Daily, I am amazed as I watch my son learn and grow. He picks up on things—sometimes such subtle details—that leave me sitting in awe. It’s a beautiful sight to behold—seeing a child’s mind turn, hearing them process through things, and witnessing them learn new ideas right before your eyes. There’s an app I want to commend to you parents, grandparents, and friends of small children: The Bible App for Kids. My wife and I downloaded it a little less than a year ago and, in my opinion, it is phenomenal. Aidan doesn’t use it regularly; but recently he asked to play “the Jesus game” (though it covers the full span of the Old and New Testaments), and I was intrigued by his reactions during one story it was covering. 
​       The free app displays over a couple dozen biblical stories that each read multiple slides of the text followed by interactive scenes where the characters and setting come to life and respond to touch. The pace of each story is controlled by the user, and can take between five and twenty minutes. The other day, having opened the app himself Aidan randomly chose the story titled “In the Garden: Jesus is arrested” which it says covers Matthew 26:31-75, and its parallel in John 18:1-8. Sitting there beside him on the couch, as I watched over his shoulder he listened to the narrative being read on the first slide before tapping on the interactive scene. The first slide read: “After they ate together, Jesus told his disciples, ‘Tonight, you will abandon Me.’ ‘Not me!’ said Peter, boldly. ‘I will never leave You, Jesus.’” Then as he tapped on the different characters in the scene, Aidan turned to me and with a look of concern on his face said something that I was not prepared to hear: “Jesus is sad, Daddy. Why is Jesus sad?” I’m not sure if his comment, in itself, was profound, or if it was just profound for me—the father of a perceptive three-year old—to hear. 
       Like I said, he picks up on all kinds of things—even those words or gestures we otherwise would rather he miss us say in the heat of the moment. So, it doesn’t surprise me that he would see the emotion displayed by Jesus on the screen—sullen, somber, sad. And yet, he noticed it enough—beyond all the other things that could’ve caught his attention on the frame—to point that out and ask me why it was the case. Do I think my son was pressing me to start a deep christological discussion on the communicatio idiomatum (the communication of attributes) between Jesus’ divinity and Jesus’ humanity? No (I mean the theology nerd deep within me can only hope, but not likely in the slightest chance). Nor do I believe my son (as great as his mother and I think he is) picked up on something others his age wouldn’t—granted he is more inundated with it than others his age. Children are perceptive—they watch, they see, they listen, they learn, and perhaps most confronting or compelling: they ask. These pieces are each and altogether crucial (and dare I say: praiseworthy) in the stepping stones of a child’s lifelong faith formation. 
       ​Here in a couple weeks Aidan will begin attending Sunday School for the first time ever. Knowing him, I’m fairly certain he will give his teachers a run for their volunteering. Some mornings he will likely be off and lethargic at best, and other mornings he might just see or hear something that tugs on his heartstrings, causes him to think, and moves him to point it out or ask a question. I hope, with both a father’s pride and a pastor’s enthusiasm, there are many opportunities for and occasions of perceptivity—for he and all his classmates. With that, I pray that we as teachers, parents, grandparents, fellow parishioners, and friends can both encourage this perceptivity of our children (and one another for that matter) and listen and learn from them so as to reinforce and shape our lifelong faith formation—both individually and corporately. Watch and listen; your child or someone else’s will point out or say something that amazes you and causes you to pause and think about it for yourself. The Holy Spirit is fast at work in the hearts and minds of our little ones. Do not stifle their questions or comments; but encourage and inspire their imaginations and wonderings. With a child’s perceptivity, the beginnings of a fruitful lifelong faith formation journey starts. Might we all be so blessed to witness and share in this amazing gift at work in our midst. 

Life doesn’t always allow for some to participate in the patterns of congregational life as many others do within the church. Growing up surrounded by blue collar workers, I witnessed this firsthand as a number of people I knew were unable to attend Sunday worship regularly, if at all, because their work (sometimes even a second job) either extended into the “weekend” or they were bound to a rotation/shift that prevented their involvement. My own mother, who took us kids to Sunday School and worship each week when we were younger, experienced this vocational impediment when she began working as a nurse after I graduated from high school. Her weekly rotation has meant that every other Sunday morning begins not in the sanctuary, but in the hospital caring for those in need. As I’ve changed settings and entered into this context of serving in the rural Midwest, though the names have changed the situation still exists. I have parishioners here whose work also limits their congregational involvement: nurses, retail workers, those whose work causes them to travel for extended periods of time, ranchers, farmers working from sunrise to sunset during planting and harvest seasons, etc. There’s no shame in it—work is work, and working to provide for one’s family is a fulfillment of one’s vocational responsibilities as a parent and spouse. Yet, it’s an unfortunate reality of the society we live in—that work never pauses, never ends. 
