I'm reading another memoir now, one I picked up in a local used (mostly) bookstore. It's called Let's Take the Long Way Home, a book about the friendship of two women writers. They meet because they also have new puppies. On the docket after that is another memoir, Ashes to Ashes, by Benjamin Busch, as well as a novel, Ella Minnow Pea.
Why do I read memoirs? Until a few years ago, I was barely aware that memoirs existed. I was an English Major, which meant that I read literature and poetry, and liked it. I even started a book club here at my church, "Faith and Fiction," because I was convinced that God was lurking around any good story, in some way or another. I remember hearing novelist Alice McDermott interviewed on the radio a few years ago. Perhaps the memoir was just becoming popular, but I remember that she was quite critical of the genre at the time. Fiction is rigorous; you are really creating something, not simply re-shaping a part of your own story. (I believe she has softened her critique somewhat.)
There is something a little unsettling about looking through the Biography section at the bookstore, and seeing all of the people telling all of their different stories, some of them sordid, some strange, some exotic, some even ordinary. A part of me wonders if the writing and reading of all of these memoirs is really a healthy sign. The other part of me reads memoirs, anyway, for these reasons:
1. Some of them are extremely well-written. I'll admit it, I love reading good sentences like some people like eating chocolate. No kidding. It's great to have a good message, but I'll take a well-tempered sentence over a too-righteous message any day. I picked up A Three Dog Life almost entirely because of the beauty of the sentences.
2. There is an experience foreign to me that I want to know something about. This is one of the reasons I picked up the book The Latehomecomer. It is the story of a Hmong family's journey from the refugee camps of Thailand to St. Paul, Minnesota, told through the eyes of one of the daughters. This is a perspective entirely foreign to me. And yet....
3. There is something with which I can make a connection. I do not know the immigrant experience of the Hmong, but my family has its own immigrant story, so I want to make the connection with others who have been displaced in other ways. In the same way, I chose Michelle Norris' book about her experience growing up African American in Minneapolis, The Grace of Silence, both because her experience was so different from my own, and also because her address was so jarringly close to mine.
4. They are stories about God, somehow. Sometimes it is overt, as in In the Sanctuary of Outcasts, which is a story of a man who went to prison for check-kiting. He happens to be imprisoned in Lousiana, in a place which is also a leper colony. At the same time that he studies the inmates there, learns the history of the prison and the people, he also comes to terms with himself as a criminal in need of redemption: an outcast. Most of the stories I read are not conversion stories in any way, but there are stories of grief and loss and failure and transformation, which means that faith or doubt or unbelief reside there.
The first memoirs, long ago, were written by generals telling stories of their battles, and by religious, telling stories of their conversion. We've come a long way since then, but in this secular, individual era of ours, I think that memoirs are still, at their heart, faith stories. In them, people take their lives, or bits of them, anyway, and make them into something that is bigger, and about more than themselves. And the best ones are both strange and familiar, a window into an exotic world where we still see ourselves.
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Showing posts with label faith stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label faith stories. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Tools for Missionaries
Recently I had a conversation with one of the young parents in my congregation. We were talking having a far-reaching discussion that included Sunday School, next summer's Vacation Bible School Program, and the changing nature of our culture and church attendance. When I offered the idea that "going to church" is not as culturally normal now as it was when I was growing up, she replied, "That's right! I think we are the only ones who go to church among all of our friends." She continued that she knew that her friends had a wide variety of opinions and emotions regarding faith, from some who clearly were not interested, to others who were more ambivalent.
I blurted out, "So, you're sort of like missionaries to your friends."
I immediately regretted the statement. In my experience, the word "missionary" can have several negative connotations. The rigid, judgmental missionary of James Michener's Hawaii comes to mind, along with images of people who pass out tracts on street corners, coerce people to conform to Western standards of behavior, and fail to learn cultural languages. I was a missionary myself, once (long ago), so I know all of the stereotypes. They have sometimes been deserved.
But instead of recoiling, this parent responded, "yes, we are sort of like missionaries," which made me wonder if we are equipping the people in our congregations to be missionaries, in the best sense of the word.
I thought about the missionaries I knew, long ago. They were passionate that people know Jesus, certainly, but they were also passionate about justice. They immersed themselves in another culture and learned another language. They talked about transforming lives, but their own lives had been transformed by the people they met and by the experiences they had.
What would it mean for us to do faith formation in our churches as if we knew that all of the people in our congregation were missionaries, in the best sense of the word? What sort of practices would we teach, or engage in? What would we do differently if we believed we were teaching people to be missionaries?*
1. We would teach people how to listen first. Listening evangelism, that's what I'd call it. Teach people to listen, truly be curious, ask good questions about their friends and their friends' lives. Teach parents to listen to children, children to parents. Teach people to listen to the strangers who visit our congregation, to their neighbors and coworkers and the immigrants who move in across the street, to the spiritual but not religious friends.
