Members and friends of Trinity Presbyterian Church (and anyone else who's interested):

As promised in worship this past Sunday, I want to share some thoughts on the 221st General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (USA) in Detroit last week.  Every two years, our denomination’s largest governing body convenes with elders and ministers from all over the country, elected by their presbyteries, to formulate some of the policies and procedures that define us as Presbyterians.  Because we're all part of one big Presbyterian family, I feel it’s important that you know what happens at these gatherings and in what ways they affect us as a congregation and as a larger denominational church.

But first, take a few minutes to read this one page summary, A Brief Summary of the 221st General Assembly, as it'll help make what follows a lot easier to digest.

(Did you read it? Seriously, it's worth it.  You'll thank me later. Did I mention it's just one page?)

There are two things I'd like to draw your attention to, as both received a decent amount of national and international press.  The first is the issue of same-sex marriage.  As you may recall, in 2010 the General Assembly voted to remove language from our constitution that prohibited gays and lesbians from being ordained to ministry.  This year, the body acted positively on two similar motions.  One, known as “Authoritative Interpretation,” grants clergy in our denomination the ability, if they choose, to officiate at a same-sex wedding in states where the practice is legal (this went into affect immediately after the conclusion of the GA). The second, which will need ratification of a simple majority of presbyteries in the coming year, is a rewording of the description of marriage from “a man and a woman” to “two people (traditionally a man and a woman) Both passed with significant majorities.  

So, two things. First, neither of these force a pastor or session to officiate or host a same-sex marriage if they don't want to - all it does is grant the ability to those who do.  Second, you should know that great care was taken leading up to, during and following the vote to reach out to those in opposition, in an attempt to foster unity in the midst of disagreement.  In fact, the parenthesis part of the motion was inserted on the floor of the General Assembly and was received very positively by those displeased with the overall change.  Following the vote, a joint letter from the Presbyterians For Renewal and Fellowship of Presbyterians was issued, expressing disappointment while reaffirming their desire to remain part of the PCUSA (you can read that letter HERE).  It was an extremely gracious gesture and, I hope, will go to great lengths to foster ongoing dialogue and unity, even as we may continue to disagree.  

Another big issue addressed at the GA involved divesting the church’s investments in three American companies, Caterpillar, Hewlett-Packard and Motorola.  The denomination's Mission Responsibility Through Investment Committee (MRTI) had determined that their business practices and products serve to foster the ongoing conflict on the West Bank between Israelis and Palestinians.  If you've been part of the PCUSA for a while, you know our denomination has a strong ethical sense to its various financial holdings, choosing to invest in companies that promote peace and the well-being of all (we do not invest in tobacco or alcohol companies, for instance). The MRTI had reached out to a number of companies to share our concerns and encourage positive change; and while some of these conversations proved fruitful, our dialogue with these three businesses did not.  The measure was close and passed by only seven votes.

Almost immediately after the vote, the press, as well as numerous groups fiercely entrenched on either side of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, cast this action as a slight to Israel and a clear siding with the Palestinians - even though the motion itself affirms Israel’s right to exist as a sovereign nation and PCUSA's support of a two-state solution (you can read the text of the motion HERE). Some of the fallout the PCUSA will face in the months ahead will involve mending bridges with our Jewish brothers and sisters, explaining in full our reasons and rationale and assuring them of what this action was not about, as much as what it was about.  I personally found this blog post to be very helpful in understanding this action and encourage you to check it out, and I'm grateful for this rabbi who seems to get what we Presbyterians are trying to do.

I can almost hear the question on the other side of the computer screen: So, Steve, what do you make of all of this?  Good question.  Three thoughts come to mind.  First, both of these actions feel, to me, to be honest, thoughtful and faithful efforts to uphold and act on the tenets of scripture and our unique Presbyterian witness; as well as what I believe to be our primary calling:  to always err on the side of the love of Jesus, even if that might cause hurt and confusion and make people mad.  As a pastor, I feel compelled to acknowledge this and seek reconciliation with my brothers and sisters in and out of the church who may feel differently from me and fear these actions will lead to future declines in our denomination.  I actually remain very hopeful that the opposite will be true (as echoed in this blog post from a colleague and fellow Presbyterian minister).

