A Better Way To Pray Part 3

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This is the third in a series of posts on prayer. In the previous two articles, I’ve explored my challenges with traditional models of prayer (in light of my father’s cancer diagnosis, the rising tide of global violence and war, and illnesses within my community and congregation) and my search for a “better way to pray.” Here, I want to explore the transactional nature of prayer practiced in most congregations and how addressing this long-ingrained perspective might be a first step toward a more authentic prayer life. These thoughts are intensely personal and do not reflect the views of the United Methodist Church or any congregation of the United Methodist Church. This is me, Richard, reflecting on God, prayer, and our need to be heard when we’re hurting, seen when we’re celebrating, comforted when we’re crying, and companionship when we’re alone.

When we pray, are we talking to a person? I’m not thinking about Jesus as the second person of the Trinity. Instead, I’m thinking about God. We use the language of “divine personhood” when we delve deep into the weeds of Trinitarian theology. Yet, should we refer to God as a person in the same way you and I are people? Let’s take the word “person” off the table. It’s become more challenging for me to envision God as a person. It’s much easier for me to talk about God as a concept, idea, or something more extensive than the universe itself, the idea of God as a person no longer rings true. I also see a difference between “personal Gods” and the notion of “God as a person.” 

Humanity, Homo sapiens, has always wanted something to worship. However, this doesn’t mean God is a person. We do not have to borrow the language of psychology or philosophy to explain Trinitarian theology. Here we proceed cautiously; as Wittgenstein taught us, words matter.

Persons are limited beings, physically and intellectually speaking. God must be more than the total of our idea of all the traits of personhood. God must be more than we can imagine. To call God a person is to identify God as something less than God, an imitation deity, the “I can’t believe it’s Not God, God.” I do not believe in this traditional notion of a personal God any longer. Why? A personal God is not a real God. A personal God is a toy. A personal God is a reflection of us, our personhood, our self-interests, our limitations, our priorities, and our fears. A personal God is an idol. A personal God is a wholly owned subsidiary of the person you see staring back at you in the mirror. God is not a person. God is God. God belongs to no one. God may lay claim to our lives but we do not own God.

If God is not a person (in the traditional sense), then to whom are we praying? If God is not a person, how do we have a personal relationship (not my phrase, one I inherited from generations of church-going evangelicals who came before me) with an entity that is not a person but something that exists outside the idea of personhood? How do I ask something of, request, and insinuate that I need a favor from a non-personal cosmic entity operating on a scale grander than the number of stars visible to the naked eye? Maybe I don’t.

Is prayer just another transaction, albeit a spiritual one? Am I placing a call, sending an email, hoping that the person on the other end of the line receives the call or reads my message and decides to respond to my request? Yes, and yes. That’s how we approach prayer. In most of our congregations, this is how we do it. Think about the questions I asked last week concerning the Holocaust. Did the “person” on the other end of the line take the phone off the hook or refuse to answer their email for over ten years while 6 million people died? Persons said thousands of prayers in the gas chambers. Who was listening? What happened to those transactions? How can we even talk about the transactional nature of prayer when the answers (to those in particular) seem so haphazard and random? If God is a person choosing whom to listen to and whom to ignore, prayer certainly appears to be a gamble. How much time do we spend gambling, each week, in worship? If God is a person, we must either pray for everything or nothing. Suppose you intensely subscribe to the “God is personal” model. In that case, God appears to pick and choose who to listen to, and frankly, that’s depressing as hell. I’m starting to take that on-again-off-again approach to being a divinity, personally. I didn’t ask to be created but I sure would like to be listened to. I think the transactions I seek are worthy of God’s attention. What must I do to transact God’s blessings for my father’s health? I’d like more than word salad about free will, God’s plans, and how we don’t understand God’s mysterious ways.

What if prayer is not a transaction, a quid pro quo? What if prayer is not a “you say a name, hope God is listening, is in a good mood, and you’re in the spiritual black, so something positive might go your way kind of operation? What if prayer is a spiritual discipline, a holy habit, and a sacred conversation between persons on the faith journey? Now that might be a new way to pray. What if, instead of waiting on answers from God, we became the answers to our own prayers?