2. We would teach people that they each have a faith story, and help them learn to tell it. The story has something to do with grace, something to do with love, something to do with forgiveness, everything to do with God. It might be big and dramatic or small and ordinary. I will always remember hearing Lauren Winner (author of "Girl Meets God") say that she had a hard time writing her memoir, until she realized that the main character was really God.
3. We would teach people that they don't have to know everything to know something about the love of God. They don't have to defend, just invite. Teach people to be gracious inviters, able to deal with both a "yes" and a "no".
4. We would create safe places of invitation in our churches, whether that is a Sunday worship, a day of service, a shared meal or a time of fellowship. What would you be proud to invite a friend or neighbor to participate in with you?
Tools for missionaries. Here are just a few. What are some other tools that you think modern-day "missionaries" should have?
*if you can think of a better word than "missionary", please feel free to tell me. I won't be offended.
I blurted out, "So, you're sort of like missionaries to your friends."
I immediately regretted the statement. In my experience, the word "missionary" can have several negative connotations. The rigid, judgmental missionary of James Michener's Hawaii comes to mind, along with images of people who pass out tracts on street corners, coerce people to conform to Western standards of behavior, and fail to learn cultural languages. I was a missionary myself, once (long ago), so I know all of the stereotypes. They have sometimes been deserved.
But instead of recoiling, this parent responded, "yes, we are sort of like missionaries," which made me wonder if we are equipping the people in our congregations to be missionaries, in the best sense of the word.
I thought about the missionaries I knew, long ago. They were passionate that people know Jesus, certainly, but they were also passionate about justice. They immersed themselves in another culture and learned another language. They talked about transforming lives, but their own lives had been transformed by the people they met and by the experiences they had.
What would it mean for us to do faith formation in our churches as if we knew that all of the people in our congregation were missionaries, in the best sense of the word? What sort of practices would we teach, or engage in? What would we do differently if we believed we were teaching people to be missionaries?*
1. We would teach people how to listen first. Listening evangelism, that's what I'd call it. Teach people to listen, truly be curious, ask good questions about their friends and their friends' lives. Teach parents to listen to children, children to parents. Teach people to listen to the strangers who visit our congregation, to their neighbors and coworkers and the immigrants who move in across the street, to the spiritual but not religious friends.
2. We would teach people that they each have a faith story, and help them learn to tell it. The story has something to do with grace, something to do with love, something to do with forgiveness, everything to do with God. It might be big and dramatic or small and ordinary. I will always remember hearing Lauren Winner (author of "Girl Meets God") say that she had a hard time writing her memoir, until she realized that the main character was really God.
3. We would teach people that they don't have to know everything to know something about the love of God. They don't have to defend, just invite. Teach people to be gracious inviters, able to deal with both a "yes" and a "no".
4. We would create safe places of invitation in our churches, whether that is a Sunday worship, a day of service, a shared meal or a time of fellowship. What would you be proud to invite a friend or neighbor to participate in with you?
Tools for missionaries. Here are just a few. What are some other tools that you think modern-day "missionaries" should have?
*if you can think of a better word than "missionary", please feel free to tell me. I won't be offended.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
All of My Evidence is Anecdotal
Which is to say: all I have is stories.
I noticed a young family gone absent from worship. She is a gifted musician and actress; they have two young children. She did a benefit concert here once full of wonderful musical numbers; all the proceeds went to cancer research. I had been somewhat connected with them and eventually found her on facebook, where I noticed that her religious affiliation was "atheist."
Oh.
We had several facebook chats, where she was open about she and her husband's conversations, and that they discovered that "they didn't really believe in a personal god." Later on, I noticed she had changed her religious designation to "humanist"; I asked her if that was a somewhat "kinder, gentler" version of atheism, especially since I knew that several members of her family were pious Christians. I thought there was a slight online grin there.
****
A young couple is sitting in my office. They want to get married. They are extremely nice, interesting, earnest people. He's a special education teacher, I remember, who considers himself a role model for at-risk kids.
They are sitting in my office, having completed the pre-marriage inventory that I offer. We are talking about Spiritual Beliefs, which is one of the categories on the inventory.
"We don't believe that you have to go church to be saved," they tell me. They say it with a slight bit of embarrassment, as it is Sunday, after church, and I am wearing a collar, and until about 15 minutes ago, I was leading worship. But it's only a slight bit of embarrassment.
The thing is, if the sentence is exactly the way they said it, "I don't think you have to go to church to be saved," I don't disagree with them. I don't think you have to go to church to be saved, if you put it in those particular words. The sentence makes going to church sound like part of a salvation check-list, and going to church like taking castor oil or eating your spinach. Good-for-you, they say, but somehow unpleasant. (Which I suppose it is, for some people.) There's the problem with the words "have to", but there's also a problem with the words "Go to church", rather than "go to worship." It makes church sound like a place you spend a little time to fulfill your religious requirement, rather than a community of people who are committed to listening to God and following Jesus.