Having said that, I know there are those in our church and the PCUSA who grieve one or both of these decisions and may question their future in the denomination. Which leads me to my second thought: my door is always open to sit down and talk.  The promise I make to you is not to try and sway your opinion, but simply to listen and be your pastor and friend.  And, as I did in 2010 in my previous church, I'd ask anyone significantly grieved to give themselves six months: six months to remain active in the church, worshipping, fellowshipping, and serving as you always have. And if, at the end of six months, you truly feel something has categorically changed in the church, then you will leave with my blessing.  If, however, you find that you don't feel any different about our church, then perhaps we can at least agree that amendments to open the door for same-sex marriage and further our commitment to peacemaking were not amendments that destroyed the church.

My third thought is this: regardless of how we feel about these decisions, I find myself staunchly proud to be part of this denomination; if for no other reason than it can never be said that we are a church that sits on the sidelines; bypassing and avoiding the tough, hard conversations and issues that matter in our world today.  We tackle them head-on; we talk and listen, pray and ponder, dialogue and disagree and converse.  And then we act.  And if there’s anything the world today needs, my friends, it is a church that is not afraid to act - always in good faith, always with Christ leading the way. My hope and prayer is that we’ll continue in helpful dialogue, within and outside the PCUSA, to further discern God’s will as we worship, study and serve together.

Again, if you have any questions or concerns, my door is always open!

Your pastor and friend,

If parenting has taught me anything, it is this: it is as much "feel" as it is science; more art form than calculus.  With all apologies to Dr. Spock and every supposed parenting expert out there, sometimes you just go with your gut and figure it out as you go along - no matter how uncomfortable it makes you.

Discomfort is exactly what I felt when my wife and I sat our boys around the kitchen table last September and shared  the news: we were moving to Charlotte. And it wasn't about whether we felt it was the right decision for our family - it was how they would feel about it.  They who had very little say in the decision; they who would leave the only home, school, church, and town they'd ever known.  Would they be good with this?  I learned something very quickly in that moment around the kitchen table, something I've been reminded of countless times since: 99% of my own adjustment to this change would be how well they would adjust.

It's a bit of a hopeless feeling you have as a parent because, while there are many aspects of the transition you can manage, there's a whole host of things outside your realm of control.  Oh sure, you can make good on promises for Facebook accounts and Carowinds family passes (which, for the record, we have).  But you can't control how well some say goodbye to your kids and how well others say hello.  Add to that the total lack of any shared experience.  I never moved as a kid; my parents still live the same house where I grew up.  So many things in life I can speak from the perspective of the wise old sage  whose been there before (whether that wisdom is received is a different story entirely).  But in this instance, my boys would have to face something I never had to, and there was precious little I could offer from my own experience to prepare them for it.  We would learn together.  We would create art rather than study science.

While the adjustment hasn't always been smooth and certainly had its bumps in the road, the good news is that the journey has moved in a consistently forward direction; a constant and steady clip at or slightly below the speed limit.  This, I was told, was the way it had to be. It takes a year, those who led families through similar transitions said.  You'll go through the full cycle, all the holidays, all the experiences in twelve months.  Then it's familiar, and you've been there before, and then it'll start feeling like home.

Time, I learned, would be our greatest ally in this art endeavor. Giving thanks for each step forward, big and small.

Which leads me to yesterday - my oldest son's 5th Grade Graduation,  or "Promotion" as the above program calls it.  Back in late May,  he informed his mother and me that his essay, "My Time at Olde Providence," had been selected as one of five to be shared during graduation/promotion.  He'd read it to us the week before when it was nothing more than a school assignment.  It was a well-written snapshot of the past six months  But more than that, the opening paragraph was an honest recounting of that September kitchen table conversation (turns out it was just as uncomfortable for him as it was for us), and the hopeful anxiety of walking into his new class for the very first time, and the mosaic of people here who, in his own words, have been "great teachers and the best friends one could possibly imagine."