       There are others, however, who miss aspects of congregational life for different reasons than work. For a growing portion of the population, accessibility as a result of health and/or age has been or is becoming a hurdle. For some, a single accident or diagnosis can mean the unexpected difference between regularly attending worship and hoping against hope to make it out even once within the year. As older individuals become homebound or confined to assisted living facilities and hospitals—unable to drive on their own, or without someone else to help transport them—those former experiences and relationships they had in and through the church can feel lost or abandoned. I see and hear this in visits with homebound parishioners who desperately long to rejoin the congregation they call home, but know that with each passing day that hope becomes less of a possibility. Alongside these, there is another group whose absence from the life of the church comes with less personal physical boundaries and more judicial and emotional barriers. Though I don’t remember experiencing it until high school, more and more I see the painful scars that many families bear from divorce and/or split custody. Weekly, I talk with parishioners—young and old—and those outside of the church in the community who are themselves products of such devastating circumstances, along with others currently going through such painful and damaging situations. Children of split families and divorces, generally, find themselves spending every other weekend (if not some other type of arrangement) with their other parent, in a different place. This also means when a parent gets (limited) time with their child, attending worship or other congregational activities is not always the immediate thought—I can’t blame anyone who feels that way, I’d likely feel the same way too. The limits for these two groups—one accessibility, the other familial and judicial—are real and mean that congregational life, if it happens for these persons, must take on a different-than-conventional shape. 
       These three (growing) hindrances to “traditional” participation in congregational life are real and painstaking for a majority of those within and beyond the faith. As we come face-to-face with these and other situations that prevent regular participation in the church, we ought to keep in mind Jesus’ parable of the lost sheep (Luke 15:1-6) and work diligently to reconsider and practice new, additional ways to reach out, welcome, and be the church with and for those whose lives don’t fit so comfortably and perhaps, themselves, don’t feel worthy to share in the community of the Crucified and Risen Christ. If and when we give the impression that it’s “Sunday’s (and Wednesday’s) Only”, we not only perpetuate what is felt by those unable to participate in traditional church patterns, but we also fail to be the body of Christ in meeting people in the reality of their lives as the Crucified One daily meets us in the good, the bad, and the ugly. The life of faith, and ministry for that matter, does not mean us keeping a rigid form for which the “faithful” hold to and the “unfaithful” miss. If we are to embody Jesus in both our words and actions and serve to be Christ for one another, we must be honest about our communities and understanding towards the various contexts of those around us—always eager to search for means to incorporate the lost sheep. In doing so, the focus is transformed from being on time and place to people and life-situations. The Holy Spirit, we confess, gathers us together to be the church for the world. This work of the Spirit is not restricted to 8:30am and/or 10:30am Sunday mornings (or at a particular time on Wednesday’s either), nor is it bound to a certain sacred space marked by a steeple, crosses, or pews. It happens—God’s Spirit brings us altogether as one in Christ—at all times, in all places: morning, noon, and night, at home, in the parking lot of your job, and even at the Mexican food restaurant over margaritas and enchiladas (just saying). When we open ourselves up to see and appreciate this gift of God, we begin to live, worship, and serve together more freely and faithfully—resembling more fully the people of God. 
       Jesus’ parable of the lost sheep (Luke 15:1-7) is about the great joy and promise surrounding how God lovingly searches, retrieves, and rejoins the one who was lost to the rest of the fold—because the saving of every single sinner is more important than the maintaining of the greater whole of saints (mind you, we each and altogether are “simultaneously saint and sinner”). The parable is a beautiful reminder that we are never able to drift away from the body of Christ—no matter what—that God is always there, eagerly seeking us out as beloved, cherished, and most precious. Each of us is the lost sheep found; and yet, we are called to open our eyes and ears to see and hear others for whom God also diligently searches after until they are found and brought back into the “little flock.” We need to daily be reminded of the promise, hope, and joy this short parable offers us. What if, however, (not to take away from this message) we were to read this parable in light of those who are unable to participate in the “routine” patterns of congregational life? Not that their circumstances make them lost, but might their separatedness from the church make them feel lost? What might it look like to reach out, meet with, and tend to those who feel like they are beyond the fold—unable to live in the fullness of the congregation? 
