didn’t believe that I was half Indian until he saw me eating leftover idli and chutney out of a ziplock bag.

People have, upon learning of my heritage, told me a number of times, “You’re white to me.” And, I mean, half-Indian half-white biracial is a mouthful. So “white-ish” is easier.

Learning someone’s name from an unfamiliar language, or a little bit about their customs or culture can be challenging, too. Calling all Latinos and Latinas Mexicans or all Asian people Chinese is easier.

Learning and using a person’s preferred gender pronouns can be an awkward conversation. Calling people he or she depending on what you think they “ought” to be is easier.

Jesus walked up to a Samaritan woman at a well in the middle of the day and talked to her deeply about who he was, who she was, and the joys of a life shared in God. Avoiding a meeting with an oft-divorced mixed breed outcast would have been easier.

Painting with a broad brush and categorizing people based on one or two characteristics is easy and comfortable. But it is so profoundly based in judgement and dehumanization, and stands against the very heart of the Gospel.

Treating people as individuals and calling them who and what they want to be called is not just a nice gesture. It removes us from the seat of judgement we have no right to occupy. It also helps us find unexpected, new ideas and joys and friends in unlikely places.

 

“When we don’t know what to do, we know what to do.”

-Bishop Cynthia Harvey quoting Louisiana United Methodists (source)

When you start pretty much any job I know of, your job description includes, “other duties as assigned.” This is certainly the case in pastoral ministry. On Monday, my “other duties as assigned” included being a hot shot driver, as I delivered 250 cleaning buckets to Marshall, Texas to help that community clean up from the recent flooding along the Texas/Louisiana border.

Cleaning buckets are an UMCOR standard, and are really helpful to people mucking out their homes or businesses following natural disasters. UMCOR, for folks who aren’t fluent in Metho-babble, stands for United Methodist Committee on Relief; it’s our disaster and humanitarian relief organization, and it is awesome.

As I was driving  home to the smooth, smooth sounds of a vibrating, rattling, whining box truck, I started thinking about the quote at the beginning of this post. Given their geography and history, I’m sure Louisiana United Methodists are as good as it gets at responding to crisis.

But you know what? In general, the United Methodist Church is really, really good at responding when it’s really, really bad. In moments of humanitarian or natural disaster, United Methodist Christians from all theological perspectives and parts of the world spring into action to work together quickly, faithfully, and decisively. In these moments, we look like the sort of people who are truly committed to building the Kingdom of God.

If only we could behave the way we do in the midst of disaster when we come together to try and set a structure and a vision for our church in our quadrennial General Conference meetings. If we were able to work together, to focus on our shared commitments and set a course for our church that allows us to all faithfully do the work we’re called to do. The United Methodist Church could really take a lesson from ourselves, we could learn from what we do when we don’t know what to do.

Because we aren’t just flying by the seat of our pants in the face of disaster. Prior to being elected bishop, Bishop Harvey was in charge of the United Methodist Committee on Relief. She assumed this role in the midst of tragedy. The Deputy General Secretary prior to her was a man named Sam Dixon. Dixon died in Haiti during the catastrophic earthquake in 2010. Rev. Dr. Dixon was in Haiti before the earthquakes doing humanitarian work.

The United Methodist Church does such good relief work because we do an incredibly good job of building our infrastructures and systems that allow us to respond quickly and effectively. We have people on the ground before disasters strike, and we have built a system that allows every dollar given to disaster recovery to go to that work. And Methodists from all around the connection trust in UMCOR to do its work well.

But at General Conference, this is not what our work together looks like. We are a global church with a rich and diverse theological history held together by our Wesleyan heritage and our unique polity and governance structures. But lately, instead of celebrating that and finding ways to support it, we yell at each other about sexuality for two weeks, don’t address any of our other issues, and leave feeling wounded and even further divided.

Many people of my own theological perspective, one which seeks full and meaningful inclusion of LGBTQ people into the life of the United Methodist Church, feel as if our current doctrine and structures keep us from fully engaging in the kind of work we are called by God to do.

Many people of a theological perspective which views homosexuality as sinful feel as if changing our rhetoric on this subject would be catastrophic to our church and take us away from our historical values.

Both of these viewpoints are deeply held and serious, biblically-based convictions. But they don’t just keep us from coming up with a way forward as it relates to issues of human sexuality. We don’t trust each other, so all proposals for any sort of change or development that would help create a church structure better able to address our rapidly changing world become a referendum on sexuality. And it’s killing us.

I hope for a day in which we realize our common goals, in which we make authentic space for the whole of United Methodism to do God’s work in the world, to make disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world.

What if we responded to slow-moving crises the way we respond to fast-moving ones? What if we did the hard and necessary work of developing an infrastructure that allowed us to work boldly and decisively for the Kingdom of God?

I pray that we realize that we are a people who know what to do when we don’t know what to do. And I pray that we get to work doing it!

On Easter Monday, I tweeted this:

Thank the Lord, we are resurrection people!!

— Nathan Bledsoe (@RevNayte) March 28, 2016

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I’ve also continued to wish people Happy Easter, not only because I’m a fan of the liturgical calendar which says that we’re in the midst of the Easter season (it STARTS Easter Sunday, it doesn’t end there), but because there’s a tendency in our faith to spend precious little time in the midst of resurrection.

The world we live in tells us a story of pain and sadness, grief and loss. This story ends on a Friday, and it doesn’t end well. It ends with the God of the universe strung up on a tree, killed for insisting upon love in a world that insists upon almost anything else. So here’s the thing that bothers me:

I feel like the church lets the story that the world likes to tell be the story we tell, too.

We obsess ourselves with the tragedy of the cross. We preach about it. We teach about it. We talk about it, think about it, and pray about it.

And we should, because to be loved by a God so committed to us that God’s own self was subjected to torture, pain, and execution is worthy of contemplation.

But I don’t go to church on Sundays because of the cross.

To obsess ourselves with death and the cross denies the Good News, the Gospel, the fact that our faith doesn’t end with death on a tree.

Because the climax of the Christian faith is that in the face of death, God told a new story.

Yes, your pain is real, God said. Yes, insisting on love and life in a world interested in very different things will lead to death, God said. But then God said something else, too.

Death can’t stop life, God said.

I go to church on Sundays because of the empty grave.

I follow a God who became fully human, lived a life entirely of service, love, and healing, and got killed for it.

But, even if that’s the part we remember to talk about, it’s not the part that makes us whole. Because the empty grave sets us free.

Because life in Christ doesn’t mean skipping the part of the story that is painful, difficult, and deadly. It’s knowing that the cross is not the climax.

Thank the Lord, we are resurrection people!