Author: The Rev. Dr. Franklyn C. Pottorff

As a five-star general who led the Allies to victory in World War II, Dwight D. Eisenhower served two presidential terms before retiring from public office in 1961. In his celebrated Farewell Address of that year, offered just days before John F. Kennedy was sworn in, the outgoing President delivered words of caution to a nation still living in the hubris of armed might and growing Cold War hostilities:

Down the long lane of the history yet to be written, America knows that this world of ours, ever growing smaller, must avoid becoming a community of dreadful fear and hate and be, instead, a proud confederation of mutual trust and respect. Such a confederation must be one of equals. The weakest must come to the conference table with the same confidence as do we, protected as we are by our moral, economic, and military strength. That table, though scarred by many frustrations, cannot be abandoned for the certain agony of the battlefield.

Those words ring just as true today as they did when Eisenhower offered them well over 60 years ago. On this Fourth of July, when we honor and celebrate the history of this nation we proudly call home, we are also invited to measure how our allegiances ultimately lead us to love or hate. Are we building a bigger table, or are we determined to fight over the chairs? For as Eisenhower goes on to note, “Together we must learn how to compose differences, not with arms, but with intellect and decent purpose.”

Decent purpose. Is America only for America? Or do we exist as a citizenry for a more decent purpose? What is the aim of our national ambition? Are the blessings we receive from the hand of Providence for us alone? Is our greatness as a people only defined against the defeat, destruction, or demise of another? The 34th American President cautioned us to see our greatness as an invitation and called for the balance of security and liberty, recognizing that both are needed for a free society.

The First Letter of Peter proclaims, “As servants of God, live as free people, yet do not use your freedom as a pretext for evil.” The beauty of this nation, even with its tattered and complicated past and our present frustrations, is that our freedoms afford us the capacity to live as a people shaped by the values that point to abundance. Our freedoms afforded us in Christ do the same. We are called to a decent purpose.

Happy Independence Day.

Some years back, in the early days of the pandemic, I wrote an open letter apology as a pastor’s column to Tammy Faye Bakker. If you’re bored, you can read it here. In the 1970s and ’80s, she and her husband, Jim, had built a media religious empire through televangelism. They had broadcast networks, merchandise, and eventually a Christian theme park. Of course, it all came crashing down following a very public scandal in 1987. I had assumed that as a mainline Christian, I would never need any of the tools they possessed to carry out ministry to an entirely virtual audience. But I was wrong.

The worldwide shutdown of 2020 had every organization pivoting to online instruments. Soon, we were figuring out how to broadcast to Facebook Live, positioning ring lights, setting up Zoom accounts, and leading worship in an empty 1,200-person Sanctuary. Because social media is all about the “likes,” “hearts,” and sharing, we worked to get the word out about our emerging online presence. It was a baptism by fire. We’ve come a long way.

Today, a virtual congregation of 400-500 people watches our Sunday morning services every week. We broadcast from a control room high up in the bell tower using a livestreamer that manages three cameras, with more possibly coming. Worship slides act as a digital bulletin for our viewers, and our streams are directed to our livestream page and YouTube. These videos are then edited and uploaded to our church’s Vimeo page weekly by our dedicated communications staff. We are just beginning to explore ways to engage our virtual worshipers, such as incorporating a digital friendship pad and fostering community. And let’s not forget our volunteers who ensure the sound quality in the Sanctuary, adjusting mic levels and responding to audio disruptions that sometimes occur.

I am deeply grateful for the dedication and hard work of our communications staff and volunteers who are leading our church’s efforts into the future. The next time you join us online, I invite you to join me in expressing your gratitude through a prayer, and perhaps even ‘like’ us to show your support.

See you Sunday.

In his celebrated work, Moral Man and Immoral Society, the 20th-century theologian and political philosopher Reinhold Niebuhr wrote, “Religion is always a citadel of hope, which is built on the edge of despair.” It came to mind a couple of weekends ago when I went to see Dune: Part Two on opening weekend.

The film, an adaptation of Frank Herbert’s science fiction magnum opus of the same name, tells the story of a young aristocrat, Paul Atreides, whose father, Leto, has been given as a fiefdom the inhospitable desert planet Arrakis. There on its sandy surface is the spice melange, harvested like oil to power travel across the known universe. Its indigenous people survive the harsh conditions of the planet with a deep reverence for water and the massive worms that move through the sand like sharks in open water.

