A New Chapter

Virginia Theological Seminary

I’m a big fan of roots. Deep ones; the kind you see snaking out from the river banks that you’re pretty sure belongs to the towering cottonwood tree twenty feet away. This has been my lifelong prayer for this pastoral vocation that God has called me, that I would be rooted and flourish like the gardens that Isaiah describes, “you shall be like a watered garden,” or like the mustard tree that Jesus describes, “when it is grown it is the greatest of shrubs and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches.” I pray these images over my work and the rhythms of my life.

In response however, I feel as though God half-mumbles “noted” and then somewhere in the not-far-off distance I hear the put-put of a Rototiller coming to life.

Orientation. Dis-orientation. Re-orientation.

Orientation started about 30 years ago when I felt that belly burning call into ministry. It was at church camp. It was hot. And the missionary was giving his canned presentation about his family’s work in a far off land. I don’t remember anything of what he talked about. He didn’t even give an invitation. But my emotional self was compelled to walk the aisle anyway and tell him that I thought God was calling me to ministry. He was as unprepared for this as I was. I spend the rest of the week negotiating this calling. My only non-negotiable was that I didn’t want to go to Africa. (I’d be up for that now, btw)

Dis-Orientation happened slowly. That calling that I had wrestled with had taken shape and form as pastoral ministry in a local church. I’ve spend 20 years ministering and pastoring in all sizes of churches. The brand of Christianity that I found myself most at home in was Evangelical Charismatic tradition. I was tattooed by these churches in beautiful ways. However I found my formation in this tradition lacking in a few areas and had huge implications for my pastoral ministry: I was ill equipped to hold suffering and tragedy as Christian experience, I didn’t know how to embrace mystery, and some of my faith that I was so certain about—when honestly examined—didn’t hold up to basic scrutiny. So whatever the sound is of a pin being pulled from a grenade, insert that here.

Re-Orientation has been a process the last few years. Picking up the pieces and offering them up to God led to the founding of Table Church, a home for nomads, doubters, and the burned out. It is a beautiful place and I still believe deeply in her. God always has a way of knocking us off balance. We tried to get those roots down deep into the soil of Hannibal. We sweated with labor and we bled with passion. We’ve been through a lot of fire. Fire? I meant hell. These stories will write themselves in the coming years. But on the other side of this, I’m convinced of a few things: 1) That Jesus is worth it, 2) The Church is beautiful, and 3) I am a pastor. I’m hanging my hat here.

My prayers for rootedness keep getting prayed. And that Rototiller keeps rolling. And so the Moore family with joy and sorrow are saying yes to a new adventure. We have accepted an invitation to pursue my Masters at Virginia Theological Seminary. We will be moving onto campus a few miles south of Washington D.C. in July. We don’t know all the details. We have a list of questions a mile long. Katrina and kids are excited for a new beginning. A

But we have hope. A hope that where we are, Christ is with us. He has gone before us and he will be beside us. And we need friends like you by our sides, too. You know that moving a family across the country incurs numerous costs. We are budgeting for this, but if you feel led in any capacity to support us, we would be eternally grateful. In the coming weeks I’ll post more here at pastorjared.com to let you join us in our transition. Grace and Peace…

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BWCA Journal Entry #5

There is something that does sneak up on you and crouches in wait, and it happens so suddenly (I think) that it causes my ears to perk up in alert.

It is Calm.

The wind dies away, the leaves cease their rattle, even the squirrel stops to pray. It is as though the soul and space of the place dilates and enlarges. Like all of Creation breaths a sigh in unison and beckons anyone with ears to hear to stand in holy attention and sigh Creation’s sigh. A sigh of longing. A sigh of rest. A sigh of contentment. Then the exhale begins and the water starts lapping the shore again and the leaves flitter and glut and the squirrel continues its quest to invade my trail mix. /// It is time to go. The camp is packed. I am sitting around the fire grate trying to soak it in some more.

One more breath. One more vista.

Come on, childishness. Come on, adventure. We must go home now.

