Bob's Blog

My parents’ generation remembers “The summer of ’42,” but I remember the summer of ’76! That’s when those in my family began falling like flies! Everyone was being “born again” . . . mom, several of her Aunts, and even my grandmother! (My mom’s mother had been actually been born again in her younger years, as I’ve come to learn that she was often referred to as a ‘holy rollers.’ So I guess she was just born again, again!)

But as far as I was concerned, I figured that I was born a Christian the first time, and was perfectly content with that. I had no desire to be born, again; and I was not the least bit interested in becoming what I continue to refer to today as a ‘Crazy Christian!’ Never the less, in spite of my resistance, the rest of my family was changing, and quickly. Was it for the good? I think so . . . or at least I like to think so. I had always loved my family, even crotchety old Aunt Mary, who added all kinds of color to our clan. We all enjoyed being together, and would find all kinds of reasons to gather at someone’s house, usually my Aunt Gloria’s, to celebrate . . . just about anything. The men would watch golf in the family room. The women would cook and chatter away in the large country kitchen. And we kids would play “Blind Man’s Bluff” in the hallway, or “Pies” out in the front yard.

But in spite of that closeness, this new-found religion appeared to being at the last the women in our family closer than ever. Looking back, perhaps some of that change was superficial, but as a kid . . . well, it was clear that something good had happened to all of them. They may have been pretending, and having walked in those circles for much of my life, the changes may have been relatively shallow, but something definitely happened, and everyone knew it.

One summer evening in 1976, my mom came out to the backyard where my dad I were sitting on a picnic bench talking. I think we had just cut the grass – something I loved doing with him, and hence, did all the time! Their friends, Dr. John and Mickey, had just phoned to let them know of a concert over in Canada. (Growing up in Western New York, prior to 9/11, going to Canada was like going to 7-11 to get a Slurpee!)

“On no!” I thought to myself! “Not another . . . ‘concert!’”

Surprisingly, my mom won this battle, and after convincing her to let my cousin John come with us this time, I agreed to go. We arrived on the campus of a small community college, and proceeded to a large auditorium. It was packed, with hundreds of chairs surrounding a small stage, and over the platform was a large banner that read, “Dallas Holm and Praise.” My cousin John sat between me and my brother, and my parents were to my right. Some guy by the name of David Wilkerson (“The Cross and the Switchblade” guy!) gave a message that was surprisingly relevant, and somehow he managed to move even MY stubborn heart. Eventually he introduced Dallas Holm, and then the music began . . . tambourine and all!

“Not bad” I remember thinking! But not wanting to give any sign that I might actually be enjoying the evening, I kept such positive thoughts to myself. The band played for quite a while, with bold preaching between the songs, of Christ and ‘Christ crucified,’ and how tonight he was giving ME the chance to respond.

Now by this time, I had already been to several ‘alter calls’ in my life, and never did I plan on responding. But during Dallas’ last song, something happened. As the band played, and Dallas sang – Come unto Jesus, give him your life today. Come unto Jesus, let him have his way – I leaned over to my cousin and whispered, “I don’t think I can stay in these seats any longer!”

“Me either,” he whispered back!

“Timmy,” I said, elbowing my brother in the ribs, “c’mon, let’s go!”

I’m sure that Timmy had ‘made a commitment’ long ago, and so he looked at me with what I only remember as ‘disgusted shock!’. It was like he was speaking to me with his eyes, saying “It’s about time you big jerk!” Never the less, he agreed, and so the three of us made our way down front. When I looked back to see my parents, I noticed that they were gone. Then I felt my dad’s hand on my shoulder, and there, during that summer of 1976, I too, was born again.

Actually, if we’re talking spiritually, I still don’t know when I was born the first time! Perhaps it was my physical birth – because I knew these people didn’t really accept my baptism as an infant, or my confirmation in ninth grade, as having any kind relevance to what they were doing! Those sacraments were “Roman” ceremonies, and thus really held no weight in these new ‘real’ Christian circles. Evidently, contrary to my thinking, before this altar call, I was not really a Christian at all. I knew things “about God,” but didn’t really know God personally! I had a “religion, but not a relationship.” I was a good person, but “not good enough for God.” And apart from inviting Jesus into my heart, and ‘letting him have his way’, I never would be his beloved son. Original sin had tainted my soul, and until I intellectually accepted the cleansing blood of Jesus, I was on the outside looking in. Until I walked the sawdust trail, said the Sinner’s Prayer, and signed the little “Steps to Peace with God” booklet, I was lost – no ifs, ands, or buts, about it!

Now psychologists more informed than I might best assess what the concept of original sin has done to people over the years. However at the very least, it has divided humanity into “us and them” – those who have done something about their sin and those who have not. And the years the results of this line of thinking have only served to segregate and foster irreconcilable differences between races, cultures, religions throughout the ages. Still today, the irony is that it remains at the heart of BOTH, Roman Catholic and Evangelical teaching. Both here in America and around the world, these two important theological movements have the same starting point, and while their responses take them in slightly different directions, they both continue to neglect what I believe to be one of the most basic teachings of the Bible.

Marcus Borg, in “The Heart of Christianity” writes (pp.164-64) “We begin with sin. The language of sin (and forgiveness) dominates the Christian imagination . . . (and it’s) centrality in Christian thought and practice is evident.” He points out that until recently, Roman Catholics were expected to make their confession to God BEFORE they could receive the sacrament; and for evangelicals, the second step in finding ‘peace with God’ remains all about acknowledging a sin about which we can do absolutely nothing.

But it is this our primary identity?

In the first creation story of Genesis, authors have God proclaiming that humanity is ‘very good.’ And yet so often, the church has allowed its understanding of sin to alter this line of thinking and believing. It’s theology of “the fall” has been so literalized, that it has – unconsciously at best, consciously at the worst – painted a picture of a God who is doing little more than playing games with creation. He created human beings with free will, knowing very well that we’d make way too many wrong choices; and then require us to make a better choice, which we actually have no power to do on our own, because again, our human nature is to make the wrong choice; BUT, fortunately, to some – not everyone, but to some, the chosen ones – God has given the ability to respond to the movement of the Holy Spirit, and to make the correct choice, and thus experience salvation and redemption, so that we can get to heaven when we die.

Now read that last sentence again, and tell me that such a view of God is not a capricious one!

No friends, in spite of everything we have learned, while humanity makes mistakes, the message of the Gospel is that God loves us none the less. And while those mistakes have consequences, the message of the Gospel is that NOTHING CAN SEPARATE US FROM GOD’S LOVE!

