Sólo Uno Volvió: Only One Turned Back

Solo Uno Volvio Only One Turned BackMessage developed together with Pr. Dan Anderson-Little using a poem by Magdalena Garcia for Pentecost 18 on Luke 17:11-19 given on October 13, 2019 at St. Luke's Lutheran Church in Richardson, Texas

We are so familiar with Jesus’ healing of the ten lepers and the one who returned to give thanks, we need a creative way to hear this anew. My husband, Dan has a colleague who wrote a poem in Spanish about this passage and I will us the English translation and offer a reflection after each stanza of the poem as a way to enter this text differently. The poem is called, “Sólo uno volvió” / “Only one turned back”

Sólo uno volvió

Only one turned back
and praised God for the healing action
instead of remaining silent
or going indifferently on his way.

Only one turned back…why only one? When Jesus heals you, don’t you want to praise God and thank Jesus for your new life?

But sometimes we don’t turn back. If we live with a specific hurt or an enduring pain or a debilitating disease; if we lived in the shadows because of who we are, or what has happened to us, or because we have become accustomed to guilt or shame, or because of our race or ethnicity or culture, we learn to live in fear. That is certainly true for the lepers. It was a disease that not only disfigured the body but isolated the soul—it kept one from participating in family, community, and society. After a while, you learn to sit on the sidelines, to remain silent, to swallow your pain.

But the one who turned back recognized a new chance at life in all its fullness. He let a sliver of joy begin to replace his fear. He felt joy because he could embrace his family and eat with his friends. And so he turned back, he raised his voice, refusing to be silent, refusing to be sidelined, and he praised God.

Sólo uno volvió

Only one turned back
and thanked Jesus for his intervention
instead of taking the credit
or attributing the deed to someone else.

Only one turned back…why only one? When Jesus heals you, you know it was him who did it, don’t you, blessed by God, anointed with God’s power?

But sometimes we don’t give thanks for healing—because when we give thanks, it makes us vulnerable as we put ourselves in another person’s debt. Thanking another means admitting we are dependent on them, that we can’t live life by ourselves, we can’t make it alone, and on our own terms. And we must let go of control. That was certainly true for the lepers. Their disease had robbed them of all control—they always lived at the mercy of others. Finally, now that was gone, they could determine their own lives, they could set their own course. They did not thank Jesus because that would mean giving control back to someone else—they were made new and they were not going back—they were not even looking back at the one who made it all possible.

But the one who turned back knew that his life was forever connected to Jesus. For him, it wasn’t giving up control, but it was finally having a partner, a power, a God, who would bear his burdens and share all of life with him. With Jesus he had a relationship that saw and knew all of him, that made all of him possible, all of him okay, all of him welcome.

Sólo uno volvió

Only one turned back
and undertook his true liberation
instead of remaining enslaved
or perpetuating existing barriers.

Only one turned back…why only one? When you live in a prison that keeps you from reaching your true potential, don’t you want to taste the sweetness of freedom?

But sometimes liberation is too scary for us, too open, too possible. We grow so accustomed to our chains that we feel naked without them. We long for freedom, but when it comes, we don’t know what to do or how to act. That was certainly true for the lepers. They wanted liberation from leprosy so badly. When they saw Jesus they called out, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!” But when he had mercy on them and set them free, freedom was terrifying, a conundrum, a burden. In the past, leprosy determined how they would live, they knew the rules, and the limits and the expectations. Now it was up to them. And they were scared. What are the boundaries? Who are they now?

But the one who turned back knew that Jesus had removed not only the barrier of leprosy, but the barriers he had constructed in his mind. For him, his healing was invitation to live a new life—the life that God had intended for him. It was a life with the parameters of praise and gratitude and the love of a life-giving God—those were new boundaries, worthy of exploration.

Sólo uno volvió

Only one turned back
and testified of his transformation
instead of professing xenophobia
or blaming the victims.

Only one turned back…why only one? When Jesus heals you, don’t you want to share your testimony with others don’t you want to shout it from the mountaintops?