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BWCA Journal Entry #4

I stayed on the island on Gabro Lake last night. Sleep did come easy. Nor stayed long. My inflatable pillow is quite possibly the noisiest device in all of creation. I wonder if the nearest campers a half-mile off can hear me turn from side to back to side to belly. Nothing fit last night. As frustrating as it is to not sleep well, tiredness is not something I’ve felt here. Nor hunger much. There is something else here that feeds body and soul. Today I had two cups of coffee and I tried my hand at making bannock bread. I ate two small bannock patties and the squirrel stole the other two. Serves him right.

Fishing has been no good. Not even a bite today. I am not alone in this. Other canoeists complain that fishing is slow. I ask what slow means. Nothing, they say. Today was cleaning day. Washing day, rather. I fetched enough water to fill two pots. Then I stripped and began washing my body. I had worn the same clothes for four days now and apologized profusely as I peeled them off for what they had to endure. They have been giving me the silent treatment ever since. It has been windy today. 55 degrees on the windward side—which I am assuming is the opposite of the leeward side—which I assume is the side where the wind is not blowing—which was 80 degrees.

The day has been mostly cloudy which did make it cooler and also made it impossible to tell time. I’m pretty sure it is evening now. The light is dimming. I don’t know if we will get the evening calm with it overcast as such.

I just noticed the neighboring campsite has lit their fire. Evening it is.

I wonder if I should do to the other side of the island and light a fire to signal the next campsite. Together we will defeat the Ice King.

I read and finished The Voyage of the Dawn Treader today. It has been a wonderful companion on this journey of a trip I’m on. It has also, in absence of a prayer book, been a doorway to God’s presence. I am evermore convinced the imagination is the realm of faith.

A few things from my time of prayer and attention: 1) “I am with you”, 2) Be child-like, 3) Stir up adventure.

Also, I’m curious about the connection between solitude and regaining a sense of child likeness. Here, Dawn Treader has been helpful. There is the image of Aslan peeling off the dragon skin from Eustice.

I think solitude causes you to face fears, to see the need to shed them, and float your canoe through them.

There is a dismantling. A peeling.

/// Ducks fly very quietly in the evening. I am here. I am alive. I will start a fire tonight. There. The fire is lit and is hot.

/// Fear is a funny thing. I’m always afraid someone is or will be rushing me from behind to “get me”. I feel it now. I always have the urge to turn and check it out the dark shadows. But I checked it out at daytime and there was nothing sinister; no human, no beast, no phantom. Just my heart. My fickle heart, so quick to melt like candle way. I am here. I am alive.

/// The clouds have cleared a little on the horizon showing the pink lace of the sunset.

/// Fire is instant courage. I’m planning on leaving tomorrow. I’ll stay over somewhere depending on what time I get out.

/// Music has been my companion here. In my head, of course, sometimes sung out. I know how the Gospel has been presented to humans. But how is it presented to Creation? There is something that sticks with me about St. Francis. There is a stirring in me about it. Remember the dream? Alpine meadow? Singing a song? Raising the dawn? Old Creation shimmering into a new one? Remember that dream.

/// There is comfort in moonlight.

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BWCA Journal Entry #3

Wednesday, September 23rd /// Well, I had intended to stay at Little Gabro for another night. And for today to be a rest day. I woke and made coffee, set out the hammock, and two chapters into The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, I heard voices and the clanging thump of paddles on the sides of canoes. Looking over my hammock, I saw several canoes heading my way. The first canoe wanted to know if I was leaving today. I said I intended to take a rest day and wasn’t sure how long I intended to stay.

