My memories of Hebrews 13:2 go back to my childhood, and a book that I received from my godparents. It was called, "Angel Unaware", by Dale Evans Rogers (remember Roy Rogers?) and was about their young daughter who died while she was yet a child. I remember the positive message that caring for a sick child turned out to be a blessing and a transformation rather than a hardship.
I suppose that this verse is one of the best known passages of scripture. It's right up there with, "Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, today, and forever." Or "Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen". And who wouldn't want to entertain an angel (even though you didn't know it until afterwards)?
But since I am now a student of Biblical languages (especially Greek), and since I have been thinking more deeply (especially lately) about the word "stranger", I can't stop thinking about this passage of scripture.
I start with that really disarmingly short first verse. "Let mutual love continue." You know what "mutual love" is in Greek? Philadelphia. The city of brotherly love. So love your brothers and sisters. That's the first thing. And that makes sense, right? Not controversial at all. Not that I'm saying that it's always EASY, but it makes sense to love "one another."
But the next part -- about showing hospitality to strangers -- well, that's another thing, if you really think about it. Without any disrespect to Dale Evans Rogers, the word "hospitality to strangers" in Greek is really one word "philoxenia" -- which means "love of the stranger." To be hospitable is to love the stranger. And the word entertain? is the word "xenos" in Greek, which means both to be a host AND to be strange. To be a good host is -- in a way -- to be strange. Or maybe -- just maybe -- the best host knows what it means to be a stranger.
This blows my mind. This blows my mind as an American and a Christian and a pastor. Partly because when I hear the word "stranger" -- this is a word that I don't associate with angels so much as I do with fear. Especially these days, but not only these days. These days we are afraid of the strangers at the border, people whose lives and poverty we cannot seem to imagine. But most of us -- were at one time strangers and sojourners in this land as well. We were immigrants from somewhere, poor or hopeful or fleeing oppression. Most of our families have a story about when they were strangers, when they didn't know the language, when they prayed that someone would be kind, speak slowly, help them count their change in the grocery store, help them find their way in a strange city or a strange neighborhood.
But perhaps the best host knows what it means to be a stranger, and perhaps this applies to the church as well. We have become too at home here in this world. We have forgotten what it means to be a stranger, and this affects our ability to truly share the good news.
I remember that long ago, I lived as a missionary in Japan. I was there to share the gospel, to invite people to the great feast, which is Jesus and his love. But most of the time, I was a stranger. I couldn't read the labels on food in the grocery store. I didn't know how to cook most of the food I found there, at least at first. I only knew a few other people, who came to Japan with me. I understood the rhythm of the liturgy, but not the words. And it seemed to me (although I didn't realize this for a long time) that this was a part of the point. To be a stranger. Not to know everything. Just to know Christ, and him crucified.
We used to get off the trains in our neighborhood, and walk through the streets, smelling the good smells coming from people's houses. We would joke about knocking on stranger's doors and invite ourselves in for dinner, but we had learned enough Japanese culture to understand that we should never do that. But we knew that we were vulnerable, and needed help to navigate the world.
Perhaps the best host knows what it means to be a stranger. I can't help thinking about Jesus, who was guest at so many parties, and how many people thought they knew him, but they didn't. He was the best host who, on the night he was betrayed, took bread, and shared it with his disciples.
The truth is, the world is a strange place, and the Kingdom of God is stranger still. Love your enemies. Forgive people, and keep forgiving them. Be generous. Give everything away, and you will be rich. You are deeply flawed, and you are deeply loved. You are not what you do. You are not what you buy. Love the stranger.
There is no "strategy" to mission. It's just love. Love one another. Love the stranger. Love yourself, in all of your strangeness. Love Jesus. After all, the best host knows what it means to be a stranger.
Showing posts with label mission. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mission. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 27, 2019
Tuesday, October 9, 2018
Finding Vida Nueva
It was last year at just about this time when we arrived in Lima, Peru. There were just a few of us. We were there to meet our mission partners, to find out more about the work the churches were doing, to meet some of the people and hear their stories. There were just a few of us, and we had only been in Peru for about a day and a half when we set out to find a church called "Vida Nueva." New Life.
We spent the morning in a nearby market, and then we were to set out. We knew that the church was quite a distance away, out in the hills -- the outskirts of Lima. The church boasted a landmark -- a large statue of of Jesus with arms outstretched. The idea was to get to the church, meet some of the members who were waiting for us, and then climb the steps up to the Jesus with Outstretched Arms.
You can't miss him. Jesus, that is.
And it was true. When we neared the area, we could see the statue off in the distance. We knew we were close, and we began to ascend into the hills, up narrow and winding gravel roads, past small businesses and houses.
And as we ascended we lost sight of Jesus. The statue that is. The one with outstretched arms.
We were sure we were close. We had GPS, but it didn't seem to do any good. We called the church, but the women there did not know exactly where we were, and did not know how to tell us what direction to go to get to the church.
We opened the windows on our van, and fearlessly questioned anyone walking by. "Have you heard of Vida Nueva?" we asked. Some had heard of the church, but they weren't sure exactly where it was. Some pointed us in a certain direction. Some had not heard of Vida Nueva. It seemed like we were going in circles. There were several dead ends. It was getting later in the afternoon, and we knew if we didn't find the church soon, we would have to return home in defeat.
Then someone in the car shouted and pointed, "There it is!" We spied the statue in the distance again. At the same time we saw a young woman walking down the street. "Do you know where to find Vida Nueva?" we asked again. She used to go there, she said, so she knew exactly where it was. She got in the van and took us there, and we were so close, but we had been driving around in circles.
Once we got to the church it was too late to make the pilgrimage up to the status of Jesus with Outstretched Arms. But we got a tour of the small church, and learned a little bit about their ministry with children. Then my husband pulled out his guitar and we sang a few songs together. We sang in Spanish, a language I barely knew, and we sang songs I had been struggling to learn. We sang "You have Come Down to the Lakeshore" in Spanish, and when the little group of women began the refrain, with the word, "Señor!", it was as if the Jesus with Outstretched Arms had come down to us. I had sung this song many times before, and, truth be told, I was singing it for the first time that afternoon, with a lump in my throat and gratitude for the community.
We were so lost, and then we were found.
It has been a year since that journey, and suddenly the image of the Jesus with Outstretched Arms appeared again, and I remembered. I remembered the winding dusty roads and the feeling of futility. I remembered our guide rolling down the windows and asking everyone she met for directions. I remembered the ramshackle houses, and the vivid colors, and I remembered the glimpse of Jesus, and I remembered how our voices were raised together, theirs carrying mine. I remembered the shaft of light in the small chapel.
We drive in circles most of the time. At least I know I do. The GPS that is supposed to tell me exactly where to go -- doesn't always work the way I would like. Even when I know what I'm looking for (which isn't always the case). "Vida Nueva." New Life. The Jesus with Outstretched Arms.
I know that is the case for my congregation as well. Sometimes we drive around in circles. The path to new life, it seems, should be clear, and I should be able to lead them there on a straight path. But maybe part of the point is getting lost, rolling down the windows and asking for directions. Maybe part of the point is the hard humility gained by going around and around in circles, until you really learn to see what is around you, what you have been missing: the sound of the singing, the outstretched arms, the vivid colors, the hunger.
And then, and then -- Vida Nueva will find you. The Jesus with Outstretched Arms.
We spent the morning in a nearby market, and then we were to set out. We knew that the church was quite a distance away, out in the hills -- the outskirts of Lima. The church boasted a landmark -- a large statue of of Jesus with arms outstretched. The idea was to get to the church, meet some of the members who were waiting for us, and then climb the steps up to the Jesus with Outstretched Arms.
You can't miss him. Jesus, that is.
And it was true. When we neared the area, we could see the statue off in the distance. We knew we were close, and we began to ascend into the hills, up narrow and winding gravel roads, past small businesses and houses.
And as we ascended we lost sight of Jesus. The statue that is. The one with outstretched arms.
We were sure we were close. We had GPS, but it didn't seem to do any good. We called the church, but the women there did not know exactly where we were, and did not know how to tell us what direction to go to get to the church.
We opened the windows on our van, and fearlessly questioned anyone walking by. "Have you heard of Vida Nueva?" we asked. Some had heard of the church, but they weren't sure exactly where it was. Some pointed us in a certain direction. Some had not heard of Vida Nueva. It seemed like we were going in circles. There were several dead ends. It was getting later in the afternoon, and we knew if we didn't find the church soon, we would have to return home in defeat.
Then someone in the car shouted and pointed, "There it is!" We spied the statue in the distance again. At the same time we saw a young woman walking down the street. "Do you know where to find Vida Nueva?" we asked again. She used to go there, she said, so she knew exactly where it was. She got in the van and took us there, and we were so close, but we had been driving around in circles.
Once we got to the church it was too late to make the pilgrimage up to the status of Jesus with Outstretched Arms. But we got a tour of the small church, and learned a little bit about their ministry with children. Then my husband pulled out his guitar and we sang a few songs together. We sang in Spanish, a language I barely knew, and we sang songs I had been struggling to learn. We sang "You have Come Down to the Lakeshore" in Spanish, and when the little group of women began the refrain, with the word, "Señor!", it was as if the Jesus with Outstretched Arms had come down to us. I had sung this song many times before, and, truth be told, I was singing it for the first time that afternoon, with a lump in my throat and gratitude for the community.