NOTHING!

So what happened to me that night in 1976? I’m not sure I really know. But whatever happened, it had less to do with God changing God’s opinion of me, and more to do with me changing my opinion of God. It was less about God changing God’s relationship with me, and more about me changing my relationship with God. And it was less about God now being able to overlook my original sin, and more about my NOT being able to overlook my original blessing.

Priest and author Matthew Fox says that “we enter a broken and torn and sinful world – that’s for sure. But we do not enter as sinful creatures, we burst into the world as ‘original blessings.’” With mystics throughout the centuries, Fox proclaims, and so too must we proclaim, that Original Blessing trumps Original Sin at every corner! That is our primary identity, and that is the primary message of Jesus. Further, it’s why the Gospel is good news, and it’s why grace is so amazing!

In the Italian Catholic home of my upbringing, prayer was not the only activity in which good, God-fearing, Christian people engaged. Sunday morning mass was also a rite in which I learned to participate at an early age. Like my baseball games, it was another place where I learned to talk to God. But more importantly, it was the place where I learned that there were certain things God expected of us.

My family of six occupied the front pew, on the right side of St. Peter’s Roman Catholic Church every Sunday at noon, for years! (I recently learned that we sat in the front row because when my dad’s grandmother took him to church as a child, that’s where they sat!) Attendance was not optional, for any of us, no matter how old we got or how busy we were. And after mass it was not at all uncommon for the priest to join us for lunch. Father Gugino was my favorite – probably because he was so . . . normal! That is the word I STILL use to describe people in ministry who have their heads screwed on straight, and who have not become so blinded by their faith that they are unable to see and comprehend and relate to the world around us.

I don’t remember much about Father Gugino’s visits, but I do remember that they were often loud and bathed in laughter. He was warm, friendly, outgoing, and I liked him. He made God approachable, kind and compassionate, and even, dare I say, fun-loving. However Father Gugino was not your typical Roman Catholic priest – at least not in my experience. And sadly, the incarnational ministry that he lived out in our small suburban parish was not the norm – again, in my experience.

For the most part, the religion of my youth was wrought with law and guilt and judgement. So while God was part of my life at an early age, while the Spirit remained an important part of my life through Junior and Senior High School, the presence of the Holy was far from comforting. You see, the first thing I remember learning about God can best be summed up by the words from the mass that come right before communion. “Lord I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.”

Roman Catholic teaching, and the teaching of so many faith communities today, begins with the concept of human unworthiness, or “The Doctrine of Original Sin.” In spite of Scripture’s declaration that God looked at humanity and declared us to be ‘very good’ – our focus is upon Adam, listening to his wife Eve, and humanity’s being “separated from God” ever since. Forget the fact that Enoch walked with God, or that Moses spoke with God, or that David was a man after God’s own heart: people have been separated from God, period! We are more than just fallen, broken, or not living in right relationship with the God of the universe. We are, in the words of John Calvin, totally depraved! This is the human condition; and for hundreds of years, this has been the primary message of the church. Even though the writer of Romans tells us that nothing can separate us from the love of God, the church decided that sin CAN, and a human being’s primary identity is that of total depravity before our Creator.

Now the consequences of such teachings are tragic; and it’s why so many people regard a life of faith as being about little more than figuring out how to get back on God’s good side. There were certain things that God expected of us, and as followers of Jesus, it was our job to strive to meet those expectations. And for me, growing up, Mother Church was all too happy to show me how! Mass, confession, prayers to the Virgin Mary, not eating meat on Fridays during Lent, and countless other disciplines were not JUST to put me in places where I might encounter and experience the Holy, but they really were human attempts to please and appease the divine. It was the way the Church could control what I did, and how I did it, and thereby become the dispenser of God’s grace, mercy, and love.

Too cynical an attitude? Perhaps! But no less true. And I intuitively knew this. So I was the nightmare for every CCD teacher I ever had; particularly for my favorite, who I only remember as Dottie! (CCD stands for Confraternity of Christian Doctrine – an organization established in 1562 for the purpose of educating people in the essentials of the Roman faith.) While most of the kids in my class would be throwing paper wads at one another, I was throwing question at the teachers! Why this, and why that? I have vivid memories of saying to Dottie one afternoon: “The Virgin Mary is dead; so why are we praying to dead people?” And with a slight smile, which led me to believe as the year went on that were kindred spirits – Dottie attempted to give the party line . . . but with a little wink, and a nod, as if to say: ‘We both know this answer doesn’t make sense, but let’s just humor the ‘powers that be.’ They’re not bad people, and doing some really good things; so let’s just let them go on think they have pulled the wool over our eyes, and kept us from really seeing the amazing grace of God. They’re never going to change, and so it’s just not worth it to try.’

So that’s what I did . . . for a while. But the questions never stopped – and not just because I always have been and always will be inquisitive; but because this is what I believe a life of faith is all about. Questioning! Seeking! Searching! Not being afraid to push the boundaries of one of life’s greatest mysteries! Unfortunately though, not everyone like questions! Some people like everything to be clear, settled, finished . . . done!

My great Aunt – Auntie as we called her – had been “Born Again,” and that event would dramatically alter the life and trajectory of my family forever. She was in her early 50s – the age that I am as I write these words – divorced after a marriage that lasted less than a year, and with no family but her only sister’s only son: my father! Hence, she was with us all the time.

“Whoo, whoo!”

That was how Auntie always answered our hellos on the phone. “What are you doing over there?”

“Nothing much,” I would sigh, wondering why I was the lucky one who always seemed to answer the phone when Auntie called. It wasn’t that I didn’t love her – because we all did – but her new-found-faith left her more talkative than ever. She could rival the greatest revivalist preachers of the day, and once she got started, you just had to wait until she made her point. Surprisingly, on this particular morning, she got right to the point. And I should have known something was up.

“Hey Bob-Boy” she said affectionately. (That was the name, born in her love for “The Waltons” – a 70s TV show, that she lovingly used for me until just a few years ago, when she no longer knew who I was! She died at 93 back in 2013!) “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“Nothing, why?”

“Well, how would you like to go to a concert?”

“A concert, wow!” I exclaimed. At the age of 13, I had recently discovered Buffalo’s hottest radio station, WKBW; and music was always on my mind. “Who’s playing?”

“I don’t know,” Auntie snapped back, as only Auntie could do! “There’s a group playing in Buffalo and I heard they’re pretty good. Now do you want to go or not?”

