I'm preparing a sermon about this short passage of scripture for this weekend, which means that so far I'm reading and thinking and day-dreaming but haven't put pen to paper -- yet.
I confess a certain fondness for that last verse of the passage, not the whole passage, just the last verse, which says, "Where-ever two or three are gathered in my name, there I am in the midst of them." I am so fond of this passage that I often use it in the beginning of prayers at hospitals and with shut-ins, a reminder of God's promise to hear our prayers, even if there are just two of us.
But that's just one verse, not the whole passage, which I like to wrest conveniently out of its context, a context that includes instructions for dealing with conflict, and promises that seem too exaggerated to possibly be true (If two of you will agree on anything, I will do it: really? Really, Jesus?)
The problem with verse twenty, "where two or three are gathered," is that it's so comforting, so comforting that, by itself, as a verse, it can contribute to a sort of romantic notion of community. Get two people together in a room, praying, and somehow, Jesus is among them. No doubt, that can't be a bad thing.
But for the first time, when I heard that verse read, I asked, "Yes, but to what end? Jesus is among us, but to do what?" To hold our hands, and dry our tears, and hear our prayers?
Or maybe more than that: to hold us together, to send us out, to give us a wider vision when we feel like giving up. Or maybe to bring us back together when we're fighting, to help us learn the truth, to give us power.
This whole passage of scripture, not just verse twenty, is about two: two people fighting and two people reconciling, or not; two people agreeing, and two people (or three) gathering in Jesus' name.
I think what I like about the passage is that it's not about hundreds of people and it's not about one. And we often skew so often one way or the other, thinking that, on the one hand, something is only really worthwhile if thousands of people are doing it (megachurches, the State Fair, huge concerts, big box retailerers), or, on the other hand, that the most powerful, most virtuous position is that of the rugged individualist, pulling himself up by his own bootstraps, standing alone against the mob.
Instead, where two or three are gathered -- could be more but it doesn't have to be -- is the most powerful position. Not alone, but not a mob. The basic unit of discipleship is a relationship.
But, what kind of a relationship is it? What kind of community will we be? What kind of a community do we want to be?
That's the question.
Showing posts with label faith in community. Show all posts
Showing posts with label faith in community. Show all posts
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
It Takes a Congregation
Sometimes you just get lucky.
Sunday was like that. You can go for months with people just shaking your hand and saying "Good sermon, Pastor" (or, perhaps, "Good pastor, sermon), not know whether or how the Holy Spirit was working through the worship service and the sermon. Actually, it's usually like that. You just have to trust God. And that's good.
But sometimes, you get just a little glimpse.
Sunday was like that.
For my sermon on being salt and light, I had quite impetutously gone to the grocery store and gotten a butt-load (the technical term) of tiny birthday candles and little packets of salt. I wanted people to have something to take home with them.
Two young men were visiting their grandfather on Sunday. On the way out of church, one of them said, quite gravely, "those packets of salt were a good idea."
At 10:00 there was a sound system malfunction at the very end of my sermon. We started getting broadcasting from a local Christian radio station. I'm not sure I was quite unflappable, but I did manage to have some sort of an ending. People made sure that I knew that they liked everything about the worship service: the children's message, the sermon, "even the interruption." Maybe there's something about having the unexpected occur that is refreshing. It reminds us that God is in the interruptions and the unexpected, when things don't go as planned. I'm not making an argument for chaos in worship, but perhaps for leaving room for the Holy Spirit.
Today I was having coffee and banana bread with a group of parish members. One of them said that she has her little candle and salt packet in the middle of her table, and tells everyone who visits about them.
Then she wanted to let me know something she witnessed in church on Sunday. At the sharing of the peace, she turned to speak to a young boy who usually sits in back of her. She overheard the older man who sat next to him say this, "You are salt and light to your classmates."
It takes a congregation to share the gospel.
Sunday was like that. You can go for months with people just shaking your hand and saying "Good sermon, Pastor" (or, perhaps, "Good pastor, sermon), not know whether or how the Holy Spirit was working through the worship service and the sermon. Actually, it's usually like that. You just have to trust God. And that's good.
But sometimes, you get just a little glimpse.
Sunday was like that.
For my sermon on being salt and light, I had quite impetutously gone to the grocery store and gotten a butt-load (the technical term) of tiny birthday candles and little packets of salt. I wanted people to have something to take home with them.
Two young men were visiting their grandfather on Sunday. On the way out of church, one of them said, quite gravely, "those packets of salt were a good idea."