       I, personally, believe that for many of us, meeting those in these areas—amidst their difficulties and hindrances in participating in congregational life—can be difficult until we listen, see, and experience the same or similar such problems for ourselves. Empathy—placing oneself in another’s shoes to share in their thoughts, feelings, and experiences—helps us become more open and prone to find new ways in incorporating others around whatever impediments that are present. In honestly acknowledging our own lostness and how God searches for and finds us, can we begin to see how God goes and searches for others as well—calling us to do the same for those unable to join the assembly in whatever way. I, myself, have worked jobs in the recent past which conflicted with attending Sunday worship. Many times, there was no choice—when I was scheduled for the day, my job depended upon it. Likewise, five years ago when I broke my ankle and was homebound, the only way I made it out for anything—church-related or otherwise—was by the kindness and care of my wife and her family. It’s not so important for us to understand the details of why others cannot always participate in congregational life, as much as being respectful to their hindrances and offering to help work through or adjust to them as a means of attending to these individuals as Christ for them. So, what are some ways we can reimagine congregational life to reach out, meet with, and tend to those who feel like the lost sheep? First and foremost, listening. We need to listen to one another—truly hearing others explain not only what the problem is that is preventing them from sharing in congregational life, but hearing these individuals talk about what their faith means to them, how the absence of participation in church affects them, and allowing them to offer their own brainstorming about how we as the church can make changes for others. Listening, from there, leads to care and comfort. When we truly listen to others, we are then more able and apt to begin comforting them in their pain of being removed from the assembly. Next, we need to help encourage others (especially those within the “traditional” thoughts and patterns of church) to see congregational life beyond just the Sunday morning worship—to include over coffee at home, during karaoke-hour at the assisted living facility, during mealtime, amidst mutual consolation and conversation in the hospital room, in the combine on a cool November afternoon, etc. The possibilities are endless. And once we demonstrate an openness to time and place beyond the Sunday sanctuary—listening to truly hear those who feel lost or abandoned—we can tend to one another, as the Spirit sends us forth, in means of grace: sharing in meals with one another, offering the gifts of Holy Communion, singing songs together in praise and thanksgiving, reading and discussing Scripture, confiding in and bearing each other’s burdens as individual confession and forgiveness, praying together, offering physical signs of love such as a handshake or embrace. 
       This is a long blog post (my apologies for that), but it’s a topic I find myself coming back to again and again in my service and leadership. The church for too long has made certain assumptions defining congregational life—stringent on what is “required” or “expected” while overlooking or disregarding the unique contexts of its people. Coming face-to-face with those outside or beyond such traditional definitions of congregational life—people who pain at their separation from the routines of the church, who desperately long to share in them alongside others—I can’t help but feel compelled to call us to pause and reconsider how we can better serve to be the church FOR ALL PEOPLE. Jesus, the Crucified and Risen One, daily meets us in our lostness—leaving all else behind in order to retrieve and rejoin us to the rest of the fold. You and I, we each, have been sought after, found, and are held as beloved. As the body of Christ, we are called to do the same for others—reimagining church so as to find new, additional ways to incorporate others who otherwise are and feel removed from congregational life. In listening, redefining sacred space and time, and tending to one another in grace, we can begin to work through the hindrances before others and resemble more fully the people of God. Think of someone you know who, for whatever reason, is removed from congregational life. How might you reach out, listen, and be Christ for them? How can you—empowered by the Holy Spirit—help them feel incorporated in the life of the church? Make it a point to go and tend to (at least) one person who feels lost or abandoned, let them know they are not alone—that you are with them, that the rest of the congregation is with them, that God in Christ is with them. Might we, each and altogether, reimagine congregational life so as to include all those missing out. In thinking and working towards this, we serve more faithfully as the body of Christ and resemble more fully the people of God. 

“How great a forest is set ablaze by a small fire! And the tongue is a fire. The tongue is placed among our members as a world of iniquity; it stains the whole body, sets on fire the cycle of nature, and is itself set on fire by hell. For every species of beast and bird, of reptile and sea creature, can be tamed and has been tamed by the human species, but no one can tame the tongue—a restless evil, full of deadly poison. With it we bless the Lord and Father, and with it we curse those who are made in the likeness of God. From the same mouth come blessing and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this ought not to be so.” (James 3:5b-10)

Blazing past subtlety, the Apostle James appears to have some strong feelings regarding the tongue and its teetering potential for either good or evil. In my experience, a person generally doesn’t speak so adamantly about such a particular topic unless they’ve encountered its burn firsthand. I think it’s safe to say James had likely experienced the heat of others’ poisonous speech against him; and perhaps he, himself, had also shamefully contributed toward some such cursing of others. While metaphorically imaginative, the Apostle’s words are pointedly convicting: Each of us possesses a small gift for which we can either use to praise and adore God and God’s good creation, or we can use it to condemn and damn God, others, and even ourselves. Though small in comparison to the rest of the body, the tongue should not be overlooked or disregarded as harmless—it burns with passion, able to bring down whole peoples, communities, and civilizations, and “this ought not to be so.” 
