Category Archives: methodism

On Threading a Needle Toward Holiness

Student, Ken Collins and Dad at Baltic Seminary

Holiness.

I’ve been chewing on this one today … gnawing away and swallowing bites of something I don’t fully understand but something, nonetheless, I deeply desire –

to be like Jesus.

Getting there isn’t easy. The way of holiness often includes our weaknesses – the stuff within that needs to be rooted without. Exposure of those weaknesses is sometimes painful but can also be beautiful in ways that we never anticipated on the front side of disclosure.

Let me explain.

I want to thread a needle for you and show you a fascinating, most striking mosaic that is part of my story and that warms my heart deeply today in a space that fully needs the witness of its strength.

Not long ago, Jadon sent me a link to series of Wesleyan Theology lectures given by Dr. Ken Collins at the Baltic Methodist Theological Seminary in Estonia (dated 2019). Dr. Collins is a professor at Asbury Theological Seminary who once shared those hallowed hallways alongside my father-professor, Dr. Chuck Killian – two men linking arms to bear witness to the seminary’s motto “The Whole Bible for the Whole World.”

Ken Collins is now one of Jadon’s professors, along with being his mentor for candidacy in the Global Methodist Church. Ken is a world-renowned scholar in all things Methodism and communicates this passion with clarity and originality. Jadon likes his teaching style and, needing to fill my mind with good, God-thoughts, I decided to listen in.

The connectional thread of Jadon being at Asbury and being mentored by one of my father’s friends from ATS is mosaic enough to make me sit back and admire God’s providence in my family’s lives. But that’s not the thread that had me leaning in for a closer look today. Instead, and more deeply, the realization hit me about the lectern from which Ken taught – a classroom in Estonia in a seminary that my father helped establish.

In August 1994, my daddy taught the very first class at the Baltic Methodist Theological Seminary on the subject of “practical theology” to fifty-four eager students, hungry to fulfill their part in the Great Commission.

From the website:

The facilities in Apteegi Street were extremely cramped. The single classroom was full from the start. Students sat on simple chairs, and took notes with their books on their knees. The dining area did not have sufficient seats, and so for lunch or coffee students were sitting on the stairs and in the window sills. The library was in a broom closet. Open the door and there was the librarian at her desk, with a few books on a shelf. Most of the books were in boxes in the basement. The office for the President, Dean, secretary and all the faculty was a partitioned area approximately 1.5metres (5 feet) wide by 4 meters (12 feet) long.

Students and faculty were literally rubbing shoulders all day, a closeness that created a very warm atmosphere. As well, the excitement generated by the newness of theological study made the Seminary tingle with excitement. Many of the first students were mature Christians and self-taught pastors who had dreamt of freedom during long years of communist occupation and of the chance to study and practice their faith free from oppression and persecution.

The more I listened to Dr. Collins speak about John Wesley and holiness, set against backdrop of the Baltic Methodist Theological Seminary, the more deeply my spirit was enlivened to the Spirit of God. A day that (for me) began in darkness suddenly shifted to a day full of light.

A day full of remembering my legacy. A day full of cultivating hope. A day of forgetting the hard purge of holiness and, instead, a day of relinquishing to its flames. Why?

Because there’s too much on the line by not submitting my life to Christ’s crucible.

What my daddy has left behind and what Ken Collins continues to do through his teaching and with my son is, indeed, a needle worth threading. I cannot fully put my finger on it, but my pulsing heart tells me that I’m on to something.

Daddy has long since left the hallways of Asbury Seminary and the Baltic Seminary. But there’s a piece of him still there in both places. Jadon in the former and Ken Collins in the latter. The echoes from both spaces deafen my ears with a ring of the eternal and paint a mosaic worthy of the throne room of heaven. Heaven, alone, counts the lives transformed by the faithfulness of a few willing servants.

What has happened in the past and what is happening in the present is, indeed, holy. From the inside out and the outside in, God makes himself known to his children. He shows up, sometimes unexpectedly, sometimes on a day when the darkness threatens to snuff out the light, and challenges us to go deeper with him toward a better life of freedom and understanding.

Oh yes, I want to be like Jesus, even when getting there is hard. Today, I think I moved a little closer in that direction. Today I traded in my vain imaginations for better thinking – a mind fixed on Jesus and what he wants me to know rather than on how the world and its people make me feel. 

So, thanks be to God, to my daddy, to Jadon and to Ken Collins. Their work toward holiness has offered me a way forward toward mine.