But transformation is hard work. It can be hard for us to let go of the anger and resentment that have been our companions for so long. We are victims of so much wrong and if we let it go, how will “they” pay—those who treated us so poorly? Then, we sometimes wonder why others who have not yet tasted transformation are still stuck in their old patterns. We so easily turn our anger toward others who have not progressed as we have—those easy to label and reject. We see it today in our country—a nation of immigrants turning our backs on immigrants who come to escape persecution or find opportunity denied them in their own country.

But the one who turned back knew that his healing was connected to the healing of others, and that his testimony began with praise and gratitude. He knew that he wouldn’t truly be free until we all are free. And so he shared his testimony—not only how much God loved him, but how much God loved everyone. 

Sólo uno volvió

Only one turned back
because only one was cured
from the debilitating leprosy
of isolation and discrimination.

Only one turned back…why only one? When Jesus’ healing power touches us, is it just your body that is made well? Isn’t your whole life that is restored—your spirit, your mind, our soul, and your relationships?

But curing and healing are not always the same thing.

All ten of the lepers were cured of their leprosy. The disease that ate away at their bodies was removed and they would always live free of that scourge. They were physically healed, freed to return to their families and communities. But what about their soul? What about their relationship with the God who created them and sent Jesus to restore and save them? Did they walk away thinking that a relationship with God didn’t matter? That their good fortune was due to hard work, loud shouting, and good luck, so they could go back to old ways that isolate themselves and shut out others in their new life despite the miracle they experienced?

We can be physically healthy and spiritually bankrupt.

But the one who turned back knew that Jesus had not just cured his body, but had healed his whole being. And he knew that his own wholeness was not complete until he praised God and thanked Jesus. With his gratitude, he completed the circle of relationship and love between them and began to let this relationship with Jesus Christ save his soul as well as his body. The one who returned was not just cured of a disease, his gratitude and relationship with Jesus made him whole—experiencing salvation right then, in body, mind and spirit.

Sólo uno volvió

What’s the difference between the nine and the one, between curing and healing, between physical restoration and whole-soul salvation? Returning for a relationship with God in Jesus Christ—the only one true desire of God’s heart for you.

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A Freshly Cracked Clay Jar

A Freshly Cracked Clay JarA reflection on my recent experience of removing the implants I had inserted after breast cancer.

The absurd difficulty of deeply loving myself and offering self-compassion the way I freely offer it to others was laid bare as I recovered from yet another surgery. This time, the implants came out; I did not know this surgery had a special name, “explant” surgery. If I knew then, what I know now, I probably would have opted for a flat chest after a bi-lateral mastectomy for two kinds of breast cancer—Oh yes, I am an over-achiever.

I was not sure twelve years ago, that I would choose additional surgery so that at age forty-six I could continue to look like a “natural woman.” But my daughter was only in fourth grade. What will it be like for her to begin developing what I recently had cut off? Does she understand this? Would it help for her mom to look “normal” in a bathing suit, on family vacations, or when she catches a glimpse through a cracked bathroom door? I cannot make up for the fact that her mom was incapacitated for the better part of nine months of grueling treatment that plastered me to the bed in ways I could not have imagined. Breast implant surgery seemed like one way to re-claim a sense of normal for me, and maybe for everyone. We could not get the time back, but Mom looked closer to how she used to look.

But then, one day, my body decided it had enough of foreign objects inside, and on Palm Sunday, 2019, I woke up to a bright red, inflamed chest on the right side. I felt well enough, so off I went to lead worship at the church where I am the pastor, to wave our palm branches and read the Passion story. I called my oncologist the next day and that week began to schedule an MRI. It appeared as though the implant had ruptured, and the silicone was leaking, or that the scar tissue around the implant had begun to contract, causing it to bulge. I was immediately referred to a plastic surgeon for explant surgery, but it would be six and a half weeks before it happened.

It was not as bad as chemotherapy of course. I could still work, but the inflammation in my body traveled up my neck and caused a chronic headache that did not stop until I was in surgery recovery. I was so pleased and excited to relieve my body of this awful battle, I never even thought about having to grieve the loss of breasts a second time…until the bandages and tape came off. After that, I could not get out of the shower without crying.

My pectoral muscles—damaged by radiation and then stretched to hold an implant—“roller-shaded” up toward my shoulder, leaving nothing but a very thin layer of skin over my rib cage. The ribs do not protrude quite as noticeably on the left side where there was no radiation, but it is still a concave pocket. The grief over my new look surprised me since I was so relieved to feel better—in fact, once I recovered from surgery, I felt better than I had since the implants were inserted.