In the distance I could hear the other guys talking about taking the other campsite about 100 yards away. My zone of quiet solitude and safety was being penetrated. They began to examine the other site and I hollered out asking if that site were big enough for their group. They said they weren’t sure. Grimacing, I said my site was plenty big and if they could give me an hour, they could have it. they enthusiastically agreed. 1) I felt somewhat guilty being solo taking up a large campsite. (More about this later.) 2) I didn’t want to share my small lake with a group of vocal men, 3) Now I would be pushed further into the lake having to cross some rapids into Gabro. So I packed up camp, loaded the Cronje (my canoe) and set off for a short paddle towards Gabro. The lake is about 3 feet down from the looks of the markings on the rocks. The water is littered with boulder fields just below the surface of the water. I spent a good portion of my paddling on my knees upright trying to the see the well-camouflaged granite boulders. It reminds me of the ice “growlers” that sailors encounter near Antarctica. After portaging around the rapids (which at normal water level would probably be able to shoot through without portaging) I came upon a husband and wife in a canoe fishing. We spoke for a few minutes. He has been coming here every year for 30 years. I’m hoping to find out why. They helped me gain my bearings on Gabro. They said they had a campsite just around the bend and that there was a campsite on a island that was unoccupied. So I paddled my way there. On approach, I couldn’t find the landing according to the map. So I brought the canoe to a granite landing and saw a faint trail—too faint to be the main trail in. Every camp site has a fire grate. So I walked into the island following the the in search of a fire grate. I found it in the middle of the island near a granite ledge. The island left me speechless. It had old growth pines standing 100’ or more. The floor was clear and open between the trees. There was a trail leading every which way. I was worried about an island due to the wind, but this island was large. Easily a football field in diameter. It’s a cathedral of a campsite. A mansion of a campsite and it’s all mine. My very own island. That large group of men would have loved this island if only they went a bit further. But they didn’t. I did. And I don’t feel one bit guilty. the sun set about an hour ago. I’m writing this by the fire grate under the light of a small electric lantern. Before leaving, I had asked Katrina to write me a few letters for when I feel lonely or guilty for being out here. She instead crafted me a little booklet of memories and photos. This will be one of my life-long treasures. I cried when I read it. She said things perfectly.

Each night I’ve spent time in prayer. Conversing. And in silence. I’m laying it all out there. My disappointments. My joy. My gratefulness. Sometimes we notice His presence most in retrospect. I would like for this to not be one of those times. I want my heart open. My ears open. Too much is at stake. Lord, come. I go to pray now. Then bed.

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BWCA Journal Entry #2

Tuesday, September 22nd /// I am cooking my supper (potato stroganoff) on a campsite that overlooks Little Gabro lake. The sun has set. The moon is up and waning. Only the face is showing. The geese are honking and gathering. Everything else is still. The stars should join in soon. I will do a rest day tomorrow and orient myself better to solitude and wilderness. And give my body time to mend. And to let my soul mend.

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BWCA Journal Entry #1

South Kawishiwi Landing

Monday, September 21 /// I put in at the South Kawishiwi entry point. The wind was up. I double portaged from the parking lot. The trail surprised me. It all did. It rivaled the narrow single track trails of Colorado. Loading the canoe into the water was peaceful and easy. The narrow stretch of the river was fairly calm with a nice breeze. The water clear and cool with a visibility of three to four feet. The surface ripples reduced visibility more. I headed in a westerly manner and the river opened up into a wider channel where the wind began picking up to an uncomfortable speed. Wind. Wind, wind, wind. I do not like it and it’s incessant noise. On the drive here the wind was blustery (luckily, it was a tail wind mostly.) But it was whipping the canoe on top of the truck and I had to pull over and reset the brackets and straps. Lord, have mercy. So on the river, I had about a mile paddle before my first portage. The wind began driving me down the channel. Before I knew it, waves began building and it was as if I was surfing the waves down the river. The tallest waves were one to one and a half feet tall. High enough that if I wasn’t careful something bad could happen. My next portage was in a cove, one in a series of coves. It was difficult because 1) there were granite boulders hidden below the water that you couldn’t see until I was right on top of them, 2) My GPS unit that I had worked to install maps of the BWCA did not, in fact, have those maps on it, 3) My paper maps became difficult to use because the water was much bigger than I anticipated. I tried getting into coves to find the portage and in the last cove I was in, the wind kept driving me into the shore with it’s large swells. As I approached the shore, I hopped out and quickly unloaded the canoe and sat the canoe on some boulders on the shore to keep it from bashing against them. I was having an impossible time navigating a reading the map the sam time. Anxiety was high. HIGH. I was pretty defeated at this point. I sat there exhausted,m reading the map trying to get my bearings on this large lake. I thought maybe the portage was in the next cove down, but if I was wrong, with the way the wind was, I would not be able to make my way back up into the wind. Maybe I could hike over and see. so I walked fifty feet in and then I caught out of the corner of my eye, two men in a canoe coming towards me. I walked back down and they identified themselves as wildlife agents. One stepped out and asked me for my fishing license and entry permit. I showed him both. He did not mention the wind. He did not mention the waves that were trying to kill me.

