Effective discipline…

I don’t recall why I was being disciplined, the last time my parents ever spanked me. But I remember my response. I was old enough to have learned sarcasm, and I didn’t like that I was in trouble, though I’m certain discipline was called for. I’d probably mouthed off to Mom, or hurt my sister, or done something inappropriate that growing boys do. My father said, “Son, bend over,” and took out his belt. I did as I was told.

The spanking was swift, and light; just two or three two raps. Though not enough time lapsed for my stubbornness to have waned. In fact, in an act of ill-considered defiance, I laughed, then declared, “That didn’t hurt!” In my memory, I see my father’s head shaking, thinking, “Is he serious?” He’d obviously not meant to deliver much physical pain, but instead encourage feelings of remorse for my misdeed. In an instant, however, he reconsidered. “Then we’re not through here,” he informed me. I stiffened. I knew I’d crossed the line, and the second go-around wouldn’t be so soft. I bent over again. The belt came out again. This spanking was also swift. And it hurt, though not as much as it could have. Dad knew the message had finally sunk in.

Honestly, that’s one of the few memories I have of childhood corporal punishment. My parents used it rarely, and pain was never really their goal. It was the idea that mattered. The sound of my dad’s belt being removed had symbolic value. Its leathery swish communicated that I’d gone too far, that I knew better, that disobedience was at an end. Usually, the punishment included time in my room, or further grounding. In other words, it seemed part of a larger strategy. Not an end in itself, nor an outlet for their anger. For that last fact, I’m grateful.

But I suspect some children couldn’t say the same about their parents’ spankings. And it’s in my mind because of recent news that local football star Adrian Peterson was arrested for disciplining his son. My dad used a hand or a belt. Peterson used a tree branch, a “switch.” I don’t remember ever receiving bruises. Photos of Peterson’s son show broken skin, and swelling. No one but them can, of course, say exactly what happened. But apparently, Peterson struck his child repeatedly, and with greater force than my parents applied.

That’s what the grand jury, who indicted him, suggests in any case. Perhaps, as a professional athlete, he’s simply stronger than my father. But I wonder if that’s all. It shouldn’t take much self-control to deliver your parental message, while refraining from injuring a four-year old boy. That said, I suspect the public will listen to his explanation with some sympathy, and not just because he’s famous. Attitudes toward corporal punishment are changing in our country, but surveys show it’s still quite popular. Over two-thirds of Americans approve of it. That’s 15% fewer than 1980, and there are variances by region, race, religious and political identity. Nevertheless, it has majority support from all groups asked. Much more than, say, domestic violence. Obviously.

But I don’t plan to spank or strike my children. Count me among those whose views on this have changed. I didn’t grow up thinking corporal punishment was abuse, and I still don’t. Not in every situation, at least. What I wonder now, though, is whether it’s effective long-term. Studies reveal that it solves immediate behavior problems; kids who fear pain typically stop their actions. But it can also encourage future aggression among children, while changing the parent-child relationship dynamic. Plus, there are effective discipline techniques that cease bad behaviors without hurt, like talking through natural consequences of dropping a toothbrush in the toilet. And ultimately, I worry that if physical punishment is in my parenting arsenal, I might take it too far someday.

I’m guessing that’s Peterson’s issue. He wanted to parent his son, but couldn’t manage his frustration when it mattered most. Now he has to rebuild for his boy that sense of safety every child should expect as their God-given right. May that rebuilding come swift.

Grace and Peace,
Shane Read more!

The peace that passeth my understanding - Rev. Tabitha Isner

As a person of faith, I’d like to believe that I am filled with the Holy Spirit. Not in a speaking-in-tongues way, but in the sense that God’s Spirit impacts all aspects of my life, that God is present in each of my moments, helping me to be Christ’s hands and feet in the world. But to be honest with you, it just isn’t true. When I am caring for a distressed friend, it’s usually true. When I’m mentoring my “little sis,” it’s mostly true. But for the largest chunk of my time – the time I spend at work – it’s just not true. I am NOT Spirit-filled.

Sometimes I think the problem is my job, the environment in which I work. It’s a bureaucracy, filled with excessive paperwork and excessive meetings, and it requires excessive patience to wait for anything actually to get done. So, day after day goes by, and I rarely feel a sense of accomplishment or appreciation. But it’s not just me, and it’s not just my workplace. We’re all frustrated. Resentful. Impatient. Defensive.

