Thoughts on Reforamtion Sunday

You know what I loved as a kid growing up in the sixties?

Star Trek.

No. I'm not a geeky “Trekkie” (my sincere apologies to you geeky Trekkies out there), I just liked the idea of a future filled with really cool stuff. I mean, there was space travel, for cryin' out loud! And little tiny boxes with flip-up lids that served as communicators. They had computers that could both talk and listen to you, whole libraries of information you could hold in the palm of your hand, and two-way video communication.

What's more, the future depicted in Star Trek was a world at peace. Russians and Americans worked together. Women and men were equal (okay, except for the miniskirts the women crew members wore—that was still a little sexist, wasn't it?), and racism seemed non-existent. They even got along with people from other planets. How cool was that?

In the almost half-century since the premier of Star Trek, lots of progress has been made down here on good ol' Planet Earth. We have the fancy computers and communicators prophetically suggested by that classic TV show. We've traveled to the moon and put a working probe on Mars. We've even made a little progress towards gender and racial equality (although we still have lots of room for improvement on those scores). The Cold War has ended, and we've made some progress towards welcoming people who once seemed very different from the mainstream. No space aliens yet, but if you've ever taught teens in Confirmation, you might think you've made extra-terrestrial contact.

But with all of this cool technology, we still live on a planet threatened by pollution and climate change. One in every eight people on this globe survive in the most degrading of poverty—living on about one US dollar per day. An almost equal number lack access to clean drinking water, and a person in the developing world is more likely to have a cellular phone than access to proper sewage sanitation. Malaria and HIV are still raging, as is human trafficking. 300,000 to 500,000 Americans are still homeless. Wars, revolution, and violence still fill the nightly news.

This planet still needs a reformation.

So what do we Lutherans have to celebrate on Reformation Day? For one thing,we celebrate that once a brave little monk had the courage to tell the truth. When Luther posted his 95 Theses on the door of the Castle Church in Wittenberg on that October day in 1517, he was proclaiming the teaching of John 8:32:

“...and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.”

And what was that truth? We are all slaves to sin—to our selfish, greedy, inconsiderate, angry, stubborn natures. But God still—in spite of everything—loves us enough to die for us. And we are set free by the love of the Son, not by the edicts of the Church. Luther's audience was freed from the tyranny of an institution which sought to obtain obedience through the terror of conscience, and one which gave tacit approval to oppression, subjugation, and poverty. Luther taught his people that the gift of baptism:

“...brings about forgiveness of sins, redeems from death and the devil, and gives eternal salvation to all who believe it...” (Small Catechism, 1528)

This promise changed the course of Western history.

I wonder, however, what Luther would do with the Church of today? To what are we still slaves? I'd say it's to institutional survival. Either that, or to a preoccupation with individual salvation, a concern about our own spiritual comfort and a discomfort with anything which might be controversial.

But Luther saw a church which was constantly in the act of reforming, a church where all the people were priests doing the work of God. After almost 500 years, we still have a lot of work to do before God's law is written on all of our hearts and we all—from the least to the greatest—know and act on the transforming power of God's love.

I keep praying for an ongoing Reformation, and a Church with a constantly changing heart and mission to the poor and helpless of this world—a priesthood of all believers moving forward in the faith of a loving and mighty God. We can do this, people! We have the power to change things, to invent and imagine. Christ sets us free from our doubts, preoccupations and preconceptions about what is and is not possible. If we can break free from earth's gravity, we can break free from global poverty. With Christ's passion in our hearts, there is no limit to what the people of God can accomplish.

Thanks for dropping in, fellow priest.

PS-Here's a radical idea: In honor of the 500^th anniversary of the Reformation coming up in 2015, let's ask Pope Francis (he seems like a pretty cool guy) to invite Lutherans back to the table of Holy Communion. Let's show the world that what we Christians—Protestants and Catholics—have in common is more important than our tiny differences. Interested? Click on my petition here.

"I Will Not Let You Go Unless You Bless Me" (Reflections on Pentecost 22)

We were having Sunday mass at Faith Lutheran Church and I was distributing the sacrament. The Praise Team was singing the communion anthem behind me. They were a little off rhythm because most of them hadn't been to rehearsal that week. Not that it mattered. They were so uncertain of the new hymn that they all kept their mouths far enough away from their microphones so no one could hear them anyway. Which was also just as well because the sound system was out of balance and giving us feedback.

