What Kind of King?

Today, the final Sunday in the Christian liturgical year, is referred to by some as “Christ the King Sunday.”  For those churches using the Revised Common Lectionary as the basis for the day’s scriptural text the gospel reading is Matthew 25: 31-46.  This is the account of when Jesus, AKA “the Son of Man,” “will come in his glory…sit on his throne…separate the sheep from the goats” as “all the nations” stand before him. 

Those who, in their lifetimes, fed the hungry, visited prisoners, clothed the naked, cared for the sick, etc., are welcomed into the “kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.”  These are the sheep. 

The goats, however, did not show compassion or care for those in need.  They face “eternal punishment.” 

For preachers who chicken out on sermonizing the Matthew 25 text, the epistle reading gives a smoother path.  Here, the writer (Paul?  Someone else?) congratulates the fine folks of Ephesus on their faith and hopes God will bestow wisdom, revelation, enlightened hearts and hope so that they become fully aware of the power of Christ.  After all, the writer continues, “God put this power to work in Christ when he raised him from the dead and seated him at his right hand in the heavenly places, far above all rule and authority and power and dominion, and above every name that is named, not only in this age but also in the age to come. And he has put all things under his feet and has made him the head over all things for the church, which is his body, the fullness of him who fills all in all.” 

The focus here is on Christ and his power rather than our behavior and priorities.  We can sit back, breathe a sigh of relief, and bask in the glow and glory of “the head of all things.” 

Given the attitudes, inclinations, desires, and biases of many in the dominant North American culture, even among self-named Christians, the Ephesians verses are more palatable.  

An insight from the late Rev. William Sloane Coffin comes to mind in the midst of the consideration of these texts: “We want God to be strong so we can be weak, but God chooses to be weak so we can be strong.” 

The focus on the power of God in Christ who was “far above all rule and authority and power and dominion, and above every name that is named, not only in this age but also in the age to come,” implies a strong God who gets things done for the world, and consequently, for us. Whew!  That takes off a lot of pressure, doesn’t it? 

Conversely, the Matthew verses indicate a Jesus/Christ/King, who was hungry, thirsty, lonely, sick, naked, and so forth.  These are not royal attributes as we in this world define them.  And not only is this “king” weak, but we must be the strong ones, somehow taking care of and meeting the needs of the king by caring for those who suffer.  After all, when we do it for them, we do it for Christ the King.  In doing so, we also take a large measure of responsibility for the state of our own soul's well-being. 

The image of a king is not the most flattering one in today’s world, it seems to me.  In our own nation there are those who seek what they presume to be ultimate, or kinglike power.  In the past that status has been abused by powerholders and those in their orbit.  Current strivers promise violence, exclusion and oppression. 

Methinks Jesus would reject this type of throne-sitting.  Rather than limiting life’s possibilities, I have the sense Christ the King envisions a world in which we all find ways to raise the level of abundant potential inherit in the life gifted to us by God, following his words and example.    

Matriculation Memories

Here's a little something to counter the seriousness of the times in which we live:

    The reason I attended East Carolina University was that I thought I would play baseball there under the tutelage of a coach I met at a baseball camp in Ohio following my junior year of high school.  His name was Earl Smith, and he encouraged my presence at ECU. 

    As memorable a character as he was, though, he served only to get me to Greenville.  He retired from coaching after Fall baseball practice my freshman year, in which I participated, but I don’t think there was any connection.  Similarly, I opted to suspend the pursuit of my Big League dreams about the same time.  Again, no connection.

    At ECU I never really thought of the instructors as “professors” in the same light I would later consider my mentors at seminary, but some memorable ones popped up along the way.  On the disappointing side was my academic advisor in the business school (I was an accounting major), whose name I no longer recall.  That’s fair, though, because I had the distinct impression he neither remembered my name nor any prior conversations whenever I stopped by his office for another confusing interaction. 

    Some of us suspected that the head of the accounting department spent her evenings in pursuit of liquid courage, but then, perhaps she was weary and close to the end of the line, unfortunate enough not to escape the campus scene prior to the upheaval and dismantling of everything sacred.

    A few of my teachers at ECU had distracting idiosyncrasies.  Of course, in those days several of them smoked in class, as did numerous students.  My philosophy instructor, in a deadening and tortuous 3:00 p.m. class in the Spring quarter, no less, forced us to spend the weeks pondering the question, “What is temperance?”