He just got back in the canoe and left like this was everyday life.

Two things happed before he left, 1) I asked him where the portage was. He said it was in the next cove down, and 2) He slipped and fell hard getting back in the canoe. After they left he came back to look for his sunglasses and watch that had slipped off while he fell.

I loaded the canoe and found the portage. The next lake was much more calm. Much smaller water. I paddled across it, found the next portage and camped at a campsite near the portage mouth. Tomorrow I will portage a long ways into Little Gabro. I forgot to mention that I forgot the bring my phone charger. So that means this trip is totally unplugged [no contact with wife]. Which is not what I planned on and is, frankly, terrifying. Good night!

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The Silence of God

I was 15 years old when I first stood in a charismatic prayer line. For those of you who have never experienced one, let me paint a picture of that night.

When the guest preacher concluded his sermon and subsequent remarks, he would carefully close his Bible, place it on the pulpit, straightening it as though it were a picture hanging on a wall, and bow his head to pray.

The cue was given.

A mechanism clicked to life as the piano player would sneak up to the keyboard and begin massaging a melodramatic tune that soaked into the thick spiritual fabric that hung in the atmosphere of the room.

It’s one of my all-time favorite moments.

Everyone knew what came next in their disheveled—but welcomingly familiar—liturgy of the charismatic church.

Almost without invitation, people would begin to shuffle out of the pews and make their way forward. Ushers would meet them at the front and direct them into a single file line that paralleled the front of the stage. A few old ladies, the truest of saints, with their backs permanently arched in piety, would float along the perimeter of the sanctuary and gather the linens that will lay—and I don’t want to give too much away at this point—but they will lay across the lower extremity of every female who has fallen under the persuasion and weight of the Spirit. These elderly ladies, clutching their folded linens with crooked fingers, quietly shrink back to the periphery.

Hope is palpable. Cynicism is holding it’s breath. Joy is tucked into a shirt pocket like a wadded tissue. The pea soup of God’s presence is being stirred in the room.

By this point the senior pastor has taken the mic, holding it like a scepter, and is a few minutes into a brief commentary on the special guest’s sermon. He carefully and calmly translates what the speaker said into the vernacular of his people. He knows how to pull the heart strings, to push the buttons. As he is giving these words, the man-a-god has descended the stairs of the stage. He eyeballs the line looking down and back.

Pause the scene.

I’m fascinated with these moments. Let’s walk to where the man-a-god is standing between the stage and these people. Most of these people are standing where they have stood many times before. They know this liturgy well. There are holes in their lives that need to be filled with whatever this man-a-god has to offer. And what he is offering is a transferable commodity known as the glory-power-light of Jesus. We all need it. He’s got it.

Sick? Here’s healing.

Overwhelming sin in your life? Here’s grace.

Oppressed by a demon? Here’s deliverance.

Got your 3rd DUI in 2 years? Here’s a slap of exhortation.

Thirsty for God? Here’s some spring water.

But the reason I think most people are standing shoulder to shoulder with eyes pooling with tears is simply put; they want to feel known.

And this is what we hope we get to experience through the man-a-god. We hope his heart is attuned enough that as he approaches each person in this line, the love and words of Jesus flow through him in specific and tender ways.

So like a tall pine tree in the gentle breeze of the Spirit, this man-a-god confronts this line of aching humanity carrying their deep hunger, a hopeless need, a far-flinging desperation to be known.

And like Elisha pleading with the prophet Elijah, they want their portion.

Unpause.

And so, as a 15 year old, fresh and emotionally raw off my parents’ divorce and my father’s absence at home, wading into new spiritual experiences unwelcome by my faith tradition, I took my place in this prayer line of desperate souls.

The man-a-god stepped up the first person and the piano player began teasing out a playful and prayerful line.

“We are hungry for more of you…”

From my vantage point I couldn’t hear the intimate conversation that was going on. I could see in my peripheral vision, him laying his large hand on the person’s head.