At work, I am often NOT Spirit-filled. And yet, it’s not never. When it does happen - when a spirit of grace and peace and gentleness fills my heart and mind, when I speak to my colleagues with patience and empathy as my sisters and brothers on this journey - I find myself completely caught off guard by my own actions and words. It’s not that they feel wrong or inappropriate. Quite the opposite. They feel wonderful. Like a cool breeze sweeping unexpectedly through a stuffy room. They feel right and obvious. Like the muscle memory of climbing into bed in the dark. Of course I am filled with the Spirit! Of course I am responding to a stressful situation with grace and peace and gentleness! It’s the most natural thing in the world.

And I’m 100% baffled about how it happened.

The thing is, I’ve been praying for peace. I’ve been praying that the Spirit might grant me the “peace that passeth understanding,” that standard Christian notion from Phillipians 4:7. I imagine it as the Zen calmness of one who knows her place as God’s beloved child and therefore is unruffled by the stress of deadlines and unscathed by the rough edges of inconsiderate coworkers. It’s a good prayer, I think, the kind that, if granted, would bring me closer to God and also to my neighbors. I’ve been praying it for months now and simultaneously reading books and blogs about how to make it so. But to no avail. I still don’t get it. I haven’t found an effective trick for staying in that Spirit-place throughout the day or for ordering up an injection of Spirit when the need arises.

Sure, I have those unexpected moments when it just happens, but I want more. I want to be the expert on the peace that passeth understanding. I want to be able to do it consistently, on command. I want to be a master of Spirit-channeling. I want to control it. The Spirit. The chaos-ordering, death-defying, church-birthing, millennia-crossing Spirit of God. If I’m being honest with you, I have to admit that I don’t want the peace that passeth my understanding. I want the peace which I completely understand, and can predict – but that others are impressed by, saying, “I just don’t understand how she does it!” And having put it that way, I have a sudden clarity that I’m not going to get it.

So back to the drawing board. No, not the drawing board. The prayer mat. It’s time to give up my self-conception as the expert designer and instead assume the position of baffled gift-receiver. It’s time to pray this prayer again, this time asking for the ability to blindly accept the Spirit’s incomprehensible gift of peace; to lean in to the fact that I can’t control when the Spirit shows up in me, I can only welcome it when it arrives. It’s time to pray for the peace that passeth right over understanding and skips straight to my heart. I pray it comes to you too.
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Opening words…

I crowd-sourced this fall’s sermon series on Facebook, and received great responses. Thanks Facebook friends! My setup was simple- “Say an unnamed pastor wants to preach on ‘tough questions’, what should s/he ask?” Spoiler alert: the unnamed preacher was me. Strangely, my friends figured that out quick. And their wonderful responses re-taught me an important lesson for us religious types.

You see, I can separate my Facebook network into three categories. First, there’s my family. Then, church contacts and colleagues. Finally, I have what I’ll endearingly-describe as “Shane’s heathen college buddies.”
About that last group- I attended church some as an undergraduate, but not too much, and most of my pals weren’t religious. They still aren’t. But they’re great people- most of them- ethically considerate, spiritually interested, compassion rich. And like a majority of college-educated young adults, they have little time for church.


Or, to put the point more finely, little interest in “organized religion.” That isn’t news, of course. But one effect of that worldview has consequences for church attendees, which played out on my Facebook page. People from all three friends’ categories contributed. Those already engaged in church asked questions like, “How can the Bible help me be a better parent?” or “What about predestination?” My unchurched chums sounded different, however, asking, “What’s up with sexism and religion?” Or “How can anyone hope to understand the Will of an Omni-whatever Being?”

Now, it’s not like these diverse, lovely inquirers had wildly different concerns. Many people accustomed to parking their butts in pews on Sunday mornings, and those preferring park benches, wonder about evil, ecology, suffering, death, life, forgiveness, etc. What struck me was the dissimilar tones of their queries, their disparate starting points. A subtle, but distinct-seeming language of ‘Insider v. Outsider’ emerged.

After all, let’s be honest: If you’re not an already committed Christian, it’s probably not interesting to wonder, “What must The Church do to stay relevant?” A curiosity, maybe, but not an immediate problem. Or you’d ask the question skeptically, saying to your (that’s-really-your-job??!) pastor/buddy, “Hasn’t modern science made religion outdated?” Or “Isn’t the Bible too old to be relevant?” Maybe it is, friend. Touché.