    He personally didn’t display temperance in his fumbling with cigarettes and matches, and perhaps it was supposed to be an object lesson.  While we carefully tracked the number of times he articulated the word, “uh,” he lit his cigarette, inhaling thoughtfully as the match flamed longer than necessary.  Then he blew out the match, slowly shook it eight or ten times, blew on it some more, shook it again, all the while lost in philosophical rumination, before finally dropping the match on the floor and grinding it into total submission with his cowboy-booted foot.  While fragrant spring flowers and bushes gracefully blossomed outside the classroom window attracting rejoicing bees, and every beautiful, great-to-be-young Friday afternoon seemed horribly wasted, I can report there were no fires in the building.

    Another teacher spent the class time pensively rolling his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, rolling them back down, and then up again.  A favorite of mine often displayed more interest in Transcendental Meditation than in his field, which was economics.  He was a calm person who drove a Corvette and lobbed slow-pitch questions on multiple-choice exams.  For instance, we once had to decide whether Congress actually repealed the “law” of supply and demand, or if another suggested choice applied. 

    My tax accounting teacher advised that we apportion the yellow smudges from our highlighters on the few unimportant sections in the official IRS tax code book we used as our text, rather than following the more traditional reverse practice. 

    One instructor was christened “Shorty” for unkind and obvious reasons.  In his class there seemingly was an ongoing battle of wits with some of us, and I will admit after all these years he usually won.  I remember one day when for some reason there was an old-style wind-up alarm clock on his desk in the classroom.  I’ll just pretend now I can’t remember whether my friend Gary or I came up with the idea of setting the alarm so it would disrupt the lecture with its distress call. 

    The class was an extended once-per-week session lasting two-and-a-half- hours, and when the hall bell rang that day, relieving other students on a normal class schedule, I looked at Gary.  He barely could contain himself.    

    The time approached for the alarm to sound. The clock’s hands reached their anticipated alignment.  Gary and I tensed up --- and stunning silence mocked us.  We exchanged flabbergasted looks.  At the end of class, I mingled unobtrusively with the inevitable gaggle of students seeking a clarifying parting word with Shorty.  I casually looked at the clock, and sure enough, the alarm switch was in the off position.  He had beaten us again! 

    Coach Earl Smith had a catalogue of stories from his decades of seeing it all on a baseball field.  It seemed many of the stories contained the lesson that not following instructions led to disastrous results not only in baseball games, but also in one’s life:  some of his players suffered severe injuries from physical attacks, and one, I believe, was killed in a helicopter crash shortly after failing to heed Earl’s in-game wisdom.

    One day we were standing around on the infield during practice and Earl launched into criticism of Jim “Catfish” Hunter, then the ace pitcher of the Oakland A’s team that within a few weeks would win the first of three consecutive World Series.  Hunter eventually was voted into the Baseball Hall of Fame.  Earl objected to his mustache and the length of his hair.  I suspect some of the animus was related to the fact that Hunter was from a nearby North Carolina town and did not see fit to play ball at ECU under their esteemed coach. “That Catfish, he dumb,” was how Earl phrased it.

    On another occasion I was in the trainer’s room getting treatment for a minor injury.  Also present was Tommy Toms, then the best pitcher on the team.  Tommy later appeared briefly in the Major Leagues with the San Francisco Giants.  On this particular day he and I got to talking about Earl’s rules regarding hair length because Tommy clearly was in violation.  Tommy reported Earl’s comment about him.  Imitating Earl, he said “You know, that Tommy Toms may be a hippie freak, but when he gets on that pitcher’s mound he’s a pretty good boy.”

A September 11th Memory

Every year when September 11th rolls around, I recall not only the attacks that occurred on that date in 2001, but my mind also goes back to the memory of the passing of my friend and co-worker from William Penn House, Barbara Silverman.

The first time I met Barbara was the evening I showed up at William Penn House for my interview for the Interim Executive Director position.  I rang the doorbell of the 1920’s Capitol Hill row house, was buzzed in, and at the top of the front stairs a small person peered around the corner.  “Can I help you?” 

I explained I was there for the interview, and she told me to come upstairs.  Barbara, who was the Acting House Manager at the time, was four feet ten inches tall, had jet black hair, and was wearing a robe over a night gown.  She displayed no self-consciousness as we sat at a table and spoke for a few minutes before I was called downstairs to the conference room to meet with the board members.

I was hired, and Barbara and I quickly became friends and colleagues as we spent the first four years or so of my tenure at William Penn House working together.  (My nine-month “interim” status just kind of disappeared and I kept Barbara on in the House Manager role.)