Listening and watching my 11-year old stand before his peers and hundreds of family, reading this incredibly poignant, astute, and heart-felt journey of the past half-year, was one of those bursting-with-pride parent moments that I never understood as a kid no matter how many times my parents tried to explain it to me.  More than parental pride, though, it assured me that another brick had been cemented in the wall separating our present reality from my greatest fear: that the adjustment would be a long time coming.  And the reason, I am convinced, is because he has claimed the journey.  He has made it his own.  It's no longer him reacting to a decision his parents made nearly a year ago.  Now, it is him claiming this change as his new norm - feeling his way as he goes, creating his own new art form.

Which brings me back to this whole parenting thing.  What is often more important than worrying about whether a parental decision is "right" or "wrong" is simply covenanting to stick together and love each other no matter what life brings your way, whether you're initiating change or responding to it.  The Myers-Briggs "J" in me wishes there was a way to graph this out as some mathematical certainty that could be extrapolated and applied to the rest of life.  The person of faith and mystery in me, though, is more than happy to simply feel the way forward, knowing that anything good in life is almost always the result of some combination of time, patience, and tons of grace for the journey.  A blank canvas, ready for the latest artistic rendering to grace its surface.

The first thing I remember was the sound of the helicopters.

We had just departed from an acrobatic show in Beijing, China (think Cirque de sole ) and were heading to our tour bus which would take us back to our hotel.  It was a Wake Forest University school group, a summer education course.  One week in Japan, two in China.  Today was our last day . Earlier that day we toured the Great Wall of China, meant to be the highlight of our trip.

And that's when I heard those helicopters.  Military helicopters, roaring over our heads, closer to the ground than one might expect helicopters to be. Heading in the direction of Tiananmen Square..

We looked at the Chinese people around us to gauge their reaction. Their faces bore the unmistakeable look of shock and concern at the helicopters. Perhaps we should be shocked and concerned too.  Even before we entered the country two weeks prior, we knew what was going on.  Student protest in Tiananmen Square, the ideological center of Communist China, had been raging for weeks. Up until our last night in Japan, we weren't sure if Wake was going to let us continue with our itinerary. An alternate trip to Korea was in the works.  And then on that last night, the decision was made: we could go.  Things appeared to be "stable."

So we had enjoyed our prior ten days: Shanghai. Xian. Guangzhou. A few other towns I can't remember. We'd seen some amazing sights, met amazing people.  We were struck by the stark divide between rich and poor in a country where there were two forms of currency for two classes of people.  I practically got a buzz cut at the hotel barber shop when I told the barber, "Take this much off," making a small space between my thumb and forefinger. He didn't understand a lick of English. He thought I meant, "Leave this much on." We laughed about that.

But we didn't laugh about those helicopters.

We made our way back to the hotel and turned on the televisions in our rooms - because even in 1989, long before 24-hour news cables, we expected live coverage of "breaking news." Alas, in a country where the government controlled all modes of communication, on the night when hundreds would kill thousands, all we found on the TV were reports on that year's crop harvest.

As dusk settled over this warm June day, the street outside our hotel became packed with Chinese university students, making their way to the Square on bicycle and foot, a mere ten minutes away. They wore black bands around their heads and arms, a blatant symbol of solidarity and defiance in pursuit of basic freedoms they were willing to die for. Some stopped and talked to us, saying that tanks had descended on the Square and were killing the protestors in droves.  They knew they were very likely heading to their death.  And they wanted us to go back to America and tell the world, because they were so afraid the world would never hear of this.

