One of the things that drew me to this congregation was that they had an active and lively Sunday morning Bible study. Though attendance varied, I heard that it was not uncommon to have forty or fifty people stay after the first service for the study time. My former congregation, a much larger one, had a hard time generating half that many.
I looked forward to leading the Sunday morning Bible study as well, although (I will admit it now), I started to find the schedule intimidating. Every single week, there was worship at 9:00, Adult Bible Study at 10:00 and another worship service at 11:00. I looked around for different kinds of Adult Studies we could do. This church does NOT take a break in the summer, so I jumped right in with a study of worship, and began the year with a 10 week video and Bible study of Grace. We also studied hymns for Advent and Faith Practices during Lent and Easter.
I'll tell you what, it was challenging to do the preparation every week and also to find good study resources.
And then summer came. We decided to have one worship service during the summer. We decided to have Bible study before worship, instead of after worship. And someone suggested that instead of a series, as we had been doing, perhaps we could do something different every week. That seemed like a good idea, but again, a lot of preparation.
I considered.
Someone ordered a couple of pamphlets: one, on the life of Paul, and another one, on favorite Bible passages. After a couple of false starts, I decided that we would use the Pamphlet on the life of Paul, and use selected portions of Acts, until we ran out of time.
There were no video supplements. There were no workbooks. There was no "Leader's Guide." There was just this pamphlet with some of the exciting things that happened to Paul in it. Every week, I looked at the pamphlet, chose a couple of Bible passages, and on Sunday morning, those of us who happened to be in attendance read the Bible, asked questions and had a conversation.
On Saturday night I spent a little time studying the Scripture passages I had chosen. Not a LOT of time. I wasn't trying to study so much that I would impress everyone with my superior Bible knowledge. Just a review of the narrative, a little bit of commentary. There were still times I ended up saying, "I don't know. I'll check that out by next week."
There were no bells, no whistles. It was just us, and the Bible, and our questions.
And you know what? I had a good time. I felt energized by our conversation together, by what we were discovering as we studied the Bible together. We discovered that when we studied the book of Acts, all kinds of contemporary issues also arose: persecution, immigration, evangelism, other religions, whatever was happening in the world.
As much as I enjoyed the ten week study of Grace, and the study of worship, and Faith Practices, this was the most fun I had had all year. It is the thing I love to do the best: reading the Bible with other people. It is not Standing Up and Lecturing People About the Bible (which has its place, and I can do that, too, but it is not my favorite thing).
It is just this simple conversation, where I ask people: what did you notice in this passage of Scripture? What questions do you have? What stuck out for you? What do you think God is saying/doing here? We all wrestle with the questions, and their meaning for our lives, together.
Together. Deep down inside, I think this is how the Bible is meant to be read: together. Maybe it's just two, or maybe three or four, or maybe a whole congregation, listening together. Somehow it happens though, when we read and ponder, wonder and wrestle together, that our lives are enriched and transformed, again and again.
Just us, the Bible, and our questions. That's how God changes us. That's how God is changing me.
Showing posts with label faith formation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label faith formation. Show all posts
Saturday, September 10, 2016
Tuesday, October 6, 2015
I Have Loved Sunday School
I grew up in Sunday School. From the time I was three years old and we were going to church at Augustana Lutheran, the church where my father grew up, I went to Sunday school every Sunday. Even when we visited my grandparents in southwestern Minnesota, I went to Sunday School. I didn't especially enjoy going to Sunday School when we visited a strange church, but I went. They sent a postcard back to my Sunday School letting them know that I had attended.
I loved Sunday School, mostly. I loved my teachers, who were not my parents, and who taught me that other adults in the church cared about me. I loved learning the stories and playing the games with the other students, some of whom were my friends. I liked when we drew pictures of churches, but then our teacher told us that the church wasn't the Building, it was the People inside who were the church. I remember learning about the Old Testament and the New Testament, and about the parts of the liturgy, too: Collect, Kyrie, Agnus Dei.
One week we had a Bible story about forgiveness, about how Peter asked Jesus how many times he should forgive. Seven times? When Jesus told him, "70 X 7", our teacher told us to try to figure the problem out. But since we hadn't learned long division yet, all we could come up with was that it must be A Very Large Number.
Another time I was in 6th grade Sunday School and we were giving our teacher a bad time. I think we were already thinking that this was boring and we didn't want to study the lesson. Our teacher was a new member of the church, a young dad with three little girls. We were giving him a tough time, so he decided that he would just share a little of his faith story with us. He told us that they had had one other daughter, who had died of leukemia, and how that affected his faith. I still remember that.
So, I grew up in Sunday School, and I learned some things. I learned some things about relationships. I learned some things about the church. I learned some things about the Bible, although there were some gaps. For example, I did not have a very good idea about how the stories went together, for one thing. This was true even though I went both to church and to Sunday School every single week.
So I have to admit that Sunday School was not perfect, and it is even less perfect now. Perfect attendance is rare now, for one thing. It is hard to find enough teachers, and even if you find enough teachers, it is hard to find enough students who really want to go. There are plenty of other options on Sunday morning. Every parent can teach their child about Jesus, but not every parent can be a good Sunday School teacher.
I have loved Sunday School, but I have to admit that, for a lot of churches, and a lot of children, it isn't working. They are not learning the stories of the Bible, but most of all, they aren't learning that other adults in the church care about them.
But one of the gifts of the church is still relationships. It is a place where we can meet each other and know each other across generations, where we will realize that Forgiveness Is a Really Big Number, and where we can share stories and songs and pray and catch faith from one another.
If only we will only make the space.
I loved Sunday School, mostly. I loved my teachers, who were not my parents, and who taught me that other adults in the church cared about me. I loved learning the stories and playing the games with the other students, some of whom were my friends. I liked when we drew pictures of churches, but then our teacher told us that the church wasn't the Building, it was the People inside who were the church. I remember learning about the Old Testament and the New Testament, and about the parts of the liturgy, too: Collect, Kyrie, Agnus Dei.
One week we had a Bible story about forgiveness, about how Peter asked Jesus how many times he should forgive. Seven times? When Jesus told him, "70 X 7", our teacher told us to try to figure the problem out. But since we hadn't learned long division yet, all we could come up with was that it must be A Very Large Number.Another time I was in 6th grade Sunday School and we were giving our teacher a bad time. I think we were already thinking that this was boring and we didn't want to study the lesson. Our teacher was a new member of the church, a young dad with three little girls. We were giving him a tough time, so he decided that he would just share a little of his faith story with us. He told us that they had had one other daughter, who had died of leukemia, and how that affected his faith. I still remember that.
