New Under the Sun

When I came to this church 16 years ago, one of the responsibilities  I was charged with was starting a new worship service.  It wasn't exactly supposed to be a creation ex nihilo; the congregation's leaders had been playing around with some things during the 10:00 hour on Sunday morning for a little while before I came.  But I came in to take that time and make it into something new, and energetic.

At first, and for a number of years, that service was (or seemed to be) wildly successful.  It was our largest worship service.  It was energetic.  We learned some new songs.  We tried some things (like learning to pray in sign language, for example, or a reader's theatre based on the story of the fourth wise man, or practicing prayers for healing).  We never achieved perfection, and we did exhibit a few besetting sins, problems that were never quite solved. (At least some of the persistent problems had to do with acoustics and sound.)

Two years ago, we abandoned that service while we dreamed of the possibility of starting something new.  Instead of expanding, our "new thing" was contracting.  We went from two services to one, creating new relationships between people who had been attending the same church but never met.  We experimented in a few other ways, blending styles of worship and having the children with us at the end of the worship service instead of at the beginning of worship.  We tried to create space for failure, for success, for forgiveness.

Tonight I walked into the narthex for meetings.  Stewardship and worship were both meeting this evening, and I was going to navigate between them.  But as I walked into the narthex, I saw a new group, a small group of people, all sitting in a circle.  I wasn't part of the meeting, but I knew what they were doing.  They were dreaming about a new thing, a new worship service, a mission start right here in our building.  It will be called "Tapestry".  The dreamers and the imaginers imagine it as a multi-cultural and inclusive community which will meet on Sunday evenings.  Worship will be informal.  They will learn some new songs.  They will experiment.  It will never be perfect, but perhaps will welcome people who never felt at home in our sanctuary.

There is nothing new under the sun, they say, but still, we begin again.  We imagine again what singing a new song could be like, what foods might be spread out on that holy mountain, and we try to give voice to that dream.  It is what God is calling us to do.

I can't help feeling a little wistful, looking back to the dreams from when I first came here.  I suppose I am wistful because I am not one of the people sitting around the circle, although I'm not uninvolved in the dreaming.  I am a little wistful because I believe in this new vision, this new Tapestry, even though it was not my idea and I am not the one making it come to pass.

There is nothing new under the sun, they say, but still, we begin again.  We can't help it.  It is what God is calling us to do.  But even more than that:  it is what God is doing in us.

You Don't Have to Pray Out Loud, Do You?

I came into church early this morning, to get ready for our Matins service.  When I arrived, there was one woman kneeling in the chapel, praying by herself.

Sometimes there are two of them.

I quietly marked my scripture readings, found the Psalm and flipped on the microphone.  This woman has been coming in at 7:30 on Wednesday mornings to pray for as long as I can remember.  I didn't want to disturb her before she was finished praying.

This morning she finished up a little earlier.  As I was finishing up my worship preparation, she asked me, "Why do you think more people don't come to pray?"

I told her that I suspected not that many people knew that there was a prayer meeting at 7:30 a.m. on Wednesday morning.  They operate sort of under the radar.  I also said that 7:30 a.m. may be a deterrent for some people who are not early risers.   All true, but she was not quite content.

"I don't think people feel comfortable praying," she said.  "I know I didn't, at first.  I learned how from Harriet." (another woman who used to come to pray early in the morning).

I said I thought she had a point, and that people perhaps didn't realize you didn't have to be particularly good at prayer to pray.  You don't have to make perfect, eloquent sentences.

Someone else came in while we were talking about prayer.  She took her usual seat in the front.  She was listening to our conversation when she blurted out, "but you don't have to pray out loud, do you?  It's just between you and God, isn't it?"

"No," I answered.  "You don't have to pray out loud."

I thought about it for a moment.

"Except when you do," I answered.

It's true.  You don't have to pray out loud.  Prayer is a relationship, after all.  It is an intimate conversation with God.  Some prayers are just between you and God, and you and God are the only ones who have to know about them.  There are times when God is the only one you can talk to, the only one you trust with the deepest secrets of your heart.  You don't have to pray out loud.

And yet, as soon as I say it, I am a little uncomfortable with this.  Prayer is not my private possession.  It's not just my individual private relationship with God.  Prayer is a gift to the church, the whole church, deepening our relationships not only with God but also with one another.  There are so many prayers that are not just mine and nor just yours, but they are our prayers.  They are the church's prayers, the church's secrets, the church's burdens lifted up.  Because we are members of one another, whether we realize it or not, whether we pray about it out loud or not.