****
Saturday, I met with a couple of women who want to join our congregation. Mostly, we just had a conversation, although I gave them each a copy of Daniel Erlander's book Baptized, We Live. And a copy of Luther's Small Catechism. They asked questions; we talked about a few of the fundamentals of what it means to be Christian, and Lutheran. I offered my favorite part of the catechism, which is Luther's explanation to the Third Article of the Creed (on the Holy Spirit), "I believe that by my own understanding or strength I cannot believe in Jesus Christ my Lord or come to him, but instead the Holy Spirit has called me through the gospel, enlightened me with his gifts, made me holy and kept me in the true faith...."
"You're here because the Holy Spirit called you," I offered. "At least, according to Luther."
"That's what we think," they both said.
****
Last Wednesday, I heard a little bit of a presentation by Diana Butler Bass. The title of her lecture was, "The Great Religious Recession", and was taken from her forthcoming book, Christianity after Religion. She did a lot of research and told stories about the decline in esteem for religion all over the world, including here. A lot of what she said rang true. Though it is not true that Christians are a persecuted minority in the United States, it is true that the religious climate is changing, that culture is more skeptical and less friendly to religion in general.
There are days when it can get discouraging.
But somehow I think that the Holy Spirit is still around.
But, all I have is stories.
I noticed a young family gone absent from worship. She is a gifted musician and actress; they have two young children. She did a benefit concert here once full of wonderful musical numbers; all the proceeds went to cancer research. I had been somewhat connected with them and eventually found her on facebook, where I noticed that her religious affiliation was "atheist."
Oh.
We had several facebook chats, where she was open about she and her husband's conversations, and that they discovered that "they didn't really believe in a personal god." Later on, I noticed she had changed her religious designation to "humanist"; I asked her if that was a somewhat "kinder, gentler" version of atheism, especially since I knew that several members of her family were pious Christians. I thought there was a slight online grin there.
****
A young couple is sitting in my office. They want to get married. They are extremely nice, interesting, earnest people. He's a special education teacher, I remember, who considers himself a role model for at-risk kids.
They are sitting in my office, having completed the pre-marriage inventory that I offer. We are talking about Spiritual Beliefs, which is one of the categories on the inventory.
"We don't believe that you have to go church to be saved," they tell me. They say it with a slight bit of embarrassment, as it is Sunday, after church, and I am wearing a collar, and until about 15 minutes ago, I was leading worship. But it's only a slight bit of embarrassment.
The thing is, if the sentence is exactly the way they said it, "I don't think you have to go to church to be saved," I don't disagree with them. I don't think you have to go to church to be saved, if you put it in those particular words. The sentence makes going to church sound like part of a salvation check-list, and going to church like taking castor oil or eating your spinach. Good-for-you, they say, but somehow unpleasant. (Which I suppose it is, for some people.) There's the problem with the words "have to", but there's also a problem with the words "Go to church", rather than "go to worship." It makes church sound like a place you spend a little time to fulfill your religious requirement, rather than a community of people who are committed to listening to God and following Jesus.
****
Saturday, I met with a couple of women who want to join our congregation. Mostly, we just had a conversation, although I gave them each a copy of Daniel Erlander's book Baptized, We Live. And a copy of Luther's Small Catechism. They asked questions; we talked about a few of the fundamentals of what it means to be Christian, and Lutheran. I offered my favorite part of the catechism, which is Luther's explanation to the Third Article of the Creed (on the Holy Spirit), "I believe that by my own understanding or strength I cannot believe in Jesus Christ my Lord or come to him, but instead the Holy Spirit has called me through the gospel, enlightened me with his gifts, made me holy and kept me in the true faith...."
"You're here because the Holy Spirit called you," I offered. "At least, according to Luther."
"That's what we think," they both said.
****
Last Wednesday, I heard a little bit of a presentation by Diana Butler Bass. The title of her lecture was, "The Great Religious Recession", and was taken from her forthcoming book, Christianity after Religion. She did a lot of research and told stories about the decline in esteem for religion all over the world, including here. A lot of what she said rang true. Though it is not true that Christians are a persecuted minority in the United States, it is true that the religious climate is changing, that culture is more skeptical and less friendly to religion in general.
There are days when it can get discouraging.
But somehow I think that the Holy Spirit is still around.
But, all I have is stories.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
I Remember Riding in the Car with My Dad when I was Little
"You shall put these words of mine in your heart and soul, and you shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and fix them as an emblem on your forehead. Teach them to your children, talking about them when you area t home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you rise. Write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates, so taht your days and the days of your children may be multiplied in the land that the Lord swore to your ancestors to give them, as long as the heavens are above the earth."
Deuteronomy 11:18-21
I remember riding in the car with my dad when I was little. I remember partly because when I was small, my dad had a big orange van that he used for his business, which was TV Sales and Service. It had the words G&B TV on the side in great big letters. This was an era waaaaay before SUVs, and riding in my dad's van was an adventure. Sometimes when we set out, he would pretend that we were taking off in a huge jet liner: "Pilot to co-pilot/pilot to co-pilot, come in please," he'd say to me.
I remember riding in the car with my dad.