But as I peered at the new me in the mirror, all I could think was that I looked like Frankenstein and the Grinch in some horror-movie combination. Jagged scars across protruding bones looked as if this part of my body was suffering starvation; this image that was complemented by a concave scoop to my chest curving outward toward the round “mommy pouch” my first OB/GYN told me was my badge of honor for giving birth to three children. Dress me up in a Grinch costume and it would be a perfect fit for Halloween. Who could love this body? I did not. How was I going to get through this grief when I cannot even shower and dress for a new day without tears and a feeling of horror?

I brought my grief and pain to my spiritual director; I needed God to give me a way to cope. I told her my horror-movie Frankenstein-Grinch combo story. She looked at me and asked a question I never, ever would have thought to ask: “What do Frankenstein and the Grinch have to offer you? What gift do they bring?”

What a strange question! This was a negative image, not a positive one for me, so why would she ask that? I pondered her question despite my skepticism. A slow dawning floated up through heaviness of my mind, like bubbles rising in champagne. “They were both loved in the end—and it did not matter what they looked like—those who loved them did not care!”

A clip from the movie, “Young Frankenstein” with Madeline Kahn popped into my head. “You little zipper neck” she said, and "Oh, you men are all alike, seven or eight quick ones and you're off with the boys to boast and brag. You better keep your mouth shut…Oh, I think I love him."

And all the Who’s in Whoville never noticed and did not care that the Grinch had a concave chest and a pot belly—they loved him and let him carve the Christmas roast beast.

It seemed so obvious once I realized this, but my own body made me blind to the images of power I had identified. Those who truly love me, do because of who I am, regardless of how I look—and my husband has even said so, “I will take you any way you come—you are alive!”

Can I take me anyway I come? Can I care for myself with compassion and body-love no matter how misshapen I may look or feel?

But we have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us. 8 We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; 9 persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; 10 always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be made visible in our bodies. ~2 Corinthians 4:7-10

Frankenstein and the Grinch have offered me a new view of God’s extraordinary power and love, along with the life of Jesus residing in my freshly cracked clay jar.

This essay is published in the new book, House of Compassion, a publication of Retreat House Spirituality Center in Richardson, Texas. House of Compassion is the third book in a series published this year: House of Love, February, 2019; House of Hope, May, 2019--I have essays in both of those books and hope to have on in the fourth book due out in December, 2019.

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A Lost Child and The Heart of God

A Lost Child and The Heart of GodA Message for Pentecost 14 on Luke 15:1-10 and 1 Timothy 1:12-17 given on September 15, 2019 at St. Luke's Lutheran Church in Richardson, Texas

It was one of those rare perfect Saturdays. Dan had no church duties and there were no emergencies at the children’s hospital where I was an on-call chaplain on the weekends. A fresh blanket of snow coated Kansas City with that winter-wonderland feeling. Our oldest son, Daniel, who was 3 at the time, had received his first sled for Christmas the month before, so it seemed like the ideal day to break it in and take him and Jacob, who was 16 months old, for their first day of sledding.

We headed off to the park and took pictures of their exuberant faces, full of pure joy, as they experienced the wonder of snow, sled, speed and sun that combined for a shining moment of glory as they slid down the hill. We built a snow family and sledded some more. When we were tired and cold, we headed home for lunch and naps. The boys shared a room, but for naps, we put Daniel in our bed so they would actually sleep, which they did quickly.

Dan and I took advantage of their nap time to work on our painting project in the playroom—we were stenciling a train full of circus animals at chair rail height around the room. It was right at the bottom of the stairs, so if Daniel got up and came downstairs, we would easily hear him.

Over an hour passed and we had not heard a peep from upstairs, so I went up to check on them. Jacob was still sound asleep, but when I went to check on Daniel, the covers were pushed back, and the bed was empty. I shouted down to Dan that Daniel was not in the bed and searched the rest of the upstairs—bathroom, closets, under the beds. Nothing. I could not imagine how he could have come downstairs without us hearing him. I had mom-hearing—I heard a cough, a footstep, a wimper, from a dead sleep. How could I not hear a 3-year old on the stairs in the middle of the day?