David, a sweet but mentally challenged young man from the neighborhood, was walking in and out of the worship space. This would be a little distracting, but the neighborhood kids playing ball right outside the church windows were creating enough of a distraction to keep most of the worshipers' minds off of prayer or the sacrament. Although, I really don't mind the ball-players that much since they create less of a ruckus than the property committee when they decides to run the lawn tractor during worship time.

Of course, scores of little kids were fidgeting, giggling, and squirming during the distribution of the mass, but this was not really as much of an issue for me on this particular Sunday as Jack, one of the neighborhood guys, had stumbled into worship that morning. Jack—God love him—is out of work and suffers from health problems and emotional issues caused by childhood traumas and combat experiences. He comes by every once in a while to ask me for a few bucks or to attend an AA meeting. I handed him the wafer as he knelt at the altar rail.

“Hey, Father. Can I speak to you for a minute?” Jack asked. He reeked of alcohol.

I was standing at the altar, cyborium in had, right in the middle of public worship. “Uh, I'm a little busy at the moment, Jack. Can it wait 'til after church?”

Jack started to cry.

“Okay,” I said. “What is it?”

“Just pray for my friend. He died last night.”

“I will,” I said. Jack walked back up the aisle and left the church. A kneeling communicant smiled at me and shrugged her shoulders.

I looked around at our make-shift worship space. It's a 1950's style “first unit.” That is, it's a collection of cinder blocks intended to be only temporary, but it has turned out to be the permanent church for this community for over fifty years. It's not aesthetically pleasing nor is it particularly functional as an architectural space. It is merciless to the handicapped and inadequate for a large Sunday School. Things in this building tend to break down or clog up with startling regularity. But we make it work.

I thought to myself, “This is the REAL church.” It's imperfect and full of problems—spiritual, financial, personnel, and otherwise—but it's where the people of God are and where I am.

I've been pastor here for almost fifteen years and I've learned to see this as a holy place. I've learned to love the people, to rejoice and mourn with them. I could certainly wish for a fancier, more pious, and more financially secure congregation, but after hanging on here as long as I have, I realize that I am blessed. Just like Jacob at the ford of the Jabbok (Genesis 32).

It may be easy to see God as the unjust judge Jesus describes in Luke 18, deaf to our needs, our cries, and our prayers. But Jesus counsels us to be persistent. Our circumstances may not change, but our hearts will.

Thanks for dropping by.

Hey..! I really do believe in being persistent. Let's ask Pope Francis to open the communion table and worship with us Lutherans once again. Sign my petition by clicking here.

Do You Believe In Angels?

This Sunday, September 29^th, is the Feast of Saint Michael and All Angels. I guess if I'm honest I've never really given much thought to angels. I mean, they're supposed to be messengers from God, but I've never personally encountered one with shining wings and a halo and all that. This is not to say, however, that I don't believe in them. Many world religions speak of spirit beings or guides who are intermediaries between God and humankind. I'm now too old NOT to believe in the unseen. What does Hamlet say? “There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

Traditionally, the Western Church has celebrated this feast as Michaelmas. It is considered to be the time of the harvest and the beginning of autumn—the time when the books get balanced. As the leaves begin to fall and the world begins to get colder and thoughts of the departed and my own mortality fill my mind, I like to think that there might be a heavenly spirit hovering over me, giving me benign guidance or, at the very least, keeping me from screwing up too badly. Maybe it's been the presence of angels which has brought me safely to this point in life after all. Who knows?

For me, though, the only angels I know are the flesh and blood messengers who speak divine wisdom to me when I most need to hear it. God has been very good to a poor dufus like me—a habitually lazy, unsuccessful actor with a tendency towards excess. How could it be that I came to be this beloved Lutheran pastor with a beautiful wife, comfortable home, and a real sense of meaning in my life? There must have been some guidance from beyond.

At different times, God has placed people in my life who have given me wisdom, comfort, and sometime financial support when I most needed it. I have angels in my parish and among my circle of friends. At times my wife can be an angel. I even consider my shih tzu dog an angel! (She really DOES remind me of God's love all the time!)