“Send your fire, send your rain…”

Shaking of limbs and shuddering of hands commence as the person’s legs buckle and they fell into a heap of sobs. A few characters who always show up at this moment in the story are the two or so able-bodied men who mirror the movements of the man-a-god behind the person being prayed for. When man-a-god would step up to the front of the person, they would move directly behind the prayee with arms outstretched as though they were about to catch a corpse. And once the body fell, they would unfold it and stretch it upon the floor like an undertaker into a invisible coffin. The only thing they didn’t do was to place fresh lilies into their limp folded hands. But this is no funeral.

“River of life flood my marrow and bone…”

Then the saintly ladies with the folded linens would come and with angelic grace, cover the lower extremity of the fallen.

“We cry for more of you, more of you…”

As a side note, I would encourage you to not be put off by theological cynicism in this moment. I know it’s there. It never goes away.

“I want to see your glory…”

Are there problems? Yes. But an alter, and the very real God who makes himself present there, pays no respect to your theological presuppositions. Or mine. Maybe the divine simply accommodates this pageantry. This is, as facts would have it, the God who caused water to burst from a rock.

After a person fell, the man-a-god would side step to the next person and the next. One by one, each person would be gazed upon with the compassionate eyes of the man-a-god, spoken to, and prayed for. Some would fall. Some wouldn’t. There seemed no rhyme or reason to it.

The closer he got, I could begin hearing the intimate conversations.

“God saw you as you wept on your bed.”

“Jesus is opening a new season for you. The struggle of the past few months will pale in comparison to the glory that is coming.”

“God placed a call on you when you were young, didn’t he? But you’ve resisted. He’s calling you again. Be faithful.”

My heart was screaming in anticipation, “Yes!” This is what my soul has needed. What will God say in response to the pain I’ve been carrying with the divorce, with all the shifting in my faith and my tradition’s response to it, with all the changes in my friendships…ah! I need to know God sees me.

I need to be validated.

I need to know what to do next.

I need to know and hear that God sees me.

I need insight for my future.

I need empowered to live.

I need to hear the God cares about my pain.

Do you see me?

The man-a-god was finishing up with the person standing at my shoulder. And I was next. This was it.

He stepped directly in front of me. I could sense the shuffle of feet behind me as the catchers got into position. Alien hands began to touch my shoulders.

I opened my eyes and tears escaped down my cheeks.

I lifted my gaze to meet his.

His eyes were dark and jovial, traced with compassion.

There was an effervescent quality to the air. Tingles ran up my neck and around to my tear-stung cheeks

If ever I were to have a moment like Jesus did when we was being baptized, a moment when heaven would open up and a voice would speak, “This is my beloved, in whom I am well pleased,” this was that moment.

He looked at me.

His kind eyes reached into me as though he was measuring my soul.

Then he blinked.

And without so much as a wink, he turned away stepping to the next person, never saying a word.

The hands on my shoulders grew limp and fell away and I heard the sound of feet shuffling on to the next person.

This ethereal dream-state was shattered like a pile of dishes on a marble floor. The effervescent atmosphere turned into stale cellar air. My senses snapped back to attention and I was acutely aware that there I was.

God had skipped me.

Standing awkwardly among a pile of corpses like a man who had just survived a firing squad without being hit once. Do I fall? It’s too late.

“Shoot me!” my heart wanted to scream.

I turned to take the lonely walk back to my seat and looked down at the bodies lying on the ground. I could hear some John Wayne-esque voice in my head grumble, “Lucky bastards.”

Finding my chair, I sat down, put my elbows on my knees and my face into my hands.

“Please speak, your servant is listening…”

I was flush with disappointment and embarrassment.

If ever I were to have a moment like Jesus did when we was being crucified, a moment when heaven would turn it’s back to this suffering son and a voice would cry out, “Why? Why have you forsaken me?!” this was that moment.

Then, in the way the prophet Elijah bore witness to, there was a still small voice that arose like a pin prick of light in the darkness. And this is what it spoke so tenderly to me, “Jared, you do not need a prophet to hear my voice.”

///

When I tell this story from a stage, I usually get a muffled guttural sound from a few of the listeners after offering that last line. I interpret this as meaning they “felt that”, or something landed into their soul like a slow moving cushiony lighting strike. “Mmm.” Some of the old timers would offer an “amen” under their breath. I envision God throwing marshmallows into people’s mouths.