At 10:00 there was a sound system malfunction at the very end of my sermon. We started getting broadcasting from a local Christian radio station. I'm not sure I was quite unflappable, but I did manage to have some sort of an ending. People made sure that I knew that they liked everything about the worship service: the children's message, the sermon, "even the interruption." Maybe there's something about having the unexpected occur that is refreshing. It reminds us that God is in the interruptions and the unexpected, when things don't go as planned. I'm not making an argument for chaos in worship, but perhaps for leaving room for the Holy Spirit.
Today I was having coffee and banana bread with a group of parish members. One of them said that she has her little candle and salt packet in the middle of her table, and tells everyone who visits about them.
Then she wanted to let me know something she witnessed in church on Sunday. At the sharing of the peace, she turned to speak to a young boy who usually sits in back of her. She overheard the older man who sat next to him say this, "You are salt and light to your classmates."
It takes a congregation to share the gospel.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Going to School
There are a few small children on our block. I see then down at the corner, waiting for the bus. They are new students, so they all seem to have adults with them, and one even has a dog who waits with him for the bus to come.
Just a couple of years ago, it seemed that there were no children on our block. Our block was single people and empty nesters, a young couple without children. Now my next-door neighbors have two pre-schoolers, and there is that small cadre of students waiting for the bus.
I watch one little boy ride his block down the street. He is wearing a bike helmet. He has a backpack. I think he is six years old. He appears earnest and independent as he weaves his way down our quiet block. He is only riding for a block, but he is riding his bike.
Then I widen my perspective, and I see something else. I see a young man, walking just a little behind the boy. He walks behind the little boy, and if he gets too far behind, he sprints a little, to keep up. There is an invisible thread, I think, connecting the boy and the man. The little boy seems independent, going to school on his own. But the father is not far behind, keeping his son in his sight, making sure no harm comes to him. If his son falls, he will pick him up. He will take the bike home with him after the bus comes. And he will bring the bike back to the corner in the afternoon, so that his son can ride again, practicing independence.
This is the time of year for going to school, which means different things to different people. Frankly, to some it means nothing at all. September is just another month in an endless parade of months. But to others this is the time of year for going to school, which means getting on our bikes and going just a little farther this year, or pushing our brains just a little farther. It means stretching and getting tired and hitting the wall. It means asking questions, some of which have no answers.
This is the time of year for going to school, which is both exciting and painful. In life, as in school, we learn things that amaze us and things that disappoint us.
This is life, I think, going back to school, riding our bikes down the street, becoming more independent. That's what I see.
Then I change my perspective, and I see something else. I see someone walking, or sprinting, behind us. There is an invisible thread connecting us.
You can look at life as a series of close-up shots, or you can widen your perpsective and see something more, the invisible thread that connects us, parents and children, teachers and students, friends and strangers. We are not so independent as we seem.
On 9/11 we caught a glimpse of a horror. We also saw the invisible thread. We heard the voices of people calling one another, saying, over and over "I love you." We saw people running into burning buildings to rescue people they didn't even know. We saw people holding hands in the darkness.
It was just at the time of going back to school.
Just a couple of years ago, it seemed that there were no children on our block. Our block was single people and empty nesters, a young couple without children. Now my next-door neighbors have two pre-schoolers, and there is that small cadre of students waiting for the bus.
I watch one little boy ride his block down the street. He is wearing a bike helmet. He has a backpack. I think he is six years old. He appears earnest and independent as he weaves his way down our quiet block. He is only riding for a block, but he is riding his bike.
Then I widen my perspective, and I see something else. I see a young man, walking just a little behind the boy. He walks behind the little boy, and if he gets too far behind, he sprints a little, to keep up. There is an invisible thread, I think, connecting the boy and the man. The little boy seems independent, going to school on his own. But the father is not far behind, keeping his son in his sight, making sure no harm comes to him. If his son falls, he will pick him up. He will take the bike home with him after the bus comes. And he will bring the bike back to the corner in the afternoon, so that his son can ride again, practicing independence.
This is the time of year for going to school, which means different things to different people. Frankly, to some it means nothing at all. September is just another month in an endless parade of months. But to others this is the time of year for going to school, which means getting on our bikes and going just a little farther this year, or pushing our brains just a little farther. It means stretching and getting tired and hitting the wall. It means asking questions, some of which have no answers.
This is the time of year for going to school, which is both exciting and painful. In life, as in school, we learn things that amaze us and things that disappoint us.
