Thursday, Sunday, Gratitude, Grace

“Thursday, Sunday, Gratitude, Grace”

Should I write about Thanksgiving or Advent?  We are in that small niche where either is appropriate, I guess.  Or maybe both. 

Tomorrow a nation rich in diversity and burdened with struggles will honor its tradition and give thanks.  How will you do that?  Traditions within the tradition take as many forms as there are households, after all.  But however you might choose to mark the day, I’m daring to assume that most of you reading this preacher’s column will indeed participate, one way or another, in Thanksgiving and in giving thanks. 

Maybe here in the flashes of these electronic words, we can warm up for the big day.  I know this is hardly clever or original, but let’s make a Thanksgiving list.  I know; I know.  Just play along.  What’s on yours? 

Take your time; be thorough.  Think big; think small; think stuff; think emotions; think ideas; think voices; think song; think of memories; think of possibilities; think of love found or lost and of moments when love eased loss; think the most random of landscapes, the most common of days, the most memorable events; think of animals and people and the songs of birds.  Think. 

Go ahead; I’ll wait.  You can pick up here when you’re done. 

Finished?  I bet it’s an impressive list.  But exhaustive?  Hmmm.  You missed something, didn’t you? 

Add 20 more items to the list.  Feel better?  Not quite? 

I’m guessing that for all of us, there’s a gift we can’t quite name, a thought still unshaped, a feeling, a sense.  We reach, but we can’t quite grasp it.  We search words, songs, silence.  It’s there somewhere, isn’t it?  But what? 

Consider this possibility: At the heart of gratitude is a gift too big and too small for any list.  It’s the life we have, and it’s the Life holding all our lives.  It’s a moment and millennia.  It’s beyond and within.  Is it the voice that calls?  Or it’s the home out there beautiful and beckoning and just for you … and for everyone.  It’s the hope our world needs, the justice that eludes us, the mercy that can heal.  It calls to us, this gift. 

And that brings us to the Sunday beyond this Thursday and the story that begins with a simple statement of faith and truth.  “For God so loved the world …”  Starting November 28, we’ll dig together through ornaments and tangled lights and pull out some words, then we’ll turn them in the light, examining, admiring.  Hope. Peace. Joy.  Love.  Mary.  Jesus.  Emmanuel.  Somewhere in those words I believe we’ll find the grace at the heart of our gratitude. 

Or maybe that grace is simpler still, Word without words. 

A baby cries; a baby coos; a baby holds us all. 

With Gratitude, 

Mark 

Words from Westmoreland: We Remember

We Remember

 We remember and give thanks.

That’s what we do in the church. We remember …and we give thanks. We remember the divine story that stretches back through the ages and forward to embrace us, and we give thanks. We remember the story of Jesus Christ—his words and acts of truth and healing—and we remember how the Holy Spirit makes Christ’s ministry the ministry of the church.

We remember and give thanks.

This Sunday, All Saints’ Sunday, we will remember how the ministry we share now was embraced and lived by generations before us. We will celebrate the parade of the faithful that stretches the length of our story. We will remember the saints who walked Christ’s way of love and truth. And, no doubt, our minds will turn to others who touched our lives with God’s grace and showed us the way of faithful living.

We remember and give thanks.

This Sunday, we will also remember by name those of our Glenn family who in the past year entered the Communion of Saints. Names will be read, lives honored, and holy memories stirred. We cannot begin to describe the richness of their lives, but we can recall their place in our fellowship, the grace that was the foundation of their days, and the faith and ministry we share with them.

And before our service is done, we will remember the words of Jesus, “Do this in remembrance of me,” and share the sacrament of Holy Communion. In the mystery of time and eternity, we will give thanks for the life we share at the table now, and remember the heavenly banquet still to come.

The celebrated saints of Glenn Memorial United Methodist Church are a part of the great story written in faith, told with courage, and shared with love. Their days were filled with routine and obligation, joy and exaltation, love and care, and in and through it all they were the church. To us they offered the gospel that is light and life, and by God’s amazing grace, you and I now are the church in our days.