Paul’s mother belongs to a secretive group that plays universe-wide politics from the shadows. They have been at work on Arrakis for years, preparing the native population through a prophetic promise to expect a messiah that would come to save them. When Paul arrives, many see him as the fulfillment of the prophecy.

I won’t give away the ending, but suffice it to say that Paul decides to play the part. The story continues in subsequent novels, and Paul’s followers unleash their radical devotion in horrific ways across galaxies. Herbert’s message is clear: be careful following messiahs who promise to save you.

There are many messiahs who call for our allegiance. Even those of us who follow Jesus Christ are tempted by the voices of those in religion, politics, economics, and the like who entice us with their cry as the vehicle for salvation. But as a recent primer on Christian ethics notes, “The Bible assumes that all persons are moral agents.” Created in God’s image and recipients of God’s grace in Christ, we are all endowed participants in the restoring acts of God in creation. We have already been found by the Messiah, and our job now is to live like it.

I’m grateful for that on days when the world seems to spin with all its madness, wondering if we aren’t all just one step away from being swallowed by a giant sandworm. Together, we caution one another and quell our excesses. We temper our extremes and moderate our self-righteousness. We share in each other’s joys and bear each other’s burdens. We make of our inhospitable culture of individualism a new kind of community we call the church; a citadel of hope built on the edge of despair.

The text dates to the seventh century, written originally in Latin, the lingua franca of the western Christianity for centuries. But I stumbled across it recently in our archives, a place in which I have spent an inordinate and unnatural amount of time over this last year in preparation for our 150th anniversary celebrations. You can see it in the photo here. It’s a copy of the worship bulletin from January 7, 1923.

BMPC was commemorating its 50th anniversary as a congregation that year, and a who’s who of the wider church had come to be a part, including the Rev. Dr. Lewis Mudge, Stated Clerk of the General Assembly; the Rev. Dr. John B. Rendall, President of Lincoln University; and the Rev. Dr. Henry B. Master, Secretary of the Board of Ministerial Relief.

But what is striking is not the guest list, impressive as it is. It is the opening hymn the congregation sang, “Christ is Made the Sure Foundation.” We will sing that hymn this Sunday as well, as we continue in our season of anniversary celebration and dedicate our stewardship pledges for 2024.

It seems we have been singing that hymn for quite some time. It leads one to wonder why. What is it about declaring “To this temple, where we call you, come, O Lord of hosts, and stay” that makes us want to sing it in seasons of celebration and reflection? Even as other hymns wax and wane in popularity, some having staying power. The power to cause us to reflect, remember, and rejoice. The power to bless us for future endeavors. The power to pray with boldness, “Hear your people as we pray, and your fullest benediction shed within these walls today.”

It was far too quiet. And by the time I noticed, the sacrilegious deed was already finished. I had purchased the loaf of bread that I would break the following morning during worship in my small congregation in Kentucky. When I left it unattended in the center of our dining room table, our dog, Sophie, jumped up and took a massive bite out of the yet-to-be-consecrated body of Christ our Lord. Jesus wept.

As frustrated as I became, I also was reminded by my better half that “You always say the Table is for everyone.”

This Sunday is World Communion Sunday in the morning and Blessing of the Animals as part of our multigenerational Evening Worship services. We will celebrate the gift of God’s saving grace for humanity at the Communion Table, and we also will bless our companion animals and give thanks for all creation. I hope you’ll join us for both.

In truth, our prayers of thanks and love for all the cats, dogs, goldfish, and hamsters that bring us so much joy is a small reenactment of the love that God has for us, the sheep of that divine pasture who are quick to run from the safety of the Good Shepherd but who get rescued anyway.

Mary Oliver wrote a poem about her dog that I offer here. I can’t help but wonder if it isn’t exactly how God feels about us, rolling over as we do to be reminded that we are loved, and to hear our names called as we are welcomed back into the safety of Home.

“Little Dog’s Rhapsody in the Night”

He puts his cheek against mine

and makes small expressive sounds.

And when I’m awake, or awake enough

he turns upside down, his four paws

in the air

and his eyes dark and fervent.

“Tell me you love me,” he says.

“Tell me again.”

Could there be a sweeter arrangement? Over and over

he gets to ask it.

I get to tell.