So, I grew up in Sunday School, and I learned some things. I learned some things about relationships. I learned some things about the church. I learned some things about the Bible, although there were some gaps. For example, I did not have a very good idea about how the stories went together, for one thing. This was true even though I went both to church and to Sunday School every single week.
So I have to admit that Sunday School was not perfect, and it is even less perfect now. Perfect attendance is rare now, for one thing. It is hard to find enough teachers, and even if you find enough teachers, it is hard to find enough students who really want to go. There are plenty of other options on Sunday morning. Every parent can teach their child about Jesus, but not every parent can be a good Sunday School teacher.
I have loved Sunday School, but I have to admit that, for a lot of churches, and a lot of children, it isn't working. They are not learning the stories of the Bible, but most of all, they aren't learning that other adults in the church care about them.
But one of the gifts of the church is still relationships. It is a place where we can meet each other and know each other across generations, where we will realize that Forgiveness Is a Really Big Number, and where we can share stories and songs and pray and catch faith from one another.
If only we will only make the space.
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
Sunday
"This might be the last time I take communion from you," someone said to me after worship on Sunday. It made my heart jump, a little.
"We will be gone the next two weeks, so maybe I should say good-bye today," said someone else.
I have three more Sundays in worship, and one of them is Memorial Day weekend. Everything seems to be moving very fast. Sometimes I want it to go faster, and sometimes I want it to slow down.
In the meantime, there was a baptism on Sunday. The baby was the child of a young woman I baptized, many years ago, when she was in eighth grade. It was my first year as a pastor in this congregation. I remember her well, how she was not self-conscious at all, but very poised and confident as she stood before the congregation at the late service that morning.
I remember the young woman who was her best friend, too. They are still best friends, and she was one of the godparents for her friend's baby. I saw them both there, and remembered that first year in confirmation class, the creative ideas I tried, some huge failures and others a modest success. I remembered the chaos, kids bouncing off the walls, including these two best friends.
That year, for part of the confirmation lesson on Easter, I decided to tell the story, "The Tale of Three Trees." I have always loved that story, and wanted to connect it with the Bible stories of the resurrection. Besides, I do believe that I am good at telling stories.
So, I began. And I thought that the confirmation students were listening, too. Then, sometime in the middle of the story, I saw these two girls, these two best friends. They were standing in the back of the crowded room, and they were swaying and doing hand motions. My heart sank. I thought that they were dis-respecting me. I just tried to ignore them and kept going.
Later on, I talked to our youth and family director, expressing disappointment. But, she had another view. She said she thought that they were listening, that they were in fact engaged, and that they were standing there, acting out the story.
Acting out the story.
On Sunday, four Sundays before my last Sunday here in this congregation, I am sitting in worship, and I am remembering back so many years ago. I am remembering a confirmation class, and best friends, and how they acted out the story. I am remembering a young woman who stood at the baptismal font, and who leaned over with great gravity and allowed me to pour water over her head. I am remembering every baptism, and I am remembering the confirmation students in their white robes and I am remembering those moments of chaos and clarity, the ways we have acted out the story.
And how this is the gift of worship, but also its challenge: will our worship leave space to act out the story of God, which is our story too, by the grace of our baptism?
On Sunday, after the baptism, I got to take the baby in my arms and walk her up and down the aisle while we sang a lullaby. And one thing I like to do is get the baby up really close to the people on the aisle, so that they can reach out and touch her if they want, or so that the baby can reach out and touch them too.
I can't help thinking that this is what we really want, what we really need, in worship: to act out the story, where the story of God touches us.
On Sunday, I remembered. I gave communion. I held a baby. I sang. I acted out the story.
"We will be gone the next two weeks, so maybe I should say good-bye today," said someone else.
I have three more Sundays in worship, and one of them is Memorial Day weekend. Everything seems to be moving very fast. Sometimes I want it to go faster, and sometimes I want it to slow down.
In the meantime, there was a baptism on Sunday. The baby was the child of a young woman I baptized, many years ago, when she was in eighth grade. It was my first year as a pastor in this congregation. I remember her well, how she was not self-conscious at all, but very poised and confident as she stood before the congregation at the late service that morning.
I remember the young woman who was her best friend, too. They are still best friends, and she was one of the godparents for her friend's baby. I saw them both there, and remembered that first year in confirmation class, the creative ideas I tried, some huge failures and others a modest success. I remembered the chaos, kids bouncing off the walls, including these two best friends.
That year, for part of the confirmation lesson on Easter, I decided to tell the story, "The Tale of Three Trees." I have always loved that story, and wanted to connect it with the Bible stories of the resurrection. Besides, I do believe that I am good at telling stories.
So, I began. And I thought that the confirmation students were listening, too. Then, sometime in the middle of the story, I saw these two girls, these two best friends. They were standing in the back of the crowded room, and they were swaying and doing hand motions. My heart sank. I thought that they were dis-respecting me. I just tried to ignore them and kept going.
Later on, I talked to our youth and family director, expressing disappointment. But, she had another view. She said she thought that they were listening, that they were in fact engaged, and that they were standing there, acting out the story.
Acting out the story.
On Sunday, four Sundays before my last Sunday here in this congregation, I am sitting in worship, and I am remembering back so many years ago. I am remembering a confirmation class, and best friends, and how they acted out the story. I am remembering a young woman who stood at the baptismal font, and who leaned over with great gravity and allowed me to pour water over her head. I am remembering every baptism, and I am remembering the confirmation students in their white robes and I am remembering those moments of chaos and clarity, the ways we have acted out the story.
And how this is the gift of worship, but also its challenge: will our worship leave space to act out the story of God, which is our story too, by the grace of our baptism?
On Sunday, after the baptism, I got to take the baby in my arms and walk her up and down the aisle while we sang a lullaby. And one thing I like to do is get the baby up really close to the people on the aisle, so that they can reach out and touch her if they want, or so that the baby can reach out and touch them too.
I can't help thinking that this is what we really want, what we really need, in worship: to act out the story, where the story of God touches us.
On Sunday, I remembered. I gave communion. I held a baby. I sang. I acted out the story.
Saturday, January 17, 2015
"What's More Important Than Your Eternal Life?"