Can I be honest with you?

That last line?

I added it later.

I’m not sure it happened that night. I’m not sure it ever happened.

Maybe in reflection and contemplation I heard it. Maybe I wanted to hear it so bad, it appeared.

Maybe it just made for good storytelling.

Does that change it for you?

I add that line because the people I’ve shared this story with would not be able to stomach a God who is silent or absent. Most people need encouraged to know that God is a God who is imminent and touchable. One who calls us into intimate union with the Trinity. That’s rich. That preaches. That can evoke passionate “amens” from the congregation.

A story that ends with a 15 year old not experiencing the God he so longs for makes for a unpalatable story.

Or maybe I’m just too cowardly to tell the truth. The truth that maybe silence and absence is a place called home and you had better start painting its walls a color you can stomach, because, baby, we might be here longer than we ever thought.

///

I visit that disappointed teenager often. I furrow my brow with him when he is confounded by God’s silence. I put my hand on his shoulder when he is disillusioned by God’s absence. I carry him still.

And together, maybe we are learning that there is something buried deep in silence and absence.

Maybe it was our dad who taught us, when he left our home when we were 14, that absence doesn’t mean abandonment. Silence doesn’t mean rejection.

And sometimes, if you listen closely to the quiet stillness that is so neatly knitted into the tapestry that is God, there is invitation.

I wonder if you have felt it, too. Maybe.

A small bird calling from within a thicket. A tender sound scarcely breaking through the whipping of wind and the humming of tires on asphalt. Maybe.

An unidentifiable thud in the night that shakes you from slumber and as you, half-asleep, crane your ear to hear more, there is nothing. Maybe.

A surest sense that while sitting on the bank of the Mississippi, that slow force of a giant, you hear its power vibrating through rock and soil. Maybe.

///

25 years later, I know that man-a-god by name now.

We bump into each other often at the coffee shop on Main Street.

When I see him from across the room, I lift my head and greet him, “Bishop!”

He sees me, smiles, and bellows back, “Revered, how ya doin!”

I’ve never told him that story.

I’m tempted to someday approach him and request that if he ever finds me standing in his charismatic prayer line—and I pray to God he does—that when it’s my turn and he stands in front of me with those kind and discerning eyes, to please unfold and read this little note I have handwritten:

“Jared, God sees you. He sees your ache. The Spirit is speaking and saying that you are not in process. You have arrived and you are here. Being here is all that has been asked of you to this point. Well done. All requirements are over. Nothing more is needed. You needn’t try harder. Take a breath. Breathe deeply for that is where the voice will meet you. When you close your eyes, I am there. When your heart aches, I am there. When you tumble into the abyss of hell, I will be the one holding you. You worry about your future? Your future is as unformed and open as the morning sky. You will be there, but now you are here. And here is where I am with you.”

And then, I promise, I’ll fall backwards.

-Jared

Painting; Christo Alla Porta by Antonio Martinotti


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“But you still believe in Jesus, right?”

A lady walked up to me while I was eating in Taco Bell a few weeks ago and said she heard I was to be ordained a priest. I greeted her and said yes, that is true. With a look of concern, she followed up with, “you still believe in Jesus for salvation, right?“ I chuckled and said yes. Relief melted over her face.

It’s difficult to tell people this story. I’ve sat down to write it out over and again. But never really found the right words. Couldn’t find the hook. I still can’t, really. I end up just trying to affirm what people thought about me is still true.

You’re still a Christian, right? Yes.
You’re still licensed Southern Baptist, right? Yes.
You’re still a praying-in-tongues charismatic, right? Yes.
You
were confirmed in the Episcopal Church of USA, right? Yes.
You’ve helped pastor a
large evangelical church in a large city? Yep.
But also a small rural church in a corn field? Yes.

And now you’re an Anglican priest?

Listen, I know what this looks like. You’d almost expect at any given moment for me to yell bingo at the top of my lungs and collect my ecumenical prize. But there is no prize. I don’t think. (Wait…is there a prize?)

So I could just say, “I’m on a journey with Jesus.” But here’s the deal, I can’t stomach the journey metaphor anymore.

