Good
people. All of them.
They’ve been coming together for over
two centuries,
teaching each other’s children to
pray,
eating pancakes,
painting walls,
gathering at the river,
delivering chicken pot pies,
affirming spending plans,
and lifting four-part harmonies about
the Shepherd who faithfully and repeatedly returns their wandering spirits when
they choose the road heading off into forsaking
His ways territory.
Today is no different.
It has happened again…as it tends to
do….
A crossroad has presented itself.
The world is loud
and there are entirely too many
opportunities
to hear it and to see it.
The opinions and disagreements outside
the meetinghouse doors have begun to
seep in.
It isn’t because the windows and
doors are not secure.
The trustees have certainly seen to
that.
Rather…the swirling unsettling
outside unpleasantries
came slithering right inside
in the most ordinary kinds of ways.
It crept in on the soles of their
shoes.
It dripped off the edges of their
Totes umbrellas,
entering the sacred space on the
shoulders of their coats.
Coats which ironically hanged on old
wooden hangers…
companionably side by side.
Most insidious of all…it entered by
lingering in the hearts and minds
of those who spoke displeasure to
themselves and to each other.
In ways that felt innocent.
With whispers, eye-rolls, and knowing
nods.
Always directed safely
toward sympathetic like-minded
voices, eyes, and ears.
Disgruntled murmurings grow into
words that way.
The words…before you know it…become
unease.
And torch-bearing unease…
almost always…
rolls swiftly into division.
They…over there.
We…over here.
Good people. All of them.
And so, they sat…
poised in their usual pews…
Both sides holding tight
to their personal interpretation of
scripture…
Both sides turning to page 567 and
singing with zeal
about their own firm foundation as a
saint of the Lord…
Half of them
cringing at their perception of a
word they wish had not been said.
The other half
straining their ears and growing
discouraged
as they listened for a word they
hoped to hear.
Neither half proficient at hearing
the words
actually spoken.
In time, the inside of the
meetinghouse
began looking like the outside of the
meetinghouse.
People were lining up on one side, or
the other.
And people were bringing their
baggage to church.
There were boxes everywhere,
getting mixed up with the bags headed
to FISH
and the suitcases headed to Honduras.
Some people
liked to fold everything into their
boxes to keep things safe.
The way it’s always been done needed to be tucked in tight.
Hymns were placed securely into the bottom
corners
so nobody would change the tune
or try to project them onto a screen
for singing “off the wall.”
Old Testament verses were layered one
atop the other and squeezed in firmly.
Other types of folks
thought the boxes were meant to be
stood upon
as one collected signatures for a
petition.
They were painting their boxes pink
or crafting them with rainbow
stripes.
Some wanted to carve up the boxes
and ship them overseas to be used as
something else, altogether.
They felt the boxes should be flipped
over on their sides
and used instead as chairs
to widen the reach of the table.
Jesus didn’t have a lot to say about boxes
(in particular),
but he made very firm statements
about the way these baggage handlers
are supposed to be interacting
with one another.
I’m pretty sure he would be situated somewhere in the middle.
Encouraging people on both sides
to start picking up each other’s
boxes.
And not just stand there…stone still…
stoically holding the weight of it
for merely the look of community.
But lifting that cumbersome thing
with one’s whole heart.
(Complete with paint colors they would never have chosen.)
Helping a brother or sister
with whom they totally disagree…
to carry those boxes
for a long and uncomfortable winding way.
Inviting other baggage handlers for
the journey.
Jesus would likely be reminding us
to love one another first.
And maybe start sorting out which
words we should be using
once we are again engaged in serving
others.
Next-door and around the world.
Side-by-side.
It always comes down to free will.
We have choice about which road to
take.
We get to choose what kind of baggage
carrier we want to be.
We can decide to be lazy.
Just close our eyes and carry our own
bags and boxes…
the ones we’ve used for years.
The comfortable boxes.
We rarely see our own
scuff-marks.
Hardly notice all the ways
our bags can slow us down.
They tend to get heavier all the time
and can cost us a fortune
(and not just at the gate when we end up having to check them).
Our bags can anchor us in a stagnant apathetic
faith.
Our bags can keep us from running
ahead to engage with others.
We can choose to carry the boxes
of only the people who think like we
do.
We can schedule breakfast meetings,
phone calls,
infuriated text messages,
and parking lot conversations
to perpetuate our own opinions and
wills.
Or we can look past disagreement,
discomfort,
and political party.
Straight into the eyes of our
brothers and sisters.
We can lift the burden
of someone else.
Which almost always
lightens our own load
along the way.
My friend, Bob, reminded me that
"Apologizing doesn't always mean you are wrong and the other person is right. It means you value your relationships more than your ego."
The group about which I write stands
a better chance than most
at remembering friendships,
holding hands,
overcoming hurt,
and finding unity
in the midst of differing opinion.
Because they’ve got an anchor
infinitely more sufficient
than their own unwieldy boxes and
other baggage.
In every rough and stormy gale,
their anchors are deeply embedded
and holding within the vale.
Good people.
All of them.
Brenda Shelly (who indisputably writes about herself in these phrases, too)
Blooming Glen Mennonite Church
January, 2019