Sometimes we'd be going to get the Christmas tree, and he'd be singing Christmas carols all the way there and back. Sometimes he told jokes, kind of cheesy jokes, actually, and other times we'd have serious conversations, especially as I got older.
We discussed questions, even theological questions, on occasion, talked about (for example) what was the most important day in the church year (Easter? Christmas? Pentecost?), or why bad things happened to good people (neither of us had the answer to that). I remember on a couple of occasions, he talked about tragedies we had heard about on the news, and people's statements that they were saved from death or injury or some bad thing, becasue "God was with them." But, my dad would always say, "What about all those other people? The ones who died? The ones who suffered?" Wasn't God with them, too? Didn't God love them too?
I remember riding in the car with my dad, and the converesations we had.
"Teach (these things) to your children, talking about them when you are at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you rise."
One of the things I think about often is what it means to live a generous life. What does it mean for us, as individuals, as families, as a congregation, to be known as generous? There are a lot of components to this, lots of ways to practice generosity -- or not. There are people who are quick to give, a little or a lot, whenever there is a need. There are people who are quick to extend their own hearts to others, be vulnerable, share their own struggles, be real.
My dad wasn't perfect by any means. But it seems to me that he had a kind of generosity, the generosity to count among God's blessed ones the suffering and the sorrowing, the down-and-out as well as the up-and-coming.
As we contemplate in our congregation what it means to live a generous life, I hope that our definition will include both generous financial giving to the mission of our congregation, and a generous heart, one that extends God's presence and God's love to the ones who need it most.
I remember riding in the car with my dad, when I was little.
Deuteronomy 11:18-21
I remember riding in the car with my dad when I was little. I remember partly because when I was small, my dad had a big orange van that he used for his business, which was TV Sales and Service. It had the words G&B TV on the side in great big letters. This was an era waaaaay before SUVs, and riding in my dad's van was an adventure. Sometimes when we set out, he would pretend that we were taking off in a huge jet liner: "Pilot to co-pilot/pilot to co-pilot, come in please," he'd say to me.
I remember riding in the car with my dad.
Sometimes we'd be going to get the Christmas tree, and he'd be singing Christmas carols all the way there and back. Sometimes he told jokes, kind of cheesy jokes, actually, and other times we'd have serious conversations, especially as I got older.
We discussed questions, even theological questions, on occasion, talked about (for example) what was the most important day in the church year (Easter? Christmas? Pentecost?), or why bad things happened to good people (neither of us had the answer to that). I remember on a couple of occasions, he talked about tragedies we had heard about on the news, and people's statements that they were saved from death or injury or some bad thing, becasue "God was with them." But, my dad would always say, "What about all those other people? The ones who died? The ones who suffered?" Wasn't God with them, too? Didn't God love them too?
I remember riding in the car with my dad, and the converesations we had.
"Teach (these things) to your children, talking about them when you are at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you rise."
One of the things I think about often is what it means to live a generous life. What does it mean for us, as individuals, as families, as a congregation, to be known as generous? There are a lot of components to this, lots of ways to practice generosity -- or not. There are people who are quick to give, a little or a lot, whenever there is a need. There are people who are quick to extend their own hearts to others, be vulnerable, share their own struggles, be real.
My dad wasn't perfect by any means. But it seems to me that he had a kind of generosity, the generosity to count among God's blessed ones the suffering and the sorrowing, the down-and-out as well as the up-and-coming.
As we contemplate in our congregation what it means to live a generous life, I hope that our definition will include both generous financial giving to the mission of our congregation, and a generous heart, one that extends God's presence and God's love to the ones who need it most.
I remember riding in the car with my dad, when I was little.
Monday, April 18, 2011
A Few Thoughts About Leadership
Over the past year or so I've been thinking a lot about Leadership, Pastoral and otherwise. Here are just a few things I've been thinking:
1. Leaders Don't Know Everything. I know it's tempting, when you are looking for a leader, to try and find someone who "knows what we should do." But I'm not sure that is the best model for leadership, at least these days. Rather than a leader who is sure that he or she knows what to do in every situation, what about a leader who is curious about what s/he doesn't know and listening to the people and the culture around her for ideas and strategies? I think that curiosity and openness are under-valued qualities in a leader these days.
A parish member once said, "A Professional is someone who knows what to do when s/he doesn't know what to do." Not a bad qualification for a leader too: someone willing to say, "Actually I don't have all the answers, but I have some ideas for how we can find out."
2. Leadership requires courage. Absolutely. You can't be a leader if you are not able to step out and take some risks. And you have to know where the bottom line is for you, what is essential and what is not.
That being said, leadership does not mean standing alone. And courage is not stupidity. Leaders cultivate their courage by making sure there are people standing with them, behind them, alongside them, people who see a leader's vision taking shape and are willing to go there with them. Leaders cultivate people who will have their back in times of stress; that's one place that courage comes from.
3. Leaders listen and speak. I think when we think of leaders, we think of speaking. But actually, listening is just as important to the task of leadership. What to leaders listen to: leaders listen to stories. And leaders tell stories. They tell their own stories, and they tell stories of the past, present and future of the people they are leading.