I've only had one really mysterious encounter. I was walking in Center City Philadelphia one night many years ago just before I was to begin duties at my present parish. I'd had a bad fall from a horse while riding in Fairmount Park the week before, and I'd really sprained a groin muscle. I was in pain and had a terrible limp. As I hobbled down the sidewalk, I saw a heavy-set African American woman wrapped in an old overcoat leaning against the wall of a storefront and talking gaily to the passers-by. I assumed this woman to be a street person, one of the many homeless pan-handlers one sees in downtown Philly. I reached into my pocket for a dollar bill, certain I was about to be accosted for a donation. The woman smiled at me and said, “Look! You're Jacob, and the Lord has put your hip out of joint to make you new!” I smiled and said something like, “I guess He did.” After all, I was about to begin a new life as the pastor of my church. The woman never asked me for money. I limped on a few more steps and thought about how God had made a transformation in my life, of how I had been wounded but blessed, of how the last few years—which had included the death of my unborn child, the death of a dear friend, the death of my mother, and a divorce—had made me ready to take on the responsibilities of shepherding a congregation.

I turned around. The woman had vanished.

 

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PS- If you're Lutheran or Roman Catholic, help celebrate the upcoming 500^th anniversary of the Protestant Reformation by making this plea for Christian unity. Ask Pope Francis to let Lutherans and Catholics share the Holy Supper once again. Just click here.



Thieves and Robbers (Reflections on Pentecost 18)

                              

God bless Woody Guthrie! Did you ever hear his “Ballad of Pretty Boy Floyd?” It's a romanticized telling of the legend of the Depression Era bank robber Charles Arthur “Pretty Boy” Floyd. Although Floyd was a known robber and murderer, he reportedly captured the hearts and imaginations of Dust Bowl farmers through gallant acts of charity. It was said of this desperado that, after holding up a bank, he would destroy mortgage records in order to prevent the banks from foreclosing on poor families. Guthrie sang,

But many a starvin' farmer

The same old story told

How the outlaw paid their mortgage

And saved their little homes.

Another verse recounts a reported act of Floyd's gallantry:

It was in Oklahoma City,

It was on a Christmas Day,

There was a whole carload of groceries

Come with a note to say:

“Well you say that I'm an outlaw,

You say that I'm a thief.

Here's a Christmas dinner

For the families on relief.”

True accounts of Floyd's exploits are impossible to find, and fact has congealed into legend in the case of this outlaw. Nevertheless, dear old Woody Guthrie's ballad reminds us that a man who breaks the law may not be completely without redeeming qualities. We are, all of us, at the same time saint and sinner. Simul Justus et Peccator.

That's the lesson I take away from this week's gospel lesson from the Revised Common Lectionary (Luke 16:1-13). Unfortunately, the hero of Jesus' parable of the dishonest steward is nowhere near as romantic as the machine-gun wielding Charlie Floyd. He's actually something of a pencil-neck geek, too wimpy to do real labor and too stuck up to ask for a handout. He's a sneak who covers his thieving butt by cooking the books. Oh well. It takes all kinds. As Guthrie sang,

Yes, as through the world I've wandered

I've seen lots of funny men;

Some will rob you with a six-gun,

And some with a fountain pen.

So, you may ask, why does Jesus seem to be holding this guy up as a good example?

Perhaps because the dishonest steward of the parable is just like us—and Jesus wants to strip our outlaw nature of any of the romanticism with which we cloak our own thievery.

If we take an honest look at ourselves, we're all dishonest stewards, squandering the goods which have been entrusted to us. All that we have is “dishonest wealth,” as the parable says. None of it belongs to us. All is a blessing form God. It doesn't matter how much or how little has been entrusted to our care. What matters is how we choose to use it. And how we relate to this wealth has to have roots in the knowledge that we will one day be dismissed from its stewardship.

Like Pretty Boy Floyd, the white collar crook of the parable aids the poor by easing their debt. In so doing, he creates (as Lois Malcolm explains in Working Preacher) a more lateral, reciprocal relationship. A lateral, reciprocal relationship where wealth is concerned was once known as sharing.

And didn't our mothers always tell us that sharing is a good thing?

Yup. Even outlaws can do generous things from time to time, but I think it takes real courage to cultivate a spirit of honest generosity. I didn't preach tithing when I started my ministry because I was too scared to tithe myself. Gradually, however, I learned to let loose a little more of my “dishonest wealth.” In so doing, I learned two things:

First, Luther was right when he taught that “God daily and abundantly provides...all the necessities and nourishment for this body and life (Explanation to First Article of the Apostles' Creed in The Small Catechism).” Once my offering is in the plate, I never miss it. I can trust in God and I haven't starved or been left homeless.