What if, in a spirit of vulnerability, we gathered to share our deepest concerns and our greatest joys with each other? What if we became comfortable with sitting in silence with one another? What if, in humility, we could express our fears and hear other members of the body of Christ? Would this not be a new way to pray? What if we read the words of those walked the journey before us, poets and mystics, the psalmist, and wisdom teachers? In listening to each other, are we not creating sacred personhood for those who dare to come to a holy place to know that their prayers are heard with a vital, emphatic, and loud AMEN?

–Richard Bryant

Stop This Crazy Thing: A Disaffiliation Prayer-Poem and Statement of Faith

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God is (somewhere)

Jesus is (love)

Jesus is not (the guy in your stained-glass window)

Faith is (hard)

Belief is (harder than faith)

God is not (a problem to be solved)

Faith is not (an either/or proposition)

Belief is not (perfect)

Scripture is (words)

Prayer is (more listening, less speaking)

Scripture is not (words taken out of context)

Prayer is not (a list of demands)

We are on our religious high horses.

We are not who we think we are.

Christianity is flawed.

Christianity is not what Jesus intended.

The Bible is a collection of history, poetry, myths, stories, and songs.

The Bible is not one book.

Fundamentalism is alienating those seeking Christian communities.

Fundamentalism is not what Jesus intended.

Selective Biblical literalism has been used to justify slavery, the oppression of women, and genocide.

Selective Biblical literalism is not Biblical.

Scriptural authority is a phrase most often used by authoritarians.

Scriptural authority is not a phrase that fosters honest dialogue.

These polarities ARE tearing us, me, and congregations APART.

Before, I am LAID upon the ALTAR of DENOMINATIONAL DISARRAY

Before I DISAFFILIATE from my SOUL, I ask,

I paraphrase the words of George Jetson,

“Stop THIS CRAZY thing.”

–Richard Bryant

Sinners United!

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When our concept of the church becomes more about memories of “place,” that is, memories tied to a building, events that occurred in a building, our family’s relationship with a building, and our sense of identity is intertwined with that place; we are in a relationship with a building not Jesus of Nazareth. I understand this when I have conversations with persons on both sides of the current debate within United Methodism who feel they are losing their church and believe they have already lost their church. Somewhere along the way, we stopped regularly emphasizing (to both adults and children) that the church wasn’t a building. Instead, the church was the people. The building, our property, our cemeteries, and our classrooms held no spiritual value other than the value given to them by the people who used them to share the Gospel. The instant we forget this reality, our churches become no different than the Lion’s Club, the Grange Hall, the VFW, or any other socially conscious community organization. Methodists have a short memory. We like our buildings and the control they’ve given us over who can and cannot come into God’s kingdom. But now that our facilities are up for grabs, many people aren’t sure of their place in God’s kingdom. That happens when you tie your idea of salvation to a plot of land, bricks, mortar, and faded photographs, even one with stained glass windows and a baptismal font your great-granddaddy carved.

Granted, some good times and moral moments may occur in these buildings. So do tedious and contentious committee meetings. Weddings, funerals, confirmations, and the like all happen under the roofs of our facilities. Yet even these holiest of services are about us and the Kodak moments of our lives. So, we squeeze a few scripture readings into weddings and funerals. Eulogies are about the deceased, and we offer a few words about resurrection, while the hymns point to us toward eternity. If either service lasts close to an hour, people will look at their watches. They want to get to the food. Wedding congregations don’t want to hear me explain what Paul meant about love or reflect seriously on the meaning of eternal life. In what should be our most sacred moments, some seek only a veneer of faith. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been told to keep the wedding to under twenty minutes, cut the scripture, and leave out the Bible verses because all ten cousins will give a eulogy for Uncle Earl. We wouldn’t want a wedding or funeral to be confused with a church service.

Now, as that veneer feels threatened, those who’ve wanted to use the church only in good and bad times and occasionally asked for prayer requests for distant relatives they have never seen are often the most threatened, angry, and ready to divide the United Methodist Church. Have they no shame?

The church is made up of flawed, sinful, and redeemed people. Therefore, we need everyone we can get, especially sinners. Sinners united, that’s what I say! We also need places to live, love, work, and welcome other sinners into our fellowships. However, the buildings are not a means to an end. They were never intended to be. You and I are on a journey. When we slow down, the moment we get comfortable, the church becomes more about our wants and less about Jesus. So, stop thinking about the building. We’ll find somewhere to gather.  What’s best for you, your memories, and your sense of place? What’s best for the legacy of the carpenter from Nazareth? There will be two fundamentally different answers. You’re going to want to go with the last one. If I’m sure of anything, I’m certain of that. 