However, things that are hard to explain need metaphors. And so as I spin the metaphor wheel, the one that the arrow keeps settling on is this: a tree.

I like it.

You can’t just look at a tree square in the eyes and ask it, “Where are you at in your journey.” That doesn’t make sense. The tree is just there; planted in soil, drinking ground water, soaking up nutrients from the surrounding dirt. It didn’t even know it was supposed to be on a journey and wouldn’t know how to take a step if it wanted. So don’t go giving maple trees an insecurity complex by asking them about journeys. They’re not going anywhere.

But the stories they can tell are not of journeys, but of the seasons of abundance and seasons of poverty, cold winters and lush summers, broken branches and oozing wounds.

This story is written within a tree’s concentric inner rings that witness and testify to its life.

The wood and heart from it’s early life as a sapling is still there, embraced by the long and nurturing years that follow. Its story is held within. Not a journey. But a broadening and deepening. A rooting and expanding. Each year’s growth, whether abundant or impoverished, becomes the wooden frame for the next season.

The tree’s story isn’t of it’s journey, it’s of it’s substance.

I don’t want to be too presumptuous to say, “Look at me, I’m a beautiful tree, look how my leaves wave in the wind.” There are already too many ostentatious oaks. Forests of them.

We don’t need another. But I do have a story.

And my story doesn’t tell well as a journey. It doesn’t fit. Because if it’s a journey, I’m afraid that every step I take is one of betrayal to the last step and that isn’t true. Or if it’s a journey, then my life would be judged at how far I have come and I couldn’t bear the shame of looking at a map and seeing that I’ve not gone far. Or if a journey is only a series of destinations, then I have already stamped my passport with places of breathless beauty and renown and never found a land or home to call my own.

The tree says I don’t have to leave any of it.

All the story is there, rigid heartwood, rooting me deep into the soil and stretching my branches skywards.

I’m here. All of me, my substance, here. Rooting deep into the love and grace of Jesus Christ.

///

There’s a good chance that you aren’t interested in tree metaphors. If you are anything like me, you want to hear about specific flash points where decisions were made and why it seems I abandoned ABC and started believing XYZ. That’s what I’ve kept sitting down to write and having my words fall flat.

They will come, though. Stories have a way of worming themselves out of solid wood. There are stories of how I started longing for a historic expression of the Christian faith. There are stories of why I began hungering for formative and mystical spiritual practices, especially sacraments. There are stories of my heart coming alive at the thought of the Church living in unity as it works towards the reconciliation of all things.

But, today, you’ll have to be ok with just knowing that I’ve been ordained an Anglican priest with the Communion of Evangelical Episcopal Churches. And that at this moment, that is what faithfulness looks like for me.

But we can’t completely get rid of the journey metaphor can we? It’s especially helpful to describe a common path. So let me extend an invitation to you to join me in whatever metaphor you may find helpful. A tree? Then come root next to me in Christ’s garden. A journey? Then come be a companion with me as we walk this well-worn path with Christ. And if you are local to Hannibal, you are under a standing invitation to join us for formation and worship every Sunday morning @10AM at The Table.

Grace and peace,
Jared+

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The Great Reimagining

“I’m walking away from the church.” As somewhat of a misfit pastor, I find people sharing this story with me more and more these days. And although the character names change each time, the story nearly always includes these plot points; crosses draped with the American flag, controlling/abusive behavior by church leaders, inconsistent teaching on who’s “in” and who’s “out”, questionable use of Scripture, the unholy alliance between church and partisan politics, and/or a refusal to have any conversation on how to lovingly and gracefully include our female and LGBTQ+ sisters and brothers into the inner circle of the faith community. Did I check all the boxes for you?

The more I hear these stories, the fewer answers I have. I just sit silently listening to the hurt and pain. And I’m split between wanting to defend and guard the church and feeling such a need to embrace and cover the wounded as the shrapnel of American religion flies overhead. I don’t have the will to defend the Church anymore. These wounds are too real. The pain is palpable. And as a pastor, I’ve had to recognize and confess my complicity. A part of what we thought the church was in America—and defended so vehemently—will have to die.

And so as we turn to do the work of healing, what are we to say?