Second, there is satisfaction in knowing that I have been part of something that has mattered. My poor financial gift has participated in some tiny way in educating children, healing addicts, comforting the aged, aiding the displaced, and feeding the hungry. I may not be Mother Teresa, but I know I did something. I'd rather have my tombstone read, “He did what he could,” than “He got all he wanted.” Wouldn't you?

Do some good with your "dishonest wealth" this week, won't you? And thanks for reading, fellow outlaw.

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Again, I'm asking all my Lutheran and Roman Catholic friends to ask Pope Francis to invite Lutherans back to the communion table. He seems like a pretty cool guy, and it can't hurt to ask. Just click here.

Saint of the Month: Nadia Bolz-Weber

Okay. Heck, I'll admit it. I'm a fan. I mean, I just love this weird chick!



Last Sunday I was on my way to church and, as is my custom, I tuned my car radio to National Public Radio's On Being series, a weekly discussion of topics in religion, ethics, and spirituality. The guest interviewee that morning was the brilliant and fascinating Pastor Nadia Bolz-Weber, the pastor of Denver's House For All Sinners and Saints.

I've been following Pastor Nadia for a while now as she's a fellow Lutheran. But, as I sat stalled by an opening at the Burlington Bristol Bridge, I suddenly had an excruciating feeling of inadequacy. I listened to her witty and irreverent apologetics, and I thought to myself, “Griff, you are such an amateur compared to this woman! I mean, you're really a piker.”

It's true. Rarely have I heard Lutheran doctrine expressed in so engaging a way. I won't wax poetic about Pr. Nadia's comments. You can listen to them yourself by clicking on the On Being interview. Just click Nadia.

(If your computer won't let you listen, you can read the accompanying article. On Being is also a really good site just to check out!)

Here's what I will say. Nadia Bolz-Weber has created a real church—a religious community founded on Jesus' injunction to seek the lost. As a shepherd, she has left the ninety and nine and gone in search of the one lost sheep. House For All Sinners and Saints is looking for the ex-junkies, the ex-cons, the LGBT's who don't feel welcome in mainstream congregations, the multi-ethnic, and the ones who just want something spiritual and genuine but can't wrap their inquisitive brains around a fundamentalism at odds with their common sense. What is amazing about this shepherd is that, while she seeks the lost, the ninety and nine straight-arrow, conventional sheep seem to have followed her too.

House For All Sinners and Saints, as the name suggests, is built around a fundamental doctrine of the Lutheran faith: Simul Justus et Peccator. That's Latin for “At the same time, justified and sinner.” This congregation understands that the church is not a country club for saints, but a hospital for sinners, and that everyone—regardless of outward appearance—is in some way broken by the burden of being a human being living in our beautiful but fallen world.

And they're okay with this, because they know that Christ's love covers us all.

Yet here's what I really dig about Pr. Nadia: Unlike my man Garrison Keillor, who, in his folksy, charming way has managed to make a loving celebration of Lutherans' boring and timid conventionality, Pr. Nadia has managed to make Lutheranism sound cool. And believe me, as a life-long Lutheran, that's no small trick. This tattooed, icon-covered iconoclast has made a 500 year old tradition real, immediate, and meaningful.

House For All has found a way to translate ancient Christian liturgy into modern, relevant worship. My liturgical brain lights up when I hear Pr. Nadia explain that only a love and understanding for the ancient permits us to innovate with integrity. There's something reassuring in knowing that our order of mass—however our individual communities have tweeked it—still unites us sinners with all of the saints who have experienced this worship throughout the centuries.

Some time ago I turned my daughter on to Nadia's website. Now, my daughter, like many of her highly inked, tech-savvy contemporaries, is not exactly a regular church-goer. But, inspired by Pr. Nadia's online sermons, she just told her mother and me that she is looking into an emerging church congregation in her neighborhood.

And for that alone I have to say, “Thanks, Nadia. I owe you one.”

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Hey, Lutherans and Catholics! Help me out. Let's see if we can get Pope Francis to help us celebrate the 500th anniversary of the Protestant Reformation by joining us at the communion table. Okay. I know. That's like asking Ann Coulter to join the ACLU, but it can't hurt to ask, can it? Just click my petition here

Would Jesus Bomb Syria?

