Moments of grace

Holy week is upon us, and I'm exhausted. After a hard week and action-packed weekend, I feel like I'm hobbling toward Easter. I'd been reading "The Last Week" this past week, attempting to read each chapter on the day (a week ahead) that it corresponds with. As I focus on the original Holy week, I can't help but wonder about the exhaustion of Jesus during this week. I suppose it may be fitting that I'm stumbling along.

Today's gospel reading is the "triumphal entry" -- a goofy, creative and subversive entrance preceding the Passover festivities. As we discussed the passage this morning, I was struck by the inclusion of Christ. Jesus invited his friends and followers, as well as strangers along the way to enter into the bringing of the Kingdom of God.

The Upper Room noticed something similar in today's daily devotion -- Luke mentions that "they set Jesus on [the donkey]." Jesus didn't climb up alone, but relied on others as he rode into town, Pamela Hawkins writes.

This weekend I covered the Baptist Border Crossing in Liberty, MO. The three-day event was designed to bring Baptists of all stripes together in order to "cross borders" -- to get to know each other and respect each other in order to bring peace and understanding.

The event was full of invitations to be creative. The opening sermon was a call to "color outside the lines," following in the footsteps of little children who "have no political commitment to the lines."

To follow Christ requires a creativity that stretches beyond the lines that the powers that be have drawn. Indeed, it is the type of call that would lead Jesus to parody the triumphal entry of the Roman leaders by riding on an unbroken donkey. While others have suggested he chose such an animal to show his power over all creatures, I prefer to picture the donkey behaving as an untrained animal -- not wanting to stay on course or be lead... Jesus laughing while the animal weaves back and forth throughout the crowd.

Because this new kingdom isn't like the kingdom of Rome. It isn't about showy war horses and demonstrations of power. It isn't the traditional system that values the haves over the have nots. Instead, if is a spontaneous celebration among the peasants. A goofy ride into town showcasing an animal that has never been given a chance. An invitation for the least of these to be in a position of honor -- to serve and BE served by the King.

Moments of grace.

I had a chance to witness another such moment after urging a friend to speak to Tony Campolo after the session he lead at the Border Crossing. She was intimidated due to his popularity as a speaker and author of 30+ books. I pushed her forward, offering to photograph the meeting (which I did). And I saw him turn to her and ask about what she was doing with her life; his rejoicing when she mentioned that she is in seminary. And then he embraced her, whispered a blessing and kissed her cheek (He then proceeded to do the same with me, the girl who stole his seat while he was speaking).

Not that Tony is comparable to a king, but as a keynote speaker for the event, taking the time to care about a stranger in Missouri -- call her by name and learn something about her -- is a beautiful expression of grace, a depiction of the little ways that we have the opportunity to bring about the kingdom of God here and now...

What moments of grace will you offer this week?

On life and death

I've found myself revisiting a favorite poet this week. I've been fond of John Keats since a high school English teacher discussed "When I have fears" with us. That poem remains one of my favorites, and I find myself turning back to it every now and then.

I always feared my lit professors would worry about my mental health since I always tended to write papers about death. I not only wrote about "Fears" in my Romantic Lit class, but I wrote diary entries from the perspective of Fanny Brawne in response to letters Keats wrote -- and reflecting on his death.

My ethics professor has suggested that we cannot help others walk toward death until we have thought about our own. I'd also suggest that life doesn't make a lot of sense without pondering the end -- when we have "shuffled off this mortal coil," as Shakespeare would say.

Sunday evening I received the news that a pastor (Fred Winters) in Illinois was shot and killed during the Sunday morning service. My editor, who knew the man for 20 years, had only good things to say about his character. But I have found the church's response to be even more telling. In report after report, I have seen urgings from the church to pray for the young shooter. Their first response -- along with deep grief -- has been grace.

I never had the pleasure of meeting Fred, but I can't help but think the response of his church must be a result (in part) of the life he lived. He didn't know that Sunday would be his last day in the pulpit, his last opportunity (here, anyway) to kiss his wife and hug his kids. But I think his death showed that he knew something about the art of living.

As David Bazan sang in the Pedro the Lion song "Priests and Paramedics," "We're all gonna die / could be twenty years, could be tonight." I find myself wondering what my death will say about me.

In a recent issue of the Baptist Standard, editor Marv Knox asked if the community would notice if your church were to disappear. Would the community -- or the church -- notice if *I* disappeared? Am I living my life in a way that brings good news? In a way that brings "up there" a little closer to the "down here?"

I wrestle often with how I am to live, and I am thankful for the Fred Winters among us who inspire us to live with more love and more grace.

May God comfort those who are mourning, and may God teach us all how to love more deeply.