We had some adventures.

For instance, the morning after a group from Russia, sponsored by American University, checked in, I showed up for work and Barbara was waiting for me at the front door.  “This can’t be good,” I thought as I bounded up the front steps.  It wasn’t.

Barbara told me that a number of the Russians were drunk during the night, wandered into rooms occupied by other guests not associated with their group, and made suggestive overtures toward Barbara and others.  She was very upset, and I asked her to point out the miscreants to me.  I cornered the offending Russians and gave them a very loud and explicit earful.  Then I threw them out.

Barbara and I were questioned at one point by the FBI about a representative from the Soviet Embassy who came to William Penn House a couple of times to speak to student groups.  We suffered through the suicide of another staff member, and selected interns for each year.  In between there always were blown boilers, lightning strikes on the building, strange people showing up at the front door, a two-and-a half-year zoning wrestling match with the D.C. government and more.  She was a good partner as we sorted through it all.

Eventually, Barbara went back to school (she already was a graduate of American University and Earlham School of Religion) earning a Master’s degree from the University of Pennsylvania.  She returned to Washington and became the House Manager at the Ronald McDonald House. 

We kept in loose contact, and I truly felt she was fulfilled in her roles as head resident, counselor, chaplain, manager and everything else she did for the young patients and their families that spent time at the Ronald McDonald House.  And in a shift for her that I never fully understood, Barbara left the Quakers and converted to Roman Catholicism.

              At the end of the week preceding the September 11 attacks I received word that Barbara was in the hospital.  She had a severe reaction to a prescription medicine and was experiencing kidney failure.  I was taken aback when I first saw her at the hospital, as she was very bloated from her condition.  She displayed the same lack of self-consciousness about her appearance as she did the first time I met her at William Penn House.

               I checked on her at the hospital just about every day.  Her condition quickly worsened.  As the news of the attacks filled the television screen in her hospital room, she barely seemed aware of what was happening.  Each day brought new complications and narrowing hope for recovery.  Her elderly father was in town standing by, as was her brother and family.  I spent time with all of them apart from the hospital.  It was a very intense week, and finally the day we dreaded arrived.  Barbara died.     

         When I received the phone call I hurried to the place where her family was staying.  Barbara’s father, a tiny, fragile man with a variety of health issues of his own, appeared in the lobby, slowly walked over to me, sat down, and simply said, “Today we have fresh evidence that life isn’t fair.” 

          Afterwards, I went to Barbara’s room in the intensive care unit.  Surprisingly, no one at the nurses’ station stopped me. All of the monitors, intravenous tubes and dialysis machines were gone.  I stood looking at Barbara for a moment trying to make sense in my mind of what my eyes were seeing.  She was just two weeks shy of her 41st birthday and a medication error took a caring, helping person from the world.

The Yoke Is On You!

Shortly after I was called to the position of Executive Director of William Penn House, a Quaker-related seminar center on Capitol Hill, I visited the Friends Meeting of Washington, the Quaker “church” in the city.  While I was there, someone asked me if I were a Quaker.  I replied that I was ordained in the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) and that I had no plans to switch affiliations.  Her response was, “Famous last words.”

The nine years I held that job, associating with Friends from across the nation on a daily basis, had an effect on me.  While I did not officially become a Quaker, I came to deeply appreciate their traditions and approaches to spiritual matters.  And now that I am no longer affiliated with the Disciples church in any way (apart from my monthly pension!), I consider myself at least a fellow traveler with them, due to the influence they had on me all those years ago.

There are, of course, books written about what it means to be Quaker, but a shorthand version can be found in the acronym SPICE:  Simplicity, Peace, Integrity, Community, and Equality.  Those values characterize the movement known as The Religious Society of Friends, and they point to an uplifting spirituality.

In the Gospel of Matthew, chapter 11, John the Baptist was in prison.  He received word from his followers about the activities of Jesus and sent word through them to ask Jesus if he was “the one who is to come,” that is, the Messiah.  Jesus told them, “Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, those with a skin disease are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.”

Jesus issued an invitation to the people who heard him that day: “Come to me, all you who are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, 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.”

In essence, he said his influence brought positivity to a person’s life and to the life of the world.  Positivity infuses a lot of peace into life situations.

I remember a few words spoken by Martin Luther King, Jr. when his nonviolence approach to the bigotry and oppression experienced by people of color in this country came under criticism, even attack, from more militant civil rights activists.  When some were saying, “Burn, baby, burn,” Dr. King’s response was “Build, baby, build. Organize, baby, organize.”