It is all a gift. Remember to give thanks.

Beloved Braves Fans: Remembering Julia Ann and Patsy

As we prepare for All Saints’ Sunday at Glenn this week, we remember two of our beloved Glenn saints and biggest Atlanta Braves fans during their lifetimes, Patricia “Patsy” Guy and Julia Ann Griffith. They would have celebrated birthdays this same week that the Atlanta Braves won the World Series. In January 2020, as the world grieved the death of Hank Aaron, Glenn member Sally Sears interviewed and wrote down Julia Ann’s firsthand account of witnessing the moment Hank Aaron achieved the Homerun Record:  

 Julia Ann’s daughter Edie found tickets for the game where he might break Babe Ruth’s home run record. Julia Ann, then in Florida, drove north with her mother; three generations eager to be part of history.  But the highway patrol in Perry forced a detour. Julia Ann’s eagerness put her foot a little heavy on the gas pedal. The trooper didn’t just give her a ticket. He forced her to follow him to the sheriff’s office.  “He rang a buzzer for someone to open the door that led into a jail cell where he put me to wait for the sheriff. When the sheriff finally came into the enclosure…he…charged me with speeding and said I owed $72.00. I was not about to give him cash to put into his pocket… about this time the phone on the desk rang and he apologized profusely to the person on the phone saying ‘I am so sorry that happened. I have these papers right here on my desk and the next time you are in town I want to take you out for a steak dinner.’ The papers on his desk were pulled out of the trash can.”  She paid with her Amoco Auto Club card and made it to Gate G before the game. Edie’s tickets were in left field. 

“I went to get everybody a drink. On my way back, holding a cardboard tray full of Coke cups, watching them closely so I wouldn’t spill them, I bumped into what I first thought was a big wall. It turned out to be Maynard Jackson, the mayor of Atlanta. My face was belt high to him and I spilled Coke all down the front of him. He was gracious, just brushed himself off and accepted my apology.  The capacity crowd of 53,000 was eager to get the game started, and what do you know, Hank Aaron hit his 715th home run in the fourth inning. The ball was hit to left field and we were standing there ready to catch it because it seemed to be coming right at us. It fell in the space between the field and the seats so no one caught it. We were about four rows up from where it fell and later realized that we almost were a part of the history of that day. There were two fans that ran onto the field to congratulate Hank as he was running around the bases. Of course they were arrested.”   A few days later, at a family lunch on top of the Atlanta Gas Light building on Peachtree Street Julia Ann sat next to cousin Herbert Moye. He managed the Georgia Licensing Bureau, in charge of issuing fishing and hunting licenses. She told him about her time in the jail cell in Perry, Georgia.   “He said he surely wished he had known it at the time because that sheriff owed him a big favor… He said ‘I was on the phone with him that same afternoon and he even offered to take me to a steak dinner the next time I was in Perry.”

From Braves’ victories to speeding tickets, family meals to everything in between, we remember the saints of our church family this week, celebrate their interesting lives and legacies, and remember that it is ordinary days that are often made of extraordinary moments. We celebrate the Braves and our saints this week!

Julia Ann Griffith

Attending a Braves game with Candler students!

Patricia “Patsy” Guy

Celebrating her birthday!

Words from Westmoreland: Invited

In a conversation with some friends, fellow pastors all, I learned that every one of our churches is now averaging for in-person worship around one-third of our pre-pandemic numbers, and that’s a common trend apparently.  In a recent conference at the Church of the Resurrection in Leawood, Kansas (COR), participants reported the same attendance, as did the leaders of COR, the largest United Methodist Church in the United States.  We’re all seeing higher participation on-line, of course, but it’s the in-person presence I want us to think about a bit.

I’m proud of how Glenn Memorial has handled the pandemic.  We’ve taken a reasoned and compassionate approach in every decision, following the science to care for and protect one another and our neighbors.  We were cautious in our return to physical gatherings, and we continue to be careful, requiring masks in all our worship services.  I believe we have done the right things at the right times, showing appropriate flexibility and response in a constantly changing environment.