We looked downstairs and then in the kitchen, where we saw the back door ajar. I ran outside while Dan searched the basement. The gate was closed, but Daniel was not in our fenced-in yard, and we lived on a busy corner. I ran through the gate, looked up and down the side street calling his name, I rushed to the corner where cars were going up and down the city street at 35 miles/hour, shouting his name in every direction but saw and heard nothing, but traffic.

I went back inside to ask Dan if it was time to call 911. The only thing that was preventing me from having a complete meltdown, was that Jacob was still in the crib upstairs and would wake up any minute. Dan finished tying his shoes and said he would look for Daniel, and for me to wait before I called for help. As if on cue, Jacob started crying, and Dan went outside to search for our lost child.

"Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it? ….Or what woman having ten silver coins, if she loses one of them, does not light a lamp, sweep the house, and search carefully until she finds it?"

God is a shepherd searching for the one sheep who left the other ninety-nine. God is a woman searching for the one coin that is lost from the other nine. God is a parent searching for the one child who left without a sound.

Can you imagine the heart of God, the creator of the cosmos—whose image is imprinted on every human being, whose recycled stardust exists in every person ever made,whose Holy Spirit dwells inside every person you have ever met—can you imagine the immensity of God’s heart and God’s love?

I can hardly bear to re-tell this story about Daniel and it was twenty-two years ago, and I am just one mom—a sinful human being who lost one child.

Can you imagine the heart of God breaking when people are lost to faith, when others walk away, when still others choose evil, when others step away in silence, when still more refuse to even consider a relationship with the living God, and when even in our own hearts, we turn away and make so many other things more important than the ground of our being, the foundation of the universe, the source of our life, and the very heart of love?

Can you imagine the heart of God breaking when, like the Pharisees wondering why Jesus is hanging out with tax collectors and sinners, we judge others, and in so doing, reveal that we are more lost than those we judge?

Can you imagine the God that Jesus knows—the one who is always searching to find the lost, yearning for the hard-hearted to soften, and hoping for those who have walked away to return?

This is the God the Apostle Paul knew when he was found on the Damascus road with a blinding light and the voice of Jesus calling him to faith. Paul offers his testimony:

I am grateful to Christ Jesus our Lord...because he appointed me to his service even though I was formerly a blasphemer, a persecutor, and a man of violence. But I received mercy because I had acted ignorantly in unbelief, and the grace of our Lord overflowed for me with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus. The saying is sure and worthy of full acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the foremost. But for that very reason I received mercy, so that in me, as the foremost, Jesus Christ might display the utmost patience, making me an example to those who would come to believe in him for eternal life. 

Paul was found by the God who sent Jesus to search for the lost, to search for us--a shepherd looking for a lost sheep, a woman searching for a lost coin, a parent in a panic for their lost child.

I still have an image of Dan sitting in the living room tying his tennis shoes with a fierce determination to find Daniel. Then he went out the door and I went upstairs to get Jacob up from his nap. It took all the presence of mind I could muster to talk myself through changing a diaper, so I would not scare this sweet boy by totally falling apart. The terror I felt was unlike anything I have ever felt before. I worked at a Children’s Hospital—I knew what happened to toddlers when they walked out of the house unawares.

As I came downstairs with Jacob in my arms, Dan walked in the front door with Daniel’s hand in his. I put Jacob down and I dropped to the floor in a puddle of tears and I hugged Daniel like my life depended on it. I have never known relief so sweet, so deep, so agonizing as I did in that moment. And gratitude. And joy.

A neighbor from three doors down, Gerald, whom we had never met, was walking Daniel up to the house when Dan had gone out looking for him. Our pediatrician concluded that Daniel went sleepwalking that afternoon, so he did not make any noise coming down the stairs. Something about the exhaustion of sledding and the deep sleep that came afterward combined for this isolated incident. He climbed over the gate and walked in his stocking feet down the side of the house and around the corner.

Gerald was a bass player and as he was loading his string bass into the car for work that night, he saw this little boy walking alone down the sidewalk, without a coat, crying, with his shoes in his hand. He seemed in a bit of a fog, but Gerald managed to engage him in conversation, during which Daniel woke up. Gerald asked him if he knew where he lived. Daniel said, “6101 Rockhill Road” and Gerald realized that was just a few houses up.