We were so lost, and then we were found.
It has been a year since that journey, and suddenly the image of the Jesus with Outstretched Arms appeared again, and I remembered. I remembered the winding dusty roads and the feeling of futility. I remembered our guide rolling down the windows and asking everyone she met for directions. I remembered the ramshackle houses, and the vivid colors, and I remembered the glimpse of Jesus, and I remembered how our voices were raised together, theirs carrying mine. I remembered the shaft of light in the small chapel.
We drive in circles most of the time. At least I know I do. The GPS that is supposed to tell me exactly where to go -- doesn't always work the way I would like. Even when I know what I'm looking for (which isn't always the case). "Vida Nueva." New Life. The Jesus with Outstretched Arms.
I know that is the case for my congregation as well. Sometimes we drive around in circles. The path to new life, it seems, should be clear, and I should be able to lead them there on a straight path. But maybe part of the point is getting lost, rolling down the windows and asking for directions. Maybe part of the point is the hard humility gained by going around and around in circles, until you really learn to see what is around you, what you have been missing: the sound of the singing, the outstretched arms, the vivid colors, the hunger.
And then, and then -- Vida Nueva will find you. The Jesus with Outstretched Arms.
Friday, March 23, 2018
The Neighborhood
I've been driving by a local coffee house for some time now, thinking that one of these days I would have to stop and go in. It's not a chain, it's a local joint, so rare these days, not just in coffee shops, but in everything.
One day we finally carved out a little time to stop in and get some coffee, pull up a lime green easy chair and stay for awhile. It turns out they have a small menu as well, including some homemade breads, instant oatmeal and quiche (while it lasts). I brought along the book I was reading at the time, Everything Happens For a Reason (and other Lies I've Loved). There were a couple of local mystery writers sitting in one corner, discussing plots and current events. Every once in awhile someone would drive up to the window and order something to go.
We carried on a conversation with the young, friendly barista. She's originally from Montana, but lives now in a tiny town just west of us. Besides her work at the coffee shop, she also babysits a young boy. And she reads. She loves to read. Right then she was reading the book Accidental Saints, a book by a pastor from my particular tribe (Lutheran). Although Nadia has tattoos, and I don't.
I talked a little bit about my church, just a little way down the road, and its pre-school. I told her a little bit about one of my dreams: to have a tiny children's bookstore, and call it "The Wardrobe." It would only need to be the size of a walk-in closet, and specialize in children's books with spiritual themes.
She said, "I would soo... hang out there!"
I don't have a plan for this dream, knowing as I do that bookstores are sort of the wave of the past, not the future, what with online purchasing and e-readers. But it was nice to share it with someone who could see its possibilities.
* * * * *
This morning we were back at the coffee shop. We made small talk with a woman who was there, purchasing fresh-ground coffee. She loves sushi and is learning Spanish. She has a four year old son who does not yet talk much. "Einstein was a late talker," I offered. She counted her change in Spanish, just for practice.
The barista and I had another conversation, over coffee and oatmeal. She likes to read the feminist Christian writers, she said, and we took turns naming some: Sarah Bessey, Rachel Held Evans, Jen Hatmaker. We talked about a book club starting at the coffee shop. The next book they are reading is a mystery.
I love my congregation. I love leading worship every Sunday, all of the voices lifted in praise, making sure all ages and all people have a place, and know they belong. It makes a hinge on my week. But it's too easy for me to get the impression that all the important things happen inside its doors, when that is not really the case. The most important things happen when we meet God through all the week, in all of the conversations, in the details of each other's lives, where God is at work, if only I had more time to listen.
One day we finally carved out a little time to stop in and get some coffee, pull up a lime green easy chair and stay for awhile. It turns out they have a small menu as well, including some homemade breads, instant oatmeal and quiche (while it lasts). I brought along the book I was reading at the time, Everything Happens For a Reason (and other Lies I've Loved). There were a couple of local mystery writers sitting in one corner, discussing plots and current events. Every once in awhile someone would drive up to the window and order something to go.
We carried on a conversation with the young, friendly barista. She's originally from Montana, but lives now in a tiny town just west of us. Besides her work at the coffee shop, she also babysits a young boy. And she reads. She loves to read. Right then she was reading the book Accidental Saints, a book by a pastor from my particular tribe (Lutheran). Although Nadia has tattoos, and I don't.
I talked a little bit about my church, just a little way down the road, and its pre-school. I told her a little bit about one of my dreams: to have a tiny children's bookstore, and call it "The Wardrobe." It would only need to be the size of a walk-in closet, and specialize in children's books with spiritual themes.
She said, "I would soo... hang out there!"
I don't have a plan for this dream, knowing as I do that bookstores are sort of the wave of the past, not the future, what with online purchasing and e-readers. But it was nice to share it with someone who could see its possibilities.
* * * * *
This morning we were back at the coffee shop. We made small talk with a woman who was there, purchasing fresh-ground coffee. She loves sushi and is learning Spanish. She has a four year old son who does not yet talk much. "Einstein was a late talker," I offered. She counted her change in Spanish, just for practice.
The barista and I had another conversation, over coffee and oatmeal. She likes to read the feminist Christian writers, she said, and we took turns naming some: Sarah Bessey, Rachel Held Evans, Jen Hatmaker. We talked about a book club starting at the coffee shop. The next book they are reading is a mystery.
I love my congregation. I love leading worship every Sunday, all of the voices lifted in praise, making sure all ages and all people have a place, and know they belong. It makes a hinge on my week. But it's too easy for me to get the impression that all the important things happen inside its doors, when that is not really the case. The most important things happen when we meet God through all the week, in all of the conversations, in the details of each other's lives, where God is at work, if only I had more time to listen.
Wednesday, December 28, 2016
What Children Need
After Christmas Eve services this year, I found a note in my box from one of our young worshippers. It was inside an offering envelope that contained a five dollar bill. The note had hearts on it and also the words, "Best Church Ever."
"Best Church Ever." At least on Christmas Eve, that's what one seven year old thought. I wonder what it was that made her write those words. I wonder what it was she loved so much.
"Best Church Ever."
It's the kind of note a pastor wants to save, and possibly even frame. Especially it's the kind of note the pastor of a small congregation, with more retired people than children, wants to save. Our small congregation is tempted to look around and wonder what we have to offer families: after all, there are many large (some mega) congregations around us. They have large and busy children's ministries. They have separate churches for children while parents go to "adult" worship. They have age-specific ministries. How can we compete with that? We can't.
Even more amazing to me was that this note was from our 7:00 candlelight service, not our 4:00 "especially for families with children" service. Now I happen to think that the 4:00 service was pretty great. There were a lot of children there. The service was engaging and interactive and we still got to sing a lot of Christmas carols. Children got to pretend they were angels and adults got to wave canes and umbrellas and pretend they were shepherds. A four year old boy stood out in the narthex and handed out candy canes to everyone who came.
At 7:00 there was no children's message, just singing and a sermon and of course, candles and darkness at the end. It was not tailored specifically for families with children, although extended families attended: grandparents and parents and grandchildren took entire rows. Maybe that was part of why it was great. Maybe children actually sometimes like to sit with their grandparents and their parents in worship and sing the songs together. Maybe they even need to do it.
Or perhaps it was the candles. There is something about receiving the light, and then sharing it with the next person, and then seeing everyone together in the light of the candle. Maybe the seven year old who both receives the light and then passes it to the person next to him feels important, as if he is a part of something great and wonderful.
It is great to have programs for children. Large churches can offer a lot. But every church can offer what children need: a place to worship with people older and younger than themselves, learning to sing and pray and know Jesus. Every church can be what children need: a place where children both receive the light, and can pass it along to someone else, a place where children learn that they are valuable and worthy, a part of the mission of God.
"Best Church Ever." At least on Christmas Eve, that's what one seven year old thought. I wonder what it was that made her write those words. I wonder what it was she loved so much. "Best Church Ever."
It's the kind of note a pastor wants to save, and possibly even frame. Especially it's the kind of note the pastor of a small congregation, with more retired people than children, wants to save. Our small congregation is tempted to look around and wonder what we have to offer families: after all, there are many large (some mega) congregations around us. They have large and busy children's ministries. They have separate churches for children while parents go to "adult" worship. They have age-specific ministries. How can we compete with that? We can't.
Even more amazing to me was that this note was from our 7:00 candlelight service, not our 4:00 "especially for families with children" service. Now I happen to think that the 4:00 service was pretty great. There were a lot of children there. The service was engaging and interactive and we still got to sing a lot of Christmas carols. Children got to pretend they were angels and adults got to wave canes and umbrellas and pretend they were shepherds. A four year old boy stood out in the narthex and handed out candy canes to everyone who came.
At 7:00 there was no children's message, just singing and a sermon and of course, candles and darkness at the end. It was not tailored specifically for families with children, although extended families attended: grandparents and parents and grandchildren took entire rows. Maybe that was part of why it was great. Maybe children actually sometimes like to sit with their grandparents and their parents in worship and sing the songs together. Maybe they even need to do it.