We’ve also given serious thought and prayer to how we will emerge from this unprecedented season.  There’s no magic switch to throw that will return us to the pre-pandemic world.  It’s gone, that world.  The riverbanks might look familiar, but it’s not the same water.

What does it mean to be the church together in October, 2021?  After prayerfully and thoughtfully discussing that question, our church council has set for the year ahead three simple emphases around which to structure our life and work, all of them in the form of an invitation.

• Invite Christ to transform my heart and mind;

• Invite all to the welcoming table;

• Invite transformation in our church, community, and world

Together, we will refocus, re-energize, and renew our spirits for a new season.

So, I invite you to come to church in the weeks ahead.  You might not be ready, I know.  You might want to continue to worship virtually.  That’s fine.  But I invite you to consider how you can venture out and in—out of your home and back into this holy space we share and the holy moment called worship.

This Sunday, October 17, is a good time to start.  We are beginning a new sermon series called, appropriately, “Invited,” and it all begins with an invitation to find anew the healing grace of Jesus Christ after this long season of loss, grief, fatigue, and anxiety.  “Come to me all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”  Jesus meant it when he said those words.  Are you weary and your burdens heavy?  Our return to church begins with that acknowledgement and with Christ’s offer of grace and peace.

Here’s a look at the weeks ahead:

• October 17: “Invited to Heal” (Psalm 130, Matthew 11:25-30)

• October 24: “Invited to Begin Anew” (Ezekiel 37:1-10, Philippians 3:4b-14)

• October 31: “Invited to Turn the World Upside Down” (Malachi 3:1-6, Acts 17:1-9)

• November 7, All Saints Sunday: “Invited to the Welcoming Table” (Isaiah 25:6-9, Romans 15:1-5, 9-18)

• November 14, Commitment Sunday: “Invited to Joy” (Isaiah 61:1-3, Philippians 4:1-9)

Over these coming weeks, you are invited to gather with the saints of God and, well, BE.  With others, find healing.  Allow beautiful music to speak to your soul.  Hear some words of grace.  Rediscover the blessings to be found on a shared pew.  Love and be loved.  And together, we’ll begin anew in a new season of life.

Yours in Christ,
Mark Westmoreland,
Senior Pastor

Words from Westmoreland: Re-Post Before 'They' Delete It

It was somewhere between 10:30 and 10:45 p.m. when my dog Daisy and I exited the front door of the parsonage for some relief—hers, not mine—before retiring for the evening.  Had I known what awaited us, I would have checked the time more precisely, and I certainly would have brought my cell phone, but, alas, one does not expect a terrifying near-death experience when making a routine evening visit to one’s front lawn on Clifton Road.
 
Everything seemed normal enough.  A helicopter hovered above the hospital; a siren wailed nearby; Daisy sniffed the air.  Then it happened.
 
A horrible inhuman screeching noise arose from the trees and bushes that stand between our home and the Bryants next door.  Daisy stiffened; a chill ran down my spine.  Then, again, the guttural wailing, followed by a rustling in the bushes.  Daisy barked and heroically stepped forward.  Another cry, and Daisy retreated to what she foolishly thought was safety between my feet.  Kathy stepped outside; she had heard it, too (Ask her!).  Then the bushes rattled intensely, and Daisy and I came to the simultaneous conclusion (When you live together for a long time, it’s remarkable how yourself sharing thoughts, a topic for a separate essay, perhaps) that the unknown creature was about to charge from the bushes.  And that’s when the two of us decided, again simultaneously interestingly, to shove Kathy out of our way (for her sake) and go inside.
 
I never saw it, the thing that wailed.  In the safety of our home, Daisy and I panted and discussed the horror we had escaped.  She suggested I do some research.
 