In other words, while good Christian souls have recently watched a slow erosion in our numbers, some have wondered whether we’re suffering, fundamentally, from an image problem. That’s particularly true in churches like ours- not-Evangelical, moderate-minded, open. The thinking goes, “Hey, our values aren’t very different from many who don’t spend Sundays in worship. If only they knew that…through a better marketing campaign, or something…we’d start growing, right?” There’s something to that. It’s one reason for this sermon series. I figured that if we advertised to neighbors that we ask similar questions as they do, maybe they’d pay us a visit.

Then, I collected submissions, and it turns out, we might not be asking similar questions. Have Christians grown so accustomed to being “insiders” we no longer address our neighbors’ concerns? Perhaps so. Not in every situation, but often enough to matter. And if so, then whatever “outreach” we attempt could fall on deaf ears. Because we’ll sound deaf, to the hurts and hopes of local families, to the doubts and ideas of potential friends. Not because we’re indifferent, or don’t share similar wonderings, but because we’re not seeing faith from these others’ perspective.

And that means we’re not acting like Jesus. If there was one marketing ploy Jesus perfected, it was crafting his message in terms and stories that non-Disciples identified with instinctively. Was he that glorious and brilliant? Well, sure, but he also did one thing consistently well: He cared what was happening in the lives of those he wanted to serve, and aimed his efforts, his ministry at that directly. He was no guardian of Insider Language. He wasn’t concerned with solving The Church’s problems. He worried more about people’s problems, and how his truth could illuminate theirs.

So I adapted our questions for this fall to sound more like my college buddies than my Christian friends. Not because one is better, but I’m betting we’ll connect more with new people if we start from where they already are.

Grace and Peace,
Shane
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Significant faith…

Sometimes, churches spend all their energy trying to answer small questions. And frequently, that’s because these questions are quite important. For example, if we decide to use a projector in services, or decide against it, that’s unlikely to make a huge difference in whether or not God’s Kingdom will fully come. So in the grand scheme of things, it’s a smaller question, but it’s still significant to us. Answering it could help Plymouth Creek worship better by helping us, say, clarify our church identity, or connect greater to younger people, or enhance our singing and scripture reading. So I’m glad we’ve been exploring it recently, and am anxious for your feedback. Nevertheless, there are bigger concerns in faith and the world around us to which we might also attend.

In other cases, churches focus on smaller questions- the order of prayers, the number of meetings- because they know larger issues can be dangerous, divisive or complex. Better to debate, this thinking goes, the process of communion (trays v. going up front, real bread v. processed hunks) than open a can of spiritual worms that could upset our Christian sisters or brothers. Or maybe it would shake our own embattled faith, we worry. Enough threatens our personal lives and families that we’d prefer church be about better arranging our building and grounds than, you know, the BIG stuff. Less worrisome, that way. Safer.

The problem with that tendency- if that’s all that’s ever addressed- is it smacks of a church grown complacent, grown too comfortable with who they are, how they view God’s world, what they already like and “know.” That’s a recipe for church stagnation, not to mention rather boring, amen? I mean, consider people most likely to seek a new church (and, therefore, change “how things are currently going”)- young families buying new homes, adults nearing retirement or moving closer to grandchildren, folk enduring divorce, bankruptcy or job loss. Their main religious curiosity probably isn’t whether God smiles or frowns about clapping after sermons, right? Not that you often have reason to clap after my sermons! But you get the point, that not-yet members typically ask large questions: Where is God in my struggle? Where can I serve next? Does this community wrestle with the values that I do? And if a church never puts that stuff on the table, it communicates clearly, “I’m sorry. Unless you conform to our current standards, there’s no place for you here. Because we like how we are now, and avoid change.”

Which is why I was so delighted the Board wanted me to develop the fall sermon series about asking Big Questions. I mentioned this in last month’s letter; it obviously excites me. Stuff like, “Why does evil happen?” Or, “Does Hell exist?” Or, “Why won’t God just end war, dang it?!” It shows a mature church, I think, one anxious to develop the gall and the faith to get deep, to get real with each other, with God, and to connect with neighbors in attractive, effective and worthwhile ways. After all, most people ask such questions. Maybe not often. Maybe not after they’ve found decent enough answers…for now. But mostly, Big Concerns are common ground, within the church and beyond. We may not always like others’ answers- or Pastor Shane’s perspective- but that’s our church’s great strength. We have freedom to think different, to believe different, and still, we are one.

