Six Things I've Learned These Last 16 years

Don McCullough "Morning Fly By"

After almost sixteen years as a pastor at University Presbyterian Church, Fresno, I am beginning a new adventure in a new congregation, the Davis Community Church in Davis, California.  Parting with friends who have become family is not easy.  We've been part of each others' lives for a significant part of our lives.  So, as much as I feel this summons by the divine for a new adventure, I also feel grief.  Below is my last newsletter article to the congregation.  It's kind of a Credo, or summary of my faith at this hinge in my life.  This transition has given me the chance to reflect on the key learnings this last decade and a half.  And while I grieve this departure, I am also full of gratitude for what I've learned among this remarkable group of people.  

This is my last chance to write to you, my last opportunity as your pastor to put words onto the page and to say something that might endure—at least for a little while.  I recall other last words.  Jesus’ to his friends: “Go and make disciples of all nations”; Saint Paul’s to his disciple, Timothy: “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race”; and the saintly Albus Dumbledore’s to Harry Potter: “Of course it’s happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”  

These famous last words were brief.  I ought to follow that pattern and say one thing.  But I’m not nearly as wise as Jesus, Paul, or . . . Dumbledore.  Instead, I’ll give a short list of the six key things I’ve learned among you since since I came among you in November of 1999:

First, “God is nearer than we think.”  For too many people God is an idea, a doctrine, a belief system.  But among you, I’ve experienced God.  God is not up and out, some Great Being who created the world and now stands aloof from it.  God is intimately involved with us and within all created things.  God is Presence.  God is as close as the beating of your heart, near as your next breath.  

Second, “God’s mischief.”  I suppose this is my signature phrase, and most of you love it.  I love it because it reminds me not only that God is big and, in the older language, sovereign.  But God is also playful.  I’ve suffered greatly in my life, but I’ve nevertheless experienced this odd and delightful Presence who seems always intent to work good in the world no matter how much bad there is. God’s goodness has come to me despite the fact that goodness didn’t often march into my life like the Fresno State marching band.  

Third, “The glory of God is a human being fully alive.”  This is a famous phrase from Saint Irenaeus of Lyon (early 2nd century, Gaul/France).  Lots of religious people think the Christian path ought to carry them away from life, their humanity, and toward a spiritual existence in heaven.  I take it on faith that there’s something beyond this life, something we call heaven, but it’s not at all clear to me what that is.  Though I’m quite sure Jesus did not intend us to spend this life thinking about it or working to get there. Jesus was about this life and about living it well.  Heaven is a bonus not the goal.  So, I think Ireneaus, the great theologian of the early church, got it right when he taught that Christianity ought to help us live a red-blooded life now and not wait for some big event later in the sky.  The goal of Christianity is living well now, here.

Fourth, “The church is the place where everyone, without exception, receives an unmistakable and unqualified invitation to come and feast at the Table of God’s abundance among an ever widening circle of friends.”  This quote is more recent.  And I don’t think I’d have come to this big and dreamy sentence if it hadn’t been for you.  There are people here who have lived this before I ever put it into words.  And they’ve done so against the backdrop of those rather troublesome Christians who put up the kind of barriers and walls Jesus came to tear down.  In a world where barriers and walls, suspicion and hostility and violence separate people, we must follow Jesus more radically, more boldly, taking our place at the Table, welcoming others, and offering our gifts for the healing of the world.     

Fifth, “If God can get along then we can too.”  I’ve said this about the Holy Trinity—God as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, or Mother, Wisdom, and Sacred Fire (metaphors that ensure we don’t conceive of God as merely male, but, somehow, according to the Bible, as both male and female; remember, in Genesis 1 we learn that God made human beings in God’s image, male and female; God therefore isn’t one or the other, but both).  God is naturally both diverse and unified—simultaneously.  So we must honor our differences even while we treasure our unity.  What a dull place this would be if we were cookie-cutter Christians, trying to shave off our differences, manufacturing some faux facsimile of one another.  God loves a riot of color, not the drab gray of sameness.   