We’ve heard screech owls near our house before, and the sound we heard that night, I learned, was similar to the noise a screech owl makes when agitated, say, by a small dachshund-mix canine and her clearly fit and intimidating human companion.  Later, I talked to my neighbor Mike Bryant about the encounter, and he agreed an owl might make sense.
 
But, honestly, Mike agreed a bit TOO quickly, if you ask me.  Maybe he was being polite toward his preacher, who clearly knows nothing about owls … or maybe they had gotten to him.  You know, “They.”
 
Because, by then, the truth was coming clear.  That sound was too terrifying to be an owl, and its charge through the bushes too threatening (Daisy still has nightmares).  Whatever it was moved and screeched like an angry cat, but it had to weigh 40 pounds if an ounce; and the dragging sound (did I mention the dragging sound?) implied a very heavy tail, more serpentine than feline.
 
That’s when it all came together for me.
 
Daisy and I had narrowly escaped a mutant Lizard-Cat.  Of course.

Think about it.  We live a block from a major research university.  There was a helicopter and sirens—remember?  The powers-that-be were in a panic because a 47-pound mutant lizard-cat had escaped from an Emory University lab and was on the loose in Druid Hills.
 
And it still is.
 
But don’t take my word for it.  Call Emory yourself.  If you ask for the Department of Cloning and Mutation, they’ll pause suspiciously, then say, “What?”  Call back and ask directly about the Lizard-Cat Project, and they’ll chuckle(!) and conveniently ask if you’re joking.  Call 17 times, and they’ll threaten a restraining order and encourage a psychological evaluation, which is exactly what you’d expect a major wealthy established institution to do, especially concerning their secret project that was obviously funded by the government and/or Microsoft.
 
So, when one of these furry-scaled hisspurring things decides to nest in your storage shed, or the squirrels start disappearing from your backyard, or your dog sprints into your house with a terrified look on his face, remember you heard this from me, not the mainstream media.  Lizard-Cats are real.  Trust me; I’m ordained.*
 
Courageously speaking truth as I consider a run for office,
Mark Westmoreland,
Senior Pastor
 

*A disclaimer necessary in 2021: This is satirical fiction, except for the truly terrifying encounter Daisy and I had in our front yard.  And it really did sound like what I imagine a mutant lizard-cat would sound like.

Answering the Call to Pivot

In the summer of 1996, I had just finished middle school where I was lucky enough for a friend to invite me to attend an Olympic Basketball game in Atlanta,  yet my childhood innocence was slowly trickling away as I woke up to the worried sounds of my parents who were trying to get in touch with my older brother the morning after the Centennial Olympic Park bombing.  I remember learning about possible war in "The Middle East" again and a country called Afghanistan, connecting the dots with my earlier childhood awareness of the Gulf War where I learned about faraway lands such as Iraq, Iran, and Saudi Arabia.  Even as I faced my worries of a typical high schooler (here's a story about Freshman worries in my sermon last week), I was coming to understand the reality of how my worries didn't compare with girls across the globe or even across the cafeteria.  After being the shortest player - and perhaps least athletic -- on the Tri-County Champion Middle School Girls Basketball team, I made the commitment to try out for the Freshmen team, while fully expecting/secretly hoping to not make the cut.  It was not fun to practice so hard with the running drills and the late practices after school only to be a bench warmer.  So much blood, sweat, and tears that seemed to never pay off.  In one of the drills during tryouts, the coach kept screaming, "Pivot!  Pivot!" and I remember getting confused and not knowing which way to turn.  I knew the coach was screaming at me, and I knew I needed to change directions, but I had no idea what direction to turn.  I was trying so hard, but circumstances outside my control were making it impossible.  Neither my experience watching Olympic basketball players nor being a part of the reigning champions from my middle school team helped me much that day.  