Well here we go again.

After—what is it?--twelve years of seemingly unending and at times pointless armed conflict, the US is once again contemplating military action. The obscene and catastrophic civil war in Syria has produced a new horror—the use of a chemical agent by the Syrian government against her own people. Bashir Al-Assad, in violation of international agreement (the Geneva Protocols of 1925), has, it seems, murdered over 1,400 of his own citizens because they have violently rejected his ruthless control of their nation.

So what are we to do about this?

President Obama is prepared to take military action to punish the Syrian government and its military for what is pretty clearly a crime against humanity as well as a dangerous and threatening violation of international law. Pope Francis is urging restraint and diplomacy, arguing that any further escalation of hostilities will only cause more suffering for the people of Syria—Christians and Muslims alike.

Now, we could take the Pope's advice and back off. We could engage Syria's neighbors and the other power players in this insane spectacle and try and see if we can come up with some kind of negotiated solution to the ongoing violence. This might mean offering Al-Assad (who is probably a war criminal in addition to being a consummate s.o.b) a face-saving way to depart his country and live in luxurious exile the rest of his days. It would also mean giving a green light to the next power-mad despot who wants to murder his own people and face no consequences from the community of nations. Could we do this in good conscience?

What does Jesus say?

“You have heard that it was said, 'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.' But I say to you, Do not resist an evildoer. But if someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also...” (Matthew 5:38-9)

Martin Luther took a rather unique view of Jesus' exhortation, however. In his 1523 essay on Temporal Authority Luther wrote:

“Although you do not need to have your enemy punished, your afflicted neighbor does. You should help him that he may have peace and that his enemy may be curbed, but this is not possible unless the governing authority is honored and feared.”

Of course, the above begs the question: Who is the governing authority? Is the United States the “Policeman of the World?”

Honestly, I don't know the answer. How can Christians, in this situation, do both justice and mercy? At the risk of losing my Lutheran Card, I think I have to go with the Pope on this one. For my own part, I would rather see a villain escape than the innocent suffer. And too many innocents are suffering as it is.

One fact is unambiguous in this conflict: over two million Syrians have become refugees since the start of this mess, and over a third of the people of that nation are now in some way dispossessed. This became real to me when I met “Joe,” the Syrian guy who runs a shop in the strip mall next to my church. He tells me two of his daughters are still in Syria, and God knows what has become of them. I can't look at that man or even think of him without wondering what kind of pain he must be suffering. And I can't even begin to guess at what it must be like to be a refugee, to lose home, job, and identity and fight daily for mere survival.

All I know is that it is time for Christians to be Christians. Jesus commands us to welcome the stranger, and this applies even if the stranger is in a camp somewhere in Jordan or Turkey. Okay. I'm not suggesting we all quit our jobs and volunteer to be refugee aid workers. But in the face of this humanitarian catastrophe, we can at least redouble our efforts to support our denominational aid agencies. Lutheran World Relief is providing comfort kits, hygiene materials, and bedding to those in the resettlement areas. Pray for peace, my friends, and do what you can. It may not be much, but it's better than nothing.

Finding Grace at Dunkin Donuts (Reflections on Pentecost 15)

On one occasion when Jesus was going to the house of a leader of the Pharisees to eat a meal on the Sabbath, they were watching him closely. When he noticed how the guests chose the places of honor, he told them a parable. ‘When you are invited by someone to a wedding banquet, do not sit down at the place of honor, in case someone more distinguished than you has been invited by your host; and the host who invited both of you may come and say to you, “Give this person your place”, and then in disgrace you would start to take the lowest place. But when you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to you, “Friend, move up higher”; then you will be honored in the presence of all who sit at the table with you. For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted. He said also to the one who had invited him, ‘When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.’ (Luke 14: 1, 7-14)



Here's something I love about Jesus: unlike his bug-eating mentor, John the Baptist, Jesus liked to eat. Dinner parties and eating out were big with him (see Matthew 11:19), and some of his best stuff comes as table talk. To me, there's not a lot in this world that's better than sharing a meal and interesting conversation with people you like.