Try to get some sleep, our professors told us. We did - sort of.  At 6am my phone rang. We had a group meeting at 7.  Good news: our normal-scheduled flight out of China to Hong Kong was still on schedule.  Bad news: the tour bus that had accompanied us throughout our trip, the tour bus that was supposed to complete her duty by taking us to the airport that morning, was currently burning in the Square, hijacked by students and used as a barricade in a futile attempt to keep the tanks out.  In a stroke of luck, our professors managed to round up four van taxi drivers to take us to the airport. But we'd have to go in two groups. So the ladies went first and the guys waited in the hotel lobby. Women and children first, y'all.

Time dragged on.  And on. Long periods of silence. No cell phones to call or text the other half of the group to see if they made it to the airport, if they made it at all.  Time dragged on.  An occasional attempt at a joke to lighten the mood. A few chuckles.  Then more silence.  Time dragged on.

Eventually the vans came back and had us on our way. Somehow I wound up riding shotgun in one of them.  We were heading away from the Square, but the chaos was happening sporadically all over the city.  Large groups of Chinese citizens gathering at every street corner, trying to find out what was happening, because the crop reports on television weren't cutting it.  At one point we were stopped at an intersection, and I looked out my passenger window to see a large pool of blood on the sidewalk.  Another time, a young Chinese man ran to our van and actually opened the door (long before the days of doors-automatically-locking-when-car-is-in-drive ingenuity). Speaking perfect English, he yelled, "Go tell the world what you've seen here!  Tell them everything!  Please!"  And then he shut the door and ran away.  I will never forget the hysterical urgency of his voice, nor the look on the face of my fellow student seated right by the door.

I was never as excited to see a group of women as when we finally arrived at the airport.  I'm pretty sure they were equally excited to see us.  We were rushed through customs, as the last thing the Chinese government wanted was a large group of American college students trapped in their country.  We got on our plane, taxied down the runway, and soon were airbound.  A loud shout of joy and relief erupted when the captain told us we were out of Chinese airspace.  Later we would learn that, an hour after our departure, the Beijing airport completely shut down for over a week. We got out in the nick of time.

The first thing on our agenda in Hong Kong (at the time still a British colony and not part of China) was to call home and assure frantic parents we were okay.  Mine were in tears - while we had been watching crop reports the night before, Tom Brokaw was breaking into Saturday morning cartoons on the other side of the world with the grim news.  For nearly 24 hours, all they knew was that the city their son was in was in total mayhem.  Now they knew I was safe. As the parent of two sons myself, I simply can't fathom being in their shoes all that time.

Hong Kong is also where we learned that one of our fellow group members had somehow made connections with NBC reporters those last few days in Beijing, agreeing to smuggle video footage of the Square massacre through airport customs to NBC affiliates waiting for him in Hong Kong - all in a selfish attempt to further his own post-college career aspirations.  Had he been caught in customs in Beijing, we all would've been detained and questioned - and perhaps worse.  He kind of kept to himself for the rest of the journey home. 

That night we enjoyed pizza - an American delicacy we'd been deprived of for weeks.  It was all very surreal - mere hours before, we had been observers and sideline participants in one of the greatest human rights tragedies of the century. It was all very scary and sad.

It changed me.

Every year on June 4, I remember.  I remember those students, I remember the gentleman who yanked open our van door; all begging us to "tell the world."  I haven't stopped telling anyone who will listen, including the mother of a new church member at a Youth Sunday lunch back in May.  She and her son, a high school senior, had moved to the States a few years ago.  I've been in the habit over the years of bringing up my Tiananmen Square experience with anyone I meet from China, just to gauge their reaction.  Most of the time it's an indifferent stare.  A few times it's denial that it ever happened.

This time, she smiled a knowing smile and told me she had been in the Square just the day before.  She had been part of the peaceful protests, a college student herself, and had gone back to her dorm room for a good night's sleep before planning to return.  She lost many friends that night.  She, too, remembers.  We talked long after the lunch buffet had been taken down; our two stories converging over decades and nationalities.

Even now I think of what happened when I hear the sound of helicopters flying above me.  For that reason, and for many others, I won't forget.