It seems to me that destructive attitudes and behaviors become more and more burdensome as they proliferate, even taking over one’s mindset and life.  The heaviness of hatred has such a negative pull on one’s soul, like a downward spiral pulling a person deeper and deeper into an inescapable abyss.  Separation from others as “alien,” “unworthy,” “inferior,” “un-Godly,” or however one describes “them” limits not only the possibilities of life for “them,” but also for oneself.  The world shrinks when fear, paranoia, and bitterness grow.  Those who think they are “protecting their position” are constantly on edge, defensive, and negatively obsessed. Tearing down others in an attempt to lift up oneself does not accomplish its objective.

Brokenness within the human family is not peace.

Fortunately, there are many people – of varying spiritual backgrounds, races, genders, nationalities, sexual preferences, even political persuasions -- who embrace, exhibit and expound positivity.  No matter what or who influences their attitudes and actions, I am willing to guess that they generally experience the “rest for their souls” and the easing of “burdens” that Jesus described for those who “yoke” themselves with him.

As members of the local YWCA, my wife and I are connected to an organization that seeks the uplift of all people, human connectedness, and peace.  The particular chapter to which we belong was the site of a speech by Eleanor Roosevelt when she visited our city in 1956.  Ms. Roosevelt would only speak to integrated audiences, and after checking with a large public venue, schools, and churches in the area, organizers decided to hold the event in the gymnasium at the YWCA.

When we make our regular trips to the YWCA we often encounter a man who works there.  He is in charge of security but seems to do just about anything and everything else.  His name is Charlton, and he always greets us and others with a smile and positive comments.

Charlton is African American, retired from the city police force and seems to be in constant motion.  My suspicion is he is not well-educated or well-to-do in a financial sense, but everyone he sees is a friend – man or woman, young, old, black, white, Asian, Hispanic, or any other ethnicity or religion. 

Positivity is what he brings every day, and it has its effect on people.  His genuine demeanor reflects the values of the YWCA, and his presence lightens burdens and gives people rest.  

I don’t know what influenced Charlton, or the YWCA founders, to be the people they became, but because of that influence, blessings abound.

Infallible and Literal? Nah...

An online article about the Southern Baptists and the issue of the ordination of women as pastors spurred me to make this response, which I posted in the comments section of the article:

In the Bible, women were the first witnesses to the Resurrection, telling the men who were fearful and hiding, and in at least one of the four DIFFERENT biblical stories of the Resurrection, the men dismissed what the women said.  The Bible also says God placed a dome over the earth at Creation. 

The Bible has to be interpreted with some thought, not blindly accepted word for word.  It was written in a far different time and culture, in languages that don't always necessarily translate directly into English, and has been "translated" by people with their own agendas. 

The books of the Bible were gathered and judged to be "scriptural" over 1,000 or more years by councils made up of people - men - who accepted some writings and rejected others.  The writings that were accepted by the numerous councils over the centuries were written by people giving expression to their faith.  They weren't "writing the Bible." 

We have to do the best we can to understand that expression, given the difficulties in translation and cultural awareness.  Taking it literally at every point, accepting it blindly, and condemning those who choose to be more thoughtful is lazy and irresponsible.  There is no virtue in venerating a book as a matter of faith.  In fact, that becomes idolatry, which runs counter to teachings within the book itself.

In Whom Or What Do You Trust?

In one of the congregations of which I was the pastor there was a continual tension over the presence and use of the American flag in the sanctuary.  It wasn’t an open conflict that threatened the stability of the church, but the tension was there.

As a pastor I chose to downplay the significance of the flag in the church.  There were several members, some of them veterans, some not, who wanted to elevate the flag’s prominence.  To me, its mere presence in the building was more than enough prominence, but I chose not to make it a defining issue of my time there.

I would not, however, allow the American flag to have any place in the rituals or traditions of worship.  From time to time, someone would suggest we incorporate the flag into our services on certain occasions, but I refused to do so.  When we had a Boy Scout Sunday, the scout leader, not a member of the church, offered to “present the colors” at the start of the service.  I declined.

Sometimes there was rumbling on weekends near patriotic holidays.  At another church, an older woman complained that we didn’t sing “military” hymns, and a couple of times someone asked why we didn’t “celebrate patriotic holidays.”

My only concessions to such matters were to ask veterans to stand and be recognized on Sundays close to Veterans Day, and to have the congregation sing “God Bless America” at similar times.  Both, however, were done prior to the beginning of worship.

