Empty Altars

Pastor Jeff SmithLeave a comment

What follows here is my Ash Wednesday reflection that I shared at Wellspring for our noon Ash Wednesday service. It seems to reflect accurately how I am walking into the season of Lent, and I hope it is an invitation to you to join in the community of saints on this sacred journey, as well.

Diana Butler Bass is someone whom I have grown to love and who I have had the chance to meet in person twice now. She is a church historian and she tells a story about a statue that stood not far from where she lives in Virginia.

It was a Confederate statue that her own family, over the years, had given a nickname. They called it the dejected Confederate. Even as a child, she could see something sad and hollow in it.

That statue was one of many, but when the movement to remove the Robert E. Lee statue in Charlottesville gained momentum, something far darker was revealed. Neo-Nazis and white supremacists descended on the city. Violence followed. A life was taken. And suddenly what some had called “heritage” was exposed for what it truly was: an idol built on fear, domination, and white supremacy.

Not long after, in Richmond—the former capital of the Confederacy—an entire boulevard of statues came down. Monument Avenue it was called. One by one, they were removed.

Bass was invited to speak at a church in Richmond, and before worship the pastor asked her a simple question:

“Have you been down Monument Avenue?”

She said no.

He paused and then said,
“It is stark. Emotionally powerful in a completely different way than it used to be. You look down the road and the statues are gone. There are empty altars everywhere.”

Empty altars.

That phrase has stayed with me.

Because if we’re honest, Christianity has always been an iconoclastic faith. From the beginning, our tradition has been deeply suspicious of images—especially images that claim to contain God, define God, or secure God for our own purposes.

The Hebrew scriptures warn against graven images not because beauty is dangerous, but because idols eventually demand our allegiance. They promise meaning, protection, or identity—and then quietly replace God.

And Jesus, in his own way, continues that same tradition.
“Moth and rust will consume every idol,” he says.
Everything we build to give us a sense of permanence will eventually crumble.

Ash Wednesday begins where those monuments end … with emptiness.

Lent is the season when the church dares to walk down its own Monument Avenue and see what is missing. It is a season when the familiar structures, certainties, and images are stripped away. Not to punish us—but to tell us the truth.

Fasting is not about willpower.
Silence is not about discipline.
Ashes are not about shame.

They are about emptiness.

And emptiness is terrifying.

I know that personally.

As an Enneagram Seven, Lent is one of the hardest seasons of the Christian year for me. I am wired to avoid emptiness, pain, and limitations of any kind. I move toward stimulation, hope, possibility, joy. I want fullness—sometimes at any cost.

And yet, Lent is also one of the most necessary seasons for me.

Because when I avoid emptiness, I avoid God.

What Lent invites—what Ash Wednesday demands—is that we stop filling the space. That we stop decorating the altar. That we sit with what remains when the statues are gone.

And that brings me to a more intimate monument avenue—the one inside me.

There is a dialogue that has been unfolding within my own inner world this season. A conversation between parts of me that are all trying, in their own way, to protect me.

There is my inner critic.
It speaks loudly and often.

The critic tells me not to think too much of myself. It lowers my sense of self-worth preemptively, as if to say, “If you don’t expect much, you won’t be disappointed. If you don’t shine too brightly, you won’t get hurt.”

And especially, the critic works hard to silence a more tender part of me—the part that holds compassion, empathy, gentleness, and love. A part that some would label feminine. A part that carries shame simply for existing.

That shame is also carried by a wounded child within me—a child who learned early that vulnerability is dangerous, that sensitivity can be punished, that tenderness invites harm.

So the critic steps in to keep that child quiet.

Don’t expose yourself.
Don’t be that soft.
Don’t let them see that part of you.

And here’s the painful truth: the critic is not cruel. It is afraid. It believes it is saving me.

But Lent does not side with the critic.

Lent sides with vulnerability.

Ash Wednesday tells us that the very thing we try to silence—the fragile, honest, unprotected self—is the place God chooses to meet us.

The critic wants to build monuments: strength, certainty, control, productivity, relevance.
But God keeps emptying the altar.

And this is where Lent feels unbearable.

Emptiness exposes us.

When the statues are gone, there is nothing to hide behind. No image to manage. No illusion to maintain. Just dust and breath.

And yet—this is where God shows up.

Not in the monuments.
Not in the idols.
Not in the polished versions of ourselves.

But in the empty space where we finally stop pretending.

The irony of the gospel is this: what we fear will destroy us is often what saves us.

Jesus does not promise fullness without emptiness.
He does not promise resurrection without death.
He does not promise life without first leading us into the wilderness.

The Christ we meet in Lent is not impressed by our defenses. This Christ is drawn to our honesty.

So as ashes are placed on our foreheads, we are not being marked by failure. We are being marked by truth.

“You are dust.”
Yes.
And dust is where God breathes life.