This is life, I think, going back to school, riding our bikes down the street, becoming more independent. That's what I see.
Then I change my perspective, and I see something else. I see someone walking, or sprinting, behind us. There is an invisible thread connecting us.
You can look at life as a series of close-up shots, or you can widen your perpsective and see something more, the invisible thread that connects us, parents and children, teachers and students, friends and strangers. We are not so independent as we seem.
On 9/11 we caught a glimpse of a horror. We also saw the invisible thread. We heard the voices of people calling one another, saying, over and over "I love you." We saw people running into burning buildings to rescue people they didn't even know. We saw people holding hands in the darkness.
It was just at the time of going back to school.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
The Decline of Blogging
Every once in awhile, in a fit of nostalgia, I go back and read old blog posts.
I know, it's embarrassing to admit it.
I'm struck by a kind of golden era, a couple of years ago, when I was writing a lot and reading a lot of blogs, getting sometimes twenty comments on a post. I'm struck, sometimes, by the elegance of my writing (this is sort of embarrassing to admit as well), and I yearn a little for the good old days, when it seemed like I was reading everyone's blog and everyone was reading mine, and we were all on our way up.
It's times like these when I consider what people are saying about the "decline of blogging."
Some people are even more blunt. "Blogging is dead," they say. They mean, of course, that they used to get twenty comments and now they get two, or one. Or none. Or they mean that they just don't have time to "blog" much any more.
I have been feeling the same way. But I don't think that blogging is dead. (Just ask Andrew Sullivan, for one.) However, I do think a particular kind of blogging, the blog-as-journal-type-blog, is in a temporary or permanet decline.
It has to do, at least in part, with a certain popular social media which starts with "FB". There we can leave six word personal updates. I can tell you a little bit about how my dog broke her toe (something I used to do on this blog), and I can update you all on how my knitting is going. I can post a video link that I like, old pictures of my family.
So, what is my blog, "faith in community" for?
When I posted more often, it was kind of a mish-mash: I told stories about Scout, and my church (not revealing any confidentialities, of course); I posted theological and pastoral reflections, and talked about walking around the lake in the summer. Sometimes the connections to "faith in community" were apparent and obvious, other times more tangential. Sometimes (I'll be honest) I just liked putting words together in fun ways and hearing how they sounded together.
I love the title of my blog, "faith in community." I think I would like to keep it, but try to be a little more intentional about what I write about. I'd like to take more risks in what I write, do things that are a little harder for me, that will take some time.
Or, I'm thinking about starting over with a new blog. I have attempted it a couple of times. I have a pretty good title in mind, even posted a little, but found that I couldn't keep up two at one time. Especially in this era of blogging decline.
I know I'll never be a Lutheran pastor version of Andrew Sullivan, but I'd like to create something a little more cohesive. So, I'm searching for themes, ideas, what to keep, what to discard. I don't think I'll be writing about Scout, unless, of course, I can wring some sort of a theological message out of her. (that is not outside of the realm of possibility, of course.) Perhaps I'll do less posting about the books I read, unless I can give a full review.
Also, if there are any lurkers here, is there anything you would like to hear more of? Less of?
I know, it's embarrassing to admit it.
I'm struck by a kind of golden era, a couple of years ago, when I was writing a lot and reading a lot of blogs, getting sometimes twenty comments on a post. I'm struck, sometimes, by the elegance of my writing (this is sort of embarrassing to admit as well), and I yearn a little for the good old days, when it seemed like I was reading everyone's blog and everyone was reading mine, and we were all on our way up.
It's times like these when I consider what people are saying about the "decline of blogging."
Some people are even more blunt. "Blogging is dead," they say. They mean, of course, that they used to get twenty comments and now they get two, or one. Or none. Or they mean that they just don't have time to "blog" much any more.
I have been feeling the same way. But I don't think that blogging is dead. (Just ask Andrew Sullivan, for one.) However, I do think a particular kind of blogging, the blog-as-journal-type-blog, is in a temporary or permanet decline.
It has to do, at least in part, with a certain popular social media which starts with "FB". There we can leave six word personal updates. I can tell you a little bit about how my dog broke her toe (something I used to do on this blog), and I can update you all on how my knitting is going. I can post a video link that I like, old pictures of my family.
So, what is my blog, "faith in community" for?
When I posted more often, it was kind of a mish-mash: I told stories about Scout, and my church (not revealing any confidentialities, of course); I posted theological and pastoral reflections, and talked about walking around the lake in the summer. Sometimes the connections to "faith in community" were apparent and obvious, other times more tangential. Sometimes (I'll be honest) I just liked putting words together in fun ways and hearing how they sounded together.