–Richard Bryant

There Has To Be A Better Way To Pray

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This winter has been hard on my congregation. So many people are sick with COVID, respiratory viruses, and other diseases that it’s becoming difficult to keep up with everyone. When I combine my congregational concerns with my father’s recent lymphoma diagnosis, I start dropping the balls I’m supposed to juggle daily. I went so far as to create a spreadsheet of prayer concerns (versus a list). It didn’t help. Once I got them down on paper, isolated in illnesses, homebound and hospitalized, church members, family, and friends, adults and children, life-threatening and chronic conditions, humans and pets, Ukraine, and America, I was even more overwhelmed. Where do I start? At the top? With the sickest? With my dad? The sheer human misery before me is too difficult to describe. I’m at the point I don’t know what to say to God about these concerns because I don’t know what to say. I am literally out of words.

I gather with a small group of church members to pray through our concerns and celebrations each Thursday at 10 am. After a few moments of Lection Divina, we read through each name and concern on our church’s prayer list. There are nearly 100 names. I wonder why we are reminding an omniscient and omnipotent God of realities of this God is already fully aware of. The exercise feels pointless. If God requires the constant repetition of my father’s name and the fact that he has Leukemia to bring him daily healing and comfort, are we praying to a God? Or are we just talking to ourselves? Is prayer, in the means we’ve constructed it, little more than a supernatural protection racket? We keep giving God our best words in the hope of blessings and eternal security, so bad things don’t happen to us. There must be a better way to pray.

Is there a means of prayer that does more than make us feel better by acknowledging our helplessness in the face of illness and tragedy? Are there prayers where we partner with God to help those who pray create and become the answers to their prayers? It’s gotten to where I don’t look forward to asking for prayer concerns and celebrations in our worship services. These are the most soul-crushing minutes of our worship hour. I do not want to deny anyone the opportunity to share their concerns. Yet once we share our pain, the joy leaves our sanctuary like air from a punctured tire. Persons with blessings feel too ashamed to speak up because they feel their prayers aren’t worth mentioning considering the “serious” concerns previously shared. That’s wrong as well. We must rethink how we pray, for whose benefit we pray, and if we’re praying to be heard by God or each other.

The most honest and genuine prayer I’ve been able to offer recently is this: “Look!” “Help” hasn’t gotten me anywhere. I’ve settled on the model of the minor prophets. If I’m asking God anything, I’m asking God to do what I know God is already doing: see the mess we’re in and, if possible, relieve some of this interminable suffering. I’ll be glad to do anything. I am burned out. I can’t keep repeating names and recounting suffering. Something has to give. Point me toward one person who needs something tangible. That’s a doable place to start. We can answer prayers together.

–Richard Bryant

I’m Giving Up on Wearing Clerical Robes

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I have decided to give up on robes, vestments, and the like. This isn’t because I’ve been thrust into an ultra-contemporary setting that doesn’t do liturgical-style worship where these are out of place. This is entirely my decision. I don’t feel comfortable wearing them any longer. I have a closet full of cassocks, robes, albs, beautiful stoles, and even a chasuble or two. As a Methodist, I have a well-stocked religious wardrobe that I wore during the four years I served in the British Isles. I lived among Anglicans and dressed similarly. Back home, I wore a cassock, stole, and collar tabs on most Sundays. I’ve always considered myself a High-Church kind of guy. However, my attitude toward vestments (and worship in general) began to change during the pandemic.

I wondered, is this what Jesus intended? If Jesus were to walk into my congregation (wherever I happen to be serving at the time) and see me standing up front in a fancy black cassock or white alb, a stole over my shoulders, and maybe a pectoral cross around my neck, what would he say? Given what I know of Jesus, I started to think he might say, “Dude, what are you wearing? This is not at all what I intended.” Of course, I worked hard to earn the right to wear a robe and stole on Sunday morning, wear a clerical collar, and dress like a Roman Catholic priest, but that doesn’t make much sense to me anymore.

I could hear Jesus saying, “I was hanging out with my friends in my simple robes, sandals, and such, teaching, eating, and learning about the kingdom of God. Where did you get the idea that I wanted you to dress like a late 18th Puritan cleric once a week? Be honest, did you make this up or did a friend tell you this was cool?”

