Rev MaryGean Cope

Tag: community

  • The Heart of Prayer

    The Heart of Prayer

    Leslie Weatherhead wrote a book called The Will of God that I read when I was young, and it saved me. Not spiritually saved, but intellectually—it gave me a framework for holding all the ways my life didn’t look like what I thought God wanted.

    Weatherhead was a preacher who lived through two world wars and the Depression, all the things that make you question what God’s doing. And he came up with three ways to think about God’s will.

    There’s the intentional will of God—what God actually wants for us. What God designs for us. In the creation story, God wants order and goodness and beauty. God’s intention is that none be lost. When Jesus came, God’s intention was for us to follow him, to understand God, to become the kind of people who love the way God loves.

    But we have free will. And we don’t usually do what God intends. We rebel. We choose ourselves. We want what we want and we’re willing to make a mess to get it.

    So here’s the second one: the circumstantial will of God. Given the mess we’ve made—given that we’ve rejected God’s intention—what does God do? Does God just give up? No. God looks at the situation we’ve created and asks, now what? What can I do in these circumstances to move things toward good?

    Here’s the hard part: Jesus’s death wasn’t God’s intention. God’s intention was for Jesus to be followed, to teach us how to live. But we wouldn’t do that. So God said, okay, what can I do with this rejection? How can I redeem this death? And the answer was resurrection. God took our rebellion, took our evil, took our worst act, and turned it into salvation.

    That’s the circumstantial will of God. Not God causing the bad thing, but God refusing to let the bad thing have the last word.

    And then there’s the providential will—the long view. The way God weaves everything together over time. We don’t see that one clearly until we look back. All those things that seemed like disasters, all those detours—they were working toward something. You can’t see it while you’re in it. But you see it later.

    Most of us live our whole lives asking why things happen. Why did my marriage end. Why did I lose the job. Why is my child struggling. And those are real questions. But the answer isn’t always clear, and sometimes there is no good answer. Some things are just evil. Some things are just human stupidity.

    What helps is understanding that God’s working on multiple levels at once. Trying to move us toward the intention while working within the circumstances we’ve created. And trusting that the long view, the providential will, is carrying us somewhere that will make sense.

    Not because everything works out. But because God doesn’t let anything be wasted. Even our rebellion. Even our pain. God’s always looking for the next move toward good.

    A reflection by Rev. MaryGean Cope

  • The Power of Love (Philippians 414)

    The Power of Love (Philippians 414)

    February is when everyone’s New Year’s resolution crashes. The gym gets empty again. The journal sits blank. And we start with the shame. “I can’t even keep one resolution.” “I’m undisciplined.” “Why do I always fail?”

    But what if the problem isn’t you? What if it’s that we’re trying to accomplish transformation through sheer willpower, and willpower isn’t actually how human beings change?

    I’ve been reading about how change actually works. And it’s never “I decided to change and then I did.” It’s way messier. It’s community. It’s naming patterns. It’s being honest about what you actually want versus what you think you should want. It’s sometimes failing spectacularly and then trying again.

    The theological word for this is grace, but we’ve made it so thin. We treat grace like a one-time get-out-of-jail card. “I messed up, Jesus forgave me, moving on.” But that’s not what grace is. Grace is God’s power working with you over time. Not erasing your struggle. Accompanying you through it.

    So here’s what I’d offer for whatever you’re failing at right now: stop trying harder. Get honest about what’s actually stopping you. Talk to someone about it. Stop pretending you should be able to do this alone. Because transformation is never a solo project. It’s always community. It’s always encountering the God who doesn’t love you for getting it right, but loves you exactly where you’re getting it wrong.

    That’ll change you far more than willpower ever could.

    A reflection by Rev. MaryGean Cope

  • The Heart of Prayer (Psalm 111)

    The Heart of Prayer (Psalm 111)

    I’m thinking about how we use busyness to avoid actually living. You know—staying so occupied with church stuff and family stuff and work stuff that we never actually have to look at anything hard inside ourselves.

    One of the things that’s becoming clearer to me is how many of us learned, way back in childhood, to deal with pain by just… not dealing with it. By moving on. By finding something else to do. And we spiritualize it. “God wants us to be joyful.” “Don’t let sadness control you.” And before you know it, you’re sixty years old and you’ve never actually grieved anything.

    The spiritual work—the real work—is going the other direction. Letting yourself feel what you actually feel. Sitting with anger. Sitting with grief. Sitting with confusion about God. Not because that’s the goal. But because you have to know what’s in there before you can let God heal it.