So for this season, I invite you to take down the idols and icons in your own life. Even the ones that once served you well. Especially the ones that promise safety but deliver isolation.

Sit with the emptiness.

Sit with the silence.

Sit with the vulnerable parts of yourself that your inner critic has tried to protect by hiding them.

Because it is there—right there—that Christ waits.

The Christ who knows what it means to be emptied.
The Christ who enters despair without flinching.
The Christ who promises that those who dare to face emptiness will not be abandoned to it.

Blessed are the empty.
Blessed are the vulnerable.
Blessed are those who have nothing left to prove.

For they are the ones who will be filled with life.

To All My Friends in Ministry

Pastor Jeff Smith1 Comment

Years ago, a parishioner once said to me, “Life is hard. Church shouldn’t be hard. Church should be the easiest thing I do all week.”

I’ve carried that sentence with me for a long time. I remember pushing back gently in the moment, pointing toward the Gospels—toward Jesus’ own words: “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” Even then, I knew the tension embedded in that exchange wasn’t going away. It still hasn’t.

As we prepare to enter Lent—especially in a season that is profoundly hard for so many of our siblings in our own communities, in our wounded nation, and across the world—I am more convinced than ever that this is not the time for an easy church. This is the time for a faithful one.

This is the moment for the church to take up its cross and move intentionally into the hard places—into spaces where the gospel has been distorted by Christian nationalism and reshaped to serve domination, fear, and power rather than love, justice, and liberation.

The Jesus we follow was never a populist leader. He did not mirror the prejudices of the crowd or sanctify their desire for control. He did not bless a golden idol fashioned in their own image. Jesus understood—deeply and bodily—the cost of solidarity with those crushed by the state, those living in constant fear for their lives and the lives of their neighbors. That path led him not to safety, but to a cross.

So yes—to my friend from years ago—I would say again: church is hard. But I would add this with even greater conviction now: we do not walk it alone.

This is for my friends in ministry who are exhausted.

For my clergy colleagues who wake up already tired, carrying stress and burnout that no sabbatical alone can heal.

While I serve a radically inclusive, justice-seeking congregation, I know many of you are serving in churches where the line you must walk is razor-thin. Churches where honesty feels dangerous. Where one sermon, one prayer, one pastoral word could fracture fragile unity or threaten already-precarious giving. Churches shaped by privilege, where justice is tolerated only as long as it remains abstract and never personal.

Speaking truth to power is not just stressful—it can be terrifying. It is hard to proclaim justice to those who fund the institution while resisting the very solidarity the gospel demands. It is hard to preach good news that sounds like bad news to people invested in maintaining the status quo.

To you, my colleagues: I see you.

And even in churches that name justice loudly and clearly, we feel it too. We try to speak to one unfolding injustice, only to have another erupt before the sermon manuscript is finished. Each new day seems to bring fresh harm—policies and rhetoric that target our Black and brown siblings, women, LGBTQ+ people—all in service of preserving power for a privileged few.

And still, friends, this is not a betrayal of our calling. It is our calling.

The call of Christ was never an invitation to ease or comfort. As the old song says, “I never promised you a rose garden.”A friend once summed it up bluntly during a particularly brutal season: “Ministry sucks.” Some days, that feels painfully accurate.

The call of Christ comes with a cost—made heavier when the church becomes dependent on those whose participation and generosity arrive with conditions attached.

And yet.

Yes, church is hard. But we do not walk it alone.

The good news—the kind that actually sustains us—is this: the same Jesus who compels us toward solidarity with those pushed to the margins is the Jesus who first chose solidarity with us. This is the mystery of the incarnation. Emmanuel. God with us. Not God above us. Not God protected from us. God with us.

As we enter Lent—a season in which Jesus moves deliberately toward the center of religious and political power, knowing full well it will cost him his life—my prayer is that you will experience the presence of God sustaining you in this work.

There will be days when ministry feels unbearable. But may we remember to look up and see one another. May we take courage in the great cloud of witnesses surrounding us—those who have gone before and those walking beside us now.

Our task is not popularity.
Our task is not comfort.
Our task is not survival at all costs.

Our task is to birth the kingdom of God—again and again—until it finally becomes the kin-dom of God.

And friends, we do not do that alone.

The Gifts of Darkness

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Hello darkness, my old friend.
I’ve come to talk with you again.

That opening line from The Sound of Silence has lingered with me since my last post. Darkness—named not as an enemy to be conquered, but as an old companion. A presence that holds both fear and possibility.

This reflection isn’t really about the song. It’s about that word: darkness.

The moon as seen through a half-circle window in our home. But the question is if it is a window or light as seen through an open eye. For me, it is both.