The Whole Bible for the Whole World. Right here where I am. Right there where you are. May the kindness of God, the truth of his Son Jesus Christ, and the strength of his Holy Spirit rest on us all and pull us closer to his image this day. As always…

Peace for the journey,

Wes and Joy Griffin, along with my parents at 1st Baltic Seminary graduation

 

[accessed 7-05-2024, https://www.emkts.ee/index.php/en/general/history]

Rehearse Your History with God (a new frontier)

Rehearse your history with me, Elaine.

So whispered the Father to my spirit in the early morning hours of August 13, 2022. It’s an oft-repeated phrase I use when challenging others to remember the faithfulness of God in their lives—to retrace their steps with God over the years in order to hold the collective and certain witness of his activity therein. God doesn’t want us to forget his past faithfulness; he wants us to bank on it as our futures unfold.

And so it was for me on August 13th … counting and collecting the memories of God’s faithfulness in my life, in particular, as it pertained to the past twenty-five years of ministry life that Billy and I have shared together.

The Trenton-Maple Grove UMC years – those two, early years of shaping a family within the framework of a two-point, pastoral charge set against the backdrop of a hurricane named Floyd. It was here where we began to navigate both streams side by side—family life and ministry life. Trenton was the truest measure of my “leaving and cleaving”—leaving behind the family I grew up with in order to cleave to the family that would grow up with me.

The Washington UMC years—four years within a community often designated as “Little” but a season in our lives that was anything but. We grew a family along the edge of a pond named Pamlico. Two branches were added to our family tree. A season of rich, deep and abiding friendships. A season of igniting my soul with a flame that had never been lit so brightly. I fell in love with Jesus all over again in Little Washington. Our departure from there was nothing short of what was witnessed in Acts 20:36-38. We were well-loved in that place.

The Pine Forest UMC years—six years of fruitfulness, both in ministry life and in our home. In that place and in that space, we all grew up, experienced many of life’s “firsts and lasts.” Bible studies were led; souls were fed. A book was written. Hearts were given … fully. We invested deeply into the soil of that community, broke bread and shared the table of grace with dearly beloved friends. Such feasting can still be tasted in my memories.

The Christ UMC years—three years of walking through the shadowed valley. A broken church; a broken flesh. Both needing to be salvaged, our church and my flesh. I would live to tell the story, to stand on the other side of survival. The church? Well, the people live on to tell the story; the building does not. And while Christ UMC Fayetteville no longer has a physical address, I fully believe that God is alive and active in the faithful saints that once filled the pews on Raeford Rd. Those specially selected souls carried my family through a very difficult season. Equally and tenderly, I carry them closely in my heart and thank God for their willingness to walk through the shadows with us.

The Saint Luke UMC years—six years of planting a flag in the ground and calling it home. The neighborhood years. A season where everyone knew our names and, generally speaking, smiled when they spoke them. Our nest grew smaller; Nick and Colton flew away. I busied myself by re-baptizing myself with the waters of teaching. Another hurricane named Florence blew through, this time baptizing us all with the waters of “letting go and trusting God.” We did, and He did … miraculous things. He spared the life of our son, and he brought a community alongside to witness the height and depth, width and breadth, of such a generous gift.

The Benson UMC years—the now years. The not-yet-seen years. Three years and counting. The reason behind my early morning moments with God on August 13th.

It was at this moment in my deliberations with the Father when I paused my historical rehearsing. Instead, I was silenced by the scene that the Holy Spirit dropped simultaneously into my mind’s eye. Lying there in the dark, I clearly saw the framed print that our daughter-in-law, Rachel, had commissioned for us and given to us at Christmas 2018—an artistic rendering of the churches we had served to date: Trenton UMC, First UMC Washington, Pine Forest UMC, Christ UMC, and Saint Luke UMC.

While the rest of my family lay sleeping, I crept out to the dining room to behold the picture. Pointedly missing from the scene? Benson UMC—our current church home. There have been times in the past three+ years of ministry when we’ve lamented the fact that Benson UMC isn’t included in this artistic rendering. When it was originally commissioned five years ago, there was no way of knowing where we’d be today.

And where we are today?