I had the same four boys in confirmation class for three years.  We started out saying just one word prayers together, out loud.  Just one word of thanks apiece.  We gave thanks for our parents, for pizza, for pets.  As we got to know each other, we gave thanks for deeper things, and one day we started praying for things we really cared about:  a grandfather who was dying, homeless people who were staying in our church, a friend who was struggling.  Our prayers were not eloquent.  But they were true.  We learned to trust each other, to be who we are:  the church.

I can understand why people might not want to pray out loud.  I mean, what if people say you are praying for the wrong thing?  What if someone says you don't have any right to talk to God about your dog when there are so many big things to pray about?  What if someone else despises your prayer, or even thinks you are using the wrong words?  What happens when your prayers are not answered, and everyone knows it?  To put a word, or a few words, a dream, out there -- it's a hard thing to do.

We don't have to pray out loud, I suppose.   We don't have to trust each other either.  We don't have to be the body of Christ, with many members, but a common mission.  We don't have to build homes or teach children or fix meals or sweep floors or share love or unlock the doors of oppression together.

We don't have to pray out loud.

Except when we do.

Saying "Yes" and Meaning It

Today was Confirmation Sunday for our congregation.  Eleven young people stood up in front of the congregation and said, "Yes", they wanted to continue to be disciples of Jesus, they wanted to live their baptism, they wanted be children of God, just as they were called when their parents carried them to the font a few years ago.  Eleven young people said, "Yes, and I ask God to help and guide me", when I asked them "Do you intend to continue in the covenant God made with you in Holy Baptism?"

And I think they all meant it.

Oh, I know that some of them have doubts.  Some of them wonder about the stories of the Bible.  Are they really true?  Some of them seem hard to believe.  But despite their doubts, they somehow want to continue the journey, being connected to this particular set of people who bear Christ's name.  Others of them are more certain of God, but they still have questions.  They wonder about how it all works, what eternity is like, why is there evil in the world?  But despite their questions, they still said "Yes" when I asked them "Do you intend to continue in the covenant God made with you in Holy Baptism?"

It's a pretty big question, whether you are in the 9th grade or whether you are 90.  "Do you intend to continue in the covenant God made with you in Holy Baptism?"  Just to prove it, when we ask 9th graders, we break the question down into five parts.  We say this is what it means to continue in the covenant God made with us in Holy Baptism:

*  to live among God's holy people
*  to hear God's word and share in his supper
*  to proclaim the good news of God in Christ through word and deed
*  to serve all people, following the example of our Lord Jesus,
*  to strive for justice and peace through all the earth.

I can't help thinking that, though all of the 9th graders meant it when they said "yes" today, they really didn't know what they were getting into.  In this way, they aren't that different from any one of us, at any age, when we say "yes" to being disciples of Jesus.

We all say "yes," because, at the time, we somehow know that saying "yes" means life to us.  Saying yes means grace and forgiveness, love that is stronger than death, a place prepared with many mansions.

Just two weeks ago, members of our congregation gathered after worship to learn the outcomes of some of our redevelopment groups.  We heard reports about the demographics of our community, learned more about the two paths our congregation could take:  either "redevelopment" or "legacy."   We learned that the path of 'redevelopment' is a path of change, and that it leads to growth and life.  We learned that the path of 'legacy' is a path that, eventually, leads to death.  The choice seems simple.  To choose to redevelop is to choose life.

But at the heart of it, it is the same sort of question as the one posed to the confirmation students today.  At the heart of it, to be a redevelopment church is to say "Yes," to the question "do you intend to continue in the covenant God made with you in Holy Baptism?"

"Yes, and I ask God to help and guide me."

On that Sunday two weeks ago, we said yes.  Just like those 9th graders.

And I think we all meant it.

But we don't yet know what it will mean.  We don't really realize how it is that God will transform us, in our encounters with our neighbors, in suffering and service, in worship and joy, in silence and in shouting.  We don't really realize how it is that God will transform us, from one degree of glory into another.

In the meantime, we all said 'yes.'

But more important than that, we asked God to help and guide us.

What To Take Along When You Don't Know Where You Are Going

I remember a particular Sunday during our pastoral transition.  It was a Sunday designed to be a pivotal event in our congregation's life.  We were gathered to celebrate our past while we looked to the future.  Our congregational profile had been completed; the "transition team" was about to morph into the call committee.   Every choir and music group had a part in the worship service.

The sermon revolved around a particular event from Israel's history:  just as they were about to cross the Jordan and enter the promised land, a representative of each of the twelve tribes took a stone from one side of the river, and brought it along with them to the other side.  The idea was that although our congregation was embarking on a new chapter in our life, we honor our past and take a part of it along with us on our journey.  I think that there were even some stones on the floor by the baptismal font, and a paper cut-out of the river Jordan, so that the children could move the stones from one side of the river to the other side.