4. Leading and Pastoring are both necessary, but they are not the same thing. If you are a good pastor, do not mistake people's respect for you as their pastor, as a willingness to follow your leadership. It is a separate skill. I can't imagine being able to be a effective leader in a parish if you're not a good pastor as well.
5 Leaders cultivate hope. It's not the same as optimism.
I hope to continue, and to develop this conversation.
Probably after Holy Week, though.
1. Leaders Don't Know Everything. I know it's tempting, when you are looking for a leader, to try and find someone who "knows what we should do." But I'm not sure that is the best model for leadership, at least these days. Rather than a leader who is sure that he or she knows what to do in every situation, what about a leader who is curious about what s/he doesn't know and listening to the people and the culture around her for ideas and strategies? I think that curiosity and openness are under-valued qualities in a leader these days.
A parish member once said, "A Professional is someone who knows what to do when s/he doesn't know what to do." Not a bad qualification for a leader too: someone willing to say, "Actually I don't have all the answers, but I have some ideas for how we can find out."
2. Leadership requires courage. Absolutely. You can't be a leader if you are not able to step out and take some risks. And you have to know where the bottom line is for you, what is essential and what is not.
That being said, leadership does not mean standing alone. And courage is not stupidity. Leaders cultivate their courage by making sure there are people standing with them, behind them, alongside them, people who see a leader's vision taking shape and are willing to go there with them. Leaders cultivate people who will have their back in times of stress; that's one place that courage comes from.
3. Leaders listen and speak. I think when we think of leaders, we think of speaking. But actually, listening is just as important to the task of leadership. What to leaders listen to: leaders listen to stories. And leaders tell stories. They tell their own stories, and they tell stories of the past, present and future of the people they are leading.
4. Leading and Pastoring are both necessary, but they are not the same thing. If you are a good pastor, do not mistake people's respect for you as their pastor, as a willingness to follow your leadership. It is a separate skill. I can't imagine being able to be a effective leader in a parish if you're not a good pastor as well.
5 Leaders cultivate hope. It's not the same as optimism.
I hope to continue, and to develop this conversation.
Probably after Holy Week, though.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Telling Stories
Just the other day I was sitting in a room with a notebook and two sons, and I was listening to them tell stories. They were telling stories about their almost 90-year-old mother, who had just died after a short illness. I had known their mother for years, but the stories they were telling me were new to me.
It is often the case that no matter how well I think I know someone, I find out something new when we are planning a funeral. I wonder: is it just that I don't ask the right questions, or listen for the right things, when I visit someone, or in all those years of shaking their hand after worship, or serving meals or being in Bible study or serving on committees? I sometimes feel like I have gotten to know someone a lot better after they died.
Perhaps it's hearing stories from somone else's perspective: a husband or wife or a son or a granddaughter's perpsective on what's important can be so different than our own. So last week I heard a story from two sons about the one time their mother was fired from a job.
It seems that she was working, for a time, at a Variety Store. Her boss gave her instructions that she was to follow "certain types of people" around when they were in the store; those "types of people" would steal things, if they got the chance. But, she wouldn't do it. She claimed that she couldn't tell who "those types of people" were, and would not follow anyone around the store. So, she got fired.
On her membership card, someone had written, simply, "Housewife." But it turns out that, in the late thirties, this woman had gone to business college and had worked as a copywriter for an advertising agency. At one point she had just jumped on a train and come to Minneapolis. She ended up editing the first Pillsbury cookbooks.
I thought she was an ordinary person.
I remember visiting an old woman in a nursing home for several years. She had been an invalid since contracting the flu in the epidemic in 1918. After she died, a relative presented me with a book of poetry that she had written over the years.
And there was the unassuming man in my community who had been secretly giving money to several people in town when they were having hard times. I found out about it after he died.
Sometimes the truth can only be revealed after a person has died, like the secret generosity of the man from my church. But more often it's simply a matter of perspective, of hearing a different perspective, the same story in a different voice. It's like a person is held up to the light, and I hear a different perspective and see something sparkle.
Of course, sometimes the perspective I hear is a different one altogether. Sometimes the person I know as upstanding and an earnest Christian, has caused their loved ones pain that I never knew about.
As a preacher I often think of myself as a story-teller. I tell stories from life and I tell the stories of faith. I try to be a witness of what I hear and what I see. l I hold people's lives up to the light and try to show another perspective. Turn the story another way, and the dull begins to shine. Turn the story again, and the Pharisee is revealed as broken. And turn the story yet again, and the broken is redeemed, redeemed by grace and in the Light of another story.
As a preacher I often think of myself of a story-teller. But first of all I am really a story-hearer. I hear the stories of saints and the sinners, the stories of the Pharisees and the publicans, the stories of the wise and the foolish. And then I hold them up in the Light.