“Well . . . I . . .” Stumbling, I knew that not many of my friends were going to concerts with their 50 plus year old Great-Aunts, but Auntie was always fun to be with, and if my brother would go with me, maybe it wouldn’t be that bad.

“Bob-Boy, yes or no?” came the impatient voice on the other end of the line, rushing me to make a decision . . . as if knowing that if I thought about it too long, I’d certainly say ‘No Thanks!’.

“Well . . . what time?” I asked.

“I’ll pick you up at 6:30.”

I hung up the phone, ticked off at the way she always dominated and controlled so many conversations, but excited because I was going to what would be my first, real concert. Unfortunately, the next evening, after driving for what seemed like hours, we pulled into a church parking lot and my heart sank. How could I have been so clueless? “This is a ‘church’ concert?” I thought to myself! “A ‘religious’ concert! What on earth was I thinking?”

Slowly, my brother and I got out of her light blue Corvair, and followed her inside. The ‘concert’ had already begun, and everyone was waving their arms while singing along to some song about letting your ‘flags fly high.’ (And here, I will resist any comment about the “freak flag” in my favorite Christmas movie, “The Family Stone!”) On stage was a piano, a guitar, and of course, typical for such events, the infamous tambourine. It was going to be quite a night – I could tell right away!

If the drive seemed like hours, the concert seemed like days! I couldn’t wait to hear the last hallelujah and the final amen! The differences between the solemn, mystical, ritualistic, and formal Roman Mass, and this hyper-energetic, rowdy, spontaneous . . . and yes, crazy Pentecostal “concert” could not have been greater. But they would become the norm in the coming years, and over time, my entire family would be “born again.’ All our questions would be answered. All our doubts would be settled. And the teachings of the Bible would become crystal clear. My family had stumbled into a circle where everything was all figured out, and truly, my life, and the lives of those I loved, would never be the same again.

At one time or another there has been a Prayer Chain in all four of the churches I have served. Faithful women, and every now and then a man, sincerely interested in the well-being of others, who received phone calls and/or regularly gathered, to plead with God for the health and safety of those they loved. Their devotion to and for this ancient discipline was admirable, and yet I continue to wonder about the real purpose of their activities.

I know full well that we pray because Jesus told us to! So I’m not in any way questioning the activity. Rather, I’m more interested reevaluating HOW we pray, and what we believe happens as a result of those prayers.

It has been said that prayer doesn’t so much change our circumstances, as it changes us in our circumstances. I like that, and I think we need to hear more of it. For the notion that we just need to get as many people as possible, pleading with God for safety when we go on our family vacations or asking for health as we prepare for our annual physical, does little more than make God into a heavenly Santa Clause. If we’re not naughty, but nice, and if we’re not disobedient, but faithful, God will grant our wishes and bless us with all the good things life has to offer. And while there may indeed be times when we encounter trouble, but pay no mind to that! The ‘man behind the curtain’ operates in ways we will never understand, and his plan for us is always bigger than we can comprehend.

Right? Wrong! Let me just say it! Such a take on the discipline of prayer is nonsense!

Gene was an elderly man in my second church, and several years prior to my arrival he had been diagnosed with ALS – Lou Gehrig’s disease. I took communion to him regularly, and during each visit we would talk and laugh, and I continually marveled as his positive spirit. I remember him as bright, witty, always upbeat and positive, and with a deep and abiding faith. I don’t know what he was like when he was all alone with his thoughts, but when I was there, and when others from our church were around, Gene was saint.

Now because he had been part of his congregation for so long, he had many friends; and a countless number of them, thoughtful sisters and brothers sisters, were continually praying for a miracle. They were pleading with God to heal their friend, believing that if God wanted him to be healed, then he would, in fact, be healed!

But here’s my question! Why wouldn’t God want him to be healed? What kind of a God would allow the body of a vibrant man to wither away the way Gene’s did, and all the while leave his mind to remain as sharp as ever?

For the longest time, I knew the answers to those kinds of questions. And I can even offer the Scripture verses to boot! God’s plans are not our plans, and neither are his ways, our ways! We can’t see the bigger picture, and we are not to question the will of the Lord. Who knows what God is trying to teach us, or even Gene, for that matter! And we all know that we grow through suffering. Just imagine how Gene is learning to depend and rely upon God’s incredible grace and mercy.

I used these responses, and countless others, for years! I explained away the pain and struggle that often came from what others believed to be unanswered prayers, with dismissive rebukes and condescending platitudes. “God doesn’t cause such pain,” I would say; “but we can rejoice that in withholding healing, God will use the pain to deepen in our faith and to mature our walks.”

Today I must again boldly proclaim . . . nonsense!

To begin, if God is capable of healing and chooses not to, he may as well be the cause! There is absolutely no good reason for God to choose NOT to save a young mother from being killed in a drunk driving accident. And if there was something he wanted to teach her children, and could not find a less painful way for them to learn whatever lesson he had for them – well, that is simply not a God worthy of my worship! Any God who can’t find a better way to teach, than through tragedy – ALS, rape, murder, war, and on and on and on . . . such a capricious God neither warrants honor nor deserves glory.

Further, as Jack Spong points out in his book “A New Christianity for a New World,” such concepts “have the effect of defining prayer inside traditional concepts . . . (and) the assumptions that underlie such (thoughts) are that prayers consist of petitions and intercessions addressed to the diety, that the diety is external to this world, and that the diety can intervene to assist the one praying in a person crisis in a crisis in the life of his or her society.” (p. 191) But as we seek to expand upon these traditional ways of thinking and believing, and if we have the courage to open ourselves up to new ways of understanding and embracing this ancient spiritual practice, our prayers lives might begin to grow.

When we allow our understanding of prayer to be born again, again, our prayers lives can become much richer, and deeper, than we ever hoped, dreamed, or even dared to imagine! Ours is NOT a God who changes the circumstances of our lives. God changes us, IN those circumstances. Like every other spiritual discipline, prayer is designed to change US! It allows us to bask in the presence of the holy, so that our hearts might be softened, so that our minds might be transformed, and so that our bodies might find rest and peace. Prayer is about learning live in tune with all that the Spirit of God is doing and saying in our lives, discovering the harmony of our song, and making beautiful music with the world around us. It’s about becoming mindful of those in need, and responding accordingly. It’s about tending to the divine call to feed the hungry and clothe the naked, parent the orphan and befriend the widow! It’s about practicing the presence of God, wherever we are and in whatever we are doing. It’s about slowing down enough to attend to the still small voice within; listening more than speaking, waiting more than wanting!

