by Chris Ritter

I cried today. The opening worship of the convening General Conference of the Global Methodist Church touched my core. The quality of the music, impressive and earnest, was not the trigger. Nor was the impassioned and spiritual multi-lingual concert of prayer that followed. It was just… the moment. Methodist Christians from all over the world stood to praise Jesus at a moment of kairos, an Ebenezer of God’s faithfulness. In the years leading up to this day, it had pleased Providence to baptize us in fire… fightings without and fears within… in order to determine if we are yet alive. Today we knew and confessed, we are. No one is here by accident. Each one paid a price known only to them. The Global Methodist Church is better than it ever could have been with a Protocol, Connectional Conference Plan, or other such amicable re-shuffle of the same old deck. Climbing up the rough side the mountain has made us stronger, humbler, and all the more determined.

I could not help but remember the last time I cried at a General Conference: Portland 2016. A series of political maneuverings allowed the bishops to swerve and narrowly miss a call for separation. An angry delegate rose to spit venom at the presiding bishop for allegedly giving secret hand signals, of all things, during a prior vote. The dysfunction of a church I loved caused me to break down. When the Washington Post linked to a post I wrote, “Tears for My Church” became my most read blog ever. Today’s tears were so much more healthy, so much more holy, so much more hopeful.

The few votes we took today revealed a church at peace with herself. Bishops were affirmed by acclamation. Rules were passed without debate (a far cry from 2016 when wrangling over a single proposed rule change took days.) The work of the Transitional Leadership Council was received with gratitude. Spontaneous prayer and praise broke out in lobbies and on buses. It feels such a blessing to be a Global Methodist.

Tonight a thousand delegates, volunteers, and observers loaded into a mis-matched armada of buses for a two-hour ride to the sprawling campus of a Methodist School. We ate rice, beans, and fried plantains as the students regaled us with drums, dancing, and other signs of sumptuous welcome. It was a great reminder that an active church impacts far more than the hearts of church-goers. The Wesleyan Social Witness leaves a mark for good wherever it goes. We worshipped passionately, as is our mission, amid the low roar of rain on the metal roof of the gymnasium. In spite of the noise, we heard Carolyn Moore’s prophetic message quite clearly: “God has so much more.”

Exhausted from the day, we rode back to the hotel. Sitting beside me was a young man named Shaun who came down from Dallas to play the trumpet in our orchestra. After conversing for a while and noticing his faint Irish accent, I realized this was none other than Billy Abraham’s son. It turns out Billy had been to Costa Rica many times and launched his church multiplication work in Eastern Europe from here. Though gone from us, Billy is yet alive, too. He and the whole Church Triumphant communed with us tonight at a table untethered by time and space.

Good tears return at the close of such a rich, sweet, holy day.