One person tried, unsuccessfully, to get me to read a book explaining why the United States was a “Christian nation.”  It was by Glenn Beck, and he sold the book on his TV show, imploring his devotees to get the book in the hands of clergy. 

A few years later someone else told me that “all the history books” say we’re a Christian nation.  I countered with, “But the Founding Fathers themselves weren’t Christians.  They were deists.”  To my surprise, the person accepted that fact, and when I followed up by saying, “If they were deists, how and why would they establish the country as Christian?” “Touche’,” was the response.

In another town where I worked as a pastor, the newspaper published an article by a person who ministered in a local congregation.  In the article, the argument was made that we were a Christian nation, and the proof was in our system of laws, “such as capital punishment.”  First, of all, capital punishment was against the law in that particular state, and secondly, there is no Christian basis for the practice. 

I wrote a “letter to the editor” rebutting the article and gathered the signatures of a dozen or so of my colleagues in the area to back me up.  While the letter was published in the newspaper, to my chagrin it was signed Greg Howell, (one other pastor’s name), and “12 more ministers” who went unnamed.  I was surprised – and disappointed - by one or two of the clergy in the community who agreed with me but were afraid to put their names to the letter.

It is fine if people choose to celebrate America in secular events and through secular organizations, but linking it with the church and Christian faith gets into dangerous territory, and attempts at infusing the flag, the nation’s chief icon, into religious ritual is simply inappropriate.  There is no connection between any nation’s flag and Christianity, and attempts at forcing a connection lead to idolatry.  The faith is much larger than all of that.

Today I read an online article from Newsweek that gave me some small bit of encouragement.  Titled, “Preachers to Stand Up to ‘Hijacking’ of Faith by Christian Nationalists,” the article states, “Christian organizations are calling on pastors across the country to stand up against the rise of Christian nationalism during their church services next weekend. 

“The ‘Preach and Pray to Confront Christian Nationalism’ initiative is the latest event sponsored by Faithful America, an online community of progressive Christians that aim to combat the use of their faith being "hijacked" by the political right.”

I admit I never heard of the group Faithful America, but I am fully supportive of this effort.  I will be listening closely to hear if the pastor of the church I attend follows this guidance. 

The hijacking of the Christian faith is evident in frightening ways:  from the former president saying he has “done more for Christianity than anyone” after asking why the police couldn’t shoot the protestors outside the White House before he and his lackeys marched across the street so he could get a photo op of himself standing in front of a church he never attended, holding a book I doubt he has read; from right-wing “pastors” calling for homosexuals to be killed; and, state legislatures attempting to pass laws making the Bible the state book, or making Christianity that state’s “official” religion, and so on.

It seems to me that if the United States were a “Christian nation,” we would be doing a whole lot better at making sure food insecurity was not an issue for so many millions of people; racism and bigotry would be not only virtually eliminated, but would be vilified for the destructive forces they are; our dependence on war and weapons to steal resources from poorer nations in order to support the affluence of the “upper crust” would become unacceptable; the steady movement toward fascism would not be occurring, and the quality of love embodied by Jesus would overwhelm temptations toward hatred and division within the human family.

When I was an impressionable young person growing up during the Civil Rights Movement and Vietnam war era, I was struck by the fact that leaders of the movement were clergy and that the church played such a significant role in helping oppressed people claim their rights and the reality of their equality.  Some of the same clergy and other religious leaders spoke publicly against the war and the unjust practices associated with it.

That gave me the idea that maybe the Christian faith actually had some application to the difficult struggles of people in the world, and when I discerned a call to ministry myself, that idea became even more important to me.

As I understand this idea, it demands a large view of what the faith is all about.  It demands that following Jesus is more important than trying to somehow make sure I “go to heaven” when I die, or that other people must adopt my particular religion.  It demands care and concern for those who suffer, are oppressed, or otherwise forced out of the abundant life for all of God’s children to which Jesus devoted himself.

The political right, religious right, whatever term one uses for those who limit the scope and reach of the faith, have it all wrong.  Division, hatred, nationalism, oppression, and murderous threats are not Christian values.  These notions and practices do not reflect Jesus’ teachings and actions.  They are an offense to God, and an embarrassment to a nation which people claim they love.