Or perhaps it was the candles. There is something about receiving the light, and then sharing it with the next person, and then seeing everyone together in the light of the candle. Maybe the seven year old who both receives the light and then passes it to the person next to him feels important, as if he is a part of something great and wonderful.
It is great to have programs for children. Large churches can offer a lot. But every church can offer what children need: a place to worship with people older and younger than themselves, learning to sing and pray and know Jesus. Every church can be what children need: a place where children both receive the light, and can pass it along to someone else, a place where children learn that they are valuable and worthy, a part of the mission of God.
Tuesday, September 13, 2016
More of That
On Sunday, September 11, I went to church.
It was a regular Sunday morning communion service, although, because it was 9/11, I had more time for praying and singing, and slightly less time for preaching than usual. The children's message featured a cloth globe that I passed around to the children, so that we could all hold the world in our hands, and pray for the world. As well, each bulletin had a colorful cardboard hand. During the prayers, everyone was encouraged to write their name on a hand, to think about how they could be an instrument of God's peace, and then put the hand in the offering plate.
We are still thinking about what to do with those hands. Should we make a collage? Should we fasten them all on a ribbon and hang them up around the church? More creative minds than mine could think of many more ideas.
The choir sang for the first time on Sunday, a gospel song called, "Lord, Have Mercy." I always run up to the balcony to sing with the choir, and then back down to preside at communion. The ushers usually follow me with the offering plates. Today they were filled with these colorful hands.
But on Sunday something else happened. One of the ushers decided to give the offering plates to her two year old great-nephew. They walked together down the center aisle, just behind me. When I turned around there he was, standing there gravely. I stooped down to take the two plates from him.
I turned to the usher and said, "Thank you. that was wonderful. I want more of that."
More of that. I don't just want to see the children in church; I want them to know that they belong in church, that they are an important part of the body of Christ, that we are poorer if they are absent. I want them to light the candles, read the lessons, share the peace, carry the offering baskets, help with communion, do things I haven't imagined.
I want more of that. I am not exactly sure why I said it, or said it like that. Maybe it was just seeing him get to do something I never got to do, when I was small, even though I was there every. single. Sunday. Maybe it is because I believe that children learn not just from sitting around tables in Sunday School, but from sitting next to their parents in worship, carrying offering plates, packing socks for homeless people. Learning to be Christian is not just head knowledge, but whole body knowledge, and we learn it from one another, not just listening but doing and being. Or maybe it was this, even: a flash of a vision. A little child shall lead them. The lion shall lie down with the lamb. This is what the kingdom of Heaven looks like. All of us together. All of us playing a part.
I know that's not the current wisdom. The current wisdom says to separate us into different learning groups, different worship styles, different ages. Have Children's Church and the Hip Service for teenagers and the Baby Boomer Service, and the one that the Greatest Generation goes to. We are all different, after all. We speak different languages. We need different things.
But the truth is, that what we need more than anything else is one another. We need one another to grow up into Christ, and we need one another to do the mission to which he has called us: to love and heal the world.
People ask me what my vision for the church is. It is a two year old carrying the offering plates. It is the 4 year old who closes his eyes whenever I give him a blessing. It is the two 5th graders who sing the songs during Lent at the top of their lungs. It is all of these colorful hands, each of them pledging to be instruments of God's peace. And knowing that we can't do it alone. We need each other, not just for that hour on Sunday morning, but we need each other to share the peace of God in the world.
Because we all need more of THAT.
It was a regular Sunday morning communion service, although, because it was 9/11, I had more time for praying and singing, and slightly less time for preaching than usual. The children's message featured a cloth globe that I passed around to the children, so that we could all hold the world in our hands, and pray for the world. As well, each bulletin had a colorful cardboard hand. During the prayers, everyone was encouraged to write their name on a hand, to think about how they could be an instrument of God's peace, and then put the hand in the offering plate.
We are still thinking about what to do with those hands. Should we make a collage? Should we fasten them all on a ribbon and hang them up around the church? More creative minds than mine could think of many more ideas.
The choir sang for the first time on Sunday, a gospel song called, "Lord, Have Mercy." I always run up to the balcony to sing with the choir, and then back down to preside at communion. The ushers usually follow me with the offering plates. Today they were filled with these colorful hands.
But on Sunday something else happened. One of the ushers decided to give the offering plates to her two year old great-nephew. They walked together down the center aisle, just behind me. When I turned around there he was, standing there gravely. I stooped down to take the two plates from him.
I turned to the usher and said, "Thank you. that was wonderful. I want more of that."
More of that. I don't just want to see the children in church; I want them to know that they belong in church, that they are an important part of the body of Christ, that we are poorer if they are absent. I want them to light the candles, read the lessons, share the peace, carry the offering baskets, help with communion, do things I haven't imagined.
I want more of that. I am not exactly sure why I said it, or said it like that. Maybe it was just seeing him get to do something I never got to do, when I was small, even though I was there every. single. Sunday. Maybe it is because I believe that children learn not just from sitting around tables in Sunday School, but from sitting next to their parents in worship, carrying offering plates, packing socks for homeless people. Learning to be Christian is not just head knowledge, but whole body knowledge, and we learn it from one another, not just listening but doing and being. Or maybe it was this, even: a flash of a vision. A little child shall lead them. The lion shall lie down with the lamb. This is what the kingdom of Heaven looks like. All of us together. All of us playing a part.
I know that's not the current wisdom. The current wisdom says to separate us into different learning groups, different worship styles, different ages. Have Children's Church and the Hip Service for teenagers and the Baby Boomer Service, and the one that the Greatest Generation goes to. We are all different, after all. We speak different languages. We need different things.
But the truth is, that what we need more than anything else is one another. We need one another to grow up into Christ, and we need one another to do the mission to which he has called us: to love and heal the world.
People ask me what my vision for the church is. It is a two year old carrying the offering plates. It is the 4 year old who closes his eyes whenever I give him a blessing. It is the two 5th graders who sing the songs during Lent at the top of their lungs. It is all of these colorful hands, each of them pledging to be instruments of God's peace. And knowing that we can't do it alone. We need each other, not just for that hour on Sunday morning, but we need each other to share the peace of God in the world.
Because we all need more of THAT.
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
Small Things
Just recently a grandmother told me how much her 4th grade granddaughter already loves a new three-year-old in our congregation. Their family just started visiting, and when the children, all ages, come together for to play and draw and wonder about the scripture readings, the little girl sings her own song about how much she loves Jesus. They are making a connection, beginning a relationship, not based on being in the same grade, but based on being in the same body of Christ.
A teenager in our congregation recently expressed a similar feeling about a four year old boy who is new to our congregation. Well, actually her college-age sister told me, "My sister just LOVES him."
They are small moments, I know, not grand programs with scads of children and bells and whistles. We are a smallish congregation, with just a few children right now, but we are beginning to grow, to see more families with young children coming and worshipping and even coming back.
And I have to admit, that I am tempted to try to group them by age, because I am trying to build a children's and youth program, and in the past you needed a certain number in every grade who liked each other and were friends and were developing significant relationships with children their own age. That's how you did it.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
We put a lot of stock in large, age-segregated programs for children and youth. In fact, for many churches, the ability to offer that package is the definition of "success." Parents gravitate to churches with those programs. But I can't help noticing something, particularly in my congregation: there are so many people who have a significant relationship with one of our charter members, who is 96. It doesn't matter that they are nowhere near her age. They value their connection with her in the body of Christ, and feel enriched by her presence.
Programs can be good things, don't get me wrong. Even programs tailored for one specific age groups can be good things. But programs don't transforms us. Relationships, as in our relationship with Jesus, as in our relationships with one another -- these God uses to form us into people who will go out and share grace with the world. The 4th grader with the three year old, the teenagers and the pre-schoolers, the 96 year olds and the babies and the empty nesters and the college students -- we sing each others songs, put up with each other's blind spots, learn each other's passions and gifts -- and love each other.
Love one another as I have loved you, he said. And I catch a glimpse of it, before any program can be planned, or any grand ideas can be implemented: Love one another. the 96 year old and the baby. The three year old and the 4th grader. The pre-schooler and the high school student.
A teenager in our congregation recently expressed a similar feeling about a four year old boy who is new to our congregation. Well, actually her college-age sister told me, "My sister just LOVES him."
They are small moments, I know, not grand programs with scads of children and bells and whistles. We are a smallish congregation, with just a few children right now, but we are beginning to grow, to see more families with young children coming and worshipping and even coming back.
And I have to admit, that I am tempted to try to group them by age, because I am trying to build a children's and youth program, and in the past you needed a certain number in every grade who liked each other and were friends and were developing significant relationships with children their own age. That's how you did it.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
We put a lot of stock in large, age-segregated programs for children and youth. In fact, for many churches, the ability to offer that package is the definition of "success." Parents gravitate to churches with those programs. But I can't help noticing something, particularly in my congregation: there are so many people who have a significant relationship with one of our charter members, who is 96. It doesn't matter that they are nowhere near her age. They value their connection with her in the body of Christ, and feel enriched by her presence.