    I see people do this in churches sometimes, and the reaction is immediate: “Well, that’s worldly psychology.” No. That’s Jesus. Jesus sat with his grief. Jesus felt his anger. Jesus didn’t skip over the hard feelings to get to the resurrection message.

    If you’ve been taught your whole life that emotions are dangerous, that feelings mean you don’t trust God, that a good Christian is a happy one—that’s a lie worth examining. That’s a script worth questioning. Because wholeness isn’t about feeling better. It’s about being honest. It’s about bringing your whole self to God instead of just the acceptable parts.

    A reflection by Rev. MaryGean Cope

  • The Heart of Prayer (Psalm 139)

    The Heart of Prayer (Psalm 139)

    I’ve been thinking about the word “sing” this week. You know, not in the surface way—like, “we should all feel better if we sing.” But the deeper thing. What it means to raise your voice when things don’t feel worth singing about.

    There’s a passage I keep coming back to, about singing in dark places. Not singing to make the darkness go away. But singing anyway. And I think that’s the real discipline of faith. Not having good feelings. Not figuring it out. But choosing to raise your voice—to the church, to God, to yourself—when the natural thing is to stay silent.

    We have people in this congregation right now who are in genuine pain. Surgery. Loss. Family stuff that’s messier than anyone wants to admit. And the church’s first instinct is usually to fix it or comfort it. But what if the real gift is permission to sing the lament? To say—without sugarcoating—”This is hard. This is real. And I’m going to say that out loud anyway.”

    That takes more faith than the cheerful singing, honestly. Because you’re not pretending. You’re just taking your actual life and offering it to God and saying: I’m still here. I’m still trusting. Even when it sounds more like a cry than a song.

    A reflection by Rev. MaryGean Cope

  • The Gift of Forgiveness (Jeremiah 31)

    The Gift of Forgiveness (Jeremiah 31)

    January. Post-holiday collapse. Which is when I’m most likely to sit down and actually think about something beyond logistics and Christmas decorations.

    I was thinking about New Year’s resolutions, and you know what? They’re mostly about becoming someone different. Better. Less flawed. We want to be the version of ourselves we’d actually be okay with. And there’s something true in that. God does call us to transformation. But we’ve got it backwards somehow.

    We think transformation means becoming someone else. Becoming someone who wouldn’t struggle with the same stuff. Someone who’d already have it figured out. But Scripture keeps pointing to something different. It’s not about becoming a different person. It’s about following Jesus more truly in the body you’re actually in.

    That sounds smaller than we want. But I think it’s bigger. Because it means you don’t have to escape yourself to be redeemed. You just have to start saying yes to God in the middle of who you actually are. With your actual failures and your actual patterns and your actual mess.

    That’s the good news nobody wants to hear on January 7th. You don’t get to start over. You get to start here. True. And somehow that’s actually more hope than the fantasy version we keep reaching for.

    A reflection by Rev. MaryGean Cope

  • The Heart of Prayer

    The Heart of Prayer

    New Year’s Eve. Candlelight service. Which is funny because candlelight feels peaceful, right? Contemplative. But I got a call this morning from someone whose husband just had triple bypass surgery. Lying in the hospital on New Year’s Eve. And I’m sitting there holding that phone thinking about peace.

    Here’s the thing about December 31st: we all want to believe next year will be better. Cleaner. We’ll finally get it right. But that’s not really how God works. God doesn’t give us a fresh start by magic. God says: I’ll be with you in the mess. Even the parts you thought you’d escaped.

    I was reading about the old tradition of watching for the New Year at midnight—the whole thing about “year in, year out.” Like time is just this turning wheel and you get to stand at the threshold and imagine something different. But then the phone call this morning reminded me: you don’t get a fresh year. You get a year with your actual life in it. With people you love in hospital beds. With failures from last year still hanging around.

    The real gift—if there is one—is God’s presence in that continuity. Not some magical erasing. Just God saying: I’m here. Still. Again. You don’t have to start clean. You just have to start true.

    A reflection by Rev. MaryGean Cope

  • Walking by Faith

    Walking by Faith

    I’ve been thinking about what it means to shine. We sang about Jesus shining on us, about letting his light come through us. But I wonder sometimes if we understand what that actually looks like in the real world, in our real lives.

    When I look around at the people I know and respect, the ones who shine, they’re not necessarily the smartest or the richest or the most talented. They’re the ones who show up and do the right thing, even when no one’s watching. They’re the ones who help when it costs them something. They trust. They show you who God is just by how they live.