I know where the idea came from; I took church history, theology, and liturgy. After serving for two years in Russia, I know the vestments unique to Eastern Orthodoxy, Roman Catholicism, and my own tradition. I also understand that my beliefs have evolved. The “uniform” no longer makes sense to me. If Jesus walked into our churches, so much of what we say and do would look foreign, out of whack, and contrary to his vision of the kingdom of God. I’m reasonably sure Jesus never intended me to dress like a wannabe Dumbledore once a week. If you think about it, it’s a little weird.

I’m not sure the people we need to reach in 2023 will come back to churches led by women and men who dress like they stepped out of the Middle Ages. We just survived the medieval style plague; why dress the part too? Instead of wasting valuable catechetical time on why we dress the way we do or expecting people to simply accept our historical eccentricities, we could be talking about loving our neighbors as ourselves.

I’m all for removing any surplus weirdness from our church services. Don’t get me wrong; I will not dress like a slob or preach with my shirt untucked. My shoes will be shined, my shirt pressed, my pants ironed, and my blazer will be dry cleaned. But, we can still be relatable and present the gospel without looking like a disheveled character on a 90’s sitcom. 

Whatever clothes we’re issued in the afterlife, I sure hope it’s not the white robes described in the Book of Revelation. If I’m going to be there for eternity, I want to be comfortable. So count me out on the forever robe. I’m asking God for a hoodie, sweatpants, and crocs.

Besides, Sheriff Andy Taylor never wore a gun (or a necktie), yet everyone knew who he was. He was just Andy. From here on out, I’m just Richard, and I’m going to let my reputation speak for me.

–Richard Bryant

Saint Nick and Saint Luke

I do not believe in Santa Claus. I’m not sure I ever did. I’m uncomfortable with the traditional, metaphorical idea of Santa Claus that most adults hold once they’ve been let in on the lie. The idea of the strange, smelly man from the mall being allowed into our home (at one time by my parents, nonetheless) to leave Christmas presents around our tree, drink our milk, and eat a portion of our cookies, made me uneasy. To paraphrase the great country music singer Ronnie Milsap, I didn’t like the idea of a “stranger in my house.” I am an only child. I never felt more vulnerable and fearful than on the night of December 24th. Of course, I kept these feelings to myself for the most part. Everyone seemed oblivious to the realities of the impending break-ins that were about to occur.

We would eat dinner on Christmas Eve at my aunt’s home year. After eating a large meal and opening gifts from those on my mother’s side of the family, the conversation would start slowly shifting toward heading home. At about 8:30, someone would invariably say, “You need to hurry up and get home and get to bed, or Santa won’t come.” That was okay with me. I didn’t want him to come. I’d be OK with my parents shopping for me or buying my gifts. I didn’t want an unknown Scandinavian in my living room. I didn’t want to get home to stay up all night to encounter Santa to see him, the sleigh, and the eight tiny reindeer. I wanted to make sure the doors were locked. If he were going to leave anything for me and my house, he could leave it on the porch or by the front door.

Even as a young person, the math and physics of Santa Claus didn’t jive with reality. On Christmas Eve, the local television station would pick up radar transmissions from NORAD (a branch of the US Air Force charged with detecting incoming Soviet nuclear missiles) depicting Santa crossing Canada southward toward the United States. If I had been a Wiley Coyote-like godless Communist sometime in the mid-1980s, Christmas Eve would have been an ideal time to launch a sneak attack on the United States. America would have been unable to differentiate from all those Santa Clauses heading to North Carolina, Virginia, Texas, or Minnesota, and Soviet ICBM’s being launched toward major military bases.

But the biggest question of all was never answered. How did Santa go to every child’s house in one night? This out-of-shape old man performed an inexplicable feat, which was attributed to the magic of Christmas. He broke into locked homes, over dozens of time zones, delivered gifts, ate the regional equivalents of cookies and milk, wasn’t spotted, and we were expected to never question this preposterous lie. My parents, who’d worked hard to buy my gifts, stood around and watched me say “thank you” for a new X-Wing fighter to a man who didn’t exist. That’s what the tag said, “To Richard, From Santa.” Who was I to question the tag? How did they feel that an imaginary man was getting all the credit for their hard work?