Not to make light of the suffering of generations of citizens of war-torn countries and lifelong educators who have worked so hard to sustain our school systems through 1.5 years of a global pandemic, but I feel like the world is screaming, "Pivot! Pivot!" to global leaders, to teachers, to administrators, to parents, to pastors, to ALL of us trying to figure out the best ways to live, work, and not quit on the proverbial courts of our lives. It is not fun to work so hard to keep our children and one another safe only to see a pandemic and violence rage on with circumstances outside our control.  We hear the calls to "pivot," to change directions, to make a new plan, but in most circumstances, we have no idea what direction to turn.  And I know the desperation I feel is perhaps only a fraction of the desperation of mothers & fathers, teachers & pastors, the most talented or the average, hardworking bench warmers like me, in Haiti, in Afghanistan, and across my daughter's cafeteria where the seats are separated by plexiglass guards attempting to keep the students safe.

I didn't make the Freshman basketball team and I cried in disappointment AND relief.  I didn't want to keep pushing myself so hard for so little success in return. 

And so this week, I pivot.  I'm not really sure the right direction, because I know as a parent and as a pastor we want and need our children to be learning the stories of the Bible, the stories of our Christian faith, and connecting with one another as a church family to build faith community that will sustain them through all of these current events that are forcing their childhood innocence to slowly trickle away.  For us at Glenn, that means for now we are moving all Children's Ministries to outdoor/masked events only.  We are not opening the indoor Nursery for these precious "pandemic" babies and toddlers to meet our loving childcare staff who were so eager to welcome them and begin sharing the love and care of our church family.  Our Sunday School classrooms will stay empty and keep gathering dust.  Our playground and amphitheater and Zoom screens will become symbols of church for this generation of children.  I cry in disappointment and relief.  And with prayers that parents and pastors and teachers across the globe will have the chance to pivot for their kids, too. 

Matthew 19:14 -Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”

Grace & Peace,
Rev. Susan Pinson

Words from Westmoreland: When All the World Is Selling

Can I interest you today in some shares of Hope?  You’ve probably noticed the market is at a low point.  Futures are slumping, and an awful lot of people are selling off even their reserves.  It’s all understandable.  Should I list the reasons?  Haiti, Afghanistan, the Delta variant, wildfires, climate change.  The word “apocalyptic” comes to mind.

So, why buy into hope?

Because we are a people of faith?  Does that work for you?  Seems a little flimsy right now, I know, but it’s the best I can offer.  It might even be enough. 

We Christians are a realistically hopeful people.

The cross is the reality at the center of our faith.  Suffering.  Abandonment.  Lies hurled to destroy.  Torture.  Murder sanctioned by worldly powers.  Christ experienced the reality of human cruelty and human death.  He died for and with us. 

And the Resurrection is the reality at the center of our faith.  Death doesn’t get the last word.  God says so.

And the Holy Spirit is the reality at the center of our faith—binding us to Christ and making his ministry the church’s ministry.

God has promised, and Christ has shown, that empowered compassion can transform lives in the midst of suffering.  Indeed, we’re told this is the hope of the world.  That’s what we’re told.  Having the nerve to invest in that hope is another matter.  Clicking the “sell” button is still tempting. 

Walter Brueggemann has written that the faith of Abraham and Sarah was to trust (or invest) fully in the promises of God despite all evidence to the contrary.  Well, ours are contrary days.  Can we dare invest in grace, mercy, welcome, love?  In hope?

The Delta variant has us reeling again.  Have faith.  Invest in truth when others choose lies.  Invest in others when some choose only themselves.  Wear a mask.  Get vaccinated.  Invest your prayers and signs of support in the sick and those who care for them.

Already, some folks are demonizing Afghan refugees and saying there’s no place for them in our country.  Listen to the words of the Torah: “The alien who resides with you shall be to you as the citizen among you; you shall love the alien as yourself, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt: I am the Lord your God” (Lev. 19:34).  Or, if you prefer some words from Jesus, “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me” (Matthew 25:35).  Invest accordingly.  Dare to be hope.

As you read heartbreaking news from Haiti, invest in the work of the United Methodist Committee on Relief through our church.  One hundred percent of your investment becomes real help in the midst of real suffering.

You get the point.  Dare to invest in hope. 