When Scripture calls us to ‘pray without ceasing,’ it is less about being called to DO something and more about being called to a certain mindfulness – a way of moving through our days while being conscious of the Spirit’s presence in and around us – and allowing that mindfulness to alter the way in which we live, and move, and have our being! Using a good Celtic term, expanded upon by Marcus Borg in “The Heart of Christianity,” prayer is about cultivating thin spaces in our days, where we discover that God is not so much ‘out there’ but rather right here. (p.155)

At this point in my life, my ‘thin space’ is along the Potomac River, every Saturday morning. I have other ‘thin’ moments, but I treasure the thinness that has become part of my weekend routine along the waters of Washington, DC. Being a morning person, I’m usually up before the crack of dawn . . . even on a Saturday. I throw on a pair of sweatpants, hop in my car, and head down to Old Town Alexandria where I take a three mile walk along the Potomac. It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. And I am able to enjoy the beauty of both water (God’s creation) and the beauty of city (human being’s creation). I look forward to my Saturday morning’s all week, for they are times that excite my soul and enliven my spirit. In the words of Barbara Brown Taylor, in her book “An Alter in the World,” I become fully alert! She writes, “When I am electrically aware of the tremendous gift of being alive; when I am able to give myself wholly to the moment I am in, then I am in prayer. Prayer is happening, and it’s not necessarily something I am doing. God is happening, and I am lucky enough to know that I am in “the Midst.’”

That is what I experience each and every Saturday morning that I give myself the gift of . . . prayer! It is my thin-space, and a time that changes me . . . for the better, and for the glory of God. It’s not about asking God for anything: pleading that my bunions might be healed or that I find a parking space on the crowded streets of Georgetown. Again, in the words of Taylor, it’s about finding that ‘portal’ that keeps me open to God’s presence, all the time, and everywhere!

It was a warm, humid summer evening, typical for Lewiston, NY during the months of July and August, and I stood in center field at Academy Park. The black and orange jersey I wore was soaked with perspiration. Pride prompts me to want to say it was the result of my enthusiastic playing, but honesty forces me to admit it was simply a nervous sweat.

I hated Tuesday and Thursday evenings in the summer of 1971 – those were the nights of our Little League games. It’s when all the town’s parent would gather in the local park to cheer on their children as they prepared for the Big League. On this particular Tuesday, the old green bleachers were filled a half hour before the game was scheduled to begin – dads sipping on their beer, listening to all the moms chat about how many hits their sons had (or in my case DIDN’T have) in the last game!

Yes, for two months in the summer, I hated Tuesdays and Thursdays, because I hated baseball; I was a terrible player and so twice a week, I would wake up hoping for rain. And when it didn’t come, the pit in my stomach would grow with each passing hour. Surely, God did not want me to feel this way. Surely he did not want me to endure such pain and embarrassment.

On this particular night, we were up against one of the best teams in the division – black and white – and my best friend was their star player. I had met Tom in third grade math class, and beside being a whiz at multiplication, he was also a slugger on the diamond. He played first base and hit the ball every time he was up. Homeruns were not uncommon either.

Slowly, I made my way to the outfield, and it was there, trudging through the dandelions, sticky from the heat, and sick to my stomach because of what I had to do, that I remember uttering one of my very first prayers. “God, please, do NOT let that ball come near me!”

Such prayers were common that summer, and they were the first ones I remembering uttering as a young boy. They were pleas to the God above, who I learned was listening and ready to respond to all the heartfelt requests of this young, desperate, ball player.

I have mixed feelings about how that particular game ended. I was up to bat somewhere in the middle few innings, and before I knew it I had a full-house – three balls, two strikes. In the background I could hear all the black and orange dads yelling, “Don’t swing! Don’t swing!”

But I was no dummy! I knew that on a full-house the pitcher didn’t expect me to swing; so he’d give me a slow pitch right over the plate, and because I wouldn’t swing, I’d be struck out. Everyone knew this, and so I remember being somewhat offended for a split second, realizing that they were telling me not to swing because they knew that even a full-house pitch would be too much for someone like me.

Casually, the pitcher tossed the ball into his mit, eyeing me, pondering, and perhaps even laughing to himself. Then he lowered the ball and mit to his waist, wound up, and let that leather orb loose in my direction.

The next thing I remember, I was doubled over in pain, gasping for air. The ball had nailed me just below my left rib and had knocked the wind out of me. But as angry as I was, there was also a hint of joy within – for now, for the first time in a real game, I would get to see what first base looked like up close. Actually, I got to see all three bases, eventually making it to third before one of my teammates struck out and the inning was over.

Did I ever catch a pop fly? Never! Did I ever have a hit? Not once! Scoring a run was not even an option for me. But . . . I learned to pray. Eventually I would learn to play, as well. But this particular summer, I learned to pray! Or should I say, I learned to do what far too many people have come to call prayer?

Now don’t misunderstand me. It wasn’t that I had never prayed before those nights in Academy Park. Growing up in a Roman Catholic family, prayer began at an early age. But the prayers were rote and routine, and praying was something we did all the time – like breathing – without really thinking about it. Before dinner, we’d bow our heads and say together: “Bless us O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive, form Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord, Amen.” Interestingly, we only prayed before dinner, not before breakfast or lunch; and we NEVER prayed when we were in a restaurant. I often wondered why. Were we not thankful for our breakfast bowls of Coco Puffs, or our lunch box’s crunchy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches? Did God only provide our spaghetti and meatball, or tuna noodle casserole dinners? And I loved eating out; but we certainly wouldn’t pray in a restaurant! Was God not responsible for the burgers we enjoyed at the Red Barn, or the pizza and chicken wings at Village Pizza?

We also prayed before bed as well . . . every night: “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Do I even need to even comment on the appropriateness of those words, uttered by all the Melone children, for years? “If I should die before I wake”? . . . really? I went to bed every night wondering if I was going to wake up in the morning, and if not, where was my “soul” – whatever that was! – going to be taken? And by whom? The questions still abound!

So growing up, prayer was routine, and each and every word was carefully scripted . . . that is, until 1971, when I started playing baseball. That’s when I remember my first real conversation with God, expressing my deepest desires and my most sincere plea. More importantly, it was the first time I began wrestling with the idea that either God did not hear my prayers, or that my whole understanding of the ‘efficacy of prayer’ was something different than I had been taught! Obviously, at the age of 10, I would not have explained things in that exact way; but deep down inside I was already learning that it was not God’s job to keep fly balls out of right field!