Sixth, “Risk everything for love.”  I’ve borrowed this from the 14th century Sufi mystic poet, Rumi.  And isn’t this exactly what Jesus did?  It is.  And so, it’s what I aim to do.  And when I pray the phrase each morning, I carry it a little further.  But I don’t think for a moment that Rumi would mind, for he knew the expansive heart of God.  “Risk everything for love,” I pray, “‘till Love is All and All is is Love.”  By praying this, I’m drawing myself into the future of God, the future of the cosmos, a future that helps me live and love now, here.  “God is love,” wrote Saint John.  And one day love is all we’ll know, for it is the divine Fire that holds all things together.  So, why not live it now?

Six things.  Not the only things I’ve learned.  But for me, the most important.  Things I’ll carry with me into this new adventure of faith. 

I’m grateful beyond words.  I couldn’t be more blessed.  Thank you for calling me as your pastor so long ago and for loving me as a human being.  Together we’ve touched the face of God and I don’t think any of us will ever be the same.  And that’s a very good thing.

RIP James Allen Erdman (1935-2015): Father, Naturalist, Teacher

A service of celebration is planned for Saturday, July 25th at 2:30pm at Montview Blvd Presbyterian Church in Denver,

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Dr. Jim Erdman, Sacquoy Head, northcoast of Rousay, Orkney

Dad died Wednesday, February 4, after a battle with cancer (see the obituary I've written further down below). Immediately below is a tale about my dad and a window into what he taught me: what I will always carry with me, the riches received that I get to pass on to others.  It's an excerpt from a book I started a half-dozen years ago but haven't touched since 2010 (other book projects bumped this book on spiritual practices and put it on the back burner).  The book's provisional title is Sainte Terrer: How to Make an Altar of Every Day Life.  The excerpt will explain the odd French title.

I grew up hiking and fly-fishing, backpacking and picnicking in the Colorado Rockies.  My father is a scientist who’s spent his life in a love affair with these valleys, streams, and peaks—the granite and pine, trout and Columbine that populate this magnificent part of the Earth.  When he and I stand in the same valley we experience it very differently.  He sees the subtle moraine laid down eons ago by some vast, retreating glacier.  He feels the mighty forces that belched this rock from Earth’s belly billions of years ago.  He imagines the achingly long, painful processes that twisted and tilted this ancient rock into the peaks we now traverse.  He can tell me exactly why a certain conifer grows on this side of the valley and not on the other, why schist appears here and not there, what we might expect when we cross over yonder pass between those two ten thousand foot spires. 

Dad will correct you if you call what we’re doing “hiking”.  And because of the way he loves this land, he’s got good reason to.  We’re walking, he says—or better, “sauntering” . . . not hiking.  To support his argument, he’ll paraphrase Thoreau and shout something like this over his shoulder as you follow him along the trail:

I’ve only met one or two persons in my life who understand the art of Walking—people who had a genius for sauntering.  Sauntering’s a word that comes from what folks used to call those fools who roved around the European countryside in the Middle Ages asking charity, pretending they were going a la Sainte Terre, that is, “to the Holy Land.”    

The village kids would laugh and point at these crack pots saying, “There goes a Sainte-Terrer!”  

A Saunterer.  A Holy-Lander.  

Know this, my son, there are those who never know the ground beneath their feet as holy; they’re mere idlers and vagabonds, not true saunterers.  What we’re doing now, if you’re aware of the ground beneath your feet, is what true sauntering is all about. (Adapted from Henry David Thoreau's little book, Walking)

Sauntering’s what my father aims to do.  When he does, and I’m with him, I can see it in his eyes—that misty-eyed gaze of those who, after a long journey, finally glimpse the Holy City rising before them in the distance.  He is a Sainte-Terrer.  These mountains, trees, and rivers, lazy fawns and ambling bear are his Holy Land.  And each high mountain stream, teeming with brook trout, is Jerusalem to him. 