So that plan runs September 7 through Advent, sermons on questions you’ve sent me or told me are tough to grapple with, let alone answer. I hope they’re interesting, provocative, and inclusive. I promise they’ll focus on big things of shared concern. Also, plan for Sunday School, 9am sharp. I’m teaching an autumn series on non-Christian religions; Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, then Native American Spirituality, all before Christmas. Guest speakers will join me occasionally. Bring your questions, your curiosity and your faith. And bring a neighbor! Because church that’s doing stuff that’s significant should be like God’s love: you just can’t keep it to yourself! You need to share it, pass it around, and joyfully anticipate how that might change you for good.

Grace and Peace,
Shane
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Storms of August…

The great American prophet Martin Luther King Jr. ended his famous Letter from a Birmingham Jail with these words. “Let us all hope that…the deep fog of misunderstanding will be lifted from our fear drenched communities, and in some not too distant tomorrow the radiant stars of love and brotherhood will shine over our great nation with all their scintillating beauty.”
In the past two weeks, that fog rolled back mightily into the town of Ferguson, Missouri. And maybe- may it not be true- across many other communities of our nation.

I’m sure by now you’ve read the news. An unarmed African-American youth from Ferguson- Michael Brown- was shot dead by local police, and people throughout his predominantly black town rose in protest of the killing. Unsurprisingly, competing details and stories emerged about what initially happened. What’s incontestable is that these protesters and police have clashed terribly in the days and nights since.

I’ll describe the picture that grabbed my attention most. Several local police, dressed in military camouflage and body armor, stood crouched with automatic weapons pointing directly at one young black man approaching them, hands held high to the sky. Without context, I’d have wondered if that was a scene from some foreign war zone or rebellion. Instead, it’s a striking image of fear and misunderstanding in our own country. And of rage.

You all know that I live in a diverse community, and that the largest racial group among my neighbors is African-American. It’s also the youngest neighborhood in Minneapolis. I see kids playing constantly. Running up and down the street, avoiding cars, bouncing basketballs, interacting with their older brothers, many of whom gather on front steps and around shiny automobiles, enjoying the summer and life. During National Night Out recently, I met a couple of my young adult black neighbors for the first time. One bragged sheepishly about his basement recording studio. “Wow!” I said, “Is it fancy?” “Nah,” he responded, “Just a little something where I can have fun and make music.”

It was a small window into his dreams, his joys, his tenderness, and I realized later what a gift for me that was to receive. Had I seen him on the streets before, I wouldn’t have understood his heart at all. Maybe I would’ve assumed something about who he was by the jeans he was sagging, the straight-brimmed cap he cocked to one side, the youthful smile or sneer of a still-developing sense of masculinity and self-respect. And if so, perhaps I’d have assumed uncomfortable things, generalities I’ve heard in other parts of our society, that those actions are symbols of criminal young men, of dangerous people, when they’re done by urban black youth.

I want to say that this experience has little to do with what’s happening in Ferguson. That it’s simply about my own ignorance and attempts to understand my community. But I can’t shake the feeling that misunderstanding between black Americans and white Americans exists more broadly. And could be increasing, and that it’s got something critical to do with the mutual suspicion between Ferguson protesters and police. On the one hand, the difficult news we’ve seen about looting and violence makes my heart go out to those police. It would terrify me to be in charge of responding to such explosive circumstances, all within the gaze of national attention. On the other hand, it seems clear that those destructive behaviors were the work of a small subsection of protesters, and yet in many cases, the broader mass of citizens were treated like threats, not neighbors.

That makes me wonder. In her incredible, challenging book The New Jim Crow, social scientist Michelle Alexander shared two research findings that have stuck in craw since I read them in 2013. The first was that, when asked to close their eyes and imagine a generic ‘criminal’, 95% of Americans picture a young black male. Such are the facts those neighbors I met recently deal with daily; they embody a far-reaching, negative societal stereotype. Whether that urges the Ferguson police to act toward their community with less compassion and more aggression, I can’t honestly say.

But it’s certainly a question that needs to be asked. And for outside observers like us, it’s worth examining our hearts and ideas to know on what basis we make our judgments. Are we quick to condemn the police because we assume they’re always acting with racial bias and mistrust? I met a former Minneapolis Chief of Police in recent weeks, and am certain he’d counsel a different course. His beat for years was my diverse northside neighborhood, and he talked about the challenges and joys colorful community. Thus, he’d encourage his newest officers to get out of their cars and meet their neighbors, to be part of the community. He was also clear about the dangers that police can face in our complicated and sometimes well-armed society. I want local officers to “protect and serve” always, not only my block, but their lives too.