In the late 90s, I read Marcus Borg’s “Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time,” which planted the seeds to many of my questions.  But the urge to ask was squashed, and I refused to allow myself to venture out into the waters of doubt.  Tillich believed it ventilated faith; but in my worldview, doubt only destroyed faith!  So I would not go there.  The church wouldn’t allow it.  The church wouldn’t stand for it.  And so I pushed everything down, deep inside, and continued doing what I had always done, pretending that the faith of my childhood was perfectly logical, intellectually credible, and without any inconsistencies!

Looking back through Borg’s book today, I’m intrigued at my markings – and how those at the beginning attempt to refute Borg’s assertions, while those at the end are starred, as if to say “Hey, this is good stuff!”  Questions marks are everywhere . . . until chapter 4.  That’s where I apparently began to understand a little bit about how the compassion of Jesus was at the heart of his life and ministry; and how Jesus-like life-styles unite and include others, while an emphasis on belief and doctrine only serves to divide and exclude.  And that is not to say that beliefs are unimportant.  But just as we’ve all known people who believe the right things and yet to do not behave in God-like ways, so too have we all known people who believe differently than we do, and yet still DO manage to behave in God-like ways.

For a long time, I was convinced that it was the beliefs that were most important.  Behavior was critical; but because we embrace the Protestant doctrine of justification by FAITH, as opposed to WORKS, there has to be more to a life of faith that how we behave . . . doesn’t there?  Faith without works is indeed dead, but works are simply not enough, right?  We need faith!  And faith is about believing . . . facts, statements, propositions!  Our creeds make this pretty clear.  For our ‘statements of FAITH,’ used week after week in most Presbyterian worship gatherings, begin with the words, “I believe . . .”  So that’s what we’re taught, consciously and unconsciously: faith is believing!

But what if our “Faith Alone” theology has gone too far in reacting to Roman extremes?  What if we in the evangelical church have now become so consumed with preaching ‘right doctrine’ and getting everyone to believe all the ‘right things’, that we have now actually gone to the other extreme and are missing out on the transformative life-change that is at the heart of Jesus’ message?  What if when Jesus is quoted as having said that he is the way, the truth, and the life – what if his point was less about some intellectual truth that people needed to accept and more about a way of life that people are called practice?

The “I believe” statements in the great creeds of our church are about giving our hearts to certain tenets, not just our minds.  Mental ascent to a set of truths is indeed an important part of our journeys, for if our faith is not intellectually credible then it is not worth hanging onto!  But knowing and living are two different things.  And faith should be more like a verb than a noun.  It something we DO, not just something we possess!

All of these thoughts were spinning around in my head, and before I knew it, questions were popping up all over the place.  Borg says, “the notion that our life on earth (being) primarily about meeting God’s requirements so that we may have a blessed next life . . . (was) foreign to Jesus”  (p. 85); and all of a sudden, that made perfect sense to me.  What if faith really is less about getting to heaven, and more about the way we live here on earth?  What if Jesus’ own words, about being known, NOT BY OUR BELIEFS, but by our fruit, really was true?

These kinds of ‘what if’ questions were slowly deconstructing a faith that was at the heart of my life and ministry, and for several years they sat simmering, and percolating.  In addition to Borg, McLaren’s “A New Kind of Christian” gave me not just permission, but encouragement to ask all of my questions, so that I might deal with all the ‘forbidden’ thoughts and ideas and perhaps even begin to find new life in them.  I discovered that such wrestling was vital to any authentic spiritual journey, and critical to the development of any faith worth embracing.

McLaren’s story brought me to tears over and over again – as page after page I found his story (or “Pastor Dan’s” Story!) to be my story!  I too was questioning “the stock answers to questions I was supposed to be convincing others of!” (p. 12) and one by one the bricks in my solid, sturdy, and strong Christian wall were being chiseled out of place.

Ironically, much to my surprise, through all of this, God seemed to be getting closer than ever!  My walk with Jesus seemed to be expanding.  My heart for the world around me was growing.  My appreciation of Scripture was deepening.  And my love for others – particularly those with life-styles and beliefs that were different from my own – was broadening my horizons and revealing all kinds of fresh vistas.  It was in fact nurturing within me an evangelical zeal that I had not felt for a long time.  My life truly had become new, and only now am I able to look back on the experience and realize what was taking place.

In John’s Gospel, attempting to answer a question from Nicodemus about obtaining ‘eternal life,’  Jesus says that one must be born again.  I thought that had happened to me when I was a teenager.  But now I know that it is something that must happen to us, and in us, over and over again.  It is not something that occurs in our lives but once.  The power of the Spirit’s presence within each one of us involves the realization that God is always working and moving, calling and wooing, leading us on and guiding us forward.

Upon reflection, I know without a doubt that something new was taking place within me – something holy, and from God.  Things were shifting and changing, morphing and growing.  I was being born again, again; and my life, my faith, and my ministry were never going to be the same.

I once heard someone say that ‘shift happens.’  And thank God it does; for I’m afraid of what my life would be without it!  This ‘shift’ was all over the place at Stone House Presbyterian Church in Williamsburg, Virginia, and I was loving it!  My faith was growing wings, and my commitment to the Body and its mission was developing in ways that I never thought possible.

Now . . . I tell you all of this not because I think that my journey is somehow unique, or any more special or important than your own.  Rather, I tell you all this because I’ve discovered that I am not alone on this journey.  Many people have similar stories, and yet too often we keep them to ourselves.  We’re afraid to ‘come out of the closet,’ fearful that we’ll be chastised for backsliding.  In too many places, people with stories like mine are being thrown out of the Body, and condemned to some place in the afterlife where is supposedly weeping and gnashing of teeth.  We told that we’re watering down the Gospel, being too politically correct, abandoning the Bible, or worst of all, thinking too much!

But friends, none of that is true . . . at least not for most of us on this journey toward a new kind of Christianity.  We are eager to grow not just a new kind of Christian, but a new kind of Church!  And my simple hope is that in reading my story, you will begin to own your story, and not be afraid to share it with anyone who will listen.  In the words of Doug Pagitt, don’t be afraid of your ‘flip,’ for there is more than one way to talk about matters of God, and faith, resurrection, and new life!