But there are many who never go to the Holy Land in their walks.  They hike.  It’s not that they intend to miss the mystery that is this Holy Land.  They know there’s more here than meets the eye; they just don’t know how to see it.  They’ve got no real training in sauntering, in holiness.  They are “idlers and vagabonds” across these mountains, when they intuitively long to be Sainte Terrers, Holy-Landers whose love gives them eyes to see all that’s beyond first- and even second-glance. 

I think it was these walks with my father that made me hunger for holiness before I ever knew what it was.  I realize now that his love of the divine in every blessed thing upon this Earth and the way he encountered them taught me my first rudimentary practices for pursuing the Holy and finding It.  

Sauntering with my father upon this sacred Earth, I first learned that there is always more than meets the eye.  But this “sight” was not learned by happenstance.  My father had very specific guidelines for our forays into the wilderness, and he was not always kind if I ignored them.  He taught them to me to keep me safe, of course, to ensure that I could survive in this land if I became lost or hurt.  But even more, he taught me these guidelines and simple practices so that I would know how to move slowly and gently, even reverently upon the Earth, my eyes and ears no longer dull to the goodness of God that’s always all around me no matter where I find myself to be.  

Keeping safe is one thing, and I’d pay a pretty penny to keep myself alive—though there’s not any real beauty in just staying safe, keeping yourself alive.  But keeping myself alive to awe is quite another thing, and anything that can do that is priceless. 

An Overview of Jim Erdman's Life:

James Allen Erdman, was born December 20, 1935 in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, to Robert and Esther Erdman.  He died peacefully on February 4, 2015 at his mountain “hermitage” high in the Rocky Mountains near Red Feather Lakes, Colorado.  He’d fought a brief struggle against Mesothelioma, cancer of the lining around the lungs.  He was 79.

In the early 1960s, Jim was a member of the Wetherill Mesa archeological team that helped expand Mesa Verde National Park (near Cortez, Colorado) to include some of the most remarkable ancient Pueblo cliff dwellings, including the famed “Long House”.  There he completed his research in botany and earned a PhD in plant ecology from the University of Colorado, Boulder.  Later, he taught at Fort Lewis College, Durango, Colorado, until he became a geobotanist for the United States Geological Survey in Lakewood, Colorado, a position he held until he retired in the 1990s.  Jim’s scientific research contributed to non-invasive and more environmentally friendly techniques for mineral exploration, the control of noxious weeds in prairie ranch lands, and the management of wetlands and other natural resources.  A pioneer in his field, he presented his research in the Soviet Union, China, Scandinavia, and at symposiums across North America.  

 A writer, activist, and provocateur, Jim was deeply concerned about the environmental challenges before us.  He contributed generously to political causes he felt would contribute to the flourishing of the natural world.  In later years, he combined a keen understanding of natural science with insights drawn from history and anthropology in order to address the cultural and political mistakes he felt certain are leading us toward disaster.  His final paper, “A Sketch of Three Cultures—Past, Present, Future—Weld County, Colorado” (2013) focused on the interaction between the natural world and its human inhabitants and directly challenged the threat posed to both by the fracking industry.  He concluded that paper with a quote from an unknown author, typical of his outlook: “The human spirit needs places where nature has not been rearranged by the hand of man.”

Jim was above all a naturalist, in love with the all things wild and wonderful.  Only months before his death he was still climbing fourteen thousand foot peaks, and curating nature walks at the Soapstone Prairie Natural Area in the wilderness north of Fort Collins.

Jim was preceded in death by his wife, Mardi Erdman (died 1994), whom he adored.  He is survived by his sister, Betsy Germanotta of Boston, Massachusetts (married to Dante, deceased), brother, John Erdman of Milwaukee, Wisconsin (married to Maritsa), and sons, Chris Neufeld-Erdman of Fresno, California (married to Patty) and James F. Erdman of Blackhawk, Colorado (married to Karen).  He is grandfather to seven grandchildren: Josh, Jeremy, Katy, Sarah, Hannah, and their spouses/partners (from Chris and Patty), and Jake, Kasey Rose, and their spouses/partners (from James and Karen); he also has three great-grandchildren: Mason, Carter, and Ellie. 