Jeremiah 32 tells of another great moment in investment history.  The Babylonians have invaded Judah; defeat, destruction and panic are everywhere; the nation is doomed; exile awaits.  So, Jeremiah—who for so long prophesied this very moment—goes out and buys a field.  He invests in God’s promise that God would someday bring God’s people home.

The rubble and death around us are real.  But even through the smoke and tears, mercy sees a way.  When all the world seems to be selling, invest in the ones who are hurting.  We have a promise, after all.  Love is greater than every foe.  Call it insider trading, if you wish, or call it hope.

Yours in Christ,
Mark Westmoreland,
Senior Pastor

Words from Westmoreland: Exile, Pandemics, and Teary Returns

Reading through the Bible, you will no doubt find passages that strain credulity.  A fish opened its mouth and spit Jonah onto the shore?  Another fish opened its mouth and spit out a coin for the disciples’ taxes?  Hmm.  Then you read other stories, and all you can say is, “Yep, of course.”  Then, now, for as long as the world is what we know, true, absolutely true.

At the church council retreat Saturday, I read a passage from Ezra—admittedly, a book I don’t often cite—the third chapter, verses 10-13.  Around 538 B.C., after half a century or so in Babylon, the exiles return in groups and waves to Judah and Jerusalem.

After a few months, they come to a holy moment.  The rubble of Solomon’s temple, destroyed by the Babylonians, has been cleared and the foundation of a new temple laid on the site.  The people gather to celebrate.  This is a new beginning.  Priests in their holy attire preside; musicians play; and the people shout with joy.  For the younger folks in the crowd, Jerusalem and the temple were the stuff of dreams.  “Someday,” they had said, “someday.”  Now!  Today!  Home.

There are other folks in the crowd, much older, and they bring with them memories.  They look at the new foundation, simple and small, and remember the glory and joy of worship in the one now gone, and they remember the people, memories now too, with whom they shared it all.  This moment is a new beginning—joy, yes—and it’s a reminder of what is no more.  They weep.  They can’t help it.  And we’re told that their weeping mixed with the joyous shouts, so that those hearing it all couldn’t tell the difference.

Yep, of course.

The writers could have left out the part about the weeping; it’s a prettier story without it; but they didn’t, because they couldn’t, because it’s true.

Your baby takes her first steps, and it’s wonderful, but you remember the infant in your arms. You watch your son head off to college.  Wonderful.  So, why the tears?

Every step forward carries us away from what was, and the path behind us disappears.  Sometimes that’s a gift, sometimes a loss, and so often both.

We are returning from a pandemic, not as quickly as we thought, but returning nonetheless, in groups and waves.  Home again and a new beginning.  It’s joy.  But we wonder: What have we lost?  Whom have we lost?  What was, that now won’t be?  Is there grief with the joy?

I’m guessing it isn’t too hard for you to recall the best days of your life in the church.  Your children were kids and involved, and the family together.  Or you volunteered, working with friends: Hard work?  Yes.  Joy?  Yes.  Or maybe the best days were all about the people who sat around you in worship or Sunday School.  The memories are gifts.

And now, with all our memories, we return, but it’s a new day, and the path behind us disappears.  Are those shouts of joy I hear?  Is there some weeping?

I invite you: Come home … with all your mixed feelings, with rejoicing and with tears. 

Come with thanksgiving for your best days in the church.  And come with prayers for what will be.  This is indeed a new beginning in a new day, and the path stretches ahead, not back, but Christ is with us as we take the next steps, and we’re together.  In this journey of ours, we’ll find worship, prayer, study, service, and the gift of presence and simple conversation—grace upon grace.  We know that because we’ve known that.

And we know this, too: Somewhere years down the road, as the church looks back on these days of return, someone will smile and say, “Those were the best days for me, you know, my very best in the church.”

Yours in Christ,
Mark Westmoreland,
Senior Pastor

Meet Chase McKoon, Glenn Memorial's New Family Ministries Intern

Welcome, Chase!