Further, my hope is that in the telling of our stories, we really will be able to create a new kind of Church, one that, borrowing the words from President John F. Kennedy, “looks ahead and not behind, that welcomes new ideas without rigid reactions, and that cares about everyone.”

Following Jesus is a great adventure, and our journeys need to be told.  So for what it’s worth, here’s mine.  I hope and pray that hearing about my being born again, and again, and again, will help you to experience a similar rebirth . . . again, and again, and again!

The progressively liberal leg of my journey actually began more than a decade ago, in 2002!

It was a beautiful Monday morning when I got the call. Virginia’s hot and humid summer days were slowly giving way to the cooler and colorful days of autumn, and after a wonderful Church Retreat I was excited about all that was happening in the New Church Development project I had undertaken two years earlier. Convinced that God was growing and blessing the ministry that my family and I had so willingly embraced, I was full of renewed passion and vision for the church’s third program year under my leadership.

I didn’t recognize the voice on the other end of the line, and when he gave his name, that didn’t help much. Phone calls early in the morning, like those in the middle of the night, always startle me and send shock waves of panic through my bones. Never the less, I always try to answer with a ‘hello’ that makes it sound as though I’ve been wide awake for hours, sitting around doing nothing but waiting for the person’s call. Sadly, regardless of my cherry disposition when I answer at that hour of the morning, the news that follows is never good.

On this morning, my groggy consciousness was quickly able to discern this reality. Something had happened. Something tragic. Something that was going to break my heart. Something that was going to make me want to stay in bed . . . all day . . . and not have to face the mean, unfair, and cruel world anytime soon.

Seventeen months earlier, our church had hired a wonderful woman to develop and expand the worship and music life of our growing congregation. She was a single mom, with three wonderful children between the ages of 9 and 15, and with a vibrant faith and a contagiously energetic spirit. Together we were designing Sunday morning corporate worship gatherings that offered people something fresh and different . . . something relevant and engaging . . . something full of life and brimming with joy. Gone was rigid adherence to a worship order that lacked energy and vitality; and in its place were all kinds of creative and contemporary expressions of faith. Tradition was being explained and reinterpreted, and a style that had become little more than the breeding ground of apathy, had been replaced with one full of new life.

It had not been easy, but in 17 months, our new worship leader had become more than another staff member – she had become a friend, part of the family, and an integral part of our growing band of disciples seeking to change the image of the church – if even in just a small way.

“Is this Bob Melone?” came the voice on the phonr.

“Yes it is,” I said.

“Bob, there’s been an accident. Do you think you could get over to the hospital?”

Within minutes, I would learn that our beloved worship leader had been hit by a drunk driver. She was half a mile from her house, returning home with her youngest daughter after taking her son to a friend’s house to spend the night. The little girl was fine, but my new friend was on life support and probably not going to survive.

Almost a year to the day earlier, my world had been similarly shaken, on September 11, 2001. I was in a staff meeting when my wife called to tell me that a terrible tragedy was unfolding in New York City. She would call again, only a few minutes later, to tell me of similar horrors in DC. I quickly closed the church office and headed home, walking into the house as the second tower collapsed. Within minutes I was weeping, as evil manifested itself before my very eyes.

Had I ever been confronted with such evils before? Of course. I had studied apartheid in college. I knew all about the famine in Ethiopia in the mid-80s. I had been on several mission trips to Mexico, Jamaica, and in various parts of Appalachia. And I had seen all kinds of racism, sexism, and homophobia, in various segments of our culture and society. Furthermore, like most everyone else, I had dealt with my share of tragic deaths. I had led a memorial service for a two year old killed in another car accident with a drunk driver in Erie, PA; as well as for a kind, elderly, small business owner who was shot and killed when someone broke into his convenience store in York, PA. I had officiated at close to 100 memorial services in my second church alone, and had lost a great grand-mother, four grandparents, and several great aunts and uncles.

Had I seen the brokenness and malevolence of our world? Of course I had. But I wasn’t prepared for the shaking that these two pivotal events would bring to my life. The tragic death of our worship leader, and the horrific events of 9/11 had left me angry and confused, and brought to the surface all of the doubts and questions that I had buried deep within my soul.

Trite and simplistic reasonings rang in my head: We live in a broken world and sometimes God allows bad things to happen to good people; God’s ways are not our ways, and His plans are not always our plans; we just can’t see the bigger picture – and we’ll never understand the mind of God!

I had heard them all. Worse yet, I had even used many of them. But this time, they simply didn’t work. They didn’t make sense and they didn’t offer me any comfort. If this was the way in which God worked – or failed to work – then this god was not one I wanted to worship. In fact such a god was not worthy of worship! This god was certainly not one to whom I wanted to give my life.

It was around this same time that I began attending the National Pastors Conference, sponsored by Youth Specialties and Zondervan Publishing. There, I was exposed to a Maryland pastor by the name of Brian McLaren, and to a conversation about what many were referring to as the “Emerging Church.” Evidently, I wasn’t the only evangelical wrestling with teachings that didn’t make sense; others too were questioning the traditional understanding of prayer, the sovereignty of God, and much, much more.

I was not alone. And I was not going crazy. Now, finally, I had people to talk with and journey with — people who loved God and who were committed to following Jesus, but who were not so rigid in their understanding of faith that there was no room for mystery or uncertainty, diversity or inclusivity. So the doubts began pouring forth, and I was finally given permission to ask the questions that for so long I had been afraid to ask!

I stood at the mic, heart pounding and mind racing, anticipating the look of the Moderator that would indicate his preparing to call upon me for my comments. I was at the 220th meeting of the General Assembly of Presbyterian Church US, ready to ‘come out of closet.’

The Assembly’s Committee on Civil Unions and Marriage Issues was making its report, recommending that the Church’s constitution be changed. The current reading referred to marriage as being between “one man and one woman,” and the proposal was to alter the reading to “two people.” Tension at the assembly was at its peak – two minority reports had already been defeated, and fear that this reformed body was about to make yet another radical statement about one of the most divisive issues of our day had taken over. No one wanted to destroy the church, but everyone knew that this proposed change certainly had the potential to have just such an effect.

People who knew me well knew how my theology had developed over the past 10 years, but I certainly had not made any publicly statements directly addressing an issue as controversial as same-gender relationships. But that was about to change as I stood before mic number 8, green paddle in my hand, preparing to speak ‘in favor’ of the motion before us.