Last week I had about an hour to kill before officiating a funeral, so I decided to stop at the local Dunkin Donuts and clog my arteries a bit. This particular Northeast Philly Dunkin D is conveniently located between the funeral home and the local hospital so when the patrons collapse from coronaries--brought about by the excess of sugar and fat--there's less of a commute.

The doughnut shop was jammed with patrons. I guess Monday mornings are official “Old Retired Dudes Day" at this particular establishment. At every table sat groups of old guys ( I mean, older than me— the standard by which I judge maturity). They were heavy-set, blue collar, gruff-voiced, Philly guys. They didn't bother to shave. They joked and laughed and tried to out-talk each other. They wore sweatshirts with Philadelphia sports logos and baseball caps—many of which identified the wearers as US military veterans.

“Yo! Father!” one of the guys yelled to me in a playful voice. “Will you come over here and bless this guy?” He pointed to a slightly embarrassed codger at his table. “He's totally full of crap and he needs all the help he can get!”

I walked over to the table. “Does he just need an anointing,” I asked, “or are we talking a full-on exorcism?”

They all laughed. I had been accepted.

I ordered my coffee and a doughnut and began to take the lowest seat—the only vacant table in the place. It was a small table in the rear of the shop which two old gents had just vacated. I had about a half hour to get caught up on some reading, but my coffee break was soon interrupted by the arrival of two more retirees.

“Pardon me, Father,” said one, “but could we share your table?” I couldn't very well refuse as there were no other seats available in the whole shop. So I made the acquaintance of Jack and Larry. Larry suggested to his friend that, as a clergyman was their table guest, they had better watch their language. He then told me a clean version of a dirty joke I'd heard thirty years ago. I smiled, but I confessed I'd thought the joke funnier in it's original incarnation. The ice was broken.

For the next half hour I shared the most delightful and meaningful conversation about faith, ecumenism, and the place of the church in political debate. I also had the chance to hear quite candidly what these two elder statesmen expected from their congregations, worship experiences, and clergy. I rarely get such honesty from my own parishioners. I felt truly honored.

As we parted, Larry remarked, “Ya know, I get the feelin' you didn't become a pastor at age twenty-two. Bet you did something else first. Am I right?”

“You are correct, Sir,” I said, “and that's the nicest compliment I've received all week.”

How exalting it is to be treated like a regular guy.

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In this Sunday's gospel Jesus gives us some tips on good manners. He teaches us how to be good guests and good hosts.

(Hey! Did you hear this one? The Virgin Mary says to the eleven-year-old Jesus, “Son, get your elbows off the table! Where are your manners? Were you born in a barn?” Okay. Dumb joke. I won't do it gain.)

In the world of the gospel text, honor and shame were pretty darn big issues. They could have economic ramifications for an entire family. Even today, self-help gurus encourage us to elbow our way to the places of honor, to blow our own horns, and make our achievements known—and woe to anyone who fails to acknowledge our accomplishments! But Jesus counsels the virtue of humility.

I once had a high school teacher who said he preferred honest arrogance to false modesty. I don't like arrogance of any kind, honest or not. As a Christian, I'm taught to embrace honest modesty—the knowledge that I have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God, and that all the things I think make me hot stuff are just ephemeral. My self-worth comes from feeling the love of the Creator God, and knowing that, undeserving as I am, I am given blessings every single day if I will only open my selfish eyes and see them. From the seat of humility we learn to be accepting and grateful, and we're protected from the disappointments of our own puffed-up egos.

Good manners also mean a sense of graciousness. Grace is the gift which comes undeserved. As hosts, we serve graciously to those who couldn't possibly repay our hospitality. If we welcome with the expectation of some kind of return, we are not so much practicing grace but commerce.

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I'd like to suggest a change in our liturgical etiquette if I may. As the celebrant at mass, I always believe in serving the congregation first, the worship assistants second, and myself last. I mean, wouldn't you think me rude if, as head of the table at a dinner party, I served myself first? I'd like to see our liturgical practices reflect this common courtesy. And, of course, I make a point of welcoming everyone to the table—at least everyone who feels they can receive the Lord's body and blood in good faith. How rude to invite someone to your home and not offer them something to eat!

And to that end, I still invite you, dear Reader, to sign my petition asking Pope Francis consider open communion with Lutherans. Yeah, I know. The Cubs will win the pennant before I get a response from the Vatican on that issue. But we can hope, can't we? Just click here. Thanks for stopping in!