Maybe this:

Maybe you do need to leave the church. Maybe you do need to seriously question some of the stories you’ve been told.

While you’re at it, just question everything.

And it’s going to feel like death. It’s going to feel like you’re free-falling. It’s going to feel like you’ve lost all orientation to what’s up or down, east or west. You will most likely be bastardized by your faith community.

But the good news is that as you wipe the tears from your eyes and focus your vision, you realize that you aren’t alone. You were never alone. Christ fell with you all the way.

And those of us who have gone through similar experiences can attest that wherever Christ is present, He draws others to Him. And in Hannibal, He is calling people with similar experiences to reimagine and wrestle over what Christian community can look like.

The Spirit is tasking us to reimagine what it is to be Evangelical. What is it to be followers of Jesus and his teachings, framed by his Sermon on the Mount.

We are tasked to reimagine what it is to be Charismatic. What is it to live empowered by Christ’s presence?

We are tasked to reimagine what it is to be Sacramental. To be the embodiment of God’s grace and restoration to a scared and broken world.

We are reimagining.

And this place, The Table, is where you can belong. And not just the well-worn plastic-y Christian veneer that you put on to fit in, but where ALL of you belongs—your hopes, doubts, quirks, fears, dreams, and shattered pieces.

Take the risk. Join the conversation.

-Jared

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What IS Lent?

It’s the first week of Lent. For the first 35 years of my life, I had nothing to do with the Church Calendar. I had nothing against it, it just wasn’t a part of my upbringing in my particular Christian tradition. NBD.

And now a week into it, I’m still struggling to submit to it. I am resourcing it for sure. I’m preaching at The Table using the Lectionary and I give it lip service, but it’s difficult to put it into practice.

As I stood behind my foldable music stand and read the first few words of my sermon, “Welcome to the first Sunday of Lent,” someone blurted out, “what is Lent?”

It wasn’t asked as, “WHAT is Lent?”

Is was asked, “What IS it?”

We know WHAT Lent is.

But we don’t KNOW what Lent is.

So we Googled it. Right there at the pulpit. I did the four-finger swipe from my Scrivener App to Safari and googled “what is Lent.”

It was a crap answer.

“It’s 40 days of self-imposed sadness and McFish sandwiches on Fridays until Easter,” is what I wanted to say. Maybe I even did say it. But you can’t hold it against me. Side note, how did the Knights of Columbus corner the market on fishfries?

“Shouldn’t we be sad?”

“I don’t know, grab a beer.”

What IS Lent?

Lent isn’t journeying through the desert, across the Jordan, into the Promised Land. It’s the journey into the desert’s heart to make our abode.

Lent is realizing that at the age of 37, maybe this is all life is going to be and learning to be ok right there.

Lent is maybe learning to lament the childish dreams that drowned in the turbulent toil of adulting.

Lent is licking chapped lips.

Lent is seeing the skin of our emaciated soul clinging to the outline of our ribs.

Lent leads us to no other death than our own.

That’s why it’s so easier to observe than it is to practice.

Practicing death is not agreeable to most people’s sensibilities.

It seems in this early stage of Table Church, we have gathered people who have experienced what St. John of the Cross would describe as the Dark Night of the Soul.

40 years in the desert, robbed of our home and community? Yeah, we get that.

40 days of desolation in the wilderness, questioning every ounce of our faith? Check.

40 days of our weaknesses exposed and rubbed raw by temptation over and over again until our self control is like a flaky scab waiting to be scratched. I’ve got the bloody fingernail to prove it.

Relationships, gone. Jobs, changed. Homes, lost. Marriages, topsy-turvy.

What more has Lent to require of us? Our chocolate?

GOD! DO YOU WANT OUR CHOCOLATE, TOO?!?

It’s ok. I just heard Jesus chuckle.

Do you know what I found in the middle of the desert?

People.

People who are rapidly becoming my people.

We speak the language of death and loss. We dance the dirges.

But there’s a twinkle in their eyes. And it’s a dangerous one.

In these star-lit eyes, there is a deep understanding that once you walk through tragedy and death, you are unbound from the burden of fear. It’s almost as though death has been defeated and resurrection is now the power that rules in our Kingdom.

But we mustn’t talk to loud of that now. It is Lent, after all.

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