Darkness is frightening. In its depths, people lose their way. Some are consumed by it. History makes that painfully clear. And yet, scripture also reminds us—again and again—that God does some of God’s most important work in the dark. Creation begins in darkness. Liberation begins in the night. Resurrection comes before dawn.

For those who are willing to remain present rather than flee, darkness can reveal truths that the light often allows us to avoid.

For me, darkness has become the place where I encounter my most authentic self.

In the dark, the performances stop. The titles and roles lose their power. Using the therapeutic framework of Internal Family Systems (IFS), I have learned that the parts of myself I am most tempted to hide are often the parts most longing to be named and healed. Darkness has a way of inviting those parts forward—not for condemnation, but for integration. It is there that truth begins to surface.

And this personal darkness mirrors the collective darkness of our time.

We are living in a moment marked by rising authoritarianism, endless war, racialized fear, economic injustice, and the quiet erosion of truth itself. We see neighbors turning on neighbors. Families divided. Churches tempted to trade the gospel for comfort or proximity to power. This is not accidental. Darkness flourishes wherever fear is nurtured and silence is rewarded.

The instinct is to escape—to distract ourselves, to spiritualize away the pain, or to demand quick fixes. But what if the faithful response is not escape, but presence?

What if God is calling us not to deny the darkness, but to confront it without becoming it?

One of the greatest gifts darkness offers is empathy.

Brené Brown reminds us that empathy creates connection, while sympathy creates distance. Sympathy wants to fix. It wants to turn on the lights too quickly. Empathy stays. Empathy listens. Empathy refuses to abandon those who are suffering. Empathy is a moral act in a culture that prizes efficiency over relationship.

To sit with another in the darkness and say, “You are not alone,” is an act of resistance.

Darkness also strips away our illusions.

In true darkness, the markers we use to divide ourselves—race, status, ideology, nationality—lose their authority. In the dark, we cannot hide behind appearances or abstractions. We are confronted with who we actually are and with the humanity of those we would rather keep at a distance.

This is precisely why darkness unsettles us. It exposes the lies we’ve told ourselves about innocence, superiority, and separation.

And yet, it is in this very place that reconciliation becomes possible.

When authentic selves meet authentic selves—when we speak truthfully and listen vulnerably—community can begin to take shape. Together, in the dark, we start reaching for the light. Not the false light of dominance or certainty, but the light of the Divine. The light of Christ. The light known by many names, yet always pointing toward justice, mercy, and love.

In the darkness, we discover one another as fellow seekers.

On level ground, we recognize our shared longings: dignity, belonging, hope, peace, and wholeness. This is the soil of the kingdom of God—the kin-dom of God—where no one is disposable and no one is invisible.

When Jesus reduces the law to two commands—love God and love your neighbor—he is not offering sentiment. He is offering a radical vision of community that disrupts every system built on exclusion. This is the Beloved Community Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. proclaimed—a community where there are no outsiders, no enemies, no hierarchy of human worth.

And yes, in the darkness, we encounter God.

If we attune our senses, God is present—in shared lament, in trembling hands, in voices that refuse to be silenced, in the still small insistence of conscience. This is the God whose breath sustains us, whose image we bear, whose presence refuses to abandon the world even when the world abandons love.

So the call is not to fear the darkness.

The call is to refuse the lie that darkness gets the final word.

May we discover in the darkness the courage to tell the truth, the humility to listen deeply, and the resolve to build authentic community. For when we bring our full selves—and our shared humanity—out of the darkness and into the light, the powers that thrive on fear begin to lose their grip.

And that, my friends, is how the world is changed.

The Deafening Sound of Silence

Pastor Jeff Smith1 Comment

While I have been very vocal about injustice (especially as it pertains to our current national struggle with authoritarianism), it occurred to me that I had let my blog go silent. Then, this morning, as I listened to my rock playlist (mostly ’60s and ’70s, if you know how old I am), one song stopped me in my tracks: Simon and Garfunkel’s The Sound of Silence.

As I listened, I was reminded that this is a song of social justice. Many of us love to receive it as a gentle call to quiet reflection, but if that is the only way we hear it, then we are not actually listening. The song is not an invitation to withdraw; it is a warning about what happens when we do.

I begin with a couple of foundational principles that remind me of what I am called to do: to lift my voice and refuse silence in the face of injustice.

The first principle is this: the silence of those with privilege becomes a stumbling block to justice. The second is closely related—that so-called moderation often reveals itself as a deeper devotion to order than to justice, a preference for a false peace that avoids tension rather than a true peace that confronts injustice.

This comes from Dr. Martin Luther King’s letter to the Alabama Clergy from the Birmingham Jail where Dr. King writes:

I must make two honest confessions to you, my Christian and Jewish brothers. First, I must confess that over the past few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: “I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action”; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a “more convenient season.” Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection.