Chase McKoon is Glenn Memorial Church’s new Family Ministries Intern working with Rev. Susan Pinson.

He is delighted to join us while completing his second year of his Master of Divinity at Emory’s Candler School of Theology. Chase is from Smiths Station, Alabama which is only a hop, skip, and a jump from Columbus, Georgia. While there, he grew up attending Trinity United Methodist Church in Phenix City, Alabama where he is a member, and his family has been attending Trinity UMC for several generations.

Chase is the youngest of four siblings. His parents are Jim and Barbara McKoon, and they are both well acquainted with the law.  Jim is an attorney in Phenix City, Alabama with his own law practice, McKoon and Gamble, and Barbara has served McKoon and Gamble for many years as both a paralegal and business administrator. Chase often jokes that one of his summertime childhood activities was coloring in front of the law book series Corpus Juris Secundum.

Chase graduated from Glenwood High School in Smiths Station, Alabama in 2016, and that same year he began his undergraduate studies at Huntingdon College in Montgomery, Alabama. During his studies at Huntingdon College, Chase had a variety of experiences in the United Methodist Church. He interned at Mt. Zion UMC (Smiths Station, AL), First UMC (Montgomery, AL), First UMC (Lakeland, FL), the Huntingdon Leadership Academy (Youth Theological Institute, Huntingdon College), and the Alabama-West Florida Conference Office of Ministerial Services. He has also served on the Alabama-West Florida Conference Board of Laity in the 2016-2020 quadrennium, and Chase also worked at Toco Hills Community Alliance during his first year in the Master of Divinity program at Candler School of Theology.

In December of 2019, Chase graduated from Huntingdon College with a Bachelor of Arts, double majoring in Religion and History. In August 2020, he began his studies at Candler School of Theology. He is currently a certified candidate for ordained ministry on the deacon track from the Alabama-West Florida Conference of The United Methodist Church.

At this time, Chase hopes to work in both non-profits and churches doing work in both advocacy/policy-work and spiritual care, and he is still discerning how he can best live out his calling to professional ordained ministry. 

Glenn Memorial is lucky to have Chase joining our team and we’re excited to see all he does while interning with us.

Words from Westmoreland: Life Seeks Life

He stood before the clerk, dog beside him, checkbook in hand.  “You see, my wife died a couple of weeks ago, and she always paid,” he said.  “Will my PetSmart card be enough, or will you need other ID?”  That’s all I heard and all I know.

I’m not a great judge of age, but I would say he was in his 80s.  I’m guessing he had just had the dog groomed, and I’m pretty positive he was fighting with all his strength to manage the task.

His question to the clerk was so matter-of-fact, but he had to mention her death, didn’t he?  It was just a check to PetSmart, you see, but up until the blank space before him, the handwriting in the check register was hers.  His life had been turned upside down and shaken empty, nothing but blank spaces everywhere, and the dog was overdue for grooming.

I wondered how long they had been married.  Long enough.  There in the PetSmart, the most significant span of time for the man with the checkbook was two weeks.

And I wondered about the dog.  Hers?  Theirs?  His now.  Like everything else in the man’s home, the dog carries memories of her, but unlike all those other memorials, the dog lives and moves and, with silent eyes, perhaps even shares his grief.  It is important, that dog, a link from what was to what is and maybe even what can be.  And it’s alive.

Life seeks life.  We human beings are not defined by pulse or respiration; it is connection that enlivens us.  The moments we share in this world give substance to our breaths and nourishment to our souls.  That is a truth reaffirmed by the longings of our hearts over the past year and a half.  It is the truth we claim again as we return, nervously maybe, joyously, to our sanctuary together.

Life seeks life.  The man will get up tomorrow and take the dog outside, and he will feed it, then sitting among memories, he will scratch it behind the ears and stroke its back, and the dog will sigh, and the man will sigh, and they will know they are alive.  And in that life hope stirs.

Yours in Christ,
Mark Westmoreland,
Senior Pastor