It is often the case that no matter how well I think I know someone, I find out something new when we are planning a funeral. I wonder: is it just that I don't ask the right questions, or listen for the right things, when I visit someone, or in all those years of shaking their hand after worship, or serving meals or being in Bible study or serving on committees? I sometimes feel like I have gotten to know someone a lot better after they died.
Perhaps it's hearing stories from somone else's perspective: a husband or wife or a son or a granddaughter's perpsective on what's important can be so different than our own. So last week I heard a story from two sons about the one time their mother was fired from a job.
It seems that she was working, for a time, at a Variety Store. Her boss gave her instructions that she was to follow "certain types of people" around when they were in the store; those "types of people" would steal things, if they got the chance. But, she wouldn't do it. She claimed that she couldn't tell who "those types of people" were, and would not follow anyone around the store. So, she got fired.
On her membership card, someone had written, simply, "Housewife." But it turns out that, in the late thirties, this woman had gone to business college and had worked as a copywriter for an advertising agency. At one point she had just jumped on a train and come to Minneapolis. She ended up editing the first Pillsbury cookbooks.
I thought she was an ordinary person.
I remember visiting an old woman in a nursing home for several years. She had been an invalid since contracting the flu in the epidemic in 1918. After she died, a relative presented me with a book of poetry that she had written over the years.
And there was the unassuming man in my community who had been secretly giving money to several people in town when they were having hard times. I found out about it after he died.
Sometimes the truth can only be revealed after a person has died, like the secret generosity of the man from my church. But more often it's simply a matter of perspective, of hearing a different perspective, the same story in a different voice. It's like a person is held up to the light, and I hear a different perspective and see something sparkle.
Of course, sometimes the perspective I hear is a different one altogether. Sometimes the person I know as upstanding and an earnest Christian, has caused their loved ones pain that I never knew about.
As a preacher I often think of myself as a story-teller. I tell stories from life and I tell the stories of faith. I try to be a witness of what I hear and what I see. l I hold people's lives up to the light and try to show another perspective. Turn the story another way, and the dull begins to shine. Turn the story again, and the Pharisee is revealed as broken. And turn the story yet again, and the broken is redeemed, redeemed by grace and in the Light of another story.
As a preacher I often think of myself of a story-teller. But first of all I am really a story-hearer. I hear the stories of saints and the sinners, the stories of the Pharisees and the publicans, the stories of the wise and the foolish. And then I hold them up in the Light.
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.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Santa Claus
We went to visit my dad today, after church and naps (more on church, perhaps, later). He had been home for a few days, but is now back in the nursing home while my mom travels to the Southwest to move out of their home there.
This is good news: they've been trying to sell their place for a long time. Last spring they had already decided that last year was the last year they'd be able to go down. But the market has made their home difficult to sell, and that has been worrisome.
My mom called and told me to be sure to let my dad know that she got there ok. So that was the first thing I told him when we arrived.
He was watching football, and was a little confused at first. I don't think he remembered who my husband was for a few minutes, until he laughed. We didn't do any singing today, but we told a few jokes, and he made a few puns. I told him the joke I told one of our third graders after the Bible class yesterday: "What's the longest word in the English language?" Answer: "Smiles. Because there's a mile between each "s"."
At one point he blurted out: "I miss being Santa Claus."
Shortly after he retired many years ago, he played Santa Claus at a Famous Local Department Store. He did this for a couple of years, made a little extra money, and got to dress up. My neice and nephew visited him, and he pretty much had them fooled, except that my neice (about 4 at the time) said that "Santa Claus kinda smells like grandpa."
When I asked him what he missed about being Santa Claus, he said, "The children."
To tell you the truth, I kind of miss him being Santa Claus, too.
I also miss how he used to sit on our beds and say prayers with us when we were little. He would often pretend that he was Methusalah, the World's Oldest Man. He told us that he remembered all the people from Bible Days, but he was so old, that he would fall asleep while we were praying, and we would kick him to wake him up.
I miss how he put peanut butter on our toast for us.
I miss how good he was at speaking with different accents, not only the Swedish accent he grew up with, but also with a great Irish brogue, or a yiddish accent. He also did a pretty fair Maurice Chevalier and Ronald Colman. He could sing like Bing Crosby. But he only knew the first lines of all the songs, so he made up different words.
I miss those theological discussions we had when I was a teenager. Often they took place while we were driving in the car. They often had to do with why some people suffered, and other people were not visited by tragedy. My dad would often say that it wasn't right to say that "God spared me," as if God were not with the people who had to go through hard times as well.
Today when we visited my dad, he said that he missed being Santa Claus. When I asked him why, he said, "the children." But when I tried to ask him more about what he liked about being Santa Claus, he lost his train of thought, and we had to go on to something else.
This is good news: they've been trying to sell their place for a long time. Last spring they had already decided that last year was the last year they'd be able to go down. But the market has made their home difficult to sell, and that has been worrisome.
My mom called and told me to be sure to let my dad know that she got there ok. So that was the first thing I told him when we arrived.