So the first principle is that the silence of those with privilege is a stumbling block to justice. The second is that the “moderate” is more devoted to order and is for those who prefer a negative peace, which is the absence of tension, to a positive peace, which is the presence of justice.

This is where The Sound of Silence speaks to me the most.

Hello darkness, my old friend
I’ve come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

The imagery of the song evokes those who live on the margins—the homeless, the outcast, those exposed to the cold and damp. In that bleakness, sudden flashes of artificial light break through, signaling a future where symbols, spectacle, and advertising replace wisdom and truth. We are tempted to bow to what shines rather than to what speaks honestly.

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
‘Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence

This is a clear image of the homeless and outcast. In the cold and damp, suddenly we are struck with “the flash of a neon light” that even in 1964, sensed a future where symbols, advertising, and spectacle would replace wisdom. People bow to what shines, not to what tells the truth.

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
No one dared
Disturb the sound of silence

What strikes me most is the image of the masses—thousands upon thousands—who are surrounded by communication yet remain disconnected from meaning. We are among them. Through our privilege, we can speak endlessly without truly saying anything, and we can hear constantly without ever really listening. We are capable of choosing silence when speech is required, and indifference when compassion is demanded.

“Fools” said I, “You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you”
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence

This kind of silence is not the centering silence I seek in prayer. It is a distancing silence. It separates me from my neighbors—my Black neighbors, my immigrant neighbors, my Indigenous neighbors, my unhoused neighbors, even my enemy neighbors. It separates me from anyone whose daily reality feels more like survival than comfort or hope.

Again and again, the invitation is there to listen, to learn, to reach out and be reached. Yet words so often fall away unheard, absorbed into systems that reward quiet compliance over courageous truth-telling. That reality weighs heavily on me.

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming

We are also remarkably skilled at crafting and worshiping our own idols. Today, those idols may take the form of technology and algorithms that trap us in echo chambers, confirming our biases rather than challenging them. They may include tools—even ones I rely on—that can either amplify our voices or subtly replace them. They may be political leaders, including a sitting President, who maintain control through fear and intimidation.

Yet the signs are there, right in front of us, pointing toward a different reality—if only we are willing to see them.

And the sign said, “The words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sounds of silence”

The modern-day prophets are often found among the least powerful in our society. They write their truths where they can, in places easily ignored by those rushing past. Too often, their messages go unseen, dismissed as background noise rather than recognized as prophetic witness.

And even when these truths reach us, they often arrive as whispers. Still, they are the very things Jesus calls us to hear. Silence, my friends, is not an option. For the past week, I have spoken the names Renee Good and Alex Pretti in my daily prayers, refusing to let them disappear into silence.

And yet—even now—my own voice often remains a whisper. I know that if silence is not to become a cancer that grows unchecked, I must do more than simply speak. This is a call to stand up and stand with others. It is a call to contact my elected representatives, whether in Congress or in the statehouse. It is a call to join the millions who are resisting the reality of institutions functioning as tools of authoritarian control.

It is a call to raise my voice loudly enough to join the growing chorus demanding change—to influence both the electorate and those who hold office. It is time for the Body of Christ to move into the world and do the work of Christ. We follow a Jesus who stood in solidarity with the poor and who spoke truth to power, even when it cost him everything.

Let us not allow silence to become the cancer that finally destroys us.

Finding Calm in the Storm

Pastor Jeff Smith2 Comments

On that day, when evening had come, he said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.” And leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. Other boats were with him. A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion, and they woke him up and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” And waking up, he rebuked the wind and said to the sea, “Be silent! Be still!” Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” And they were filled with great fear and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?” – Mark 4:35-41

I get where the disciples are coming from in this text. With all the turmoil, the fear, and the overwhelming dread and fear that is be fomented by our President and his slew of executive orders, many of which are threatening to upend much in our lives, it feels like the storm is upon us and the boat is taking on water.

For those who are in marginalized groups, whether they are Black, Indigenous, People of Color (BIPoC) or whether they are part of the LGBTQ+ community or any other threatened group, there is a great deal of dread over the marginalization that is a natural outflowing of the tenets of Christian Nationalism and the extreme right that seem to be dominating our national policy, if not outright destroying key aspects of our democracy.

The storm is raging, and the boat is taking on water. And we look to the One who is sent to save us, and he is asleep in the bow of the boat. I’m unsure what sleep looks like in a boat that is taking on water while being battered by the storm, but there is this almost eerie sense of calm about this One. When he awakens, he seems almost irritated that we awakened him for this emergency.

No sooner than he calms the seas, he turns to us and says, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”

But wait! Do we really have the capacity to do what Jesus did? Do we have the capacity to calm the stormy seas? Do we have the capacity to practice that kind of calm when our minds and our bodies are experiencing outright panic? What exactly is this faith that Jesus expects of his followers?