Interestingly, I couldn’t help but notice the ‘paddle.’ It really wasn’t a paddle at all; just a badminton racket with two green pieces of construction paper stapled together, and like a glove placed over the head. How appropriate that something so ‘home-made’ was being used to bring about an historic change in this segment of the Church. Average people like me had come to the realization that the traditional teachings of the church were simply wrong – and it didn’t require anything even remotely akin to some kind of Papal Decree to change the course of human history. All that was required was a simple majority of this assembly’s 688 commissioners voting to make the change, and the recommendation would go out to the local church for approval. This was Protestantism at its best – lay and clergy, coming together for conversation and dialogue, all in an attempt to discern the will and the way of the Spirit.

I’m not normally nervous when I speak in public, but comments had been limited to one minute because so many wanted to speak, and I was concerned I had mis-timed my statement and that I’d be cut off before I had finished. There was so much I wanted to say about there being different ways to understand Biblical authority, reformed orthodoxy, and sexual orientation, that I was concerned I would not be able to squeeze it all in.

Neal Pressa had been elected Moderator of the 220th Assembly six days earlier, and was working hard to keep everyone in order. Finally, after over two hours in line, enduring all kinds of amendments and substitutions, his eyes came my way and “the person at mic 8 speaking in favor of the motion” was called on to address the assembly.

And I did. And now everyone would know. Bob Melone had come ‘out of the closet,’ and was . . . a liberal!

Preface

I don’t remember a time when I didn’t have questions – about everything! I have always been inquisitive, and when it comes to matters of God and faith my questions have only led me into a deeper understanding of what it means to be human and part of God’s great plan for creation. I’m convinced that good questions do this – they grow us, making our lives richer and stronger, and setting our hearts in tune with the harmonies of creation.

I first began putting my spiritual questions down on paper in August of 1983 – prior to my first year in seminary. A child of the Church, I was becoming more frequently disturbed by the divisions I witnessed within the Body, and was convinced that someone needed to write about those divisions. Believers, all of whom claimed to love God, were always arguing about their beliefs; and I frequently found myself in the middle of conflict between Roman Catholics and Protestants, Charismatics and Pentecostals, Conservatives and Liberals. And the more my world grew, the louder the arguments became and the more my frustrations grew.

During my middle and high school years, the homilies of the Monsignor in our local parish were more about the importance of sending your kids to Catholic Schools, than on the Gospel readings that were supposed to grow my walk with God. At a cousin’s wedding, watching my grandmother remain in her seat during communion because she was Protestant, while the rest of our family went forward to ‘commune’ with God, only served to drive home the absurdity of believing that there was only one way to know and experience God. And when I began dating a girl from a local Baptist Church, while her family was glad I knew the importance of being ‘born again’, there was never the less a great deal of concern over my family’s speaking in tongues and there heresy of such beliefs.

The ‘problems’ all began when my Great-Aunt become involved with the Charismatic movement. Loud discussions and arguments about what we believed became commonplace at our dinner table, and conversations about God, faith, Church, and ‘having a personal relationship with Jesus’ dominated the life of my nuclear, and eventually extended family. And when a family member’s leg supposedly grew an inch at a local healing service – well, that was when the questions began exploding all over my world.

In college, my world became even larger, and what I have come to label as nothing short of brain-washing by religious fundamentalists, led me into a period of militant evangelism. My penance for being president of a Jewish fraternity was the call to convert the entire campus of American University; and my zealousness led me to a way of living out my faith that was nothing short of obnoxious. Fortunately, a semester abroad during my senior year began pushing me towards a more intellectually credible faith; and upon returning to Washington, DC to finish up my college career, I became a member of National Presbyterian Church. There, my faith continued to grow and expand, and by April I had been admitted to Princeton Theological Seminary.

PTC challenged me in ways I have only now come to appreciate. Back then, however, while I was being exposed to all kinds of approaches to Scripture, and to theologies that I didn’t even know existed for the first 22 years of my life, I clung tightly to the traditional evangelical approach to God, and simply ‘endured’ what I was all too quick to declare to be heretical views of Christianity. My active involvement with Young Life and Presbyterians For Renewal only further entrenched me in a way of thinking that was Biblically inconsistent at best, and arrogant and manipulative at their worst. I dearly love the people who were part of my life during those formative years, particularly those from both of those organizations, and I am grateful for that ‘leg’ of my journey, but . . . but what? I guess all I will say is that at times the theology undergirding their ministry was a little too exclusive and narrow for the life I believe God is calling me to live.

Upon graduation from PTS in 1986, church life completely distracted me from the critical thinking that was then and is still today so lacking in so many segments of the church. I was consumed by what seminaries often refer to as “practical theology,” as the day to day issues of ministry absorbed my every waking moment. My first call to First Presbyterian Church of York was full of joys that I still celebrate thirty years after my formal ministry there ended. As the Associate Pastor for Youth and Family Ministries, I had the great privilege of working with a wonderful group of youth leaders, teens, and parents – people who I deeply loved, and whose company I still enjoy today. I have officiated at countless marriages of old ‘youth-groupers’ and have watched them grow and mature and become adults their parents should be proud of. But as a young, 20-some year old pastor, church politics sapped my strength, and seeds of disillusion with the church took root in my soul.

After six years in York I was called to First Presbyterian Church of the Covenant in Erie, PA to serve as Pastor/Head of Staff; and there, the tasks of leading the largest Church in Lake Erie Presbytery only drove me further and further from the one I had given my life to in my teens. I was completely swallowed up by the life of the large church; and as a result, I neglected my wife, missed out on some of the most important parts of my childrens’ early years, and allowed the demands of professional ministry to smother the Spirit that was living and moving within me. Doctoral work at Gordon-Conwell pushed me to think harder about my walk, but once again, it was more about call to pastor, and less about my call to follow!

In an attempt to flee what I could only describe as the suffocating nature of traditional, institutional Christianity, my wife and I decided to consider New Church Development in the Presbyterian Church, and within a year we moved to Williamsburg, VA to begin a leg of our journey that brought us more joy than we ever ‘hoped, dreamed, or even dared to imagine.’ The people, groups, and communities that were part of our lives have left indelible marks upon our souls and will never be forgotten.

After thirteen wonderful years in one of the most beautiful places we have ever lived, I responded to a call to and from the people of Mount Vernon Presbyterian Church, in Alexandria, Virginia. So in June of 2013 we moved back to the DC area, and here my journey continues. I am surrounded by people who remain continually open to the proddings and pushings, musings and meddling of the Spirit, and who are eager to embrace a participatory eschatology, where the church is more about behavior than belief, deed than creed. (And yes, we still love Jesus, too!)