I could never get it out of my mind that something was wrong with “the Santa Claus system” on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. There was something off about the whole process. You can’t build meaningful stories on bits and pieces of mythology and lies. Eventually, the entire story falls apart, especially when anyone starts to ask simple, common-sense questions. Christmas Eve is good. Christmas is even better. It’s when we start telling (and adding) these unnecessary lies about Santa Claus that mess up one of the greatest stories ever told.

We should stop lying to our children about Santa Claus. It’s messed up on so many levels. We should also stop putting so much emphasis on the unnecessary parts of Luke 2. We’ve retold these parts for so long that we don’t listen to them anymore. We’ve become numb and tuned them out. We pretend to listen. Thanks to Linus and the end of the Charlie Brown Christmas Special, our hearts are warmed by the simplicity and beauty of Luke’s narrative. We know to expect this soliloquy. Yet, when it happens, it’s like hearing Charlie Brown’s teacher on the phone, “wawawawa.” Some parts of what Luke tells us are beautiful and essential. Others, like the yearly rituals of Santa’s break-ins and cookie consumption, challenge common sense and historical evidence, need to be questioned, and undermine the critical message Luke conveys.

I don’t like lying to my congregation; I don’t like doing it year after year. But pastors do it with abandon, especially at Christmas. Luke got the date of Quirinus’ reign wrong. The census of Quirinus, the great administrative reason for putting Joseph and Mary on the road from Nazareth to Bethlehem, never occurred. It did not happen. If you, as I did, used Raymond Brown’s New Testament textbook in seminary, you learned there wasn’t an empire-wide census during the reign of Caesar Augustus, nor did Romans have systems for directly taxing client states. We know this from multiple attested ancient sources. Unless we’re preaching from Biblical footnotes, most clergy are repeating a comfortable, well-worn lie. A tyrannical imperial bureaucracy didn’t force Joseph and Mary to go to Bethlehem. Why do we put so many unnecessary preconditions on Jesus’ birth? The truth is this: Jesus was born. More likely than not, he was born in Nazareth, at home. That’s what matters. Jesus was born.

Here’s another commonsense smell test. What husband in his right mind would put his wife in her last few months of pregnancy on a weeks-long donkey trip across open country for a census that only he needed to complete? Women couldn’t own property in 1st century Palestine; her presence was entirely superfluous and would pose a danger to her and the unborn child’s health. The census story, like Santa’s Christmas Eve trip around the world, is one we repeat without caring that it is false and doesn’t make sense. It is fiction, one that can be spun in any number of directions depending on our theological proclivities. Why prevaricate?

What makes the story unique? The truth that Jesus was born at home into a supportive and loving family may not make a good copy for a Christmas Eve sermon, but at least it’s true. If we need anything now, we need the truth.

We hear a good deal these days about “scriptural authority.” Members of my congregation have told me that the problem with the United Methodist Church isn’t our position on human sexuality but our stance on “scriptural authority.” I don’t think they know what those words mean. Here’s what I mean:  I’m tired of prioritizing specific passages over others and giving some texts a factual basis in history, year after year, Sunday after Sunday, that doesn’t exist. It’s exasperating to be told that I have no respect for scripture when I have tremendous respect for scripture. What’s burning me out is the weekly recycling of the same old lies, both large and small, when there are better truths to be told about God, whose love for humanity I believe knows no bounds.   

–Richard Bryant

Start With Forgiveness

Have you ever wondered why we say the prayers of confession and proclaim forgiveness before celebrating our congregational prayer celebrations and concerns? Is that just the way United Methodists worship? Yes, that is true. You’ll probably find that pattern in most congregations. However, there are theological, Biblical, and spiritual reasons we speak this way.  These reasons could impact your Thanksgiving dinner.

Forgiveness precedes gratitude. It isn’t easy to be genuinely grateful if we need to forgive someone or something. In church, we begin our prayers of confession by addressing God, acknowledging our brokenness, and our need to be forgiven and forgive others. Forgiving others is a central component of what Christians call the “Lord’s Prayer.”  How can we honestly acknowledge gratitude for our lives, blessings, families, and friends if there are some we cannot forgive? Can we share a common table and proclaim our genuine thankfulness to God and others if there are those sitting around our table that we need to forgive? If our hearts are burdened with hatred, remorse, and vengeance, is any of our gratitude nothing more than empty words? Without forgiveness, some internal or external acknowledgment of the need to move beyond past wrongs and hurts, gratitude grows in shallow soil. Life is too short to waste on superficialities. Jesus calls us to forgive from a place deep within ourselves where our emotions are raw and fragile. It’s in that same place, where we’d prefer not to go, where we begin to understand the depth and gravity of the forgiveness embodied in his life, death, and resurrection.