He took Daniel inside his house to help him put his shoes on. That was about the same time I ran to the corner and saw nothing. When Dan went out to look a second time, he met them on the sidewalk. “I’m so glad you’re not a child molester,” I said to Gerald through tears. It is still the strangest compliment I have ever given.

We have a God who sent Jesus to search for the lost, to search for us—a shepherd looking for a lost sheep, a woman searching for a lost coin, a parent in a panic for their lost child.

We have a Savior who calls the church to join him in searching for the lost—a church that ties its tennis shoes in fierce determination each week to find the lost—to let people know how much God loves them, to share that forgiveness is free and grace is unearned, to let them know they can come home because the table is set, the party is planned, and we are ready to celebrate—"for there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents."

There is joy, oh is there joy at the feast of forgiveness and the festival of being found. So, come to the table with joy. For today, you are found, and you are forgiven, and we will all rejoice with the angels.

Image: This is not my favorite picture from that fateful day--that one is in a frame in a box yet unpacked from our last move, but this is close! The other picture is on the sled with Daniel's arms protectively around Jacob.

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Carrying Our Cross with Philemon

Blog picA Message for Pentecost 13 on Philemon 1:1-21 and Luke 14:25-33 on September 8, 2019 at St. Luke's Lutheran Church in Richardson, Texas

Anyone who’s been a parent, or loved a child into adulthood, knows the anguish and the anxiety of releasing a child into the world—of sending them across the state or across the country to move into the next phase of their life, be it college or their first job.

I received a letter with this kind of concern from a parent—well, actually, it was a message on Facebook, but in today’s world, that constitutes a letter! A friend wrote and shared that her daughter was driving to Austin for an internship and she could stay at our house on the way. We were delighted, especially since we rely on similar hospitality from other parents for two of our college-age children in Missouri.

It’s a letter that most of us have both written and received—seeking the blessing of someone else’s love for our child and sharing our love for someone else’s family member.

The book of Philemon is also such a letter—a letter written by the Apostle Paul to Philemon. Paul writes as Onesimus’ Father—not his blood relative—but instead, as his father in the body of Christ, his father in faith who brought the Gospel message to Onesimus. Rather than being sent by mail ahead of time, Onesimus carries this letter in his pocket as he travels from Paul, who was imprisoned in a different town.

The circumstances of this letter are different from the one my friend sent, because Onesimus is Philemon’s slave. But at its core, this really was the same letter for it carried in the anxiety and anguish of a parent sending his child into the world. Paul is sending Onesimus back to a difficult situation because Onesimus, who is owned by Philemon, has left him. We are not sure why or how—but Onesimus fled from Philemon to Paul who is the founder of the Christian community that gathers in Philemon’s house.

More than a simple night of lodging, this letter carries in it, life and death for Onesimus. In the first century, a slave who left his master and owner without permission, would have been severely punished or even put to death for his transgression. This is part of our own country’s history country, so we understand all too well, the implications of Onesimus’ situation.

Imagine the fear and trembling with which Onesimus traveled—wondering if this short letter in his pocket is sufficient to persuade Philemon to spare his life and not give him the punishment allowed by law.

In the letter in Onesimus’ pocket, Paul reveals to Philemon that Onesimus has become a believer in Jesus Christ, and because of this, he appeals to Philemon to end the owner-slave relationship. Paul encourages Philemon to forego his legal rights as a slave-owner, and instead, to transform their relationship to one of brothers—as equals—in the body of Christ.

This is the hard, spiritual work of walking the walk instead of just talking the talk. Paul beckons Philemon to leave behind social stratifications and class privileges and instead to live by Galatians 3:28, “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.”

“I am sending you my own child,” says, Paul, “my very heart”—a precious one whom Jesus loves and forgives and saves—he is Jesus’ possession, not yours, Philemon, so change how think about Onesimus, so you can be freed to behave differently toward him—not as one who commands his behavior as an owner, but as one who loves him as a brother in Christ Jesus.”