I was meeting with a family; they were telling stories about their mother, their lively, smart, stubborn, faithful mother. She loved music and singing, cooking, traveling and learning. She made and kept friends easily; she was interested in people. She had been a nurse and an active partner to her husband, a family practice doctor, who had died during the last year after suffering from memory loss.
So we were sharing stories about their mother's faith when one of the daughters remembered their non-negotiable church attendance. During the time she was growing up, their parish had a tradition of a pre-Lenten family night. The daughter wanted to stay home instead and watch "The Wizard of Oz." But her mother was adamant about the family priorities, saying, "What is more important than your eternal life?"
I have to say, I can't imagine any parent these days saying something like this to their children. And I will also admit that, out of the context of the conversation I was having, it doesn't sound like something I would even want a parent to say to their children. To the unpracticed ear, it sounds like a threat, "Go to church or your eternal life might be in jeopardy." Is our salvation dependent on our church attendance? Does going to pre-Lenten family nights earn us more salvation points with God? I think not.
But, I am not sure that is the point the mother was making to her children. It is not that somehow the certainty of their eternal destination depended on attendance at a certain number of church functions. Perhaps it is more the hope that attendance at those church functions would be part of creating a foundation of trust.
"What is more important that your eternal life?" Maybe that question doesn't mean "What is more important than knowing where you will spend eternity?" What if it means more like, "What is more important than knowing God?" After all, that is the definition of eternal life in John 17:3: "Now this is eternal life: that they know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom you have sent."
One of the things that impressed me about this woman, and her faith, was that she had a list of questions that she was going to ask God, when she saw God face to face. And the questions she had for God -- they weren't small potatoes. They weren't theoretical questions. Her top question to ask God was, "What's with this Alzheimers' crap?" Deep faith did not mean unquestioning faith. Deep faith meant faith deep enough to ask questions without fear. Deep faith meant faith deep enough to know that she could bring her questions, and even her anger, to God.
To me, it's a powerful combination: to trust God enough to bring to God the hardest questions of our lives. And to teach our children that they can do it, too.
What is more important than knowing God so well that you can ask God your hardest questions?
So we were sharing stories about their mother's faith when one of the daughters remembered their non-negotiable church attendance. During the time she was growing up, their parish had a tradition of a pre-Lenten family night. The daughter wanted to stay home instead and watch "The Wizard of Oz." But her mother was adamant about the family priorities, saying, "What is more important than your eternal life?"
I have to say, I can't imagine any parent these days saying something like this to their children. And I will also admit that, out of the context of the conversation I was having, it doesn't sound like something I would even want a parent to say to their children. To the unpracticed ear, it sounds like a threat, "Go to church or your eternal life might be in jeopardy." Is our salvation dependent on our church attendance? Does going to pre-Lenten family nights earn us more salvation points with God? I think not.
But, I am not sure that is the point the mother was making to her children. It is not that somehow the certainty of their eternal destination depended on attendance at a certain number of church functions. Perhaps it is more the hope that attendance at those church functions would be part of creating a foundation of trust.
"What is more important that your eternal life?" Maybe that question doesn't mean "What is more important than knowing where you will spend eternity?" What if it means more like, "What is more important than knowing God?" After all, that is the definition of eternal life in John 17:3: "Now this is eternal life: that they know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom you have sent."
One of the things that impressed me about this woman, and her faith, was that she had a list of questions that she was going to ask God, when she saw God face to face. And the questions she had for God -- they weren't small potatoes. They weren't theoretical questions. Her top question to ask God was, "What's with this Alzheimers' crap?" Deep faith did not mean unquestioning faith. Deep faith meant faith deep enough to ask questions without fear. Deep faith meant faith deep enough to know that she could bring her questions, and even her anger, to God.
To me, it's a powerful combination: to trust God enough to bring to God the hardest questions of our lives. And to teach our children that they can do it, too.
What is more important than knowing God so well that you can ask God your hardest questions?
Thursday, January 1, 2015
Solitude
My congregation celebrated Epiphany one week early this year, on December 28, the last Sunday of 2014. It was the reading assigned as part of our congregation's experiment with a different set of Scripture readings for the year, called the "Narrative Lectionary." I had also been thinking, since almost this time last year, about a using an worship experience called "Star Words" in our services on Epiphany Sunday. Different words, suited to meditation and guidance, words you can think about and chew on and even consider a gift, are printed on stars and given out to worshippers on the day we hear about the magi who followed the star. Each person chooses a word from the pile; that word becomes their word for the year, whatever the implications may be.
Some of the words we used: vision. writing. inspiration. joy. discernment. service. teaching. time. comfort. responsibility. There were 163 words in all, so some we used more than once. We printed them on pretty yellow stars with blue backs, the kind you can get at an art supply store. On Sunday morning, we gave them out as people came up for communion, but at our small Saturday evening service there were only about 12 of us (it was the weekend after Christmas, after all), so I chose my star as part of the sermon, and we had everyone else choose their stars as well.
A new woman, sitting in the back of the chapel, got the word 'wisdom.' Someone else, who I knew had experienced much loss this past year, got 'strength.' A 91 year old man got 'leadership.' Another woman, I remember, got the word 'judgment', and I could tell that she felt sort of uneasy about that. She wanted a different word. But for myself, I was relieved that if someone had to get the word judgment, it would be her, because she is one of the kindest, most gracious people I know. I would be assured about her judgments.
We worried a bit about whether we had enough stars (we did). Someone said if we ran out, people could make their own. It was hard to explain that making your own wasn't the point; the point was picking a word which you did not choose. I did tell a couple of people that they could choose another word, if they really felt the first one doesn't fit. But the second one has also to be chosen from the pile as well; you can't decide for yourself what your word will be, which is different, I think, from so much of our experience. Like New Year's resolutions and goals, you make a list of what you want to do, who you want to be, and then you work on making it happen. But the star is different. It is not about what you make of your life, but about what comes to you, what is given to you.
As for me, I got the word "solitude."
I thought it an odd choice for the pastor, since so much of my vocation involves being around people. Someone else did too: she offered to change words with me. She got "service", and was willing to take my "solitude."
I won't lie: I knew what many of the words were, and I was kind of hoping for 'inspiration' (which was at the top of the star pile at one time) or 'time' or even 'writing' (something which would be on my list, if I was constructing a life). But, instead I got 'solitude,' which I know, deep in my heart, is a gift, and which I both desire and fear, at the same time. I know I need solitude, but I am not always sure what I will find when I am alone with myself. Or maybe I suspect that I do know, and that is the problem. Will solitude be inspiring for me, or will it be a big, empty space? What will God say to me, if I give God room to say it?