Such A Waste

Palm Sunday can be a bit of a challenge for preachers.  Do you focus on the “passion” stories of Jesus as a lead-up to Easter, recounting his anger over the ways and challenges of the religious authorities and his responses to them?  Do you mention the confusion and betrayal of Jesus’ closest followers?  Do you take the approach of describing in some detail his agony as his prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane and the drama of his arrest? Do you go over his interactions with Pilate?  Do you speak of his humiliation and suffering at the hands the Romans?  OR, do you take the easy way out and regale the congregation with tales of his “triumphant entry into Jerusalem,” with people waving palm branches and shouting “Hosanna!” as Jesus rides a donkey, conveniently skimming over the imagery and significance of what happened that day? 

True, Maundy Thursday and Good Friday provide opportunities to dwell on some of the darker aspects of the story, but then, many church folks don’t attend services on those days.  There are, of course, some people who only put in an appearance in the sanctuary on Christmas Eve and Easter, and MAYBE Palm Sunday. 

The Palm Sunday sermon I heard this year began with a very somber description of how the preacher picked up her teen-aged daughter from school the day of the Nashville mass school shooting so she could tell her daughter what happened.  She didn’t want her daughter to hear it from someone else and wanted to know her feelings about what happened. 

Then she spoke of how mass shootings in the nation already just about outnumber the days of the year so far.  “We have gotten used to mass shootings happening so regularly.  It has become almost a normality for us, and after an initial reaction of outrage or anger or fear, we move on with our lives.” 

True enough, but I found the rest of the sermon and worship service that day to be offensive. 

After putting everyone on edge, causing strong emotions, the preacher then awkwardly made the point that really, in the end, somehow, everything would be alright.  Tell that to the family members of the children and others torn apart by rapid-fire blasts from assault rifles.  Tell that to the teachers and school administrators who have to contend with the aftermath of attacks in their buildings.  Tell that to police officers and other emergency personnel who get the frantic calls to which they must respond, or to the doctors, nurses and other hospital staff who deal with the physical results, and to counselors who must contend with the mental health implications of the carnage.  “God loves you” or “God will make things right in the end” are not sufficient responses to any of this. 

I waited in vain during that worship service for word on how the community of faith, followers of Jesus, can, might, should respond to gun violence.  After the “sermon,” the service proceeded as normal, with singing, pre-printed prayers (none of which referred to gun violence or its growing numbers of victims), communion, the “passing of the peace,” and the rest of the tired rituals.  

How about mentioning ways to get involved in the issue that is literally breaking up families, fomenting fear, and increasing the negativity that closes in on us from so many directions? 

Do people of faith have a response to gun violence?  Or do we just go to church, follow well-worn patterns of words and gestures, get our pat on the head assuring us we’re “going to heaven,” then leave and go about our daily lives as if nothing has changed in us or in the world? 

Personally, I believe the preacher was afraid of offending any of the privileged people that make up a huge proportion of the congregation.  My guess is that many of the attenders affiliate with the political party most closely aligned with guns and the “protection” of “gun rights.” 

She could have said to contact our legislators and let them know that we abhor the continuing violence and easy (and increasingly easier) access to assault weapons.  There was no need to harp on the fact that Republicans are blocking any possibility of gun reform in Congress, or that our particular Senators and Congressman belong to the gun party.  She could just have said, “Let them know how you feel,” or she could have called for the congregation to organize a letter-writing campaign to keep up the pressure on those who are trading the lives of our children for campaign contributions from the NRA. 

She could have said, “Let’s work with other congregations in our city to raise the issue of gun violence by holding a seminar or forum to discuss the issue, bringing in police, school officials and others who have a stake in the health and safety of our young people.” 

She could have said, “Let’s hold a rally downtown and invite the local media to help us get out the word that the faith community has had enough of gun violence.” 

She could have said, “Let’s work with the police and city officials to pass a local ordinance to make it more difficult to purchase guns, or to increase penalties for those who commit gun violence.” 

She could have said, “Remember the pain and suffering caused by gun violence when you vote.” 

She could have said SOMETHING that would nudge or even inspire the people in the pews to get involved in the issue and move beyond feeling sad for a while. 

But that never happened. 

We just continued in the worship service as if nothing were different from the prior Sunday.  We went through our familiar, comfortable motions, then left and went out to eat, or went home and turned on the game. 

Now, we’re thinking ahead to maybe gathering with some family members and going to church for the big Easter celebration, including the Easter Egg Hunt, perhaps giving our kids gifts “from” the Easter Bunny, their having been photographed with him/her at the mall. 

Then, we’ll move on to other things. 

Maybe after the next school shooting we’ll think to send our thoughts and prayers.