Since the first of the year, I have returned to a spiritual practice known as Centering Prayer. I use an app to guide me, and each day, there are options as to what Opening Prayer/Reading and what Closing Prayer/Reading will be part of the exercise. Then during the quiet time (known as the “sit” in contemplative practice), I am asked to choose a sacred word on which to focus.

The word I chose today was “calm.” This week, I received a request from one of the members of my flock who is personally threatened by these early executive orders. She was petitioning me to write something that would offer a word of hope even as she and so many others are experiencing panic in this time. That was what led to reflect on the word: Calm

Calm Is Not Denial

This calm is not a denial of the storm that swirls around us. It is not a denial of the panic that is fostered by fear or threat. Calm is the capacity to center ourselves right in the midst of the storm and somehow trust that the One who commands the wind and the waves is right here with us. It is to know that we are not alone and that we shall overcome … yes, even this storm.

How might I approach this turbulent, chaotic time if I believed that Jesus was within arms reach? How might we speak to the chaos and disorder all around us and command it to be still?

No, it doesn’t mean that we magically gain control over the oppressors or those perpetuating the harm. It doesn’t mean that the oppression immediately ceases. It does mean that, when we find our center and stand on the firm foundation on which Jesus stood, we will discover that we are not alone in the boat and that, through faith, we can weather any storm.

Calm as Nonviolent Resistance

When I think of resistance, I have this visceral reaction that feels like I should fight … fight with everything I’ve got. Yet this is not the way of nonviolence. The kind of calm that Jesus brought to his followers was not built on avoidance. Jesus continued to face his oppressors and enemies, yet he did so calmly. He was not anxious or afraid. Yes, he had his moment in the garden when he wished that the cup would pass from him, but then he calmly stood and walked with the soldiers who would lead him to his execution.

In the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew 5, Jesus talks about how to respond to oppression. “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 anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also, and if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, give your coat as well, and if anyone forces you to go one mile, go also the second mile. Give to the one who asks of you, and do not refuse anyone who wants to borrow from you. (Matthew 5:38-42)

This is a subversive calmness. Walter Wink in a beautiful essay on The Third Way, offers us a way of seeing how turning our left cheek after having been struck on the right is to demand that we be treated as an equal without striking back. To give our coat after having been stripped of our shirt is to be naked (when we only wear two garments), which would mean that the person taking our shirt would be humiliated by our own nakedness. To go the second mile, according to Roman military law, would place the solder whose pack you were carrying in serious trouble with his superiors.

It is a calmness, says Wink, that is neither passive nor violent … it is a calmness that is a third way of being in the world.

So maybe that’s where Jesus is as he sleeps in the boat in the midst of the storm. He is neither afraid nor violent, he is practicing a centered calm that becomes then the calmness to which his followers are called.

It is that calmness that is born of a faith that, when the storms are tough, God is, in fact, right there with us. All we have to do is calmly reach out our hand to the One who saves, and we, too, will be those who then turn to calm the seas in the midst of the storm.

The Goodness of God

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I heard it in worship last week. It is one of those songs that Leah and I listen to frequently. The version we listen to on our phones is recorded by CeCe Winans. It is The Goodness of God. When the band does it, it is often sung by Becky Ash who is a strong mezzo, and she just brings it home.

Goodness.

In this Sunday’s text (Mark 10:17-41), a man with a great deal of wealth runs up to Jesus, and as he kneels before Jesus, he says, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus then engages him with a question, “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone.”

The sermon this Sunday deals with the rest of the story, but I have chosen to use my blog to flesh out a thought that I have about goodness.

Theologians, priests, and pastors have grappled with this text almost from the beginning, and the conversation is deeper and more nuanced than we might think. Is Jesus saying that God is exclusively good and everything else is bad? That would be the basis for understanding original sin.

It certainly can be used to talk about the divinity of Jesus, which would mean that the rich man did not misspeak, but rather he identified Jesus as God. Is this Jesus’s affirmation of that statement? This would certainly fall in line with orthodoxy and the claims of the historic creeds of the church.

Is Jesus saying that the man is wrong, and that Jesus himself is humble and not to be confused with God? That would be a very humanist approach, and few Christians proclaiming this text would go that direction.

I wonder, however, if Jesus might be talking about a goodness of God that is intended to be shared. It is that very goodness that is blended with love, which together becomes the foundation for all creation. It is a gift that is given to all and is not exclusive only to God. It is a goodness that is to be shared.

You see, Jesus is not as orthodox as many of his followers … then and now … would wish him to be. Jesus is not about original sin. According to theologian Matthew Fox, the story of our faith is based on “original blessing” and not original sin. Jesus teaches that very thing. Jesus is about children and those whom he calls “little ones” (read the rest of Mark 10), and Jesus warns us what happens when we try to enter the realm of God with anything other than childlike wonder and awe.