Some of the words we used: vision. writing. inspiration. joy. discernment. service. teaching. time. comfort. responsibility. There were 163 words in all, so some we used more than once. We printed them on pretty yellow stars with blue backs, the kind you can get at an art supply store. On Sunday morning, we gave them out as people came up for communion, but at our small Saturday evening service there were only about 12 of us (it was the weekend after Christmas, after all), so I chose my star as part of the sermon, and we had everyone else choose their stars as well. A new woman, sitting in the back of the chapel, got the word 'wisdom.' Someone else, who I knew had experienced much loss this past year, got 'strength.' A 91 year old man got 'leadership.' Another woman, I remember, got the word 'judgment', and I could tell that she felt sort of uneasy about that. She wanted a different word. But for myself, I was relieved that if someone had to get the word judgment, it would be her, because she is one of the kindest, most gracious people I know. I would be assured about her judgments.
We worried a bit about whether we had enough stars (we did). Someone said if we ran out, people could make their own. It was hard to explain that making your own wasn't the point; the point was picking a word which you did not choose. I did tell a couple of people that they could choose another word, if they really felt the first one doesn't fit. But the second one has also to be chosen from the pile as well; you can't decide for yourself what your word will be, which is different, I think, from so much of our experience. Like New Year's resolutions and goals, you make a list of what you want to do, who you want to be, and then you work on making it happen. But the star is different. It is not about what you make of your life, but about what comes to you, what is given to you.
As for me, I got the word "solitude."
I thought it an odd choice for the pastor, since so much of my vocation involves being around people. Someone else did too: she offered to change words with me. She got "service", and was willing to take my "solitude."
I won't lie: I knew what many of the words were, and I was kind of hoping for 'inspiration' (which was at the top of the star pile at one time) or 'time' or even 'writing' (something which would be on my list, if I was constructing a life). But, instead I got 'solitude,' which I know, deep in my heart, is a gift, and which I both desire and fear, at the same time. I know I need solitude, but I am not always sure what I will find when I am alone with myself. Or maybe I suspect that I do know, and that is the problem. Will solitude be inspiring for me, or will it be a big, empty space? What will God say to me, if I give God room to say it?Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Paying Attention
This morning my dog Scout and I had a little excitement on our walk. It wasn't a big excitement; we don't lead really interesting lives, but I credit what excitement we glean from Scout, at least in part.
It was a beautiful, cool morning out, perfect dog-walking weather. We walked down to the end of the block, as we always do, the dead end which leads to the nature center where there are No Dogs Allowed. There is also not an entrance to the nature center from our block, but there is some nature there.
Just as we were rounding the corner, I happened to see just the tail end of a deer, disappearing behind the fence line. I think Scout probably noticed something before I did. Truthfully, that dog is always looking around, and sniffing around, and walking around as if there is much more going on in the neighborhood than I can see. She makes me pay attention, because, when I am walking with her, I'm always aware that I might be missing something.
So we saw this little white tail disappearing, and since Scout was with me, we decided to explore a little bit, to walk down into the dead end and see if we could see more. I could tell that Scout thought that this was a good idea as well.
When we got up to the fence line we could hear and see the deer: a gangly young thing with fuzzy antlers that looked from a distance as if they were slightly different heights. The deer took a long moment to stare at us, woman and dog, before galloping, no, leaping off along the fence line.
We took our moment of grace for what it was, and gave thanks. Then we continued on our walk, back up the road toward home.
When we got near the end of the road, my dog-tuned ears recognized that something was not quite right. But it wasn't until we were just one house from the end of the block that we noticed the deer again. He had run all the way down the fence line, and was now running (no, leaping is the correct word, again) at the other end of our block.
He stopped between two houses, and we got close enough to stare back at him again. He had seemed so large at first, but now I could tell that he was all legs and slight. Scout and I looked at him for another long moment. I knew he needed to get back to the nature center, the one where there are No Dogs Allowed. But we stood there for a moment, wishing we had cameras (or at least I did.) Then we took that one step that would cause the deer to leap off, back in the direction of home.
Before Scout, I don't remember moments like this. Maybe it's just the walks, but I don't think so. I think that it's the walks, and it's something else, too. I am getting a little better at paying attention, to listening and seeing, even if it's just the tail end of a deer, or a rustling in the wind. It might not be anything, but it might be something, you never know.
Before Scout, I'll bet I wouldn't have discovered two nests of baby rabbits in my back yard. It was Scout who discovered them, and, even though I admit that her intentions toward them were not pure, her excitement was the thing that tuned my eyes and ears.
Before Scout, I would not have been aware of the imminence of a thunderstorm, just before it erupts. She has senses to which we do not pay attention, telling her what is most important.
Scout is always discovering something that I didn't even know existed: a piece of garbage, a turtle, a rock, a weed, a stick. Her ears (well, one of them, anyway) prick up and I feel as if she is hearing pieces of the universe's orchestra that are too fine for my ears.
Paying Attention: it is a fine art, and I have not mastered it. Knowing What is Most Important: this too I have not mastered, even though Jesus keeps reminding me, giving me little pieces of bread in my hand, a sip of wine, a few well-placed words, the line of a hymn. While I worry, there is a white-tailed deer disappearing into the woods, and I might miss him again.
Or this time, maybe I'll see.
Maybe I'll see, and maybe I'll hear just a little fragment of the song of the universe, the trees clapping their hands, the counterpoint of the streams, one graceful beat of the deer leaping away.
It was a beautiful, cool morning out, perfect dog-walking weather. We walked down to the end of the block, as we always do, the dead end which leads to the nature center where there are No Dogs Allowed. There is also not an entrance to the nature center from our block, but there is some nature there.
Just as we were rounding the corner, I happened to see just the tail end of a deer, disappearing behind the fence line. I think Scout probably noticed something before I did. Truthfully, that dog is always looking around, and sniffing around, and walking around as if there is much more going on in the neighborhood than I can see. She makes me pay attention, because, when I am walking with her, I'm always aware that I might be missing something.
So we saw this little white tail disappearing, and since Scout was with me, we decided to explore a little bit, to walk down into the dead end and see if we could see more. I could tell that Scout thought that this was a good idea as well.