I love the title of my blog, "faith in community." I think I would like to keep it, but try to be a little more intentional about what I write about. I'd like to take more risks in what I write, do things that are a little harder for me, that will take some time.
Or, I'm thinking about starting over with a new blog. I have attempted it a couple of times. I have a pretty good title in mind, even posted a little, but found that I couldn't keep up two at one time. Especially in this era of blogging decline.
I know I'll never be a Lutheran pastor version of Andrew Sullivan, but I'd like to create something a little more cohesive. So, I'm searching for themes, ideas, what to keep, what to discard. I don't think I'll be writing about Scout, unless, of course, I can wring some sort of a theological message out of her. (that is not outside of the realm of possibility, of course.) Perhaps I'll do less posting about the books I read, unless I can give a full review.
Also, if there are any lurkers here, is there anything you would like to hear more of? Less of?
Monday, February 1, 2010
faith in community, again
(adapted from my church newsletter column)
In about the last year, I've experienced a renaissance in knitting. You can ask my family and friends: I've knitted scads of scarves, a couple of pairs of fingerless gloves, and my first ever pair of mittens! (currently: to knit, or not to knit a hat: that is the question.)
To be fair, I've known how to knit ever since I was in junior high. In seventh grade, my teacher patiently taught me the garter stitch, even though I was left-handed. In 10th grade, I stayed hom from school with a bad cold for several and taught myself to purl and cable stitch. I gave it up after a hat done in something called "popcorn stitch" looked very pretty, but had absolutely no stretch and wouldn't stay on my head. (I think I had a problem with gauge.)
On and off, I've tried and abandoned projects when the directions got too difficult for me. I taught myself to knit in the round but could complete no projects with it.
Then, suddenly, something changed. I stopped into a little knitting store one day and asked if they had any classes, particularly classes in how to make socks.
"Can you knit and purl?" they asked. "Come in and we'll help you."
It seems to me, lately, that our life of faith can be much the same. For years we can be going along, just knowing how to "knit and purl", so to speak, but not really knowing what to do with our faith, not really knowing what to make. For years, we can be going along, wanting to make something beautiful out of our lives, out of our community, and not really knowing how. Then, suddenly.....
So what makes the difference?
Community. Particularly, what makes a difference is a community of faith where we can dare to ask for help, and people who will say, "Come in and we'll help you."
I even begin to wonder if those classes we like to teach (particularly in larger congregations) aren't so helpful for the knowledge of the teacher who stands in front and "knows everything," but because they make connections between people who can then ask each other for help, as they grow in faith, as God makes something beautiful of their lives.
Two beautiful phrases in the vocabulary of faith: "Can you teach me?" "Come in and we'll help you."
In about the last year, I've experienced a renaissance in knitting. You can ask my family and friends: I've knitted scads of scarves, a couple of pairs of fingerless gloves, and my first ever pair of mittens! (currently: to knit, or not to knit a hat: that is the question.)
To be fair, I've known how to knit ever since I was in junior high. In seventh grade, my teacher patiently taught me the garter stitch, even though I was left-handed. In 10th grade, I stayed hom from school with a bad cold for several and taught myself to purl and cable stitch. I gave it up after a hat done in something called "popcorn stitch" looked very pretty, but had absolutely no stretch and wouldn't stay on my head. (I think I had a problem with gauge.)
On and off, I've tried and abandoned projects when the directions got too difficult for me. I taught myself to knit in the round but could complete no projects with it.
Then, suddenly, something changed. I stopped into a little knitting store one day and asked if they had any classes, particularly classes in how to make socks.
"Can you knit and purl?" they asked. "Come in and we'll help you."
It seems to me, lately, that our life of faith can be much the same. For years we can be going along, just knowing how to "knit and purl", so to speak, but not really knowing what to do with our faith, not really knowing what to make. For years, we can be going along, wanting to make something beautiful out of our lives, out of our community, and not really knowing how. Then, suddenly.....
So what makes the difference?
Community. Particularly, what makes a difference is a community of faith where we can dare to ask for help, and people who will say, "Come in and we'll help you."
I even begin to wonder if those classes we like to teach (particularly in larger congregations) aren't so helpful for the knowledge of the teacher who stands in front and "knows everything," but because they make connections between people who can then ask each other for help, as they grow in faith, as God makes something beautiful of their lives.