Have I struggled over the past 30 years? Of course! Life in general, and ministry in specific, are never without struggles. But today, I find myself closer to the things of God than ever before; and the Spirit continues to deepen my understanding of and walk with Jesus, the Christ. Every person, in every church I’ve served, has had a role in the faith that I am living into and enjoying today, and I’m grateful to you all. You’ve grown me and my ministry, and in many ways done for me what seminary did not do. So thank you. And thank God for the progressive movements of Christianity that exist today, constantly pushing the rigid boundaries of so much of Christianity, and inviting people into a faith that truly is . . . reformed and always being reformed, according the Living Word and the call the Beloved Spirit.

Perhaps, this is what it means to be born again . . . again, and again, and again!

Anyone who knows me well knows how much I love this time of year.  When I told my brother last week that I was already listening to Christmas music, he told me that I live for Christmas!

Not quite – but almost!

One of the reasons I love the holidays as much as I do, is because for 54 years, thanksgiving and Christmas have been all about family.  And I love family!

Growing up, my paternal grandmother was central to our family.  She was a ‘big’ person, and I’m not talking physically!  Her presence loomed large, even when she was miles away; and she occupied a great deal of emotional space in the lives of all who knew her.

From the perspective of a little boy, she made Christmas everything it was supposed to be.  When we’d pick her up at the airport, her arms were always full of bags – Sees chocolate lollipops, Quality Street caramels, and brightly wrapped boxes from ‘big city’ department stores.  She was always loudly laughing at herself, stumbling through the door of the aircraft and out of the gate, making her way toward her eagerly waiting family.

On Christmas she’d put on glittery, sequined clothes that just made her look . . . literally, out of the ordinary!  Striking grey hair set high upon her head, big gold earrings and necklaces, and always, the scent of ‘Tea Rose,’ her favorite perfume, entering a room mementos before she did – as if to announce her arrival!

Sadly, the heights of the joy that came with my grandmother’s arrival, were usually matched by a deep and rude anger that often signaled her departure.  By the end of yer trips, she would begin to silently mourn the season’s end, someone would say the wrong thing, and all hell would break loose.  Pent up frustrations would be vented, tongues that had been bitten for two weeks would find freedom, and harsh words would be spoken.

My grandmother passed away in 2001, and for several years I harbored a great deal of resentment toward her.  But that has all passed, and today I’m drawn to remember only the good!  I remember the laughter at the dinner table on Christmas Eve, chicken wing lunches at Lebros, dancing at the Ramada Inn on New Years Eve, and a New Years Day dinner at the Clarkson House.  Call it a maturing experience of forgiveness, or a deepening understanding grace, but either way, I’m beginning to come to see that my grandmother was really no different than any of us.  She had her flaws, most likely the result of a childhood that included some form of abuse.  But she also brought a great deal of love and laughter to her family.  Most importantly, she raised my father – the man who, during the most formative years of my life, taught me to live life with passion, to always think of those less fortunate, and to never neglect  . . . family!

None of us are perfect.  All of us have a flaw or two. (I might even have three or four!) But there is always good to be found. And even though we might sometimes have to dig for it, discovering it and learning to appreciate it, as opposed to dwelling on everyone’s flaws, really does makes life so much more enjoyable!

Author James Truslow Adams wrote about it, and recording artist Amy Grant sang about it – “There is so much good in the worst of us, and so much bad in the best of us, that it ill behooves any of us, to find fault with the rest of us.”

I’m a broken, flawed, imperfect child of God.  My thoughts and opinions aren’t always consistent, and sometimes they may not appear to make sense.  My faith is MY faith, and so it reflects MY journey, which is no doubt a little different than yours. I occasionally get frustrated, and have angry moments more than once a week!  I’m a perfectionist, which drives some people nuts; and my closet and dresser drawers . . . they are beyond neat, so don’t go near them!

But even the worst parts of me have some good!  And ya’ know what?  The worst parts of you have some good too!

So today . . . this holiday season . . . and how about all of next year . . . let’s all try to focus on the good in one another!   If we could just do that more often, life might be a little more enjoyable, and the world might take the first step in becoming a more loving and just place to live.

Politics — from the Greek word ‘politikos’, which means “pertaining or relating to citizens.” It is a word that directs us toward those things which affect the ‘polis,’ the state or city, especially as characterized by a sense of community; and it is a word that points us to the ways in which a people are organized, and how power and resources are distributed.

Interestingly, Jesus had much to say about such things.  We ‘church people’ are often afraid to talk politics; thinking that if we do, we might alienate certain members, or offend those who have a different take on such issues.  But Jesus talked about political matters all the time, primarily because he knew that they were priorities in the Kingdom of God that he came to proclaim.

In fact, Jesus’ life was about as political as one can get!  The Good News he sought to proclaim was all about politics.  It was all about we relate to one another: how the rich deal with the poor, how those in power interact with those who have none, and how we who have much care for those who have little.  Jesus was deeply concerned about those on the margins of our society; the poor and the downtrodden, the outcast and the oppressed.  And his call was then, and continues to be today, about reaching out to ‘the least of these’ with love, grace, compassion, and care.

So has Pope Francis ‘politicized’ the Gospel by talking about such matters?  Is his concern for the poor and the homeless, the immigrant child and refugee mother — are such concerns political?  Is it political to talk about how cities, states, and nations, care for the least among us — the hungry and homeless, the oppressed and abused, the lost and alone?  It is political to talk about our stewardship of the resources that we claim to be our own: about the accumulation of wealth, about the materialism of capitalism, and about caring for our planet?  It is political to talk about life, and the value of each and every living thing; is it political to talk about violence, and guns, and war?

Well yes it’s political!  Of course it is!  The Pope’s here to proclaim the Gospel, AND THE GOSPEL IS POLITICAL!  And if that alienates some, and offends others . . . well, should we expect otherwise?  Just ask Jesus!  He was alienating and offending people all the time.  He was alienating the powerful and offending the wealthy every time he talked about lauding our power over those with none, and selling what we have and giving to the poor.

The Pope hasn’t politicized the Gospel, because the Gospel always has been and always will be political.  It’s about how relate to one another, and live together as one, human family.  And if we’re alienated and offended by that, well then perhaps we need to take that up with Jesus!  For the politics of Pope Francis, is the politics that Jesus came to preach.  It’s what the Kingdom of God is all about.  And it’s what this world desperately needs to hear.