sola gratia

Scripture: For the grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation to all, training us to renounce impiety and worldly passions, and in the present age to live lives that are self-controlled, upright, and godly, while we wait for the blessed hope and the manifestation of the glory of our great God and Savior, Jesus Christ.  He it is who gave himself for us that he might redeem us from all iniquity and purify for himself a people of his own who are zealous for good deeds.  (Titus 2.11-14) Observation: In this passage, the author (traditionally St. Paul) is reminding Titus of the effects of divine grace on and in the life of the believer.  It's said that grace "bring[s] salvation," which is widely affirmed in most Christian traditions––but also held up as some future state we're awaiting.  Salvation , however, has a much broader meaning, as the root of the word––which means "healing"––indicates.  What these verses point to, then, isn't just a concern for how

Scripture: Tend the flock of God that is in your charge, exercising the oversight, not under compulsion but willingly, as God would have you do it—not for sordid gain but eagerly.  Do not lord it over those in your charge, but be examples to the flock.  And when the chief shepherd appears, you will win the crown of glory that never fades away. (1 Pet 5.2-4) Observation: Here Peter offers instruction to the "elders" (Greek  presbyteros ) regarding how they're to tend to those in their care: those for whose spiritual well-being they're responsible.  The term can mean someone of a certain age, but often refers to someone of a particular office––especially someone who presides over a body of believers.  The apostle's word indicates that persons in this position should be mindful not only of how but also of why they "tend the flock of God": not "for sordid gain," but out of willing love––and after the pattern of the "chief shepherd," Jes

It's been a few years since I first encountered the phrase "thin places."  I wish I could recall precisely where I read or heard it––my best guess is that it was during my seminary studies––but I'll never forget the chord it struck with me, because of what it conveys. The notion of thin places is especially popular in Celtic spirituality, and has to do with the idea that there are some places––not necessarily physical locations––where the presence of the divine is most tangible, most real .  I can myself point to a number of experiences wherein God's closeness was so overwhelming that even if for a moment I felt we could be no closer.  My baptism.  Most every time I've baptized another.  The sharing of the Eucharist in nursing facilities.  Conversing with persons who are incarcerated.  Worshiping with congregations of other racial and ethnic identities.  These are the sorts of places that, for me, are so "thin" that it feels as if heaven and earth

One of the issues I’ve most frequently bumped up against in my relatively young ministry is that of the use of ritual in worship.  To clarify, the arguments against ritual have normatively been aimed at use of specific liturgical elements—responsive readings, recited creeds, written prayers, et cetera (rarely, if ever, has anyone groaned about lighting candles, processing the Bible, or offering a benediction at the conclusion of worship—though these are ritual too).  All the same I’m sympathetic to those who are hesitant to embrace ritual, because I’ve been there.  I’m well aware that it can feel cold, rigid, or uninspired.  I realize that, at times, it seems like dropping formalities in favor of extemporaneity can facilitate a feeling of “Spirit-led” worship. Yet the problems so many Christians have with ritual stem, in my opinion, from a lack of understanding about what it is.  Ritual is, in reality, just a particular way of doing something.   It’s a customary practice.  But we

I’d guess I’m not alone in this, but I don’t do very well in large crowds. Of course large is a relative term, because even a small number of folks can seem bigger depending on the space in which they’re collected. But generally speaking, crowds aren’t my thing––especially when trying to navigate through one. I get nervous. I become frustrated. And I start to feel as if I need to escape. Which was part of my predicament in January of last year when I was selected to be one of two pastors from the Memphis Conference to attend a denomination-wide Young Clergy Forum in Washington, DC. Overarchingly, it was an amazing opportunity. But it was a tad stressful too. If you’ve never been to our nation’s capitol, Reagan National Airport is ridiculously busy on a normal day. But the afternoon that I landed was the first the airport had been open since a major snowstorm had shut it down for more than three days. To say that traffic was backed up is a ridiculous understatement. Thousan