When we got up to the fence line we could hear and see the deer: a gangly young thing with fuzzy antlers that looked from a distance as if they were slightly different heights. The deer took a long moment to stare at us, woman and dog, before galloping, no, leaping off along the fence line.
We took our moment of grace for what it was, and gave thanks. Then we continued on our walk, back up the road toward home.
When we got near the end of the road, my dog-tuned ears recognized that something was not quite right. But it wasn't until we were just one house from the end of the block that we noticed the deer again. He had run all the way down the fence line, and was now running (no, leaping is the correct word, again) at the other end of our block.
He stopped between two houses, and we got close enough to stare back at him again. He had seemed so large at first, but now I could tell that he was all legs and slight. Scout and I looked at him for another long moment. I knew he needed to get back to the nature center, the one where there are No Dogs Allowed. But we stood there for a moment, wishing we had cameras (or at least I did.) Then we took that one step that would cause the deer to leap off, back in the direction of home.
Before Scout, I don't remember moments like this. Maybe it's just the walks, but I don't think so. I think that it's the walks, and it's something else, too. I am getting a little better at paying attention, to listening and seeing, even if it's just the tail end of a deer, or a rustling in the wind. It might not be anything, but it might be something, you never know.
Before Scout, I'll bet I wouldn't have discovered two nests of baby rabbits in my back yard. It was Scout who discovered them, and, even though I admit that her intentions toward them were not pure, her excitement was the thing that tuned my eyes and ears.
Before Scout, I would not have been aware of the imminence of a thunderstorm, just before it erupts. She has senses to which we do not pay attention, telling her what is most important.
Scout is always discovering something that I didn't even know existed: a piece of garbage, a turtle, a rock, a weed, a stick. Her ears (well, one of them, anyway) prick up and I feel as if she is hearing pieces of the universe's orchestra that are too fine for my ears.
Paying Attention: it is a fine art, and I have not mastered it. Knowing What is Most Important: this too I have not mastered, even though Jesus keeps reminding me, giving me little pieces of bread in my hand, a sip of wine, a few well-placed words, the line of a hymn. While I worry, there is a white-tailed deer disappearing into the woods, and I might miss him again.
Or this time, maybe I'll see.
Maybe I'll see, and maybe I'll hear just a little fragment of the song of the universe, the trees clapping their hands, the counterpoint of the streams, one graceful beat of the deer leaping away.
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Saying "Yes" and Meaning It
Today was Confirmation Sunday for our congregation. Eleven young people stood up in front of the congregation and said, "Yes", they wanted to continue to be disciples of Jesus, they wanted to live their baptism, they wanted be children of God, just as they were called when their parents carried them to the font a few years ago. Eleven young people said, "Yes, and I ask God to help and guide me", when I asked them "Do you intend to continue in the covenant God made with you in Holy Baptism?"
And I think they all meant it.
Oh, I know that some of them have doubts. Some of them wonder about the stories of the Bible. Are they really true? Some of them seem hard to believe. But despite their doubts, they somehow want to continue the journey, being connected to this particular set of people who bear Christ's name. Others of them are more certain of God, but they still have questions. They wonder about how it all works, what eternity is like, why is there evil in the world? But despite their questions, they still said "Yes" when I asked them "Do you intend to continue in the covenant God made with you in Holy Baptism?"
It's a pretty big question, whether you are in the 9th grade or whether you are 90. "Do you intend to continue in the covenant God made with you in Holy Baptism?" Just to prove it, when we ask 9th graders, we break the question down into five parts. We say this is what it means to continue in the covenant God made with us in Holy Baptism:
* to live among God's holy people
* to hear God's word and share in his supper
* to proclaim the good news of God in Christ through word and deed
* to serve all people, following the example of our Lord Jesus,
* to strive for justice and peace through all the earth.
I can't help thinking that, though all of the 9th graders meant it when they said "yes" today, they really didn't know what they were getting into. In this way, they aren't that different from any one of us, at any age, when we say "yes" to being disciples of Jesus.
We all say "yes," because, at the time, we somehow know that saying "yes" means life to us. Saying yes means grace and forgiveness, love that is stronger than death, a place prepared with many mansions.
Just two weeks ago, members of our congregation gathered after worship to learn the outcomes of some of our redevelopment groups. We heard reports about the demographics of our community, learned more about the two paths our congregation could take: either "redevelopment" or "legacy." We learned that the path of 'redevelopment' is a path of change, and that it leads to growth and life. We learned that the path of 'legacy' is a path that, eventually, leads to death. The choice seems simple. To choose to redevelop is to choose life.
But at the heart of it, it is the same sort of question as the one posed to the confirmation students today. At the heart of it, to be a redevelopment church is to say "Yes," to the question "do you intend to continue in the covenant God made with you in Holy Baptism?"
"Yes, and I ask God to help and guide me."
On that Sunday two weeks ago, we said yes. Just like those 9th graders.
And I think we all meant it.
But we don't yet know what it will mean. We don't really realize how it is that God will transform us, in our encounters with our neighbors, in suffering and service, in worship and joy, in silence and in shouting. We don't really realize how it is that God will transform us, from one degree of glory into another.
In the meantime, we all said 'yes.'
But more important than that, we asked God to help and guide us.
And I think they all meant it.
Oh, I know that some of them have doubts. Some of them wonder about the stories of the Bible. Are they really true? Some of them seem hard to believe. But despite their doubts, they somehow want to continue the journey, being connected to this particular set of people who bear Christ's name. Others of them are more certain of God, but they still have questions. They wonder about how it all works, what eternity is like, why is there evil in the world? But despite their questions, they still said "Yes" when I asked them "Do you intend to continue in the covenant God made with you in Holy Baptism?"
It's a pretty big question, whether you are in the 9th grade or whether you are 90. "Do you intend to continue in the covenant God made with you in Holy Baptism?" Just to prove it, when we ask 9th graders, we break the question down into five parts. We say this is what it means to continue in the covenant God made with us in Holy Baptism:
* to live among God's holy people
* to hear God's word and share in his supper
* to proclaim the good news of God in Christ through word and deed
* to serve all people, following the example of our Lord Jesus,
* to strive for justice and peace through all the earth.
I can't help thinking that, though all of the 9th graders meant it when they said "yes" today, they really didn't know what they were getting into. In this way, they aren't that different from any one of us, at any age, when we say "yes" to being disciples of Jesus.
