Barneyisfat

The hale slaps against the window pane, and my heart feels the pain as it hails the final days on autumn.

I´m never really certain how to spell things. Homonyms make my head go a little dizzy; knowing that a roomful of eager English students (some of whom are named Igor) are depending upon my loose knowledge of the English language makes my heart thud a little bit louder.

I hate self-identifying as an "English teacher." The words roll off my tongue like a Tianimen square tank. Sometimes, however, they are a bit easier on the palate than explaining my status as a volunteer, religious-worker, not a Mormon, interconfessional -you know all denominations (not Jews), and eventually winding back to ... I´m an English Teacher. It´s really a terrible thing for the teacher to be the least passionate one in the room. I love my students, I enjoy the way I´ve structured the classes, but I just don´t care for the subject.

There´s something that smacks of colonialism in using English as outreach. I mean, we´re not forcing English on anyone; just helping people who would like to know it better to improve their jobs or their lives. But, still, somewhere deep inside I have a sense that 50-year old me will be discontent with the actions of 20-year old me.

When I sat in classes I could easily define mission, missions, and missionaries. Now, I´m not so certain. I live overseas. I plant churches. I travel on crowded busses and have great stories that involve food you wouldn´t touch. But, really, which of those things makes me a missionary?

The girl with an impossibly Latvian name (Gida, Gudi, Gita, Guta ... I´m a little hazy on the details) asks me what separates the United Methodist church from other denominations. After explaining the historicity of my beloved denomination she repeats her question. I love the United Methodist church, but explaining that bit of trivia would probably not have answered her question either.

I would like to explain that we have Open hearts, Open minds, and Open doors - but I´m afraid that she might have had contact with one and would know that this simply isn´t true (that very day, I tried to visit a United Methodist church in Riga and it certainly didn´t have open doors!).

I tried to explain our social justice ministries - but I know that my local United Methodist church does none of those things. I wish I could have explained our obvious political stances and the good we had done in government; but I could think of no examples. Even on cut-and-dry issues we are not of one mind.

I didn´t give a convincing answer to that girl. At 3 O´clock that morning I woke up with the realization that I´m what´s special about the United Methodist church.

We are no greater than our people. We serve and make disciples no more effectively than our people. Like zebras, we can run no faster than the slowest member of our herd. The heart of our denomination is only as open as the hearts of the 11 million United Methodists around the world. The same for our minds and the same for the doors of the thousands of United Methodist churches.

We need a revival. We need to be reminded why we are United Methodists. We need to earn the lofty slogans we slap on our buildings.

And as the hale melts away, I am reminded that winter will be over soon enough. My English classes will create good memories and might help to make a few new disciples. Perhaps a few of those disciples will go on to become United Methodists and maybe a few of them will rise above the din and clatter and will lead revival.

Perhaps they will know how to answer the questions that come their way better than I. Perhaps people won´t even need to ask such questions.