A service of celebration is planned for Saturday, July 25th at 2:30pm at Montview Blvd Presbyterian Church in Denver, Colorado. All are welcome.  

A Pilgrimage of New Beginnings, Iona, Scotland

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with John Philip Newell

The following excerpt is from my forthcoming book, God is Nearer than We Think: How a Pastor, Disillusioned with Religion, Rediscovered the Heart of It All.  It describes my recent experience on a pilgrimage with Celtic Christian scholar and teacher, John Philip Newell, on the Isle of Iona, Scotland (September 2014).  Seven years earlier, I’d visited the island, alone and disillusioned with my pastoral vocation, and spent time among the dynamic members of the Iona Community there.  Since then, my first marriage fell apart, my best friend committed suicide, and my congregation found itself in substantial conflict over the inclusion of gays and lesbians in the life of the church.  Remarried now to Patty, a psychotherapist, I found myself drawn to the island again.  Patty and I experienced the pilgrimage as a threshold of a w/holy new beginning of our work guiding people and communities toward the kind of flourishing God is birthing in our world today—despite the many challenges around us.

Seven years and a few months later, I found myself once again barreling along the A82 motorway through the Scottish Highlands.  The birches were turning yellow.  A few scattered heather, here and there, still held tenaciously onto their purple blossoms.  It was late September, and I was headed once again to the mystic Isle of Iona.  This time I was not alone.  My wife, Patty, was with me.  We were to join a handful of others for a week on the island, a pilgrimage of new beginnings with John Philip Newell, the Scottish poet, peacemaker, and teacher of Celtic spirituality.

This group of pilgrims was made up of a handful of earnest Christian lay people, a pair of theologians, several nuns, a monk, and me, a pastor.  We all held two things in common: a disillusionment with what has become of Christianity, and deep longing for its rebirth, a hopefulness that it can and will be reborn.  

Iona has a way of gathering women and men like this.  There’s a spiritual magnetism to the island.  For fifteen hundred years Christian pilgrims have found their way to this rocky outcrop on the western edge of Scotland—what some call the “spine of the Atlantic,” because here, geologically speaking, some of the oldest rock on the planet is exposed to the light.  Here, Lewisian gneiss, some two and a half to three billion years old, holds itself, unflinchingly, naked before the elements.  Most of those who come to the island are unaware of this.  I was, until my wife insisted on carrying home a small boulder of this gneiss, grayish-green, with white swirls.  Curious, I inquired about the rock and realized what a treasure is it.  Perhaps three billion years old.  Who can get their mind around that?

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I think this Lewisian gneiss is part of the island’s magnetism.  There’s evidence that human beings have been coming here for millennia—the Celts and Druids long before the Christians.  The “spine of the Atlantic” gives those who come here something firm—durable, ancient, almost unchanging—amidst the vicissitudes of our daily lives.  From time beyond all memory, those who, while disillusioned and seeking a way forward, have nevertheless found strong material and spiritual support here upon these ancients rocks that have endured so much change and been so unthreatened by it.  It’s little wonder that in our modern world, pilgrims still seek out this isle of ancient rock and find inspiration here.  Drawn here by their many questions, their discouragements, and their deep longings, we are part of what God is doing to rebirth an expression of life that not only fosters the flourishing of human life, but also the flourishing of the earth itself—a way too often lost among our tired and fractured religious organizations, and among our broken and discouraging political institutions.  

My wife carried a hunk of this Lewisian gneiss home from Iona (actually, I carried it for her).  It's a reminder of our pilgrimage of new beginnings; our shared dream of a Christianity reborn and capable of addressing the realities of our 21st century world. 

Injustice must not remain uncontested

I hear many Christians say that the church is not political; “We need to focus on the gospel not on public policy.”

Image by Scott*

I cannot read the Bible and the history of Christianity and go along with that. The prophets, and Jesus himself, were passionate about justice.  The church today must rise up, finding courage and freedom to address—from the perspective of the Bible’s vision of the flourishing of all creation—issues of gun control, immigration, the environment, poverty, war, corporate greed, and racism in America, among other things.