Interestingly, Jesus ties goodness to some key things in this passage. Those who want to experience the goodness of God are called to renounce the idolatry of wealth, privilege, power, and demagogues who peddle sin and call it good. We are called to live as children with complete trust in Christ.

We are then called to embody Christ, which is to say that, like Jesus, we are called to embody God. And when we give ourselves to the full embodiment of Christ in this world, then my friends, we will have experienced the goodness of God.

So if you haven’t clicked the link above, I invite you to click it here and spend a moment hearing from CeCe Winans about the Goodness of God.

Encountering the Mystery of Death

Pastor Jeff Smith4 Comments

As we said goodbye to my mother-in-law this week, it hit me that we are only one month shy of ten years since my own mother died. My mother-in-law was a second mom to me. It was hard for us to say goodbye to her, and it was hard to think that this 92-year-old whom we thought would live forever was now gone from us. So we started again the journey of grief.

Death is hard.

Death is hard because it creates a vacuum … it sucks something out of our souls as we move deeper into grief. Sometimes it is as if the hole dug in our hearts is a bottomless pit. Even though I know that this vacuum in our souls is what ultimately deepens our souls and can lead to greater wisdom, the pain and suffering of the journey is not lessened by that hope.

Death is hard because it seems like it is the last word in our lives. We don’t truly know what is next beyond this human life, and we, who are people of faith … who believe that the resurrection is the gift given to all … still struggle to make sense of what is to come. So we create images of reunions and beautiful vistas and streets paved with gold in our search for comfort and meaning.

I was asked by one who grieves, “What if this is actually just the end? What if death is the final thing and there really is nothing more?” It caught me short, and all I could do was offer a hug. In our embrace, I shared that we live by the promise that God is with us and that we are not alone. That, yes, life always finally yields to death, but our proclamation is that death will finally yield to resurrection.

The Wisdom Pattern

It is what Richard Rohr calls the “wisdom pattern.” It is the way of the universe. It is the pattern of order, disorder, and reorder … construction, deconstruction, and reconstruction … life, death, and resurrection.

We live in a universe where we once thought black holes only bring death as they draw in stars and galaxies and planets bringing them to their own demise. But then our advanced space telescopes suddenly reveal evidence that the largest black holes are actually giving birth to stars and whole galaxies. In the great vacuum of the universe, what we thought only as a bringer of death becomes a giver of life.

The signs of this wisdom pattern are all around us. Each year, the giant red oak tree in our front yard sits alive and beautiful providing lush green in full view of where I am currently sitting. She produces acorns that, if not gathered up, provide new growth around her. Her leaves turn a beautiful yellow and orange each November and December, and as the winter sets in upon us, she looks as if she has died. Her sap has returned to the roots, and there are moments after a hard winter when we wonder if that sap might not rise again. Then the sap begins to flow and the leaves open and spread their pollen across the landscape once more.

The Mystery of Divine Love

So no, it is not ours to know what comes next, but what Jesus promised us was the abiding presence of a loving God. The mystics say that it was the love of God that set the universe in motion. It is the love of God that moves through every phase of all evolutionary cycles. It is the love of God that gave us birth, and it is the love of a God who dares to die our death with this proclamation that, even in that darkness, we are not alone.

I do not know what comes next. Death is finally a mystery that is not mine to explain. But I do know that love is what connects us in our grief … love is what is poured out in our mourning … and love is finally that thing that is bigger than this life here on this tiny planet. It is a love that is beyond time. Paul says it well: “Love never ends.”

It is finally that love of God that will not fail us and that will not let death be the final word.

You see, love is at the root of the mystery of life … the mystery of death … and the mystery of resurrection. So when we encounter mystery and cannot see beyond the darkness, we then yield ourselves to a God who holds us in a loving embrace … who meets us in our dying and invites us into the carriage of a love that has no end.

This is the gift of resurrection!

The Path Toward a Greater Unity

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When clergy in the Methodist tradition are ordained, there are many questions that are asked. In the tradition begun by John Wesley, we meet in the Clergy Executive Session either prior to or at the beginning of the gathering of the Annual Conference and we consider and approve what is known as the Business of the Annual Conference (concerning clergy matters).

The format of this meeting is question and answer as we consider, among many things, who have been approved as candidates, who are coming for commissioning or ordination, who have who have surrendered ministerial credentials or had their ministerial credentials revoked, who have retired, and who have died.

Then there are the questions asked of those being commissioned and ordained. It is an examination that comes straight from John Wesley’s own words used to examine those being ordained.

Among them is THE QUESTION:

Are you going on to perfection?

The only pathway to ordination is to answer in the affirmative, and yet the true answer to this question is found only in a lifetime of faith and learning. The question, you see, is not about being flawless or without sin. By sin, I am using the Greek αμαρτία (hamartia), which means “missing the mark.” Christian perfection is more about wholeness and vitality than it is about being flawless or without sin.