We all say "yes," because, at the time, we somehow know that saying "yes" means life to us. Saying yes means grace and forgiveness, love that is stronger than death, a place prepared with many mansions.
Just two weeks ago, members of our congregation gathered after worship to learn the outcomes of some of our redevelopment groups. We heard reports about the demographics of our community, learned more about the two paths our congregation could take: either "redevelopment" or "legacy." We learned that the path of 'redevelopment' is a path of change, and that it leads to growth and life. We learned that the path of 'legacy' is a path that, eventually, leads to death. The choice seems simple. To choose to redevelop is to choose life.
But at the heart of it, it is the same sort of question as the one posed to the confirmation students today. At the heart of it, to be a redevelopment church is to say "Yes," to the question "do you intend to continue in the covenant God made with you in Holy Baptism?"
"Yes, and I ask God to help and guide me."
On that Sunday two weeks ago, we said yes. Just like those 9th graders.
And I think we all meant it.
But we don't yet know what it will mean. We don't really realize how it is that God will transform us, in our encounters with our neighbors, in suffering and service, in worship and joy, in silence and in shouting. We don't really realize how it is that God will transform us, from one degree of glory into another.
In the meantime, we all said 'yes.'
But more important than that, we asked God to help and guide us.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
"What Are You Looking For?"
In the past year or so, we have started using the term, "Faith Formation" at my congregation. In the past, we talked about "Christian Education," or we talked about "Sunday School," or "Confirmation." Or maybe, "Adult Study." Words like that. But now we have abruptly begun to use the words "Faith Formation," fairly regularly, and it's a fair bet that many in our congregation don't know exactly what we are talking about or why we changed the words we use.
To be fair, it is possible to use the words, "faith formation", and do everything the same way as you used to do it. You can say that now you have faith formation, but you still do Sunday School, and Confirmation and adult study in exactly the same way as before, except that you have a different catch-phrase attached. I hope that's not the case with us, but it is something to think about, and guard against.
For myself, though, I really like the term "faith formation." It gives the impression (true, I think) that the process of forming our faith is eclectic: faith is formed in worship, through prayer, in service, while we are sitting down at a Bible study, at the dinner table, through informal conversations and acts of love done by us and to us. Faith is formed through times of doubt or struggle or failure as well. "Faith formation" also hints at the outcome of study and learning at well: not the simple intake of information, but who we are becoming as disciples of Jesus.
There's this great scene near the beginning of John's gospel. John the Baptist is testifying about Jesus, telling people that he's the one they have been waiting for. He is the Lamb of God, the Chosen One, the Son of God.
Two of John's disciples just up and start following Jesus. I mean, literally. They start following Jesus down the street. Jesus turns around and asks them, "What are you looking for?"
It's such a great, and ordinary question. It's the question that the assistant at the grocery store asks you, the clerk at the department store, the guy at the gas station, if you come in and you are looking bewildered. "What are you looking for?" It sounds like a marketing question. The church has been asking people this question, too. "What are you looking for?" And people are often giving the answers you would suspect: "I am looking for a contemporary worship service." "I am looking for a good youth program." "I am looking for fair-trade coffee at the fellowship hour." "I am looking for a good Bible study."
Here's the thing, though: when Jesus asks those two would-be disciples the question, they don't answer him. They don't answer the question. I think this was a moment of brilliance for the disciples (who are not known for often being brilliant, to tell the truth.) They did not answer Jesus' question, "What are you looking for?"
To me, this simple silence is at the heart of the difference between faith formation and Christian education. Christian Education is a menu of choices as we grow in our preferred direction of faith development. In that scenario Jesus asks you the question, "What are you looking for?" and you tell him, and he designs a curriculum to fit your needs.
But in Faith Formation, when Jesus asks us the question, "What are you looking for?", there is silence. There is silence, first of all, because we realize that we don't know what we're looking for, not exactly, except that it has something to do with light, and something to do with an ache in our heart. We check our pockets to see if there are keys, or a quarter, or something that will help us remember who we are. "What are you looking for?" he asked us, and the best answer is silence. And in the silence, we suddenly realize that it is we who should be asking him that question. "What are you looking for, Rabbi?"
In the silence, we put ourselves in his hands, we let him form us, we let him form us. We feel the weight of a piece of bread in our hands, and we see a small shaft of light near his feet.
And we realize that we are the people he is looking for, and that he means to form us, to make us into Light, and Peace, and Bread.
To be fair, it is possible to use the words, "faith formation", and do everything the same way as you used to do it. You can say that now you have faith formation, but you still do Sunday School, and Confirmation and adult study in exactly the same way as before, except that you have a different catch-phrase attached. I hope that's not the case with us, but it is something to think about, and guard against.
For myself, though, I really like the term "faith formation." It gives the impression (true, I think) that the process of forming our faith is eclectic: faith is formed in worship, through prayer, in service, while we are sitting down at a Bible study, at the dinner table, through informal conversations and acts of love done by us and to us. Faith is formed through times of doubt or struggle or failure as well. "Faith formation" also hints at the outcome of study and learning at well: not the simple intake of information, but who we are becoming as disciples of Jesus.
There's this great scene near the beginning of John's gospel. John the Baptist is testifying about Jesus, telling people that he's the one they have been waiting for. He is the Lamb of God, the Chosen One, the Son of God.
Two of John's disciples just up and start following Jesus. I mean, literally. They start following Jesus down the street. Jesus turns around and asks them, "What are you looking for?"
It's such a great, and ordinary question. It's the question that the assistant at the grocery store asks you, the clerk at the department store, the guy at the gas station, if you come in and you are looking bewildered. "What are you looking for?" It sounds like a marketing question. The church has been asking people this question, too. "What are you looking for?" And people are often giving the answers you would suspect: "I am looking for a contemporary worship service." "I am looking for a good youth program." "I am looking for fair-trade coffee at the fellowship hour." "I am looking for a good Bible study."
Here's the thing, though: when Jesus asks those two would-be disciples the question, they don't answer him. They don't answer the question. I think this was a moment of brilliance for the disciples (who are not known for often being brilliant, to tell the truth.) They did not answer Jesus' question, "What are you looking for?"
To me, this simple silence is at the heart of the difference between faith formation and Christian education. Christian Education is a menu of choices as we grow in our preferred direction of faith development. In that scenario Jesus asks you the question, "What are you looking for?" and you tell him, and he designs a curriculum to fit your needs.