I want to be part of a people who are willing to grapple with such things.  Lord knows we won’t all agree.  But agreement isn’t what I’m after as a pastor.  Agreement can be too dull, too insular, too myopic.  What we need is vigorous disagreement, real wrangling with things that matter from inside a covenant community—that is, a people who love each other and seek the truth, loving and appreciating even those with whom they don’t see eye to eye.  In fact, they will love each other because they don’t see eye to eye and know that this is what’s important for helping them stay honest and moving in the direction of what God is up to in our world.

What I want to see in our churches is engagement—honest, open, passionate engagement.  Only out of that kind of wrestling comes a new vision for the way forward.

The Bible itself is our model for this.  The Bible is one great big wrestling match.  Hundreds of voices over a thousand or more years of wrestling with what they see of God and what they see in the world around them.  All of them trying to make sense of it and create a way for genuine human flourishing.

In a recent interview with seminary student, Mickey Jones, Old Testament theologian, Walter Brueggemann, moves us in this direction.  At the end of the interview, Brueggemann sums up a bracing vision for the way people, serious about the Bible and Christian faith, might awaken to God’s summons to live the justice of God: 

“The Gospel is a very dangerous idea. We have to see how much of that dangerous idea we can perform in our own lives. There is nothing innocuous or safe about the Gospel. Jesus did not get crucified because he was a nice man.”

The problem with Christianity today is that we’ve made Jesus too nice.  Our churches are too nice.  We’re too nice.  (But there are plenty of grumpy Christians, you say.  Yes, you’re right, but they’re largely grumpy about all the wrong things.)  All the while the world struggles, creation withers, human lives teeter on the edge.  Nicety may well be a toxic and demonic seduction in the American church.

This doesn’t give us license to be jerks.  Joy and generosity ought to characterize our lives, even in the midst of our struggle for all that’s just and good.  We ought to smile, even while we say: “No! That injustice must not continue; it’ll not remain uncontested—not as long as I’m alive.”

Toward a Christianity fit for the 21st century

In this picture, I’m with the leaders of our Southeast Asian ministry at University Presbyterian Church: Elder Tony Bounthapanya and Pastors John and Lorna Bosavanh.  Photos of Tony’s father are in the background.  He died after an illness the day before.  Laotian culture has a rich tradition of communal life that can sustain a grieving family.  This is day one of three days of mourning.  The home is full of people 24/7, cooking, chatting, praying, laughing, weeping.

Spiritual, political, racial/ethnic, and social pluralism are a reality. For us to thrive on this planet we must learn to get along with each other—in fact, if we are to thrive, we must find the immense good in one another, no matter how different we are from each other.  

This doesn’t minimize our great differences or the trouble those differences can cause us.  Instead, it maximizes a Trinitarian approach to the realities facing us as a global community.  God-as-three-yet-one is a witness to the nature of reality itself—the unity and diversity of the creation, and the insight that if God can get along (God as a unity existing in diversity) than we can too.  In fact, the Trinity is our warrant of wholeness.  It’s why I’m still a Christian despite the foolishness and cruelty of so much of what has often passes for Christianity.  

Embracing the Trinitarian nature of God has an immensely practical application for human life.  We’re made, says the Bible, in the image of God.  That means we are made to celebrate and even enhance our differences, but always with the recognition that we are, nevertheless, one.  Jesus taught this to his disciples: “I ask not only on behalf of these, but also on behalf of those who will believe in me through their word, that they may all be one. As you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me. The glory that you have given me I have given them, so that they may be one, as we are one, I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one,” (John 20.21-23).

This means that a Christianity fit for the 21st century must value, learn from, and dialog with those not only within the church—and those beyond the Christian household—who see things differently.  A Christianity that will not merely survive the 21st century, but which will thrive within it, must find a way to hold conviction while appreciating and learning from others . . . and then improvising on our inherited tradition in order to promote a way of flourishing that enhances all life on the planet.