I have to admit that, though I have more than a passing acquaintance with the Old Testament, this particular story had escaped me up until then.  I know that I read almost the entire Old Testament during seminary, but I must have skimmed a few parts, a feeling that came back to me a couple of years ago when I decided to read the whole Bible over a summer.  (Wait a minute.  When did David do THAT?)

But, I digress.

The more I thought about it, though, the more I thought that the story about the stones was a little more nuanced than I had at first suspected.  I remember re-thinking the story a few months later, and coming to the sudden realization that the stones were not simple reminders of the past.  They were specific reminders of 40 years of wandering in the wilderness.  As the people of Israel was about to cross over into the promised land, they were to take stones from the wilderness, to remember when they were settled the experience of wandering.

The stones were reminders for people coming into the promised land, but they weren't reminders of the 'good old days.'  They were reminders of God's goodness when they grumbled, of God's anger and forgiveness, of dancing around a golden calf, of manna and quails, of manna hoarded that went bad.

I can't help asking myself now:  What does this mean for us?  What stones should we take with us where we are heading, and what do they mean?

The pastoral transition has ended, but in some ways we are still in the wilderness.  Getting a new pastor is not the same as entering the promised land.  In fact, I am not even sure where we are, or where we are going.  Are we in Egypt, living in a culture foreign to us?  Is God leading us into the wilderness?  Or are we in the wilderness now,  wandering without a home, learning to be God's people without the benefit of accustomed markers?

Sometimes I think we need to go back all the way almost to the beginning, all the way to Abraham, to know where we are.  We need to go all the way back to Abraham, who was on the road, on the way to somewhere or another when he heard God say, "Go.  Go to a place where I will show you.  You will be blessed, and you will be a blessing."

What do you take along when you don't know where you are going?  I am not sure, but I suspect you take your family, some stories, a little bread and wine.   You forget about crossing the river Jordan and entering the promised land, and feeling like you have arrived.  You just live here, on the road, sharing stories and bread and wine with the strangers who cross your path, and somehow where you are now becomes the promised land, because it you have come to realize that the promised land is not a place, but the promised land is in the face of the strangers, and in the eyes that look into yours, and in One who called you and accompanies you and will not abandon you.  Somehow you come to see the fleeting vision, where the kingdom of God is in everything you gave away, and somehow (who knows how?) you have finally become a blessing.

Congregational Redevelopment and "Leaving Room"

One of the best pieces of advice I ever got came shortly after one of the first worship services I led as a pastor.  One of the parish members came up to me after worship one week and said, "You didn't leave enough room."

"What do you mean?' I asked.  I had no idea what she was talking about.

"During the prayers," she answered.  "You always include a prayer for 'those we now name in our hearts', but you don't leave enough room for me to pray for all the people I want to name."

It was true.  I did always include a time of silent prayer, but I never thought about how much silence people would need if they really took me seriously, if they were really praying for people during that time of silent prayer.  I didn't leave enough room.

More recently, someone at the congregation where I serve now mentioned that they always have a prayer list in their purse or wallet.  They take the list out and pray during the petitions at church.  But the list is getting pretty long.  It is possible that I am not leaving enough room.  

I have been thinking about the term 'redevelopment' for awhile now.  I can think of a lot of words to use to describe what congregational redevelopment means.  Here are a few:  transformation.  overcoming fear.  listening.  creativity.  being and becoming.

And here are a few words to describe what redevelopment is NOT:  getting rid of everything from the past.  cookie-cutter contemporary liturgy.  ignoring your tradition.

I like Matthew's version of the passage about the new wine and new wineskins.  Notice how it reads:  "Neither is new wine put into old wineskins; otherwise, the skins bursts, and the wine is spilled, and the skins are destroyed; but new wine is put into fresh wineskins, and so both are preserved.  "Particularly I like how Jesus seems concerned about making room both for the new and the old wine, how Jesus wants to make sure that new wine is put into new wineskins where it can grow and expand, where it won't ruin those old wineskins with the precious old wine.

"Making Room."

The more I think about it, this is one good way to think about redevelopment.  It is not unlike leaving enough room during the petitions for people to say their prayers, leaving room during worship for silence as well as song, leaving room in our lives for God to do a new thing, or an old thing in a new way.  To redevelop is to trust that God is at work in us, in our congregation, in the world, that if we will just leave some room:  some room to fail, some room to try new things, some room to listen, God will lead us.  To make room is to trust that this is God's church, that we are still called to be bearers of hope and grace and faith in the world.  To make room is to listen -- to God, to one another, to strangers.  To make room is to fail sometimes, and trust that God will use everything we do for God's purposes, to bring good news.