       Though we don’t hear these words from James very often, it’s a message which bears just as much (if not more) relevancy now than when they were first penned and sent out across the Roman Empire to various Christian communities nearly two millennia ago. Our current presidential race—for which the overwhelming majority of the country appears grossly dissatisfied—is enormously tainted by the poison of untamed tongues spouting off all kinds of falsities, prejudices, hate, and downright malarkey. And yet, we all know on a personal level the pain of the Apostle’s confronting message—you and I have each been on both sides. I have been burned and still bear many scars of others’ harmful words against me. Nevertheless, unfortunately I, too, am guilty of having contributed towards the iniquity of others by letting carelessness, fear, and anger take control of my mouth. The forest fires we hear of and see on the news—as horrible and deadly as they are—smolder in comparison to the devastation of our words as sinful people. Lives have been lost, families torn asunder, individuals ripped of their dignity, and Christ himself brought to tears by the shamefulness of our tongues—for which we are called daily to come before the cross of Jesus and confess, praying that the Spirit come and free us completely (our tongues included) from the sin and death that binds and enslaves us, that we might instead speak praise and thanksgiving in the new life and freedom we receive in the Crucified and Risen One. For the emotional casualties that fill my past, for the acres of God’s creation which my words have demolished, for the scars I have caused others by past words—I beg and seek for the forgiveness of Christ and those whom I have hurt, always praying for the Spirit to intercede and tame my mouth when and where necessary. 
       Yet, in spite of that member which can stain the whole body, God is always faithfully at work—lovingly confronting, taming, redirecting, transforming, and drawing us away from sin to live in and through Christ alone. For the last few days I’ve been reflecting on a recent experience I had, where God answered an unspoken prayer and the Spirit interceded in a moment of potential tongue-lashing in a manner that I didn’t fully realize until later. The other day, I was in a conversation (if you call it that) where the fuel for my rebuttal was being laid right before my eyes—I opposed nearly everything the other person was saying, and was ready to correct them immediately. After sitting through the barrage of comments flying at me, I went to open my mouth—and nothing came out. It felt strange, but suddenly the urge to respond was gone. Sad to say, but it wasn’t like me to resist in such a heated situation. As I pondered on the matter later that night, the only thing I could attribute it to was a work of the Holy Spirit. Thinking about it more and more, if we believe the Spirit fills us with the words to speak when we know not what to say, then is it not also possible for the same Spirit to remove the words from us which need not be said—when speaking would be less than uplifting and affirming? Don’t get me wrong, there’s been more than a few times when I wish God’s hand would have been placed over my mouth, but still stupidity spilled from my lips. Yet, as I think about it, perhaps there’s been other such instances when God evaporated the words before they could be uttered. While I believe most everything the other person was saying in that “conversation” was wrong, I believe even more fully that the Lord works in strange and marvelous ways. Perhaps, I was silenced to instead sit in the tension of what had been spoken—right or wrong—and not self-righteously jump to the conclusion of dismantling another’s thoughts and feelings so as to validate myself. Who knows. The reason for the Spirit’s timely presence and intercessory bitting of my tongue in that particular moment remains a mystery I may not come to understand for some time (if ever). 
       Beyond the reason, however, the situation has raised for me a new question. Many times we’ll hear and talk about how God is calling/using us as vessels to speak the Word of the Lord. I agree with and affirm that. But are there instances when God is actively binding our mouth/calling us to silence? Is this divine intervention of holding our tongue and extinguishing our words a means of God opening us to see and hear the Word of the Lord more clearly, or is it a means of preventing us from poisoning the Word—cursing the likeness of God in another? I’m reminded of Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist, who is made temporarily mute by the angel of the Lord after it is announced that his wife Elizabeth will give birth to a son in her old age (Luke 1:5-25, 57-80). Only much later, after he scribbles out that the name of his newborn son should be John, is his tongue freed—and what follows? Neither explaining the situation nor complaining, Zechariah—filled with the Holy Spirit—immediately begins praising and thanking God: “Blessed be the Lord God of Israel” (1:68a). Is that perhaps the point? Does the Spirit swoop in and still our tongue in order to redirect us from hateful and hurtful speech to instead speak life-affirming words of praise, thanks, and adoration for the blessings which God bestows upon us? Did I simply need to be silenced the other night, to see more clearly the most important thing—God’s presence and work in my life? Who knows. Thankfully, my tongue was not bound but more than a few minutes. 
       As I (and hopefully we all) continue to ponder on the Apostle James’ words on the power and potential of the tongue, I pray that the Spirit binds my mouth when needed, silences my lips to see more clearly what (and who) is around me, and redirects my words to be aligned with the Word of God. May the words of my mouth set ablaze that which kindles love and care, not hate and destruction. Draw me to silence, oh Lord.