Two beautiful phrases in the vocabulary of faith: "Can you teach me?" "Come in and we'll help you."
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
(Corn) Bread Alone
One of the best gifts I ever got was a 60 minute cassette tape, sent to me in a small manila mailer bag.
I was living in Japan at the time, serving as a missionary teacher, and though I was enjoying the people and the sights and the things I was learning, I sometimes missed my family and friends back in the states.
I missed the Minnesota lakes. I missed ordering pizzas (although you can order a bowl of soba in Japan; it arrives in a beautiful bowl, steaming hot). I missed maraconi and cheese, and conversations with friends.
So one day I received this small package from my parents, just an unassuming little cassette. I stuck in in my tape player. The first words I heard were these:
Come Lord Jesus, be our guest
Let these gifts to us be blessed. Amen
(I think my friend from Japan then said: "itadakimasu!", which means: "Let's eat.")
My parents had invited three of my friends over for dinner, and turned on the tape recorder while they were eating. I got to listen in while they ate chili and munched corn bread (I still remember the menu, don't ask why), and discussed mundane and profound thoughts.
There were theological discussions (two of my friends were seminary students), updates on family activities, jokes (probably from my dad) and laughter. I remember feeling both sadness and joy, listening in our their conversation, feeling like I was almost there with them as they passed the corn bread and asked for more coffee, please.
I leaned into the tape recorder, wanting to get closer, and I thought, it's true. one does not live by bread alone.
There's more to eating than the food. I wasn't just hungry for bread, I was hungry for words, for voices, and for the intimacy that words brought.
Come Lord Jesus, be our guest
let these gifts to us be blessed.
the gift of laughter, tears and words
the gift of bread and wine and meat
Come Lord Jesus, be our host
give us the gift that feeds us most.
Amen.
I was living in Japan at the time, serving as a missionary teacher, and though I was enjoying the people and the sights and the things I was learning, I sometimes missed my family and friends back in the states.
I missed the Minnesota lakes. I missed ordering pizzas (although you can order a bowl of soba in Japan; it arrives in a beautiful bowl, steaming hot). I missed maraconi and cheese, and conversations with friends.
So one day I received this small package from my parents, just an unassuming little cassette. I stuck in in my tape player. The first words I heard were these:
Come Lord Jesus, be our guest
Let these gifts to us be blessed. Amen
(I think my friend from Japan then said: "itadakimasu!", which means: "Let's eat.")
My parents had invited three of my friends over for dinner, and turned on the tape recorder while they were eating. I got to listen in while they ate chili and munched corn bread (I still remember the menu, don't ask why), and discussed mundane and profound thoughts.
There were theological discussions (two of my friends were seminary students), updates on family activities, jokes (probably from my dad) and laughter. I remember feeling both sadness and joy, listening in our their conversation, feeling like I was almost there with them as they passed the corn bread and asked for more coffee, please.
I leaned into the tape recorder, wanting to get closer, and I thought, it's true. one does not live by bread alone.
There's more to eating than the food. I wasn't just hungry for bread, I was hungry for words, for voices, and for the intimacy that words brought.
Come Lord Jesus, be our guest
let these gifts to us be blessed.
the gift of laughter, tears and words
the gift of bread and wine and meat
Come Lord Jesus, be our host
give us the gift that feeds us most.
Amen.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
wind
our church council is meeting tonight, our regular monthly meeting. Lately we have been setting aside extra time for vision setting and brain storming every month.
we have a patio with a garden in the center of our building, an open space right in the middle of the building. tonight the patio door was open. A woman was working out there, her golden retriever helping her as she mulched and prepared the soil for spring flowers.
the wind was blowing wildly. sometime tonight we expect a storm, we don't know exactly when.
the wind was noisy, and I caught myself distracted more than once, looking over to the patio doors, wondering what was going on out there. at least one person wondered if we should close the doors, but others said no. we should leave them open.
I think they are righter than they know.
we should leave the doors open and let the outside in.
this evening we talked about all of the usual things that church councils talk about: leaking roofs, Sunday School Programs, stewardship drives, meeting times. but we also batted around words like "paradigm shift". we talked about getting people together in small groups, and asking them questions like, "where do you see God working in your life?" or "how do you express your faith in your daily life?"