He was watching football, and was a little confused at first. I don't think he remembered who my husband was for a few minutes, until he laughed. We didn't do any singing today, but we told a few jokes, and he made a few puns. I told him the joke I told one of our third graders after the Bible class yesterday: "What's the longest word in the English language?" Answer: "Smiles. Because there's a mile between each "s"."
At one point he blurted out: "I miss being Santa Claus."
Shortly after he retired many years ago, he played Santa Claus at a Famous Local Department Store. He did this for a couple of years, made a little extra money, and got to dress up. My neice and nephew visited him, and he pretty much had them fooled, except that my neice (about 4 at the time) said that "Santa Claus kinda smells like grandpa."
When I asked him what he missed about being Santa Claus, he said, "The children."
To tell you the truth, I kind of miss him being Santa Claus, too.
I also miss how he used to sit on our beds and say prayers with us when we were little. He would often pretend that he was Methusalah, the World's Oldest Man. He told us that he remembered all the people from Bible Days, but he was so old, that he would fall asleep while we were praying, and we would kick him to wake him up.
I miss how he put peanut butter on our toast for us.
I miss how good he was at speaking with different accents, not only the Swedish accent he grew up with, but also with a great Irish brogue, or a yiddish accent. He also did a pretty fair Maurice Chevalier and Ronald Colman. He could sing like Bing Crosby. But he only knew the first lines of all the songs, so he made up different words.
I miss those theological discussions we had when I was a teenager. Often they took place while we were driving in the car. They often had to do with why some people suffered, and other people were not visited by tragedy. My dad would often say that it wasn't right to say that "God spared me," as if God were not with the people who had to go through hard times as well.
Today when we visited my dad, he said that he missed being Santa Claus. When I asked him why, he said, "the children." But when I tried to ask him more about what he liked about being Santa Claus, he lost his train of thought, and we had to go on to something else.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
War Is Hell
Today was Veterans Day. Every Wednesday morning we have a Matins Service, and later a morning program for our seniors who gather. This morning, in honor of Veterans Day, we say a medley of patriotic songs and heard a few stories by veterans who are members of our congregation. I have to say, I was strangely moved by the cheerful Air Force Song, "Off we go/into the wild blue yonder/Climbing high into the sky", especially when one elderly gentleman, a World War II veteran, stood up and remained standing while we sang.
"He was in the Air Force," someone whispered to me.
"I know,"I whispered back. He is a member of my noon Bible story, and has alluded to his service in the Army Air Corp on occasion. He has particularly said, on more than one occasion, that he never thought he would make it to his 22nd birthday.
He told us more of the story today. In fact, I got the feeling that he has been waiting over fifty years to tell his story. He trained and flew B-17s over Germany in 1945. He told us that you had to get 35 missions in before you were done, but hardly anyone made it to 35. He told us about how it felt to know you were expendable, to know every day that there were people who didn't make it back. And he told us a little bit about his mission, too: to "break the will of the German people", as he was told.
"Our job was a dirty job," he told us, and he didn't have to say more.
The war ended after he had flown 17 missions. He didn't go to the South Pacific, because B-17s weren't useful there. After the war, he flew officers over to North Africa, where he would sometimes confess how he felt about the work he had had to do. These were men who had seen ground conflict all over Europe. They told him not to feel guilty. They hated the Germans.
He was in Germany as well, for the Nuremburg trials. He put on the headphones, and heard, over and over, men whose defense was "I was following orders."
"I was following orders, too," he said.
He wondered about the chaplains, and how they did their jobs. He said they never heard scripture readings or sermons about "Loving your enemies," or even "Loving your neighbors." "We were trying to destroy our neighbors," he said. The unspoken question: what happens to faith in times of war? What does it look like? How far does it extend?
Eli Wiesel tells a hasidic tale that asks the question, "When do we know that the night is over and the day has come?"
The answer: when we can see the face of our brother, and know that he is our brother.
"He was in the Air Force," someone whispered to me.
"I know,"I whispered back. He is a member of my noon Bible story, and has alluded to his service in the Army Air Corp on occasion. He has particularly said, on more than one occasion, that he never thought he would make it to his 22nd birthday.
He told us more of the story today. In fact, I got the feeling that he has been waiting over fifty years to tell his story. He trained and flew B-17s over Germany in 1945. He told us that you had to get 35 missions in before you were done, but hardly anyone made it to 35. He told us about how it felt to know you were expendable, to know every day that there were people who didn't make it back. And he told us a little bit about his mission, too: to "break the will of the German people", as he was told.
"Our job was a dirty job," he told us, and he didn't have to say more.
The war ended after he had flown 17 missions. He didn't go to the South Pacific, because B-17s weren't useful there. After the war, he flew officers over to North Africa, where he would sometimes confess how he felt about the work he had had to do. These were men who had seen ground conflict all over Europe. They told him not to feel guilty. They hated the Germans.
He was in Germany as well, for the Nuremburg trials. He put on the headphones, and heard, over and over, men whose defense was "I was following orders."
"I was following orders, too," he said.