Programs can be good things, don't get me wrong. Even programs tailored for one specific age groups can be good things. But programs don't transforms us. Relationships, as in our relationship with Jesus, as in our relationships with one another -- these God uses to form us into people who will go out and share grace with the world. The 4th grader with the three year old, the teenagers and the pre-schoolers, the 96 year olds and the babies and the empty nesters and the college students -- we sing each others songs, put up with each other's blind spots, learn each other's passions and gifts -- and love each other.
Love one another as I have loved you, he said. And I catch a glimpse of it, before any program can be planned, or any grand ideas can be implemented: Love one another. the 96 year old and the baby. The three year old and the 4th grader. The pre-schooler and the high school student.
Monday, January 18, 2016
Today
Today I took my pad of paper and some big books to a place where I could get a breakfast sandwich and some coffee. I read and ate and took notes with the big books spread out in front of me. I read the two parts of Jesus' sermon to his hometown in Nazareth, about how he was filled with the power of the Holy Spirit, and picked up the scroll to read.
"The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, for he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor," I read. I underlined the part about Jesus being filled with the power of the Holy Spirit, and thought about it.
"Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing."
Today. That's what he said.
Maybe it was just for emphasis. Today. Right now. That is what is most important. What you do, or don't do today. Where you are today.
Today I studied and thought about the power of the Holy Spirit, in Jesus, and in us. I thought about the power of the Holy Spirit that pushes out into the world, that Jesus' mission is now our mission. I also did laundry. Two loads. It was time. I called a couple of people, but, to be honest, there were a couple of people I should have called, but I didn't. I got a little farther in planning my theme for Lent. I got an appointment for my car.
Today I went over to the pre--school for a little while. I saw some of the very little ones out on the playground. It was a beautiful sunny day. So I went out to watch them play and to talk to them. They wanted to show me their jackets, tennis shoes and cowboy boots. They were sliding down the slide with glee. Again and again.
The best moment was when a little girl saw me and recognized me. She started running to me, and threw her arms around my legs. Today.
Today I put in a casserole for supper, and made some steamed broccoli. I ate a Cara Cara Orange for the first time. I talked to a friend on the phone. I frittered away some time, not paying attention.
Today I studied, and I played and I stood in the sun, and Jesus spoke to me.
I didn't understand what he said, but somehow he gave me hope.
"The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, for he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor," I read. I underlined the part about Jesus being filled with the power of the Holy Spirit, and thought about it.
"Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing."
Today. That's what he said.
Maybe it was just for emphasis. Today. Right now. That is what is most important. What you do, or don't do today. Where you are today.
Today I studied and thought about the power of the Holy Spirit, in Jesus, and in us. I thought about the power of the Holy Spirit that pushes out into the world, that Jesus' mission is now our mission. I also did laundry. Two loads. It was time. I called a couple of people, but, to be honest, there were a couple of people I should have called, but I didn't. I got a little farther in planning my theme for Lent. I got an appointment for my car.
Today I went over to the pre--school for a little while. I saw some of the very little ones out on the playground. It was a beautiful sunny day. So I went out to watch them play and to talk to them. They wanted to show me their jackets, tennis shoes and cowboy boots. They were sliding down the slide with glee. Again and again.
The best moment was when a little girl saw me and recognized me. She started running to me, and threw her arms around my legs. Today.
Today I put in a casserole for supper, and made some steamed broccoli. I ate a Cara Cara Orange for the first time. I talked to a friend on the phone. I frittered away some time, not paying attention.
Today I studied, and I played and I stood in the sun, and Jesus spoke to me.
I didn't understand what he said, but somehow he gave me hope.
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
"You Used to Sing to me"
So, I've only been here a couple of months: not long enough to accomplish anything big or great. That's what I keep telling myself, anyway. I keep having to remind myself that I have only been here a couple of months. I am just getting to know people. It's too early to (for example) convert Texas, or even the greater Conroe area.
Mostly I have been doing the ordinary things of ministry, listening, meeting people, leading worship, writing and preaching sermons. I have been going to the council meetings and giving my reports and I am in the process of putting together a series of house meetings for the fall, where we can get to know each other, the congregation and me. We can find out our hopes and dreams and fears, and start to get glimmers of what we will do together.
I have only been here a couple of months, not long enough to accomplish anything big or great.
But on Sunday, a little girl came up to me after the second service. I got to know her just a little over the summer, but hadn't seen her for a few weeks. She and her dad and her little sister were standing around, and she said to me, "You used to sing to me, but now I go to a different school."
She and her sister have been part of our congregation's pre-school. She graduated, which I suppose means she is in the first grade now. During the summer, when she saw me on Wednesday at chapel, she would say, "I saw you in church on Sunday!" On Sunday, she would say, "I saw you at school on Wednesday!"
But this time she said, "You used to sing to me."
It sounded odd, I'll confess. Partly it was because, as I said, I've only been here a couple of months. It's hard to imagine that I 'used to' do anything. I don't have a history here yet. But I have a history with this little girl, already. I used to sing to her.
This little phrase made me consider my vocation. It is clear that this little girl considers me to be her pastor, although she might not know that is what I am called. How did she describe this calling? What did I do that made me her pastor?
I sang to her.
I didn't know that was what I was doing, really. I was there with the children, praying and telling the Bible stories and yes, singing, too. We were just singing songs. But she thought I was singing them to her.
It is the way it always is. It is not just the body of Christ, it is the body of Christ, given for you, put into your hands. It is the blood of Christ, for you. It is the song of God's love, sung into your ear, into your heart.
I've only been here a couple of months: not long enough to accomplish anything big or great. But long enough to sing.
Mostly I have been doing the ordinary things of ministry, listening, meeting people, leading worship, writing and preaching sermons. I have been going to the council meetings and giving my reports and I am in the process of putting together a series of house meetings for the fall, where we can get to know each other, the congregation and me. We can find out our hopes and dreams and fears, and start to get glimmers of what we will do together.
I have only been here a couple of months, not long enough to accomplish anything big or great.
But on Sunday, a little girl came up to me after the second service. I got to know her just a little over the summer, but hadn't seen her for a few weeks. She and her dad and her little sister were standing around, and she said to me, "You used to sing to me, but now I go to a different school."
She and her sister have been part of our congregation's pre-school. She graduated, which I suppose means she is in the first grade now. During the summer, when she saw me on Wednesday at chapel, she would say, "I saw you in church on Sunday!" On Sunday, she would say, "I saw you at school on Wednesday!"
But this time she said, "You used to sing to me."
It sounded odd, I'll confess. Partly it was because, as I said, I've only been here a couple of months. It's hard to imagine that I 'used to' do anything. I don't have a history here yet. But I have a history with this little girl, already. I used to sing to her.
This little phrase made me consider my vocation. It is clear that this little girl considers me to be her pastor, although she might not know that is what I am called. How did she describe this calling? What did I do that made me her pastor?
I sang to her.
I didn't know that was what I was doing, really. I was there with the children, praying and telling the Bible stories and yes, singing, too. We were just singing songs. But she thought I was singing them to her.
It is the way it always is. It is not just the body of Christ, it is the body of Christ, given for you, put into your hands. It is the blood of Christ, for you. It is the song of God's love, sung into your ear, into your heart.
I've only been here a couple of months: not long enough to accomplish anything big or great. But long enough to sing.
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
Eating What Is Set Before You
I lived in Japan for three years and never ate raw horse meat, although I heard that it was a delicacy in the region where I lived. It was called "basashi," I heard, and kept wondering if there would be a time when I would have to swallow my revulsion and taste it. But it never happened.
There were new and strange foods, though, and I learned that it was part of being a missionary to learn to eat things I had never tasted before, to accept hospitality as well as to provide it. Being a missionary was not about being in charge all of the time. It was about learning to live in a strange place, and eat new things with chopsticks and humility. I'll be honest, there were times when I would have identified with Peter -- being offered a meal, and wanting to shrink away and say, "Oh no, Lord, I would never eat that! It can't be right to eat that!"
I remember the first time I bit down on something deep-fried, only to be told that it was "taco" -- octopus. It was okay, actually, after the initial shock of picturing an octopus tentacle passed over me. I also remember the surprise of tasting wasabi (Japanese horseradish) for the first time. Many times I learned that a new food that I did not want to try was a gourmet dish and an act of extravagant hospitality.
But of course -- Peter's reticence was more than cultural. These are foods that God had commanded him not to eat. This was about obedience to God, not just cultural preference or being a 'picky eater.' And the lesson here is not so much about the food as it is about people -- just as it was when I became a missionary in Japan. It is about what we eat, but more than that, who we eat with -- who we allow ourselves to eat with, to associate with, to worship with -- to live with.
While we have learned to eat different kinds of ethnic foods these days, we are more divided than ever -- by race and class and language. I remember the first time I helped serve a free meal through an organization called "Loaves and Fishes." While I was very comfortable ladling the food, serving food, I became uncomfortable when someone told me to go and sit and eat with the people I was serving. I have to ask myself why. I don't like the answer.
I like to think that both Peter and Cornelius were transformed through their encounter: both by the love of God. I know that this was true of me, long ago in Japan: though I thought I was going to serve in God's name and to tell of God's love, I ended up being expanded myself. I ate what was set before me, with humility and chopsticks. I learned to be loved at the same time I was learning more and more what it meant to love.