The mystics use the phrase “unitive consciousness” to describe this idea of perfection. This includes mystics from many religious traditions, and it is what has helped Christian mystics add a greater depth to this idea of Christian Perfection.

It Comes Through Both Action and Contemplation

In Albuquerque, New Mexico, is where we find the Center for Action and Contemplation. This is a center founded by Fr. Richard Rohr, the Franciscan priest, who believes that the notions of Christian Action and Christian Contemplation cannot be divorced from each other.

Fr. Rohr has written extensively, and many people in my congregation read his work on a regular basis. His epic work, The Universal Christ, was foundational for me as I began to see more clearly (even as I was well into my 50’s) that this notion of Christian Perfection … unitive consciousness … begins in both action and contemplation.

We are called to engage injustice in our world … we are called to stand with those in the margins …. we are called to speak truth to power.

Yet we are also called to sit quietly and just see … see where God is at work in the world … see how Christ is found in “the least of these” … see the Christ who is in every single person (even in those who tend to cover up the Christ in them with a veil of evil around them).

It is to see Christ in every single part of creation and to let the Christ in us connect to the Christ in others.

And when we have discovered Christ in others … when we see Christ in God’s created universe … then we will have taken a step toward this unitive consciousness, and we will have taken a step toward perfection.

Perfected in Love

Wesley’s understanding of the doctrine of Christian Perfection was based in his understanding of love. The journey toward perfection was using love as the supreme act of faith. It is the love we know as αγάπη (agape), and it is an ultimate letting go of self. It is moving from an egoic sense of self to what we know in mysticism and psychology as “the true self” or “the authentic self.”

It is that true self that can see and love the Christ in the other. It is that true self that can even love even the enemy.

So I believe this is a question not just for the clergy. It is a question for all of us: Are you going on to perfection?

The last stanza of Charles Wesley’s great hymn of praise, Love Divine All Loves Excelling, ends with an aspirational word of hope that is foundation for this understanding of Christian Perfection. I have sung this hymn for a lifetime, yet each time I read or sing these words, I am reminded of the journey to which I am called. It is the path to a greater unity.

Finish, then, thy new creation;
pure and spotless let us be;
let us see thy great salvation
perfectly restored in thee:
changed from glory into glory,
till in heaven we take our place,
till we cast our crowns before thee,
lost in wonder, love and praise.

You are invited to journey with me as we seek this wholeness and unity in Christ. It is a unity that the world so desperately needs in this very moment.

What God Can Do With a Remnant

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Remnants. Small amounts of leftovers after the greater part has been consumed or lost.

Following the delayed 2020 General Conference held in 2024, it is clear that the losses we have experienced among the United Methodist Conferences in the southern US has led to stark reductions reductions in our general budget for the whole denomination, which means that we have had to be creative about funding conferences and leadership.

In many ways, we were left with a remnant in a smaller denomination. Interestingly, the loss of those who had become detractors and (often untruthful) critics of the UMC led to a much higher energy and a greater focus on justice and inclusiveness. At the recent General Conference, we saw the elimination of the harmful language in our Discipline that marginalized our LGBTQ+ siblings. We saw the movement toward regionalization, which offers a greater equity across our global denomination. Finally, the Social Principles have been revised to address how we live out justice, equity, and inclusion in powerful new ways.

In Isaiah 11:10-11, we read: On that day the root of Jesse shall stand as a signal to the peoples; the nations shall inquire of him, and his dwelling shall be glorious. On that day the Lord will again raise up and recover the remnant that is left of God’s people, from [all the lands to which they were dispersed].

God will then use this remnant to change the world.

The remnant is alive and active!

As I write this, I am at the South Central Jurisdictional Conference of the United Methodist Church in Rogers, Arkansas. Yesterday, I watched as the delegates approved the work of unification to create the new Horizon Texas Annual Conference to which Wellspring now belongs. As one who worked for three solid months on this project along with many others, it was a joy to be present to see this come to fruition.

The Episcopal Address, offered by Bishop Cynthia Fierro Harvey (who serves as the bishop of the Texas Annual Conference and now the Rio Texas Conference), focused us on the power of the mustard seed that, despite its smallness, can grow into a massive tree. She had us sing the first verse of Hymn of Promise, that speaks of a seed that is planted and sown by us even with the knowledge that its growth will be “unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.”

She also reflected on a sermon by our Native American bishop, Bishop David Wilson, who shared that our work is with our sights set on seven generations … for people we will never know and who may never know about us.

I know about seven generations in my own family. My great-great-grandfather bought a 250-pound anvil … yes, a blacksmith’s anvil … that he then determined would be passed down to the firstborn male Smith in each generation. When our son and daughter-in-law found out that they were having a son, they got us on a video call and said, “Dad, we have a new heir to the anvil.”