He wondered about the chaplains, and how they did their jobs. He said they never heard scripture readings or sermons about "Loving your enemies," or even "Loving your neighbors." "We were trying to destroy our neighbors," he said. The unspoken question: what happens to faith in times of war? What does it look like? How far does it extend?
Eli Wiesel tells a hasidic tale that asks the question, "When do we know that the night is over and the day has come?"
The answer: when we can see the face of our brother, and know that he is our brother.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Why I am Still a Lutheran
I've shared before a bit about my journeys among Pentecostals and charismatics when I was in college. For a lot of reasons, I've been thinking about this time again. I have relatives who have had similar experiences, and are now no longer Lutheran. As for me, for most of my college career and for a couple of years afterwards, I experimented and dabbled in various kinds of religious experiences: I went on a silent retreat at a Franciscan retreat center, I attended Catholic charismatic praise services and New Testament Churches and a tiny Foursquare Gospel church. I read huge sections of the Bible in my evening devotions, and went to a lot of Bible studies. I think I missed some passionate believing in the church of my youth, and I found it in these alternative experiences.
And yet....
Some of my Bible study friends thought that the best thing for me to do would be to get re-baptized and join their church. But unlike my relatives, I never got re-baptized, and I never joined any of those different churches.
I think part of my reticence had to do with baptism itself. God knows, my confirmation studies in the early 70s had not given me a complete education. But somehow I got the idea that baptism had more to do with God than it did with me. Once, when I was in college, a friend asked me if he should be re-baptized. People had approached him and told him that if he was re-baptized, his eyesight might improve (he was legally blind.) So, he asked me, and I said, "Well, what do you think is most important about baptism: what you do, or what God does?" And he answered, "What God does." So I said, "Then you don't need to be re-baptized."
I'll tell you, during those years while I went to different Bible studies and pray meetings and worship services, I found the passion that I was missing in the church of my youth. For a while there, it was all Jesus, all the time. Why was anyone talking about anything other than Jesus, I wondered? Truthfully, I was insufferable for awhile.
But I continued to go to church on Sunday too. And a few books I read during that time began to broaden my perspective. (None of them were by Lutherans though; the three books I remember were The Living Reminder, by Henri Nouwen, Orthodoxy, by G.K. Chesterton, and Telling the Truth: The Gospel as Tragedy, Comedy and Fairy Tale, by Frederick Buechner.) Even though none of these writers are/were Lutheran, they are part of the reason I'm still Lutheran.
Another reason I'm still Lutheran, I think, has to do not with passion, but with compassion. I remember thinking about the things I admired about those who I met at the churches and Bible studies and prayer meetings I attended. It was evident that they took faith very seriously, and read the Bible very seriously.
But when I thought about people who lived gracious lives, with charity toward people they didn't agree with, I didn't think of them. I thought of the professors at the Lutheran school I attended, I thought of the people I had known in my church growing up, I thought of my godparents, serious Lutheran Christians who loved me even when I dissed their faith.
Passion and compassion. Both important qualities.
But if I had to pick, I'd pick compassion every time.
And yet....
Some of my Bible study friends thought that the best thing for me to do would be to get re-baptized and join their church. But unlike my relatives, I never got re-baptized, and I never joined any of those different churches.
I think part of my reticence had to do with baptism itself. God knows, my confirmation studies in the early 70s had not given me a complete education. But somehow I got the idea that baptism had more to do with God than it did with me. Once, when I was in college, a friend asked me if he should be re-baptized. People had approached him and told him that if he was re-baptized, his eyesight might improve (he was legally blind.) So, he asked me, and I said, "Well, what do you think is most important about baptism: what you do, or what God does?" And he answered, "What God does." So I said, "Then you don't need to be re-baptized."
I'll tell you, during those years while I went to different Bible studies and pray meetings and worship services, I found the passion that I was missing in the church of my youth. For a while there, it was all Jesus, all the time. Why was anyone talking about anything other than Jesus, I wondered? Truthfully, I was insufferable for awhile.
But I continued to go to church on Sunday too. And a few books I read during that time began to broaden my perspective. (None of them were by Lutherans though; the three books I remember were The Living Reminder, by Henri Nouwen, Orthodoxy, by G.K. Chesterton, and Telling the Truth: The Gospel as Tragedy, Comedy and Fairy Tale, by Frederick Buechner.) Even though none of these writers are/were Lutheran, they are part of the reason I'm still Lutheran.
Another reason I'm still Lutheran, I think, has to do not with passion, but with compassion. I remember thinking about the things I admired about those who I met at the churches and Bible studies and prayer meetings I attended. It was evident that they took faith very seriously, and read the Bible very seriously.
But when I thought about people who lived gracious lives, with charity toward people they didn't agree with, I didn't think of them. I thought of the professors at the Lutheran school I attended, I thought of the people I had known in my church growing up, I thought of my godparents, serious Lutheran Christians who loved me even when I dissed their faith.
Passion and compassion. Both important qualities.
But if I had to pick, I'd pick compassion every time.
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