Well, today we’re in between. A week ago, on September 25, 2022, the Benson United Methodist Church made the decision to disaffiliate from the United Methodist denomination and to affiliate with the newly formed Global Methodist denomination on January 1, 2023. As a United Methodist clergy for the past 25 years, my husband has decided that we will travel to this new frontier with our church body. It has been a brutal process for our family and our church. To linger with the “what ifs” and “maybes” over these past several months has been a difficult cross to carry at times. I don’t imagine we’ve lived the fullness of what that will mean to us in the upcoming season. But on that night back in August, before any final decisions had been made, God slipped a single, encouraging thought into my spirit about the season ahead … that there was a shift coming. That the very good, beginning three years of ministry at Benson UMC would continue under a new entity. That this current church would, one day, find its history amongst the other parishes we’ve served but would stand alone under a new banner – a new name. That name has yet to be determined. It doesn’t much matter to me what the name will be. What does matter to me, is that I get to walk on this sacred soil—a fresh work of grace authored by the Grace-Giver.

Time will write the witness of what has been done in this hour. We’re living in a season of messy imperfection. New frontiers are fraught with unseen complications. The mud is thick in places. Many repairs will have to be made along the way. But despite all of the unknowns and the growing pains that inevitably come with growing a new thing, there is a bold hope securely fastened to this new frontier—God is in it. Not “instead of” an already established denomination but, rather, “alongside of” a new one. He stands in both places knowing that faithful souls are anchored to each landscape. I will not underestimate or try to manage the work he longs to accomplish on each frontier. God is too big and too gracious to limit our horizons. How thankful I am for a history that rehearses accordingly!

And so, in this new hour and for those who have yet to be convinced of this trajectory, I offer you the wisdom that Gamaliel offered to the Sanhedrin two thousand years ago when the Apostles were brought before them and accused of spreading a false Gospel:

“… Let them go! For if their purpose or activity is of human origin, it will fail. But if it is from God, you will not be able to stop these men; you will only find yourselves fighting against God.” (Acts 5:38-39)

Yes, friends. Keep rehearsing your history with God, and then go in the strength of that witness. Let the grace-filled portraits of your past serve as the backdrop for the portrait yet to be painted. God will not fail you; God will not abandon you. God will go with you. And as my daddy (a life-long Methodist preacher and teacher) would tell you …

The best is yet to be. With Christ in your story and the Holy Spirit as your guide, your best days are always ahead of you; never behind.

Lean into that frontier today. I’ll meet you on the road, and as always…

Peace for the journey,

A Wounded Church

My dad, Chuck Killian, the first circuit-riding preacher I knew and who introduced me to Methodism.

 

“Even if it wounds him.”

That was the prayer that I prayed several years ago on behalf of one of my sons who was going through a particularly difficult time in his life.

It was a hard prayer to pray. No good parent wants to invite unnecessary pain into the lives of their children. Pain is a difficult teacher; still and yet, pain is sometimes the most precise, shaping tool in God’s sanctifying toolbelt.

Pain is diagnostic. When allowed its probing investigation, pain brings us to the mirror of self-examination, a closer look inward at the condition of our hearts … the foundation of our thoughts. How we feel, what we believe, and the truth underlying both considerations, … yes, this is the good, diagnostic work behind a painful wounding. To settle for less–to run and hide–would be to stop short of pain’s potential.

Woundings deserve a good look, don’t you think?

In recent days, the church has been wounded … my church … the United Methodist church. We are a global denomination and in this last week, I gathered (via livestream with thousands of others who were tuning in) alongside 864 on-site delegates to watch the already festering wound among us open up in such a way that all who were watching could not escape the pain. In many ways, albeit odd, the severity of the wounding kept us attached to the festering until the clock ran out, the mics were silenced, and the screen went black. And there we were … there I was … released, dismissed into the night with a bleeding heart that needs both a dressing and addressing–a covering and a closer look. I imagine I am not alone.

The wound belongs to all of us. The pain is ours to hold. Perhaps, at the end of the day, this is the one issue upon which we can all agree. This is a collective sorrow.

As an eye-witness to the wounding and now a heart-holder of an aching discomfort that cannot be unseen or easily mended, it only seems best for me to come to the mirror, to allow my very good parent, my Father, to probe the depths of my feelings and the strength of my thinking.

Pain in the hands of a Masterful Surgeon offers cleansing.

Pain in the hands of a Masterful Surgeon offers conviction.

Pain in the hands of a Masterful Surgeon offers clarity.

Pain in the hands of a Masterful Surgeon is, indeed, diagnostic. And therein, friends, lies the rub.

For pain to work its potential, pain must be given over for examination to the only Surgeon who is completely holy and wholly skilled for the job. Not many will be able to arrive at this place of deep trust, of letting go and letting God. But I can go nowhere else because I have learned that God’s hands are the safest place for me to reside. He is my only hope for holiness.