While I write out of the Christian tradition, I see this as an idea rooted in our shared humanity; not solely unique to a church, synagogue, mosque, or temple.

Before you sit down tomorrow, who do you need to forgive? Is it yourself? Is it a sibling, parent, or friend? Thanksgiving should begin with three words, “I forgive you.” Say it in any manner you feel led. Free yourself, your soul, and the lives of those around you for genuine gratitude.

Happy Thanksgiving.

–Richard Bryant

An Ordinary Prayer for an Ordinary Day

It’s All About Perspective

God, you are good.
We pretend to be Holy.
We confuse church with the kingdom.
May we break down the barriers to make them the same.
On our best days, we try to live up to the potential you’ve instilled within us.
Despite our strenuous efforts, our lives get in the way.
We want to be our free-will loving selves.
We love the lives we’ve created for ourselves.
We are comfortable people.
You call us to be less comfortable and a little less proud of our accomplishments. We didn’t do this alone. You helped us.  We know there are no self-made people in the Kingdom of Heaven.
You live, all the time, with those who are uncomfortable, unknown, and unrecognizable. Forgive us for confusing encountering the Gospel in comfort with being in ministry.
It’s easier to view the world from the top of the Temple than it is through your compassion.
Help us stop seeing our neighbors as the representation of someone else’s fears and doubts.
Give us the strength to take one step forward to ask our neighbors their names, hurts, cares, and concerns.
Help us to create a community in the distance between people who only nod to say hello or look the other way when crossing the street.
You know the needs surrounding us. You are present as people try to make Food Stamps work to feed many mouths, in Social Service waiting rooms, WIC offices, in Hospice care, and prisons. You know we don’t see half of the hurt among your kingdom. Open our eyes and loosen our feet.
You know the joy in our hearts. Let that joy be opened and shared with a world waiting for the Good News. The world is listening. Will we speak?

For now, we say Amen.

Richard Bryant

How Methodist Is Jesus

Boxes from which Jesus escaped

Jesus is a great Christ. In fact, he’s the best Christ.  However, I think he would be a horrible Methodist.  By today’s evangelical standards, Jesus wouldn’t be “church” leadership material. He’s a little squishy on the crucial theological issues of the day. Jesus doesn’t love the sinner and hate the sin. He loves unconditionally.  I’ve never seen Jesus forward a meme asking anyone to type “Amen”.  Truly, the man is not a distinction drawer. This would make some people uncomfortable.  People like his disciples.

Mark 9:38-41 illustrates how poorly Jesus would fit in with contemporary Methodists. The disciples have come to Jesus with a complaint. “We’ve seen others doing things in your name, people casting out demons. But here’s the thing, Jesus. We don’t know the guy. He doesn’t hang around with us. He seems to be someone who’s heard about you and is now off doing is own thing.” Speaking like keepers of the institutional flame, the disciples want to know why this man is doing Jesus-like things without going through an official board or a litmus test of theological orthodoxy.

Jesus’ answer gives him away. It tells me he wouldn’t be a “good” United Methodist. (Official Methodism has structures designed to limit people from operating outside the system.) Jesus says, “Don’t stop him.” Not only does Jesus want the disciples to refrain from hindering this man, he reminds them, “whoever isn’t against us is for us.” The apathetic masses, Jesus says, those millions who don’t go to church or do church differently are actually for us.

The disciples are wondering: How can those who are indifferent to us do any tangible good (for the kingdom) in the long run? People who aren’t against us may be for us, yet they don’t pay our apportionments. The disciples want to know how Jesus would report this at Charge Conference.  Jesus certainly isn’t a United Methodist.

No, Jesus doesn’t sound like a Christian, United Methodist, Evangelical, or anything else. He’s none of those things. Jesus is Jesus. He is the Christ. He will not fit into the boxes we’ve built.  Thank God. That’s the way it should be. Now, more than ever, we need to work with people who are different from us and realize the guy working in Jesus’ name who makes us uncomfortable IS Jesus.

Richard Lowell Bryant