Plans

Growing up on the outskirts of a tiny, one-stop-light town, there were two main churches. In town-proper anyway. The Baptists and the Methodists. First Baptist and First United Methodist, to be exact. Both on Main Street and not too far apart - distance-wise and other-wise. Both red brick and very fancy to this little girl whose address was a rural route and not an actual street name. Whose church-home was a white wood frame building constructed by gnarled hands on Saturdays and evenings between farm work. It has long since been bricked and brought in line with the town churches, structure wise. My Daddy was the only pastor I knew for the first 10-11 years of my life. When things became un-pleasant in Mt. Pleasant (lovely name for a church but not always lived up to - in my recollection), we went to First Baptist for a little while. It was there I learned of GA's (Girls in Action) and Acteens. We met in the basement where my brother and sister-in-love had their wedding reception - she was a city girl. We completed workbooks to earn badges and did skits to act out Scripture stories. They had a youth choir and a bus, this city-church, and on Sunday nights after choir practice we would sometimes load up on the bus and drive a few towns over to Pasquale's Pizza. Daddy would slip me a little money and I would always get a roast-beef sandwich because I was afraid I wouldn't like pizza. We had never had it at home and it was years before I would even try it. Yes. I was a backwards little hick-girl. I have since made up for the non-pizza years. I remember singing all the way back and forth on that bus. Our choir even went and sang and another church one time and the people of the church split us up in groups and took us to their houses for Sunday dinner afterward. I went to a rich-people's-house. They had enough TV trays for our whole group to have one apiece. Oh, the splendor.

My family was real big on music. Daddy and Uncle Lonzo most especially, and they were real proud when I took to singing. They would brag that I could sing harmony even when I was little. I learned to read music and alto was my favorite part. I must have been about 12 when I got to sing alto in the Easter cantata with the Methodist church choir. The adult choir. I thought I was something else. We rehearsed for weeks and when the day finally came, I was beyond excited. They loaned me somebody's choir robe and there I was shrouded in burgundy wool (yes, wool) down past my toes, locked in with a beige satin stole around my neck. We commenced to singing and the more it went on the hotter it got. Spring in Alabama is no joke. They had taken the chairs out of the choir loft to accommodate all the singers so we stood up the whole time. Somewhere about the middle, I started feeling woozy. Next thing I know they were handing me down the row to where Mama was waiting to catch me. Seems I disappeared from view - fainted and sat down in the floor and she rushed forward to drag me out the side door. The choir never stopped singing. I was sad I missed the big finale but Mama kept the door cracked so I could at least hear. I learned some big lessons that day; the Methodists had hot choir robes and never lock your knees if you have to stand up a long time. Also, it's kinda nice just out the side door - you can still hear the music but you can catch a breeze and cool off.

In the years since, I've spent a lot of time in churches along many Main Streets - Baptist and Methodist. Most recently and currently as a United Methodist - both sides of the pulpit. We've been in the news this week, us Methodists. Faithful leaders gathered from all over the globe to hash out some pretty big issues. It got heated, I gather from reading accounts and catching live-streaming snips and reports. There were poignant prayers and nasty allegations. Plans were presented and debated - pushed down, sent on, tinkered with, demolished, amended, squashed and eventually a few things passed for the time being. Emotions and tensions ran high and most everybody left feeling like they'd been run over by a truck - no matter what philosophical row they occupied. Some heartbroken because the way they wanted things to go wasn't the way things went... some heartbroken because they did the best they could but feelings still got hurt... none that I know of went away gloating or claiming victory. The meeting has disbanded and the faithful servants - clergy and laity - have returned home to continue hard work/conversations. Home to towns and villages across the globe. Home to congregations who are trying to make sense of what comes next. Home to hand out heaping helpings of grace and truth. It is far from over - but that's the way it's gonna be down in this kingdom-come-but-not-yet-here place. This world on its best day is broken and some days we get cut to ribbons trying to handle it.

I have no wisdom or insight about the plans that were proposed or those passed - there is commentary galore in the media - social/church/news - to be chewed on. There is, however, a plan that bears consideration above all others. It is one I have held dear for so, so long. One that is not flawed or disappointing. "For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11 This is an excerpt from a message to the Israelites who were exiled in Babylon. It wasn't the news they wanted to hear. They weren't to be rescued right away... it would be seventy years before they would be returned to Jerusalem - returned home. There were conflicting prophecies, from multiple prophets, with nice promises, but only one from the Lord. And his promise came with audience participation: Then you will call on me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.  I will be found by you,” declares the Lord, “and will bring you back from captivity.I will gather you from all the nations and places where I have banished you,” declares the Lord, “and will bring you back to the place from which I carried you into exile.” And so, here in our earth-exile awaiting our home-going, we would do well to not only heed these good-future promises but to engage in the home-work: calling and coming and praying, whole-hearted-seeking, anticipating being found and gathered and brought back. I can only speak for myself but this is my plan - my way forward. And I will be on the lookout for others to join me on this path.

For all my dear friends who are standing in pulpits... and widening gaps... these days - with shaky-knees locked and sweat running out from under the wool-heavy weight of recent events, you have my sincere prayers. And my encouragement to step out the side door every once in a while. Loose the satin stoles and sit out there for a bit. Let cool-breeze-perspective blow up under your robe, lay down the wobbly struggle and just rest some. The mournful dirges of lament and the sweet melodies of peace will go on without you. You can still hear them from the porch. And you can sing of resurrection yet another day. Selah.