Or are we quicker to focus on the initial event that sparked the fury, and think that Michael Brown “was asking for it” because he acted young and aggressive, and was found later to have smoked some weed? The other fact Ms. Alexander shared in her book that stuck me was that, contrary to popular wisdom, young black men are no more likely to use or deal drugs than young white men. But they’re something like 3-5 times more likely to go to jail for it. I smoked marijuana a few times in high school. It was youthful rebellion, I think, against my judgmental Christian school’s expectation. But I went to a private high school without officers at the front door, and lived in white suburbs without police roaming the streets. What would my life have been like would I have been in my current neighbor’s shoes and did the same things? In a word: different. Statistically, I’d be likely to have an arrest record, maybe done some jail time, not attended seminary. And I’d probably be angry about those disparities, prepared to protest and rage when something happened locally that felt like another injustice, another example of my society ignoring my dreams, my humanity.

This letter is already much longer than I typically write, though I’m at a nice desk and not in jail. Please forgive my obviously conflicted feelings and wordy, unfinished impressions. But this story has stung my gut, and challenged my best hopes for who we should be as a nation. Dr. King prayed we’d become a beloved community, not a society of suspicion, and that feels in danger to me today. May it not be so. May we remember that every fog, whether of atmospheric origin or of misunderstanding, can be lifted- or rather, broken through- not by more darkness, but by shining light. Jesus called himself a light for the world, because his unconquerable commitment to love over fear could always, with God’s help, blaze through every cloud. He believed it and so do I. But then, he called us lights for the world too, calling his followers to embody his hope, his faith, in God and in one another, to be one, united not divided.

Look upon any police officer you see this week with more appreciation and a prayer for safety, will you? And look upon your neighbors, of whatever color, with greater compassion and love too. And by all that is holy, shine your light. It’s from God. And it’s needed.

Grace and Peace,
Shane
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To be…

In 2010, I opened to our church a small, but meaningful window into my childhood development. As part of our annual Cinema Sermon Series, I preached on Dead Poets Society. Growing up, I watched that movie more than many times. It’s about schoolboys learning to find their own voice, learning “to be extraordinary.” As a growing adolescent, I wanted to be extraordinary! And that picture helped me think it possible.

I’m reflecting on it today because its star is dead. Robin Williams played the teacher who challenged his students to “seize the day.” He counseled, “Carpe diem, lads. For one day, we’ll all be food for worms.” Those words haunt me this morning, but he wasn’t wrong. We’ve all got one shot to make it count.

Honestly, I’ve never been one to mourn a celebrity’s death. Perhaps that says something about my youth or whatever, but it’s simply not been part of my experience. Robin Williams’ suicide, however, strikes me differently. I’ll confess, I loved many of his 1990s films. From the coming-of-age Dead Poets drama to his crazy, blue Aladdin genie to his tortured, strong psychologist guiding another troubled young man in Good Will Hunting. The man, or these roles he played, struck me as fundamentally decent. Honest about the troubles we face, but defiantly good, and that’s a beautiful thing in our oft-too-cynical world. He was a manically energetic comic who treated laughter like medicine, or maybe like a drug. Or both. Sometimes, that line is too close for comfort.

But the movie that’s most concerned me since I heard the news was his spiritual experiment. In What Dreams May Come, he plays the husband of a woman who’s committed suicide. A tragic irony sits prickly on my conscience today, though I think Tabitha said it best. “I hope he believed his own movie,” was her response, significant since it’s among her favorite films. If you haven’t seen it, permit me to ruin the plot. Still, watch it anyway. You see, before his wife’s death, Williams’ character himself had died. He watches her grieve in a limbo state of afterlife. Then, his love takes her own life. And his task is to find her, but that’s near impossible, because instead of Heaven, she’s gone on to Hell.

Recall that in classic Christian theology, Hell was the punishment for suicide. I hate that doctrine, but it’s significant in this film, although it explores a markedly nontraditional- and much better- hypothesis. The woman’s perdition isn’t God’s punishment, you see, but the effect of her own darkened soul and decisions. She can be redeemed, theoretically, but as a suicide victim, the film suggests that road is untraveled. Can she see beyond the jail of the darkness that’s trapped her, that led her to such extreme pain? Long story short, the answer- as all good spiritual answers are- is love. If love can find its way back into her terrified soul, she might be free. She might enjoy rest eternal.