(This is so much an improvement over a question I have heard and come to hate: "Does the church/or the pastor meet your needs?" It makes me tired just to hear this question. I would much rather meditate on the question of whether the church or its pastors are equipping us to be God's people in the world: speaking and acting love, justice and mercy.)
this morning I went to a breakfast meeting sponsored by the community organizing group Isaiah. Isaiah leaders don't have any problem talking about how God is working in their life. They are also pretty sure that God is working in the world. They believe that God is working in the world through them.
we should open the doors and let the outside in.
just outside the door a woman is preparing the soil.
just outside the door the wind is disturbing us
just outside the door the creation is groaning, waiting for redemption
The rain is coming.
I pray that it does not blow over.
Holy Spirit, come.
we have a patio with a garden in the center of our building, an open space right in the middle of the building. tonight the patio door was open. A woman was working out there, her golden retriever helping her as she mulched and prepared the soil for spring flowers.
the wind was blowing wildly. sometime tonight we expect a storm, we don't know exactly when.
the wind was noisy, and I caught myself distracted more than once, looking over to the patio doors, wondering what was going on out there. at least one person wondered if we should close the doors, but others said no. we should leave them open.
I think they are righter than they know.
we should leave the doors open and let the outside in.
this evening we talked about all of the usual things that church councils talk about: leaking roofs, Sunday School Programs, stewardship drives, meeting times. but we also batted around words like "paradigm shift". we talked about getting people together in small groups, and asking them questions like, "where do you see God working in your life?" or "how do you express your faith in your daily life?"
(This is so much an improvement over a question I have heard and come to hate: "Does the church/or the pastor meet your needs?" It makes me tired just to hear this question. I would much rather meditate on the question of whether the church or its pastors are equipping us to be God's people in the world: speaking and acting love, justice and mercy.)
this morning I went to a breakfast meeting sponsored by the community organizing group Isaiah. Isaiah leaders don't have any problem talking about how God is working in their life. They are also pretty sure that God is working in the world. They believe that God is working in the world through them.
we should open the doors and let the outside in.
just outside the door a woman is preparing the soil.
just outside the door the wind is disturbing us
just outside the door the creation is groaning, waiting for redemption
The rain is coming.
I pray that it does not blow over.
Holy Spirit, come.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Challenge Course: Team Building
In two weeks our 9th graders will be confirmed, publicly declaring that they want to be disciples of Jesus for the rest of their lives. Even though they have studied for three years, gone to camp three times, built relationships with their peers and other adults, I'm pretty sure they don't know what they are getting into.
But that's okay. Nobody asked them when they were baptized: are you sure you want to get into this? Are you sure you want to be disciples of Jesus? Their parents just carried them up to the baptismal font and had the pastor pour water over their heads, and made that dangerous promise.
And here they are. They are two weeks from being confirmed and they have just spent the weekend at a place called Camp Friendship. It is a camp especially for developmentally disabled youth and adults, so everything is handicap accessible. When other groups (like us) use the camp, all of the money goes toward scholarships for others to attend a camp week in the summer.
But that's not why we go to Camp Friendship. We go because of something called the "Challenge Course", an afternoon of guided team-building activities. The activities are somewhat physically challenging (as evidenced by my aches and pains today), but they are more challenging because the group has to complete them together. They are not successful because of individual prowess, but because everyone made it through the challenge.
So the group has to figure out how to get everyone over the wall, how to get everyone to swing on the rope from one side of a fake "ravine" to the other (and also, by the way, how to get everyone to fit into one round hoola-hoop on the other side). Other activities are difficult to explain, but require those with more agility, balance, and speed to pay attention to those who do not have those qualities. Also, we discover that other problem-solving qualities are important, too. And patience. Patience is very important.
I was so impressed with the patience, good humor, intelligence and good will exhibited by the youth this year. We talked a little after the "challenge course", about the lesson for our lives as Christians -- about the challenge of living a Christian life, about how we can't live it alone, about the necessity and difficulty of trusting God, and one another.
And yet, they don't know what they're getting into. How can they? I'm fifty-two, and I don't know what I am getting into, still, and I am still discovering new challenges.
So, in two weeks, they will all say yes. I'm confident that they will all mean it, too, even if some of them fall away at some time. I pray that even those who fall away will discover again God's faithfulness. And I pray that there will always be others willing to share the challenge and the joy of being a disciple of Jesus with them.
But that's okay. Nobody asked them when they were baptized: are you sure you want to get into this? Are you sure you want to be disciples of Jesus? Their parents just carried them up to the baptismal font and had the pastor pour water over their heads, and made that dangerous promise.
And here they are. They are two weeks from being confirmed and they have just spent the weekend at a place called Camp Friendship. It is a camp especially for developmentally disabled youth and adults, so everything is handicap accessible. When other groups (like us) use the camp, all of the money goes toward scholarships for others to attend a camp week in the summer.