There were new and strange foods, though, and I learned that it was part of being a missionary to learn to eat things I had never tasted before, to accept hospitality as well as to provide it. Being a missionary was not about being in charge all of the time. It was about learning to live in a strange place, and eat new things with chopsticks and humility. I'll be honest, there were times when I would have identified with Peter -- being offered a meal, and wanting to shrink away and say, "Oh no, Lord, I would never eat that! It can't be right to eat that!"
I remember the first time I bit down on something deep-fried, only to be told that it was "taco" -- octopus. It was okay, actually, after the initial shock of picturing an octopus tentacle passed over me. I also remember the surprise of tasting wasabi (Japanese horseradish) for the first time. Many times I learned that a new food that I did not want to try was a gourmet dish and an act of extravagant hospitality.
But of course -- Peter's reticence was more than cultural. These are foods that God had commanded him not to eat. This was about obedience to God, not just cultural preference or being a 'picky eater.' And the lesson here is not so much about the food as it is about people -- just as it was when I became a missionary in Japan. It is about what we eat, but more than that, who we eat with -- who we allow ourselves to eat with, to associate with, to worship with -- to live with.
While we have learned to eat different kinds of ethnic foods these days, we are more divided than ever -- by race and class and language. I remember the first time I helped serve a free meal through an organization called "Loaves and Fishes." While I was very comfortable ladling the food, serving food, I became uncomfortable when someone told me to go and sit and eat with the people I was serving. I have to ask myself why. I don't like the answer.
I like to think that both Peter and Cornelius were transformed through their encounter: both by the love of God. I know that this was true of me, long ago in Japan: though I thought I was going to serve in God's name and to tell of God's love, I ended up being expanded myself. I ate what was set before me, with humility and chopsticks. I learned to be loved at the same time I was learning more and more what it meant to love.
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
The Space Between Water and Light
On the last day of our after-Christmas vacation, the weather finally became closer to what you might expect from a Southwestern desert climate. It was a sunny afternoon, and finally warming up enough so that we didn't need our jackets. So, on Sunday afternoon, we took a little drive out into the desert.
My sister and brother-in-law had found the ruins of an old ghost town where they thought it would be fun to hike. We drove down a road that I would have sworn was actually not a road ("No, that's it; that's where we are supposed to go," my sister said). We got out of the car and stared out at the spare beauty of the desert, not seeing anything but varieties of cactus and palo verde trees. There were no houses, no buildings, no roads that we could see.
When we got closer, though, we saw bricks, the remains of walls, some old pipes still sticking out of the ground, the last vestiges of the town that used to be there. We hiked a bit, pointing out the clues to the former times, the times when humans prospered here, until my sister started insisting that we go and find the path to Queen Creek.
We knew it was near; we could hear it. But the trick was finding the right path, the safe one that would take us there. We even once looked down at the creek from a hill, but knew we could not get down to the water from there.
My brother-in-law wanted to go home; we had seen the ruins, after all. That was the most important part. But my sister kept talking about the creek; we couldn't go home until we found the creek. At one point she disappeared for a little while; we thought she was lost. But she knew where she was. She was looking for the path to the water.
When we found it, it was just a little stream, tucked away in the middle of the ruins. It was just a little stream, but once you saw the place, you couldn't help but notice -- in the middle of the desert, everything was starting to be green. Green was sprouting up there. We couldn't help it; we just started taking pictures. There was something shimmery there, where the light touched the water and bounced back. It made me feel like this could be a place where secrets are revealed.
We started taking pictures of each other. I took one of my sister, standing just in front of the creek, with the light reflecting off the water and a finger of the creek in the eeriest shade of blue. I thought then that I knew why my sister liked this place. She is an artist, after all, and I thought she must be attracted to the way the light and the shadows and the water all work together to make everything beautiful.
Even us.
On Sunday it be The Baptism of Our Lord, the 2nd Sunday after the Epiphany. We hear the same gospel story every year, although a different variation. This year the variation I am hearing is from Matthew, where Jesus is baptized by John in the river Jordan, and John doesn't want to do it. Somehow, in the River Jordan, the secret is revealed, and John can see it: "I need to be baptized by you." But Jesus knows something else, and he insists. Somehow his being baptized will "fulfill all righteousness" whatever that means.
In my imagination I have sometimes thought that Jesus had a list, a list of all of the things he had to do to effect our salvation. "Be baptized" was there, at the top of the list, even though, as the story goes, he had no sins to repent of. That is what 'fulfill all righteousness' meant.
Today, though, I am imagining something else: I am imagining Jesus and John, standing in Queen Creek. "I need to be baptized by you," John says. Somehow in the space between the water and the light he sees something about Jesus, something about himself. But Jesus insists. He insists because there is another secret that the world needs to know.
When he comes up from the water and the Spirit descends, the voice speaks. "You are my son, the beloved." And the Words shimmer in the space between the water and the light, and it all works together to make everything beautiful.
Even us.
Even us.
My sister and brother-in-law had found the ruins of an old ghost town where they thought it would be fun to hike. We drove down a road that I would have sworn was actually not a road ("No, that's it; that's where we are supposed to go," my sister said). We got out of the car and stared out at the spare beauty of the desert, not seeing anything but varieties of cactus and palo verde trees. There were no houses, no buildings, no roads that we could see.
When we got closer, though, we saw bricks, the remains of walls, some old pipes still sticking out of the ground, the last vestiges of the town that used to be there. We hiked a bit, pointing out the clues to the former times, the times when humans prospered here, until my sister started insisting that we go and find the path to Queen Creek.
We knew it was near; we could hear it. But the trick was finding the right path, the safe one that would take us there. We even once looked down at the creek from a hill, but knew we could not get down to the water from there.
My brother-in-law wanted to go home; we had seen the ruins, after all. That was the most important part. But my sister kept talking about the creek; we couldn't go home until we found the creek. At one point she disappeared for a little while; we thought she was lost. But she knew where she was. She was looking for the path to the water.
When we found it, it was just a little stream, tucked away in the middle of the ruins. It was just a little stream, but once you saw the place, you couldn't help but notice -- in the middle of the desert, everything was starting to be green. Green was sprouting up there. We couldn't help it; we just started taking pictures. There was something shimmery there, where the light touched the water and bounced back. It made me feel like this could be a place where secrets are revealed.We started taking pictures of each other. I took one of my sister, standing just in front of the creek, with the light reflecting off the water and a finger of the creek in the eeriest shade of blue. I thought then that I knew why my sister liked this place. She is an artist, after all, and I thought she must be attracted to the way the light and the shadows and the water all work together to make everything beautiful.
Even us.
On Sunday it be The Baptism of Our Lord, the 2nd Sunday after the Epiphany. We hear the same gospel story every year, although a different variation. This year the variation I am hearing is from Matthew, where Jesus is baptized by John in the river Jordan, and John doesn't want to do it. Somehow, in the River Jordan, the secret is revealed, and John can see it: "I need to be baptized by you." But Jesus knows something else, and he insists. Somehow his being baptized will "fulfill all righteousness" whatever that means.
In my imagination I have sometimes thought that Jesus had a list, a list of all of the things he had to do to effect our salvation. "Be baptized" was there, at the top of the list, even though, as the story goes, he had no sins to repent of. That is what 'fulfill all righteousness' meant.
Today, though, I am imagining something else: I am imagining Jesus and John, standing in Queen Creek. "I need to be baptized by you," John says. Somehow in the space between the water and the light he sees something about Jesus, something about himself. But Jesus insists. He insists because there is another secret that the world needs to know.
When he comes up from the water and the Spirit descends, the voice speaks. "You are my son, the beloved." And the Words shimmer in the space between the water and the light, and it all works together to make everything beautiful.
Even us.
Even us.
He has made known to us the mystery of his will, according to his good pleasure that he set forth in Christ, 1as a plan for the fullness of time, to gather up all things in him, things in heaven and things on earth. (Ephesians 1:9-10)
Thursday, December 11, 2014
You Say You Want To Be Inclusive
My church wants to be more inclusive. We have been saying this for awhile now. We have been saying it more and more, as we look around the neighborhood where we are located, and notice that more and more people who live here don't look like "us". Some of our neighbors are immigrants, and speak other languages. Some of our neighbors have less money than "us" or are from different ethnic groups than those traditionally associated with our denomination.
So, my church wants to be more inclusive. We understand (or at least a substantial number of us do) that it is theologically right for us to want to be more inclusive. We understand that the realm of God is much more diverse than our congregation. We understand that when we gather at the river, by and by, when we look around at who is gathered with us, it will look a lot different than our congregation does now. Our hearts are in the right place, as far as it goes.
But I suspect, deep down in my heart, that we have no idea how hard it will be, how hard it really is. For one thing, we don't even know each other -- not really. We don't know many of the daily experiences and stories of the people in the pew next to us. We don't know that some of "us" have less than we think they do, struggle more than we think they do, feel differently than we think they do. Sometimes I worry that we do not always want to know. I also suspect that the very word, "inclusive" even has something to do with it.
In the aftermath of the deaths of two unarmed black men, and the grand juries' decisions not to indict the police officers responsible, the slogan #BlackLivesMatter has taken hold. Though the experiences of people of color often teaches them a different reality, they want to take back the value of their lives. #BlackLivesMatter, they tell us. Can we say "Amen"? Can we affirm that yes, black lives matter, even when so many of their daily experiences tell them otherwise?