    That’s what shining means. It doesn’t mean being perfect. It means being honest about who you are, asking for God’s help, and then actually living like you believe God’s got your back. When you do that, people notice. Kids notice. Your family notices. The people you work with notice. And somehow, when you’re not trying to shine—when you’re just trying to follow Jesus—you end up being a light to people who are in the dark. That’s the miracle of it.

    A reflection by Rev. MaryGean Cope

  • Bound Together (Luke 10)

    Bound Together (Luke 10)

    I want to tell you something about faith stories.

    Some folks have dramatic conversion stories. You know the kind. They were terrible and their life was a mess. Bad things, obvious bad things. And then Jesus showed up and everything changed, fast and powerful.

    Those are powerful testimonies.

    But some of us don’t have those stories. I’m glad I don’t, actually. I was grateful when I realized that. Because the pain I was spared by knowing God my whole life, by not spending years and years broken and lost—that’s a gift. A huge gift.

    And you know what? Some of our stories don’t make for dramatic telling. But they make for powerful testimony.

    The thing is, we all have deep sin. We all need to turn from something. We all need to move into the grace of God and let him forgive us. It just doesn’t always look like a lightning bolt moment.

    What I’m wondering is: what is your story? And who knows it? Do your children know it? Do your grandchildren? Do your friends?

    Because here’s what I’m concerned about. And I’ve been concerned about this since I was a kid, which is probably why I’m a preacher. People don’t know God. And I don’t think it’s my job to be the one telling everybody about God. Different people are called to different parts of that message. But what I do know is that people will listen to you. They won’t listen to me. You have an impact you’ll never know about.

    And I want that impact to be for God.

    We need to tell our stories. We need to let people know where God has shown up in our lives. Not dramatically, maybe. But really. Because how else will people know that God is real? How else will they know that this faith matters? How else will they know it’s not all just church talk, but something that actually changes a life?

    Your story matters. Tell it.

    A reflection by Rev. MaryGean Cope

  • The Heart of Prayer

    The Heart of Prayer

    That young man came running up to Jesus and asked what he had to do to get eternal life. Jesus told him about the commandments—don’t murder, don’t commit adultery, don’t steal, don’t give false testimony. And the guy said, well, I’ve kept all of those since I was a boy.

    And then it says something that just stops you: Jesus looked at him carefully and loved him. He hadn’t even decided yet. Hadn’t committed to anything. But Jesus looked at him carefully and loved him.

    Then Jesus said: you’re missing one thing. Go sell what you own. Give the money to the poor. Then come follow me.

    And the man went away sad because he had a lot of stuff.

    Jesus looks at us the same way. With that same careful, loving look. And he points out the one thing that’s in the way. Not the same thing for everybody—something different for each one of us. For this guy it was his possessions. For you it might be laziness. Or selfishness. Or greed, whether you’ve got a lot or a little. Maybe it’s hatred. Maybe it’s prejudice. Maybe you’re so full of yourself there’s no room for God.

    What’s the one thing standing between you and the grace God freely gives?

    The disciples were terrified when they heard this because they’d left everything. They wanted to know, okay, so what’s our one thing? And Jesus said all things are possible with God. Not just possible to accomplish. Possible to transform. Possible to let go of. Possible to become whole despite.

    He doesn’t ask you to be perfect. He asks you to be all in. Not just close. Not just this close. All the way in.

    A reflection by Rev. MaryGean Cope

  • The Family of God

    The Family of God

    You know the hymn, ‘How Great Thou Art.’ Everybody knows it. It was written by a guy named Carl Boberg in Sweden. He was coming home after some kind of service, and there was a thunderstorm. The kind we’ve had the last few days. And when it passed over, he looked out at everything being fresh and green and alive, and he wrote a poem.

    That poem got translated. Sweden to German. German to Russian. Russian to English. It traveled around the world. Billy Graham used it. And now you sing it on Sunday.

    What strikes me is that somebody in Sweden looked at a thunderstorm and felt awe. And somebody else said, I know what that means. I know how to say that. And they translated it. And it kept traveling. Each person who touched it added something. Their language. Their voice. And it still said the same thing: when you really look at the world, when you really see creation, you can’t help but see God in it.

    That’s what I want for us. Not to be original. But to be faithful. To see what God’s doing and then to say it in our language, in our lives, so somebody else can understand.

    A reflection by Rev. MaryGean Cope