But that's not why we go to Camp Friendship. We go because of something called the "Challenge Course", an afternoon of guided team-building activities. The activities are somewhat physically challenging (as evidenced by my aches and pains today), but they are more challenging because the group has to complete them together. They are not successful because of individual prowess, but because everyone made it through the challenge.
So the group has to figure out how to get everyone over the wall, how to get everyone to swing on the rope from one side of a fake "ravine" to the other (and also, by the way, how to get everyone to fit into one round hoola-hoop on the other side). Other activities are difficult to explain, but require those with more agility, balance, and speed to pay attention to those who do not have those qualities. Also, we discover that other problem-solving qualities are important, too. And patience. Patience is very important.
I was so impressed with the patience, good humor, intelligence and good will exhibited by the youth this year. We talked a little after the "challenge course", about the lesson for our lives as Christians -- about the challenge of living a Christian life, about how we can't live it alone, about the necessity and difficulty of trusting God, and one another.
And yet, they don't know what they're getting into. How can they? I'm fifty-two, and I don't know what I am getting into, still, and I am still discovering new challenges.
So, in two weeks, they will all say yes. I'm confident that they will all mean it, too, even if some of them fall away at some time. I pray that even those who fall away will discover again God's faithfulness. And I pray that there will always be others willing to share the challenge and the joy of being a disciple of Jesus with them.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Reflections on a Short Get-Away
Last Saturday, on a beautiful blue afternoon, we headed east, past St. Paul (where we stopped briefly to look at model trains), to the old Minnesota town of Stillwater. We got into town in mid-afternoon, dropped off our bags at the historic Lowell Inn, and walked down the hill to the St. Croix River and the myriad old bookshops and antique stores that line the main street. After I made a brief neurotic phone call to the church ("Are you sure I'm not doing the Saturday service tonight?"), we window-shopped for antique glass and old books (I was especially taken with one book called Elin's Amerika, about a young Swedish girl in Philadelphia in the 1600s). We ended up munching burgers at a cafe on the river before heading back to our inn for the evening. My husband was gratified to find TCM a cable channel choice; I tried to read but found my eyelids heavy.
In the morning we woke early, but with nowhere in particular we had to go. At some point the 1938 movie The Young in Heart was on; a family of crooks and cardsharks meets a sweet old lady on a train and plans to cheat her so that she will leave them her fortune; in the end, as they live with her and lead honest lives, they are transformed by her love and faith in them. When the old lady falls ill, her lawyer tells them that she has indeed left her estate to them; however, it is not worth much any more. One by one, they each say, "We don't care about the money." When the lawyer also tells them that if the old lady lives, he will not even be able to save her house, they declare that she will always have a home with them. Then the daughter exclaims, "She saved us."
Often when we speak about salvation, it ends up sounding like a transaction. Especially this sounds true when "heaven after we die" is the only goal of being saved. But in the movie salvation is transformation; the family, through their encounter, are transformed from selfish people focused on their own survival, into people who live loving and caring about others.
This is the kind of preacher I want to be: not someone giving out tools to help people hang on to their same old lives, but encouraging people to let go and let God transform them, continually, daily, through the love of the Son.
Later on we ended up at a large church in town; the late service is the contemporary one, as it seems is true of many ELCA congregations these days. The church was beautiful; the narthex inviting; I was impressed by the many offerings throughout the weeks in education and community involvement, also their statement that they are "open and affirming."
I didn't know any of the songs at the contemporary service. I am behind, it seems, and perhaps getting old and cranky. The preacher gave a good sermon on the prodigal son, full of gospel, but didn't read the text before he started, which was disorienting to me. It's good just to hear it, to see what wonders the Word itself can work, before the interpretation starts.
I also thought: I've always had a problem visiting other churches. Even when I was a little kid, I didn't like it when we visited another church, even my grandparents' church. To me it seems, true worship has always had to do not just with the hymns and the preaching and the prayers, but the community. I know that a community of strangers is still God's community, worshiping together, but there's something about knowing the people, the struggles, the faith, the doubts, and bearing with each other, and encouraging each other, that is also an important part of worship for me.
There are many reasons it's good to visit other places, to get ideas for worship, find out how another community does things; and there are many reasons to worship with strangers, and to remember that, as well as we think we know each other, we remain, in some ways, strangers, united by God's claim on our lives and nothing else.