But some people want to be more inclusive.
So there is an alternative meme going around: #AllLivesMatter. And, although I understand the sentiment, just like I understand the desire of my congregation to be more inclusive, I think it is fundamentally misguided.
We can talk about the value of human life, each life, all lives, in different ways. We can talk about the realities experienced by people of color, by immigrants, by at-risk children, by the poor, by Alzheimers patients. But as long as we continue to speak in generalities (We Welcome Everyone!), we are not really welcoming anyone. As long as we don't listen to the realities of particular people, and particular communities, we won't know how to welcome anyone. As long as we don't pay attention to the lives, the realities, the stories of those who feel left out, excluded, marginalized, un-welcome, we will not be able to include them.
#BlackLivesMatter.
It's a start. If we really want to be inclusive.
So, my church wants to be more inclusive. We understand (or at least a substantial number of us do) that it is theologically right for us to want to be more inclusive. We understand that the realm of God is much more diverse than our congregation. We understand that when we gather at the river, by and by, when we look around at who is gathered with us, it will look a lot different than our congregation does now. Our hearts are in the right place, as far as it goes.
But I suspect, deep down in my heart, that we have no idea how hard it will be, how hard it really is. For one thing, we don't even know each other -- not really. We don't know many of the daily experiences and stories of the people in the pew next to us. We don't know that some of "us" have less than we think they do, struggle more than we think they do, feel differently than we think they do. Sometimes I worry that we do not always want to know. I also suspect that the very word, "inclusive" even has something to do with it.
In the aftermath of the deaths of two unarmed black men, and the grand juries' decisions not to indict the police officers responsible, the slogan #BlackLivesMatter has taken hold. Though the experiences of people of color often teaches them a different reality, they want to take back the value of their lives. #BlackLivesMatter, they tell us. Can we say "Amen"? Can we affirm that yes, black lives matter, even when so many of their daily experiences tell them otherwise?
But some people want to be more inclusive.
So there is an alternative meme going around: #AllLivesMatter. And, although I understand the sentiment, just like I understand the desire of my congregation to be more inclusive, I think it is fundamentally misguided.
We can talk about the value of human life, each life, all lives, in different ways. We can talk about the realities experienced by people of color, by immigrants, by at-risk children, by the poor, by Alzheimers patients. But as long as we continue to speak in generalities (We Welcome Everyone!), we are not really welcoming anyone. As long as we don't listen to the realities of particular people, and particular communities, we won't know how to welcome anyone. As long as we don't pay attention to the lives, the realities, the stories of those who feel left out, excluded, marginalized, un-welcome, we will not be able to include them.
#BlackLivesMatter.
It's a start. If we really want to be inclusive.
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Native and Foreign Languages
At our new Sunday evening service and mission start, I am learning Spanish. I stand next to a woman from Ecuador, and she helps me pronounce the words to songs I am learning. I don't know the meaning of most of the words yet, but at least I am learning good pronunciation.
In the meantime, I am teaching her a little about intervals. "We are singing that line wrong," I mention. "It is supposed to be a third. Like this." I sing the line. I am pretty sure I have the musical line down right. The pronunciation is a work in progress.
It is basic church: we sing, we pray, we talk to each other. Our liturgy is simple. We eat together: bread and wine, but dinner too. And we are learning English and Spanish. And music.
It's a start.
A long time ago, I lived and worshipped and taught in Japan. I learned some Japanese, a little in school, some more from living and having experiences. I discovered then that learning a language is more than learning words and pronunciations; that the language you speak affects your perception of reality. In Japanese, for example, there is no "future" tense. The way you indicate the future is by speaking of uncertainty. In English we have no problem speaking confidently about things that haven't happened yet.
When I served in rural South Dakota, I was pretty sure that we were speaking the same language. But in truth, there were nuances of language that I didn't understand, that I had to learn: the language of "yields", the rhythms of the seasons, how to take the wind seriously.
These days, the church I am serving has started a Sunday evening service, in Spanish and in English. But there are more languages we are learning, or not learning, on Sunday evening, or morning, or at other times. We have been playing around with our worship services over the past couple of years, going from two different services, to one blended service, and we have been having conversations about worship and faith formation and what it means to be a disciple. We have realized that it is so easy to speak about "church" and "worship" in terms of "what I like", or "what I prefer." People choose a church because it has the music they like, or because it has a youth program they like, or because the worship time works for their family.
When I have met with people who are joining our congregation, these are the things that they specify most often: worship times; times of Sunday school; youth program; worship style. I think it is unavoidable because this is the language we speak in the rest of our life.
It is the language of choice. It is the language that consumers speak. And we are all consumers. It is the water we swim in, the air we breathe.
But somewhere along the line, if we are going to be faithful disciples of Jesus, we will need to become bilingual, learning foreign words like "community" and "purpose", "mission" and "neighbor." Perhaps at first, it will be enough to learn to sing the line, or perhaps to pronounce the words, without knowing what they mean, or to taste bread with a different flavor than we are used to. Later we will sit down with one another, rise up to go to the world, and realize that we are here for reasons so different than we had originally planned. We are being transformed when we just came to get a piece of bread; we are changing the world when all we planned to do was sing a song.
In the meantime, I am teaching her a little about intervals. "We are singing that line wrong," I mention. "It is supposed to be a third. Like this." I sing the line. I am pretty sure I have the musical line down right. The pronunciation is a work in progress.
It is basic church: we sing, we pray, we talk to each other. Our liturgy is simple. We eat together: bread and wine, but dinner too. And we are learning English and Spanish. And music.
It's a start.
A long time ago, I lived and worshipped and taught in Japan. I learned some Japanese, a little in school, some more from living and having experiences. I discovered then that learning a language is more than learning words and pronunciations; that the language you speak affects your perception of reality. In Japanese, for example, there is no "future" tense. The way you indicate the future is by speaking of uncertainty. In English we have no problem speaking confidently about things that haven't happened yet.
When I served in rural South Dakota, I was pretty sure that we were speaking the same language. But in truth, there were nuances of language that I didn't understand, that I had to learn: the language of "yields", the rhythms of the seasons, how to take the wind seriously.
These days, the church I am serving has started a Sunday evening service, in Spanish and in English. But there are more languages we are learning, or not learning, on Sunday evening, or morning, or at other times. We have been playing around with our worship services over the past couple of years, going from two different services, to one blended service, and we have been having conversations about worship and faith formation and what it means to be a disciple. We have realized that it is so easy to speak about "church" and "worship" in terms of "what I like", or "what I prefer." People choose a church because it has the music they like, or because it has a youth program they like, or because the worship time works for their family.
When I have met with people who are joining our congregation, these are the things that they specify most often: worship times; times of Sunday school; youth program; worship style. I think it is unavoidable because this is the language we speak in the rest of our life.
It is the language of choice. It is the language that consumers speak. And we are all consumers. It is the water we swim in, the air we breathe.
But somewhere along the line, if we are going to be faithful disciples of Jesus, we will need to become bilingual, learning foreign words like "community" and "purpose", "mission" and "neighbor." Perhaps at first, it will be enough to learn to sing the line, or perhaps to pronounce the words, without knowing what they mean, or to taste bread with a different flavor than we are used to. Later we will sit down with one another, rise up to go to the world, and realize that we are here for reasons so different than we had originally planned. We are being transformed when we just came to get a piece of bread; we are changing the world when all we planned to do was sing a song.
Monday, March 24, 2014
"Give Me a Drink"
It's sort of an odd way to start a conversation.
Especially it's an odd way to start a conversation, if you are the all-knowing, all-powerful Messiah and Son of God, and the person who is coming to the well is a Samaritan woman.
I say this because, well, this IS John's gospel, and Jesus does often come off as someone who has-it-all-together. Even in this conversation (especially later).
But right now, at the beginning, he asks the Samaritan woman for a drink. It's noon, after all, and it's not Minnesota in March. He's got to be thirsty. He asks for a drink.
I can't help thinking, as I read this story, that it's a parable for missionaries. Jesus has gone into another country (Samaria), and he means to share his life, living water. He goes with a mission, but the first thing he does is ask for a drink.
In other words, the first thing he does is reveal his own need, risk showing his own vulnerability, admit that he is thirsty. Just like she is.
Although the word "missionary" is loaded with negative connotations and maybe is not the best word for us to use any more, the truth is that Christians again live in an era when we need to be missionaries. This probably fills us with dread, but if not dread, it gives us the idea that we need to go out with all of the answers and as if we have everything all together. We think we are going to meet people and impress them with our superior humanity, our lack-of-neediness, the way we have it all together.
But perhaps the best mission strategy is just to go out and be thirsty. To meet people on the basis of our common humanity, to risk sharing our own thirst and our own questions, to reveal some of our own wounds and scars.
When Jesus first sent the disciples out, he told them not to carry extra provisions, to depend on the hospitality of those in the towns where they were going. Don't be so self-sufficient, he told them. Go thirsty.
It's a mission strategy, and it's a Lenten strategy too: Go thirsty. Don't be so self-sufficient. Depend on God, on one another, on strangers.