My grandson is the seventh generation to inherit the 250-pound behemoth that now sits in my garage, and I now know that seven generations spans at least 153 years.

So our work is to take this remnant … this seed … of a church that we now have and plant it in such a way that it will bear abundant fruit for the next 153 years.

Moving Forward

With the historic votes taken at our General Conference, there are many who have felt the sense of accomplishment. Those who have been part of the Reconciling Movement were ecstatic about removing the discriminatory language from the Discipline, and it is easy to think our work here is done.

One of the first people I encountered at the SCJ Conference was Laura Young, who is the South Central Jurisdictional Organizer for Reconciling Ministries Network. I had not had a chance to see her since the historic General Conference, and we both celebrate the work that was done there. But she is clear that the work of the historic General Conference is just the beginning. She said, “The decision of the General Conference was a significant milestone, but we can only party like it is 1972. It is a milestone to be celebrated, but we need to work to build a church that offers safety, protection, and affirmation for our LGBTQ+ siblings. Our work continues on.”

As a remnant of faithful United Methodists, our job is to continue building the church where we see Christ in every single person and every single thing. Ours is a task of advocacy for those who are in the margins. Ours is a task to hear the voices of fear and doubt on all sides of our struggles and to offer the words of Christ: “Do not worry. Do not be afraid.”

This Jurisdictional Conference is also a reminder of how God tends to use remnants throughout the bible to create a stronger, more faithful witness. I am inspired by the work of the United Methodist Church. The remnant is rising up, moving forward, and working to bring Christ into the world in powerful new ways.

I am blessed to be part of the remnant.

When the Ordinary Becomes Extraordinary

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NOTE: Tis blog post is not my usual reflective kind of post. This week, I am using this blog post as a bit of an introduction and teaching about this season, the lectionary, and a new framework we are using during the summer months at Wellspring. This is detail that simply can’t be fully included in the sermon, so I am sharing it here.

The first two Sundays of Pentecost are meant to be a powerful leap into the longest and, for some, the most instructive season of the Christian year. On May 19, we celebrated Pentecost Sunday with our own Bishop Ruben Saenz, and we celebrated the power of the Holy Spirit poured into the disciples and all who follow Christ.

Then the second Sunday of the season, which we celebrated this past Sunday, May 26, known as Trinity Sunday, is where we shared how God comes to us as a relationship between Three (Trinity). We shared how we are invited into the relational dance with God thereby bringing a deeper understanding of what Dr. Jaime Clark-Soles, Professor of New Testament at Perkins School of Theology at SMU, calls the Quattrinity (the table of God where a place is set for us).

But the season following Pentecost … which some call the Season After Pentecost … is also called Ordinary Time. I like the use of the term “Ordinary Time” because it challenges us to see how God is at work in the “ordinariness” of everyday living, which if contemplated carefully, makes it extraordinary.

Many of you know that we use what is called the “lectionary” … which normally is the Revised Common Lectionary. The lectionary provides for us four readings each week during a three-year cycle from which we, at Wellspring, often choose two while letting the other texts speak into our planning and into the sermon itself. The readings are a reading from the Hebrew scripture (often known as the Old Testament), a Psalm (which, though found in Hebrew scripture, stands alone), a reading from the epistles in the New Testament (anything from Romans back through Revelation), and a reading from the gospels.

For the summer, however, we are not using the Revised Common Lectionary. We have decided to use a unique lectionary that is authored (with scripture translated) by the Rev. Dr. Wilda C. Gafney, who serves as the Right Rev. Sam B. Hulsey Professor of Hebrew Bible at Brite Divinity School at Texas Christian University in Fort Worth. Her lectionary is called A Women’s Lectionary for the Whole Church, and her theological framework is what is known as Womanist Theology.

You may recall me saying that one of my two principal faculty members during my work on my Doctor of Ministry degree from Saint Paul School of Theology was the Rev. Dr. Emilie Townes, who first introduced me to womanist theology. It is a theological framework that can be challenging for a privileged, white male, yet, womanist theology has continued to show up in my writing, teaching, and preaching over the years.

Womanist theology takes the work of both Black Theology and Feminist Theology that helps us see God from the perspective of marginalized people. Womanism has at its root a principle that, when Black women are free, everyone else will experience liberation, as well. It asks of us to lay down our privilege and listen to the voice of the Black women, specifically African-American women, who teach us truths greater than we can ever imagine on our own.

So I invite you to join us in our worship this summer at Wellspring. You can join us either online or in person. My prayer is that you will be inspired by words that come through different voices, including the voice of a white male pastor who has been shaped, in part, by womanist theology and who continues to grow as we let the voices often found in the margins be heard first and loudest.

Then perhaps the ordinariness of summer might just become an extraordinary practice of the presence and power of the Holy Spirit of God!