That strikes me as entirely right. We confess, every Sunday, that Love created this world, and sustains it. And as Christ’s core message- indeed, God’s very character- saving Love is eternal. Which suggests to me that Hell isn’t a final destination. It might exist, but more real I feel is the always available grace of God. Thus, on that great gittin’ up morning, we’ll encounter Jesus waiting, arms wide open. Our final test will simply be- Can we open our arms in return and receive God’s love? A poignant reality for folk wrestling with suicide is an inability to accept they’re valuable, lovable, worthy of hope. It breaks my heart to know that’s true for too many, but I’ve been in darkness before. It hurts hellishly.

But the reason I do this job- and more important, the reason I attend church- is an unshakeable conviction that, “neither life nor death nor anything else can separate us from the love of God.” That includes our own darkness and sin, all our shame and brokenness. May we have courage enough to accept Love daily. And may that brilliant, tortured, decent performer abide in light, and rest eternal.

Grace and Peace,
Shane
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Stranger Welcoming…

Many people begin life in some form of basket or crib, or in Jesus’ case, a barnyard manger. But most also enjoy stability underneath their infant beds. Unless your name was Moses.

Do you remember that strange story? According to Exodus, Moses was born in Egypt when his Jewish people were slaves to the Pharaohs. Moses’ mother, desiring a better future for her son, took drastic, surprising action. She placed him in a basket, and floated him down a river with all the danger that course invited. She hoped Pharaoh’s daughter would find him, react with compassion and then provide him shelter. Her heartbreaking gamble worked, for, indeed, little Moses became the royal woman’s adopted son. He was raised in Pharaoh’s household, prepared by providence to lead Israel toward freedom…eventually.

I was reminded of that story recently during a conversation on current events. The topic was the many immigrant children now housed near the US border. Honestly, I haven’t followed that story as closely as, say, conflicts in Israel/Palestine or Ukraine. My reasoning is simple, if sad: I’m tired of the constant fighting among Washington’s elected officials. And it feels to me like, whenever immigration comes up, already heated rhetoric gets even hotter, and nasty accusations fly faster than Navy jets.

Then, something happened that surprised me, and maybe didn’t get as much coverage as the daily blaming within Congress. A broad group of religious leaders issued statements of support for the migrant children, calling the country to show compassion. Now, it’s normal for faith leaders to speak out on topics of national concern. What’s atypical, though, was the range of people lifting their voices, together. After all, Southern Baptists and US Catholic Bishops frequently agree about, say, opposition to gay marriage, while others like the UCCs or Unitarians declare their support of the question. But for this topic, all those normally at-odds people said much the same thing: Our faith calls us to react to vulnerable children “with compassion, not fear.”

It’s not hard, I think, to discern why. Besides Christ’s call to “let little children come unto me,” there’s something hardwired in most folk to treat kids’ travails with more gentleness than adults’. Perhaps it just feels different when the faces representing our current national disagreement about immigration and border policy can’t shave, retain some baby fat, and look simply in need of a hug. I’m sure these faith leaders disagree about both the causes of and appropriate responses to the situation. Some blame Obama administration policy; others the violence these kids experience in their home countries. Some think we should send them home, albeit carefully; others that we should grant asylum, welcoming them into our communities. But underneath that division was something I found both striking and hopeful. None thought it wise, or moral, to paint these kids as invaders or threats to our country, our jobs, our ways of life.

That’s where Moses’ story felt instructive. Imagine the fright his mother experienced that day in the river. Will he survive the waves, the crocodiles? Will I ever see him again? Surely, some of those thoughts entered the minds of these unaccompanied minors’ parents too. Nevertheless, they looked to the hope of America, trusted its people’s compassion, and sent them on with a prayer. I struggle understanding, or even endorsing that grave decision. I’ve also never lived in abject poverty or among violent instability. But what I know is we have children in need in our country asking us to be caring neighbors.

So, again, I’m cheered that a vast range of faith leaders focused on what unites us, in this instance. Which doesn’t prescribe a particular policy response, simply a way of thinking together about the question. And that is, namely, through the lens of our hearts and compassion, not through fear or partisan division. Should we do that, I think we’d find a good way to meet their needs, and our country’s too. Who knows? We might even learn to tackle of other complex issues with more grace and less accusation. God knows we need fewer attacks in our public discourse, more unity, and- always- faith, hope and love.

Grace and Peace,
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