Especially it's an odd way to start a conversation, if you are the all-knowing, all-powerful Messiah and Son of God, and the person who is coming to the well is a Samaritan woman.
I say this because, well, this IS John's gospel, and Jesus does often come off as someone who has-it-all-together. Even in this conversation (especially later).
But right now, at the beginning, he asks the Samaritan woman for a drink. It's noon, after all, and it's not Minnesota in March. He's got to be thirsty. He asks for a drink.
I can't help thinking, as I read this story, that it's a parable for missionaries. Jesus has gone into another country (Samaria), and he means to share his life, living water. He goes with a mission, but the first thing he does is ask for a drink.
In other words, the first thing he does is reveal his own need, risk showing his own vulnerability, admit that he is thirsty. Just like she is.
Although the word "missionary" is loaded with negative connotations and maybe is not the best word for us to use any more, the truth is that Christians again live in an era when we need to be missionaries. This probably fills us with dread, but if not dread, it gives us the idea that we need to go out with all of the answers and as if we have everything all together. We think we are going to meet people and impress them with our superior humanity, our lack-of-neediness, the way we have it all together.
But perhaps the best mission strategy is just to go out and be thirsty. To meet people on the basis of our common humanity, to risk sharing our own thirst and our own questions, to reveal some of our own wounds and scars.
When Jesus first sent the disciples out, he told them not to carry extra provisions, to depend on the hospitality of those in the towns where they were going. Don't be so self-sufficient, he told them. Go thirsty.
It's a mission strategy, and it's a Lenten strategy too: Go thirsty. Don't be so self-sufficient. Depend on God, on one another, on strangers.
Friday, November 8, 2013
What Love Looks Like
My father died last week. His funeral was Saturday morning, at my parents' church.
It was a beautiful, clear day. Members of the Swedish men's chorus my dad had belonged to showed up. They sang three songs. My dad's two older sisters were there, my mom's older sister and younger brother, and a number of cousins, too. There were friends of my parents there, some who had known them since they were first married well over fifty years ago. I thought I was doing pretty well until one of my cousins came up to me, just before the service started, and said, with tears in her eyes, "I am going to miss your dad."
I sat between my mother and my sister. She sang alto on all the hymns. I tried to sing high tenor on a couple of them, but I don't reach the high notes like I used to. Besides, I was crying. My nephew, who leads a local rock band, played a portion of the song "Misty" as part of the remembrances. He learned "Misty" just because his grandfather liked that song.
After the service and the luncheon, we all went home to rest for awhile.
Then, later in the evening, I drove up to my mom's house, where my sister was staying for the week. The three of us drove from there to my brother's house. Then my brother drove all four of us to a bar where my nephew's band was head-lining. He was supposed to go on at 10:00 p.m. A couple of my cousins joined us as well.
So there we were, at 10:00 p.m., sitting around a dark, smoky room, munching appetizers and drinking iced tea, listening to noisy and unknown (to us) bands, waiting for my nephew to appear. One of my cousins was teasing my mom about whether she would be part of the "mosh pit" (terminology that I had just recently learned). Later on, when my nephew started, we made our way up to the stage, where the beat of the drums and the bass made our hearts skip. We watched my nephew as he took on his "rock star" personality. At one point, my nephew used bad language. One of my cousins reached out to cover my mom's ears.
All of us think my nephew is very talented. We are all very proud of him. But, to be honest, for at least some of us, this was not "our kind of music". It also wasn't the kind of venue that we would probably think of attending on our own. We weren't there because we were hard rock music fans.
We were there because of love.
Especially I think of my mom. She's never been a big fan of bars. In fact, until her grandson started playing music there, I'm not sure she ever set foot in one. But there she was, until all hours of the night. She wouldn't have been any other place.
When I think about the mission of the church, why it succeeds, why it fails, I don't think it has to do so much with strategy as it has to do with love. It doesn't matter what kind of strategy you have, if you don't have love that will impel you to go places you would never otherwise go, and do things you would never otherwise do. It's as simple, and as difficult, as that.
So, on Saturday, my mother went to church for a funeral for her husband. And she went to a bar for a rock concert by her grandson.
That is what love looks like.
It was a beautiful, clear day. Members of the Swedish men's chorus my dad had belonged to showed up. They sang three songs. My dad's two older sisters were there, my mom's older sister and younger brother, and a number of cousins, too. There were friends of my parents there, some who had known them since they were first married well over fifty years ago. I thought I was doing pretty well until one of my cousins came up to me, just before the service started, and said, with tears in her eyes, "I am going to miss your dad."
I sat between my mother and my sister. She sang alto on all the hymns. I tried to sing high tenor on a couple of them, but I don't reach the high notes like I used to. Besides, I was crying. My nephew, who leads a local rock band, played a portion of the song "Misty" as part of the remembrances. He learned "Misty" just because his grandfather liked that song.
After the service and the luncheon, we all went home to rest for awhile.
Then, later in the evening, I drove up to my mom's house, where my sister was staying for the week. The three of us drove from there to my brother's house. Then my brother drove all four of us to a bar where my nephew's band was head-lining. He was supposed to go on at 10:00 p.m. A couple of my cousins joined us as well.
So there we were, at 10:00 p.m., sitting around a dark, smoky room, munching appetizers and drinking iced tea, listening to noisy and unknown (to us) bands, waiting for my nephew to appear. One of my cousins was teasing my mom about whether she would be part of the "mosh pit" (terminology that I had just recently learned). Later on, when my nephew started, we made our way up to the stage, where the beat of the drums and the bass made our hearts skip. We watched my nephew as he took on his "rock star" personality. At one point, my nephew used bad language. One of my cousins reached out to cover my mom's ears.
All of us think my nephew is very talented. We are all very proud of him. But, to be honest, for at least some of us, this was not "our kind of music". It also wasn't the kind of venue that we would probably think of attending on our own. We weren't there because we were hard rock music fans.
We were there because of love.
Especially I think of my mom. She's never been a big fan of bars. In fact, until her grandson started playing music there, I'm not sure she ever set foot in one. But there she was, until all hours of the night. She wouldn't have been any other place.
When I think about the mission of the church, why it succeeds, why it fails, I don't think it has to do so much with strategy as it has to do with love. It doesn't matter what kind of strategy you have, if you don't have love that will impel you to go places you would never otherwise go, and do things you would never otherwise do. It's as simple, and as difficult, as that.
So, on Saturday, my mother went to church for a funeral for her husband. And she went to a bar for a rock concert by her grandson.
That is what love looks like.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Faith and (Non)Fiction
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For the past several years, I have held a monthly book study at my congregation, called "Faith and Fiction." I'm an English major, and the book club title came from my conviction that inside every really good story is a faith story of some kind, either overt or subliminal. Great literature covers all of the theological questions: redemption, epiphanies, sin, suffering and brokenness, forgiveness -- you name it.Rarely have we ventured outside of the fiction genres (although we have read a handful of memoirs). We've read some classics, children's books and a couple of mysteries as well. But this month we read a piece of science writing: The Immortal life of Henrietta Lacks.
To be fair, "Henrietta" is not just science writing -- it's also the story of Henrietta Lacks, her history and her family. But, also to be fair, it's not fiction, either. And though the book came highly recommended, it met with mixed reviews. Some people thought that the science writing was dry; they were interested in the story of Henrietta's family, didn't find some other parts of the story awfully compelling. Others were fascinated by the science, the history and the family's story. Some considered the book a window to racism and poverty as well as the development of scientific breakthroughs.
Near the close of the conversation, one woman held up her book and said, "What does this have to do with 'Faith and Fiction'? It was a fair question, given that we had gone off-genre, so to speak; we weren't anywhere near fiction. But what about faith?
The author is pretty open about her lack of religious faith; we all thought that by the end of the book, she at least grew to appreciate the faith that sustained the Lacks family. And we admitted that faith played a large role in the book, especially in how the family made peace with what had happened to their mother, and that somehow, God had used her cells for a greater purpose, to heal people and to save lives. They were able to let go of their anger and see a wider purpose in Henrietta's life, and in their lives. Especially, Henrietta's daughter Deborah, when she died, seemed to have found a peace which came both from finding out more about her mother, and also from finding out about the good that her mother's cells had done.
As for me, there is one more part of this book, not overtly connected to faith, that gave me pause, and made me think about faith. And that is the story of the author of the book, Rebecca Skloot. She chronicles not only the story of Henrietta's cells, and the story of Henrietta's life, but she also her own journey to get to know the Lacks family. I caught myself several times thinking about the patience she had to have in order to get this story, to get to know and interview the family, to gain their trust. The Lacks family did not trust people; but Rebecca Skloot did not give up. She was tenacious. And she did gain the trust of the Lacks family. Maybe they could see that she really did care about them, and was not just interested in using them.
I caught myself thinking about the patience and tenacity of God in search of us; about our ongoing lack of trust in God's purposes (sometimes justifiable, I'll admit). I caught myself thinking as well about the mission of the church. What is missing from most evangelism efforts, I think, is not a better method or strategy. What is missing is tenacity, the patience necessary to gain people's trust, the conviction that what we have to share is really that life-giving that we need to share it.
What is missing, at least most of the time, is that kind of love.