To redevelop a congregation -- is to leave room -- for silence, for the Word, for God to work in ways we did not expect, and would not have predicted.

I am not claiming to know very much yet about 'redevelopment', at least not yet.  I am on this journey along with everyone else, this journey of which I cannot see the ending.  I am on this journey, and I love the old wine, but I yearn for the new wine too, even though I don't know what it will taste like yet.    All I know is that I am going to try to make room, to make room for God to work in my heart, in the silence, in the noisiness of our children, in the tears of strangers, in this congregation.

A Small, Wonderful Mistake

On Sunday at worship, a very small, wonderful thing happened.

During the closing hymn (a rousing rendition of "How Firm a Foundation", by the way), we carried the cross and processed to the entry of the church, as always.  The people turned to face the cross, as always (or at least as they have begun to do during this past year).  We stood there, continuing to sing, as always.

And then, three little girls, about three or four years old, began to dance.

They boldly entered the aisle and moved to their own graceful rhythms.  A fourth little girl, who had turned around to follow the cross, looked at them with wide and wondering eyes -- and then ran out to join them.  Soon there were four little girls, dancing in the aisle.

I wished I had my camera, because I was perfectly situated to take a video of the scene.

I also secretly wished I could join them.  I was a little afraid, I suppose, of what people would think.  I was a little afraid that if I started dancing, they might stop.

And I didn't want them to stop.

During the past year, we have messed with our worship services some.  We are a congregation in redevelopment, which means we are re-learning what it means to be the body of Christ in this place and in this time and for these people, some of whom we are convinced we have not met yet.  So we are talking to each other and asking questions and trying some different things, with various degrees of success.

For this year, we have (for example) gone from two services to one.  People are worshipping together who never worshipped together before.  We are trying to get beyond the catch phrases "contemporary" and "traditional" as well.  For some, the experiment has been a resounding success.  For others, well, the jury is still out.

Our Sunday School schedule has changed as well, at least for this year.  We are trying some intergenerational projects, and a short children's church.  In the past, the children always started church with the whole congregation, and then moved to their classrooms.  This year the children are in Sunday School at the beginning of worship (hence no Children's Message this year), and they come to join us after the sermon, either at the prayers or the peace.

I have to admit, that I do miss seeing the children with their families at the beginning of worship.  Though I have mixed feelings about the "children's message" sometimes, I do miss those opportunities as well.  We probably won't keep the same schedule next year.  It was an experiment.  Some people might think it was a mistake.  We shouldn't have done it.  We should have left well enough alone.

Perhaps.

Two things struck me, though:

1.  If we were worshipping the same way as we did last year, we would have never had this small, wonderful moment.  The children would be safe in their Sunday School classes, with parents hurrying to retrieve them.  This moment was made possible by our 'mistake.'

2.  No one who saw the tiny dancers tried to stop them.  No one told me, "They shouldn't have been doing that in church."  One person even said, "That was an Alleluia moment."

I am not sure which of these two things gives me the most hope.  Perhaps it is the first one, to think that out of our missteps and miscalculations can come such grace.

But the more I think about it, it is the second thing that strikes me as most hopeful for our redevelopment.

One of the things a redevelopment church must learn is to create a space, to embrace a wider welcome for people who do not worship in exactly the same tones that we do.  We don't need to give up liturgy, but we do need to recognize that it's a skeleton that can be fleshed out in many ways, some of them even unscripted.

One of the tasks of a redevelopment church is learning to welcome the stranger.

We might as well start with our children.

Irreverent Sunday

Between the early and the late services this morning, I talked to a few parish members and learned about a community event this afternoon called Penn Fest. Some of the businesses and the City put together a small summer get-together this afternoon, and also unveiled some ideas for a planned redevelopment around the intersection, which would include making it more green and friendly for walking.

However, some people expressed concern about the future of the small businesses there. There are more than enough chain coffee shops in the area. When other areas of the city were redeveloped, none of the former tenants came back. And there are some wonderful, unique small businesses here, that no one wants to lose: Fireside Pizza, Penn Cycle, Homestead Pickin' Parlor, Koram Tae Kwan Do School, and the Lariat Lanes Bowling Alley.

There is a rumor that when Mick Jagger comes to town, he goes bowling at the Lariat Lanes.

So, maybe that's what the song, "I Can't Get No Satisfaction" is all about.

All these years, his one ambition has been to bowl a perfect game.