But in Faith Formation, when Jesus asks us the question, "What are you looking for?", there is silence. There is silence, first of all, because we realize that we don't know what we're looking for, not exactly, except that it has something to do with light, and something to do with an ache in our heart. We check our pockets to see if there are keys, or a quarter, or something that will help us remember who we are. "What are you looking for?" he asked us, and the best answer is silence. And in the silence, we suddenly realize that it is we who should be asking him that question. "What are you looking for, Rabbi?"
In the silence, we put ourselves in his hands, we let him form us, we let him form us. We feel the weight of a piece of bread in our hands, and we see a small shaft of light near his feet.
And we realize that we are the people he is looking for, and that he means to form us, to make us into Light, and Peace, and Bread.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Flunking Sainthood: A Review
How can you not like a book with a title like this? That's what I thought when I first saw Jana Reiss' book in the seminary bookstore. After all, if we're truthful, aren't we all sort-of sainthood flunkees? And I was intrigued by her desire to master a different spiritual discipline every month, if not also a little skeptical.
Partway through this book, though, I became annoyed at Jana Riess, wondering why she ever thought she could master a spiritual practice in a month, and what even gave her the impression that the idea was to master them? I even thought (for a moment) that she knew all along that she would be a failure. Her (mostly) self-deprecating humor, though disarming, also made me think that she had to have known that spiritual practices wouldn't be that easy. I also thought it was weird of her to try to take on a spiritual practice alone, when they are really meant to be practiced (at least for the most part) in community.
But a funny thing happened. I started to get to know her. And sympathize with her. And realize that even though she is ironic and sarcastic and funny, she took on these spiritual practices in all earnestness. She often makes the point that she is from a low-church tradition that doesn't have much experience with disciplined prayer and spiritual experiences. Whether she failed or not (and I actually think that she didn't) she learned a lot during the year, and I did too. Even the practices I knew something about (and I am a constantly failing practicer of 'fixed-hour prayer', for example) I learned something new about.
And in the end, Jana made several of the points that I did: that she should have practiced spiritual disciplines in community more than in solitude, and that 'getting good' is not as important as learning to trust God. She finds that however much she considers herself a failure, the year of practicing prayer and fasting and generosity and gratitude (among other things) has prepared her and helped her mature as a Christian.
As I reflect back on reading this book, I think that one of the things that most churches are not good at is Adult Faith Formation. We teach Sunday School and try to run awesome confirmation programs, but for some reason Adult Christian Education Falls flat. It seems to me that Adult Faith formation is actually more important that Sunday School, and making Sunday School our priority gives the impression that the things of God are childish things.
Actually, nothing could be further from the truth. Faith, real faith, faith that goes the distance, is NOT for sissies. This book could be a good start of a conversation about how we nurture adult faith in congregations.
Partway through this book, though, I became annoyed at Jana Riess, wondering why she ever thought she could master a spiritual practice in a month, and what even gave her the impression that the idea was to master them? I even thought (for a moment) that she knew all along that she would be a failure. Her (mostly) self-deprecating humor, though disarming, also made me think that she had to have known that spiritual practices wouldn't be that easy. I also thought it was weird of her to try to take on a spiritual practice alone, when they are really meant to be practiced (at least for the most part) in community.
But a funny thing happened. I started to get to know her. And sympathize with her. And realize that even though she is ironic and sarcastic and funny, she took on these spiritual practices in all earnestness. She often makes the point that she is from a low-church tradition that doesn't have much experience with disciplined prayer and spiritual experiences. Whether she failed or not (and I actually think that she didn't) she learned a lot during the year, and I did too. Even the practices I knew something about (and I am a constantly failing practicer of 'fixed-hour prayer', for example) I learned something new about.
And in the end, Jana made several of the points that I did: that she should have practiced spiritual disciplines in community more than in solitude, and that 'getting good' is not as important as learning to trust God. She finds that however much she considers herself a failure, the year of practicing prayer and fasting and generosity and gratitude (among other things) has prepared her and helped her mature as a Christian.
As I reflect back on reading this book, I think that one of the things that most churches are not good at is Adult Faith Formation. We teach Sunday School and try to run awesome confirmation programs, but for some reason Adult Christian Education Falls flat. It seems to me that Adult Faith formation is actually more important that Sunday School, and making Sunday School our priority gives the impression that the things of God are childish things.
Actually, nothing could be further from the truth. Faith, real faith, faith that goes the distance, is NOT for sissies. This book could be a good start of a conversation about how we nurture adult faith in congregations.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Questions without Answers
Every Wednesday morning, our congregation holds a small Matins service in our small chapel. We pray, we sing, we hear the scriptures. There is a short homily.
This week it was my turn, and, as I had Sunday School and Faith Formation on my mind, I decided to ask the worshippers about their experiences and memories of Sunday School. What did they learn? What did they remember? Several people remembered the songs that they learned, or a favorite Sunday School teacher. One woman offered that she learned in Sunday School that "The adults in the congregation cared about me." Others remembered memorizing Bible verses or the catechism.
One woman shared that one of her Sunday School teachers had posed the question, "Is it better to be in church, but thinking about being out in your fields, or out in the fields, but thinking about God?"
"And you still remember that, even all these years later," I said.
"Well, I'm still not sure I know the answer," she replied.
I thought that Sunday School teacher was awesome. I've been thinking about it all week. This woman was given a question that has haunted her for her whole life, something she has been mulling over and considering. She doesn't know the answer, and yet she keeps coming back, keeps digging deeper into faith and life and doubt and hope.
When we think about Christian education curriculum, what do we think about? Songs? Stories? Prayers? I do believe that the foundations of faith are the stories of scripture, the songs and prayers we learn, the prayers we make out of our hearts. But then again, what if a large part of the curriculum is questions? And what if some of the questions don't have answers, except for the answers that you live every day of your life as a disciple of Jesus?
I can't help noticing that Jesus asked a lot of questions. It's true, he also prayed and he told stories too (although a lot of those stories held a lot of questions as well). In fact, when people asked him a question, he almost always answered them with another question. He gave them not just something simple that they could hold in their hands, but something they could mull over, consider, and live with for the rest of their lives. He gave the something they could return to at different ages and at different stages of their lives.
"What does it profit a man to gain the whole world and lose his soul?"
"Who do you say that I am?"
"Do you love me?"
"What do you want me to do for you?"