So friends, those whom I know and those who are strangers to me but who have found themselves (like me) entangled within the reach of this tremendous pain, I make an invitation to you even as I am making it to myself. If we want this wounding to matter eternally, if we want it to do more for us other than to momentarily wreck us, then we must surrender our heart-hurts to the nail-scarred hands of the Master Surgeon. This is our first and best step. He is our only way forward.

Let’s not let this be for nothing. Let us, instead, allow this to be a time of deep, soul reflection. In doing so, a better “us” just might emerge.

Even so, I love you deeply. Even so, I pray for you each one God’s …

Peace for the journey,

PS – This blog has always been a safe place for dialogue, prayers, healing, and peace. I welcome your thoughts, but I humbly ask you to not let this be the time for debate. Shalom. 

Circuit-riding Faith …

She reads to me about his life, this man named Francis Asbury.

Do you know of him? I do. I’d better. Why?

Well, I’m the daughter of a Methodist preacher. I’m married to one as well.

I grew up in Wilmore, KY, home to Asbury College and Asbury Seminary. I graduated from the former and ran the halls of the latter during my growing up years, cutting a path between my professor, daddy’s office and my registrar, momma’s office. In a later season, I’d have an office of my own in that hallowed institution. Francis Asbury was, in part, one of the reasons behind my being raised where I was raised … being reared how I was reared.

I am a Methodist. I don’t make much of it here at the blog, because I’m a Christian before I’m a Methodist, but I’d be lying if I didn’t confess those denominational lines run pretty deep within me. So when my daughter was assigned another book report (she’s a fan of Christian biographies recently reading the stories of Corrie ten Boom, Amy Carmichael, and William Booth), I hand selected this one for her. Perhaps it is time she knows something of her spiritual roots.

Francis Asbury was one of the first circuit riding preachers in America. Sent here by John Wesley in 1771, Francis (a.k.a. Frank) spent the next forty-five years riding the circuit amongst the burgeoning Methodist societies and preaching the kingdom of God. He averaged 6,000 miles a year on horseback (a lifetime total of over 270,000 miles) and delivered over 15,500 sermons. His first night in America he chronicled his thoughts in his journal:

“ … When I came near the American shore, my very heart melted within me to think from whence I came, where I was going, and what I was going about. But I felt my mind open to the people and my tongue loosed to speak. I feel that God is here and find plenty of all we need.” (Benge, Francis Asbury: Circuit Rider, 2013, p. 53)

From whence he came was England into an America convinced of their need to cut ties with their mother-country. Francis tried to delicately step his way through the growing controversy between the colonies and England, governing his thoughts, words, and deeds by his desire to spread the Gospel and grow the church. However, because of their ties to the Church of England, circuit-riding preachers were often met with suspicion by colonists who tagged them as Loyalists. Many circuit riders abandoned their posts – some into hiding, some sailing back to England. By late 1777, Francis and another preacher named George Shadford were the last two, English-born Methodist circuit riders in America. Again, from Francis’s journal:

“Three thousand miles from home—my friends have left me—I am considered by some as an enemy of the country—every day liable to be seized by violence, and abused. This is just a trifle to suffer for Christ, and the salvation of souls. Lord, stand by me!” (ibid, p. 98)

The Lord did stand by Francis. He must have. I am (in small measure) living proof. And although my daughter and I have yet to finish this biography, I know how it ends … at least for now. God’s Word is alive in my heart and, just this morning, I meditated on that Word while listening to the words of my preacher-husband standing behind his Methodist pulpit. My mother did the same, listening to my daddy who stood behind his own pulpit. My in-laws the same. My sons? Well, they were in the pews of their own Methodist congregation. This is who we are. Christians first. Methodists second, and by the grace of God, saved to the uttermost.

I don’t know if Francis Asbury understands the influence he’s had on the spiritual landscape of America, but if he could look down from his heavenly post today and catch a glimpse of what his forty-five years and 270,000 miles’ worth of riding has birthed, he would know that his faith—his witness and his willingness—was no trifling matter. His faith was an eternal matter, one that continues to reap kingdom dividends some 250 years after he first glimpsed the American shore.

May it be so for each one of us. May our faith—the witness and willingness of our hearts—be no trifling matter. May it, instead, last eternally as we travel our circuits and spread the love and life of Jesus wherever we go.

Ride on, Christians, and leave a holy trail of Jesus behind you as you go. Someday we’ll all look back on these lives that we’ve lived and be amazed by how our paths of grace have changed the landscape of humanity. What a privilege to share this traveling ministry with you. As always…

Peace for the journey,

PS: Check out our special Christmas offer on Peace for the Journey and Beyond Cancer’s Scars ($11 each plus free shipping) – click here!
 

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