It rained all day Sunday, a soft soaking April rain that we needed to feed the young spring buds, to make the earth come alive again, to make us come alive again.
In the morning we woke early, but with nowhere in particular we had to go. At some point the 1938 movie The Young in Heart was on; a family of crooks and cardsharks meets a sweet old lady on a train and plans to cheat her so that she will leave them her fortune; in the end, as they live with her and lead honest lives, they are transformed by her love and faith in them. When the old lady falls ill, her lawyer tells them that she has indeed left her estate to them; however, it is not worth much any more. One by one, they each say, "We don't care about the money." When the lawyer also tells them that if the old lady lives, he will not even be able to save her house, they declare that she will always have a home with them. Then the daughter exclaims, "She saved us."
Often when we speak about salvation, it ends up sounding like a transaction. Especially this sounds true when "heaven after we die" is the only goal of being saved. But in the movie salvation is transformation; the family, through their encounter, are transformed from selfish people focused on their own survival, into people who live loving and caring about others.
This is the kind of preacher I want to be: not someone giving out tools to help people hang on to their same old lives, but encouraging people to let go and let God transform them, continually, daily, through the love of the Son.
Later on we ended up at a large church in town; the late service is the contemporary one, as it seems is true of many ELCA congregations these days. The church was beautiful; the narthex inviting; I was impressed by the many offerings throughout the weeks in education and community involvement, also their statement that they are "open and affirming."
I didn't know any of the songs at the contemporary service. I am behind, it seems, and perhaps getting old and cranky. The preacher gave a good sermon on the prodigal son, full of gospel, but didn't read the text before he started, which was disorienting to me. It's good just to hear it, to see what wonders the Word itself can work, before the interpretation starts.
I also thought: I've always had a problem visiting other churches. Even when I was a little kid, I didn't like it when we visited another church, even my grandparents' church. To me it seems, true worship has always had to do not just with the hymns and the preaching and the prayers, but the community. I know that a community of strangers is still God's community, worshiping together, but there's something about knowing the people, the struggles, the faith, the doubts, and bearing with each other, and encouraging each other, that is also an important part of worship for me.
There are many reasons it's good to visit other places, to get ideas for worship, find out how another community does things; and there are many reasons to worship with strangers, and to remember that, as well as we think we know each other, we remain, in some ways, strangers, united by God's claim on our lives and nothing else.
It rained all day Sunday, a soft soaking April rain that we needed to feed the young spring buds, to make the earth come alive again, to make us come alive again.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Redeeming the Mittens
This morning, it was 2 degrees outside (give or take a couple of degrees.) (Or, what's a couple of degrees among friends?) I have two full sets of wool mittens -- well, actually, now I have one set. I'm hoping that I left the other set at church yesterday.
Losing mittens or gloves is a very bad habit for me. I have lost full sets, but it is more common for me to lose one out of a set. Right now, I have one black and one white glove sitting on the mantle by the front door. I think there is one red glove somewhere also in the closet. I have still a small hope that I will find the other, but it's a very small hope.
Why even keep the singles? Sometimes I don't. I have sighed and tossed more single gloves than I care to count. But I haven't gotten there with any of these gloves yet. Give me time. Maybe it's laziness. Maybe a little wishful thinking. Maybe a little pity.
Single socks are sad, but there is something even sadder about a single mitten. We've all seen them, haven't we? On the sidewalk, in the street, in the parking lot of a discount store, single gloves destined never to find their mates. Somewhere, the partners of my lonely gloves are out there, never to be re-united with their mates.
They're so pretty, but they were never meant to be alone.
Like us.
Losing mittens or gloves is a very bad habit for me. I have lost full sets, but it is more common for me to lose one out of a set. Right now, I have one black and one white glove sitting on the mantle by the front door. I think there is one red glove somewhere also in the closet. I have still a small hope that I will find the other, but it's a very small hope.
Why even keep the singles? Sometimes I don't. I have sighed and tossed more single gloves than I care to count. But I haven't gotten there with any of these gloves yet. Give me time. Maybe it's laziness. Maybe a little wishful thinking. Maybe a little pity.
Single socks are sad, but there is something even sadder about a single mitten. We've all seen them, haven't we? On the sidewalk, in the street, in the parking lot of a discount store, single gloves destined never to find their mates. Somewhere, the partners of my lonely gloves are out there, never to be re-united with their mates.
They're so pretty, but they were never meant to be alone.
Like us.
Maybe that's another reason it's called "Faith in community."
by the way, the image is from here
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