In the words of Jesus, Paul is asking Philemon to “carry his cross”—to choose suffering for the sake of the sake of the Gospel, to choose sacrifice for the sake of another, to choose loss for the sake of Jesus’s purpose, and God’s claim on all of who we are and all that we “think” we possess. Grace is free but to live in that freedom for Onesimus comes at a cost for Philemon—so “count the cost” of discipleship. To make Onesimus his brother in Christ could mean financial loss, loss of social status, it could make others in the community, including his own family, angry.

Paul says clearly: “Philemon, it’s not enough that you believe in Jesus’ love, forgiveness and power, Jesus asks you to behave with his love, forgiveness and power. Let go of your rights and the anger that goes with them, and change your behavior, transform your relationship with, and reform your treatment of Onesimus.”

This is the best part, Paul adds, “I could command you to do it—for I am in authority over you, but I want you to choose it through the power of Christ who dwells in you. Can you receive this son of mine, my own child, my own heart, into your home and care for him as your own child, your own brother, rather than a slave?”

As in so many other passages, Scripture does not give us the satisfaction of telling us the end of the story. What happened? Did Philemon forgive Onesimus and love him as a brother in Christ? Did the church gathered in his house, join Philemon in receiving Onesimus as a brother, carrying the cross of true Christian community and equality in Christ?

The only answer we have is the one we ourselves choose. Paul’s letter asks us if we will forego our rights and privileges accorded us by race, income, education or other measures to love others as equal brothers and sisters in the body of Christ our Lord, loving them as we do our very own family. Paul’s letter asks us to extend the radical love of Christ himself in our relationships, communities and churches.

Last Thursday, I was at a meeting at the Richardson School District with their Community Relations office and the non-profit, Unite the Church which is working to build community relationships between faith communities and schools. They are working together to pair every school in the district paired with a house of worship to build relationships, help with needs, support teachers and families, and do whatever is possible to be a connected community that works together to educate our children.

Our new Justice and Advocacy Team is exploring a relationship with the High School since we are right next door—we would look for other church partners as well since it is a big school.

At this meeting, I also learned that the Richardson School District just received 500 new children who were recently released from detention at the border—most of whom are from Honduras. The Dallas School District received 1,000 students.

Our schools need our support in helping these families because each one of these children, like Onesimus, has a letter in their pocket. A letter from Jesus himself that carries life and death and says, “this is my precious child, my heart. Please receive her and love her as you would your own child.”

Today is God’s Work, Our Hands Service Sunday. Right after church, you can help the Hunger Helpers pack lunches so that everyone of us has a few meals in our car that we can give with a smile and a prayer to someone who is begging on the corner—because every homeless person has a letter in their pocket from Jesus himself, that carries life and death and says, “this is my precious child, my heart. Please receive him and love him as you would your own child.”

Some of us will do God’s Work, Our Hands service at the Richardson Civic Center after church packing meals for Feeding Children Everywhere, and some of those meals will stay right here in our area. That’s because nearly 60% of children in this school district are receiving free and reduced lunches. Richardson High School and other schools are opening food pantries on site. Network of Community Ministries now has a mobile refrigerated food pantry truck going to some of our schools. Every one of those hungry children at school have a letter in their pocket from Jesus himself that carries life and death and says, “this is my precious child, my heart. Please receive her and love her as you would your own child.”

Paul makes one final promise in his letter for Onesimus: If Onesimus owes you anything, any money for labor lost, charge it to me. And when I come back to you, I will pay the price of whatever he owes.

Paul himself is walking the walk instead of just talking the talk. I will pay the price myself. Paul is not just counting the cost, he is paying the price. He is the living example of the love of Christ in action—carrying his cross—in his willingness to suffer for the sake of life for others.

We hear in Paul’s own transformed heart, the promise of Jesus Christ to all of us. Paul calls us to join him and Philemon in relinquishing our rights whether of citizenship or church membership, whether of race, education or class, and instead, allow Jesus to transform our lives around his love, which has paid the price for us.

We are the Pauls and the Philemons of the church today, carrying the cross, and embracing everyone as our sister and brother in Christ, for don’t we each have a letter in our pocket from Jesus himself, that carries life and death and says, “this is my precious child, my heart. Please receive him and love her as you would your own child.”

 

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The church does not have a mission in the world, God's mission has a church in the world.

 

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