We have often thought of the value of faith formation for the answers it provides, and for simple foundational statements we can cling too. But what if the value of faith formation also lies in the questions that don't let us go, but that haunt us, and keep us coming back, digging deeper into the resources of scripture, song, lived experience and prayer?
A friend called me once because her three-year-old daughter was asking, "Where is God? and she wasn't sure how to answer. I searched and searched around and finally found a wonderful little book for three-year-olds and I sent it to her in the mail. But it occurs to me now that "Where is God?" is not just a question for three-year-olds. It is a question you can ask at three and at thirty-three, and at one hundred and three. It is a question we can spend our whole lives asking, and answering, and asking again.
Is it better to be out in the fields, but thinking about God, or in church, but thinking about being out in the fields?
What do you think?
This week it was my turn, and, as I had Sunday School and Faith Formation on my mind, I decided to ask the worshippers about their experiences and memories of Sunday School. What did they learn? What did they remember? Several people remembered the songs that they learned, or a favorite Sunday School teacher. One woman offered that she learned in Sunday School that "The adults in the congregation cared about me." Others remembered memorizing Bible verses or the catechism.
One woman shared that one of her Sunday School teachers had posed the question, "Is it better to be in church, but thinking about being out in your fields, or out in the fields, but thinking about God?"
"And you still remember that, even all these years later," I said.
"Well, I'm still not sure I know the answer," she replied.
I thought that Sunday School teacher was awesome. I've been thinking about it all week. This woman was given a question that has haunted her for her whole life, something she has been mulling over and considering. She doesn't know the answer, and yet she keeps coming back, keeps digging deeper into faith and life and doubt and hope.
When we think about Christian education curriculum, what do we think about? Songs? Stories? Prayers? I do believe that the foundations of faith are the stories of scripture, the songs and prayers we learn, the prayers we make out of our hearts. But then again, what if a large part of the curriculum is questions? And what if some of the questions don't have answers, except for the answers that you live every day of your life as a disciple of Jesus?
I can't help noticing that Jesus asked a lot of questions. It's true, he also prayed and he told stories too (although a lot of those stories held a lot of questions as well). In fact, when people asked him a question, he almost always answered them with another question. He gave them not just something simple that they could hold in their hands, but something they could mull over, consider, and live with for the rest of their lives. He gave the something they could return to at different ages and at different stages of their lives.
"What does it profit a man to gain the whole world and lose his soul?"
"Who do you say that I am?"
"Do you love me?"
"What do you want me to do for you?"
We have often thought of the value of faith formation for the answers it provides, and for simple foundational statements we can cling too. But what if the value of faith formation also lies in the questions that don't let us go, but that haunt us, and keep us coming back, digging deeper into the resources of scripture, song, lived experience and prayer?
A friend called me once because her three-year-old daughter was asking, "Where is God? and she wasn't sure how to answer. I searched and searched around and finally found a wonderful little book for three-year-olds and I sent it to her in the mail. But it occurs to me now that "Where is God?" is not just a question for three-year-olds. It is a question you can ask at three and at thirty-three, and at one hundred and three. It is a question we can spend our whole lives asking, and answering, and asking again.
Is it better to be out in the fields, but thinking about God, or in church, but thinking about being out in the fields?
What do you think?
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Faith Formation
Not long ago I went to visit a woman who had just entered hospice care. I've known her family for several years. I used to visit her with her husband and give them communion pretty regularly.
I wasn't sure what to expect that day I visited. How would she feel? Would she even be awake? I found that she was up in a wheelchair, in one of those brightly-colored jogging suits, and even in a sort-of feisty mood.
She turned to me at one point, and said, in a sort of conspiratorial tone, "Just between you and me, I think I'm going to stop eating." A little later she said, "I want you to do my funeral." I was a little taken aback, but replied, "Well, don't be in too much of a hurry."
"What, are you going on vacation?" she asked.
She seemed so at ease with her dying. I caught myself hoping that I could be like that someday.
Again, I visited her last Friday. Her husband and son were there, and we read scripture and shared communion. The appointed lesson for the day was Psalm 148. It was a hymn of praise. "Praise him, sun and moon! Praise him, all you shining stars!" Perhaps it seemed like an odd choice to read to a woman who was dying. But when I asked her what she would praise God for, she was quick to answer, "I praise God for my family. I praise God for my children. It's been a good life. It's been a good life."
In my congregation, we are considering "faith formation" these days. How can faith be formed in us all through our lives, from the time we are held at the font, until the day we are carried to the many mansions God has prepared for us? What is the purpose of "faith formation" anyway?
And when I think about it, I hope our faith is formed for many purposes: to help us find our voice, to speak and act with justice and mercy, to help us to see the beauty in the world and in others, to grow in grace and courage and compassion.
But just for today, when I consider the goal of 'faith formation,' here's what it looks like: to be at ease with dying. To be grateful. To be able to say to those around me, "It's been a good life."
I wasn't sure what to expect that day I visited. How would she feel? Would she even be awake? I found that she was up in a wheelchair, in one of those brightly-colored jogging suits, and even in a sort-of feisty mood.
She turned to me at one point, and said, in a sort of conspiratorial tone, "Just between you and me, I think I'm going to stop eating." A little later she said, "I want you to do my funeral." I was a little taken aback, but replied, "Well, don't be in too much of a hurry."
"What, are you going on vacation?" she asked.
She seemed so at ease with her dying. I caught myself hoping that I could be like that someday.
Again, I visited her last Friday. Her husband and son were there, and we read scripture and shared communion. The appointed lesson for the day was Psalm 148. It was a hymn of praise. "Praise him, sun and moon! Praise him, all you shining stars!" Perhaps it seemed like an odd choice to read to a woman who was dying. But when I asked her what she would praise God for, she was quick to answer, "I praise God for my family. I praise God for my children. It's been a good life. It's been a good life."
In my congregation, we are considering "faith formation" these days. How can faith be formed in us all through our lives, from the time we are held at the font, until the day we are carried to the many mansions God has prepared for us? What is the purpose of "faith formation" anyway?
And when I think about it, I hope our faith is formed for many purposes: to help us find our voice, to speak and act with justice and mercy, to help us to see the beauty in the world and in others, to grow in grace and courage and compassion.
But just for today, when I consider the goal of 'faith formation,' here's what it looks like: to be at ease with dying. To be grateful. To be able to say to those around me, "It's been a good life."
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