So, I'll remember not only Henrietta Lacks, but also Rebecca Skloot, who wanted the world to hear this story, and who loved Henrietta's family.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
The Small Picture
Forgive me, for we were at the Biltmore Mansion the other day. It is the largest home in North America, and it was gorgeous and overwhelming, with all of the layers of history and art and architecture, and even though I am on vacation, it got me started thinking about Mission and Vision and Purpose, big words that help churches and individuals think about Where They Are Going and How They Are Going To Get There. You Know: "The Big Picture."
George Vanderbilt had a vision, or a mission, or both: and it was to build this great and beautiful house, where many people came and stayed and entertained. The house had its own bowling alley and swimming pool, a gymnasium and a music room and a library. The garden was designed by the same person who designed Central Park.
As for me, what I remember most is walking across the lawn on the way back to the parking lot, and seeing a small yellow butterfly fly in front of me.
But it made me think, again, about the important and vexing question: what is my mission? do I have a vision for my life? And what about my congregation? What is the mission of my congregation?
When I was a little girl, I had a simple mission in life, and it was to write stories. I thought I would be an author. I didn't have any idea what I would write "about," but I thought I would tell stories of some sort or another.
Then I knew I was going to become a pastor, which also involves telling stories, and helping other people tell stories, as well as holding hands and breaking bread and pouring water. Being a pastor involves holding up mirrors to people's pain and beauty, and nudging them forward to do things they never thought they could do. And Leading -- but where? I can't seem to get my brain around what is called "The Big Picture": all I can see is a number of small pictures of daily faithfulness, on the way to the reign of justice and mercy that only God can bring.
A woman from my congregation tutors all of the immigrant children in her apartment building. A young man comforts his confirmation guide, who is grieving. A confirmation guide is vulnerable enough to share her grief with her students. A young mother and her children bring communion to a woman who is shut-in. They visit every month. A two year old girl shares the "Peace" with as many people as possible during Sunday worship. A small yellow butterfly flies across a great garden.
The Small Pictures: I don't want you to miss them, because if you do, you might also miss the Son Rising every single day.
I still don't know what my mission is, but I pray that God will grant me grace to see my own small yellow butterfly, and courage to follow.
George Vanderbilt had a vision, or a mission, or both: and it was to build this great and beautiful house, where many people came and stayed and entertained. The house had its own bowling alley and swimming pool, a gymnasium and a music room and a library. The garden was designed by the same person who designed Central Park.
As for me, what I remember most is walking across the lawn on the way back to the parking lot, and seeing a small yellow butterfly fly in front of me.
But it made me think, again, about the important and vexing question: what is my mission? do I have a vision for my life? And what about my congregation? What is the mission of my congregation?
When I was a little girl, I had a simple mission in life, and it was to write stories. I thought I would be an author. I didn't have any idea what I would write "about," but I thought I would tell stories of some sort or another.
Then I knew I was going to become a pastor, which also involves telling stories, and helping other people tell stories, as well as holding hands and breaking bread and pouring water. Being a pastor involves holding up mirrors to people's pain and beauty, and nudging them forward to do things they never thought they could do. And Leading -- but where? I can't seem to get my brain around what is called "The Big Picture": all I can see is a number of small pictures of daily faithfulness, on the way to the reign of justice and mercy that only God can bring.
A woman from my congregation tutors all of the immigrant children in her apartment building. A young man comforts his confirmation guide, who is grieving. A confirmation guide is vulnerable enough to share her grief with her students. A young mother and her children bring communion to a woman who is shut-in. They visit every month. A two year old girl shares the "Peace" with as many people as possible during Sunday worship. A small yellow butterfly flies across a great garden.
The Small Pictures: I don't want you to miss them, because if you do, you might also miss the Son Rising every single day.
I still don't know what my mission is, but I pray that God will grant me grace to see my own small yellow butterfly, and courage to follow.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
The Dream Team
There's a new senior pastor at our church, did you hear?
He got off to a running start on August 1st. He's been keeping a pretty even sprint so far, getting ready for fall, getting our fall theme and stewardship campaign underway, working with staff on some transitional issues, starting to put in place a system to help us figure out our worship identity.
He's preached a fair amount, he'll be presiding at his second funeral tomorrow. He's met a lot of people, and I'm impressed that he even remembers a lot of their names.
Meanwhile, I've been here for (ahem) well, a long time. A woman doesn't like to tell her age, you know. I know a lot of people, and a lot of them know me: my gifts, the places where I sometimes stumble, the ministry tasks I adore, the ones I sort of avoid. A fair number of people appear still to want me to be one of their pastors, which is a gift, I believe.
I have been enjoying meeting with the new pastor. I like the way he thinks. I like the way he listens (to me, especially, but to other people, too). I think he's going to be good for the congregation.
Much as I'm enjoying this phase of the journey, I also recognize that we are still in transition. We're still figuring it out. Sometimes we get our signals crossed in worship. Not everything runs smoothly all of the time.
Meanwhile, I've heard a few people saying that the two pastors complement each other well. There have been a few comments along the lines of "we have a good team", which is wonderful to hear, except....
Great as it is to have a good staff, and a staff that complements one another, and whose gifts and personalities work well together, it is not actually we who are the "dream team."
You are.
The whole congregation, working together, is the dream team that is going to create and build the mission and energy in this congregation. I don't mean that everyone has to be a leader, but we all have a role to play, just as we have a role to play in the body of Christ.
Together, we are a bunch of forgiven sinners, stumbling and getting up again, and running toward that vision of the reign of God. Together, we are also the dream team, welcoming strangers, healing the brokenhearted, speaking God's word to one another and to everyone who needs a good word.
He got off to a running start on August 1st. He's been keeping a pretty even sprint so far, getting ready for fall, getting our fall theme and stewardship campaign underway, working with staff on some transitional issues, starting to put in place a system to help us figure out our worship identity.
He's preached a fair amount, he'll be presiding at his second funeral tomorrow. He's met a lot of people, and I'm impressed that he even remembers a lot of their names.
Meanwhile, I've been here for (ahem) well, a long time. A woman doesn't like to tell her age, you know. I know a lot of people, and a lot of them know me: my gifts, the places where I sometimes stumble, the ministry tasks I adore, the ones I sort of avoid. A fair number of people appear still to want me to be one of their pastors, which is a gift, I believe.
I have been enjoying meeting with the new pastor. I like the way he thinks. I like the way he listens (to me, especially, but to other people, too). I think he's going to be good for the congregation.
Much as I'm enjoying this phase of the journey, I also recognize that we are still in transition. We're still figuring it out. Sometimes we get our signals crossed in worship. Not everything runs smoothly all of the time.
Meanwhile, I've heard a few people saying that the two pastors complement each other well. There have been a few comments along the lines of "we have a good team", which is wonderful to hear, except....
Great as it is to have a good staff, and a staff that complements one another, and whose gifts and personalities work well together, it is not actually we who are the "dream team."
You are.
The whole congregation, working together, is the dream team that is going to create and build the mission and energy in this congregation. I don't mean that everyone has to be a leader, but we all have a role to play, just as we have a role to play in the body of Christ.
Together, we are a bunch of forgiven sinners, stumbling and getting up again, and running toward that vision of the reign of God. Together, we are also the dream team, welcoming strangers, healing the brokenhearted, speaking God's word to one another and to everyone who needs a good word.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
On the Other Hand, Some of the Most Open-minded, Progressive, Intriguing People I know are over 65
Reaching Out To Young Adults Will Screw Up Your Church, wrote Adam Copeland recently. He's gotten a lot of great conversation going about what's wrong with the church these days, what young people bring, what it means to belong before you believe, and the danger and necessity of change.
Still, when I read his post, I wanted to share some stories:
Last fall I met a couple of older women at a Writing Conference held at a progressive church. We had a great conversation over lunch. I did confess, at one point, that I was a pastor. One of the women told me that though she was very active in social ministries, she no longer attended a church, and sort of felt an aversion to it. She had grown up Pentecostal and felt that she had enough church then for the entire rest of her life.
I used to visit a retired pastor and his wife every month, to bring them communion. She was in a nursing home suffering from Alzheimer's disease; he visited her faithfully every day. He was a pretty conservative, confessional Lutheran, but always with a commitment to social justice. One day we broached the subject of the ELCA's position on ordaining gays and lesbians in committed relationships. (This was before the 2009 vote.) After beating around the bush for a little while, I came out and asked him, "What do you think we should do?" He answered, "I think we should ordain them!"
One of our part-time receptionists is an 85 year old woman who comes in to help with bookkeeping and building management. She loves all kinds of Bible study, including the rigorous historical critical study that our senior pastor used to give. She is very open to change in our congregation, and once mused to me that the fear of change of some of the other older members of our congregation is not so much a function of their age, but of the length of their tenure in the congregation.
On the other hand, a young woman I'm friends with said to me that she was looking for a church with traditional worsihp, but a progressive sermon.
I suppose that my points are that: 1) it's true, reaching out to young adults will screw up your church, but that perhaps reaching out to anyone new who is at all different than you will screw up your church. Immigrants. Poor people. People who are not native to Your Particular Denomination or your Political Orientation. But, it's possible that this will be the Holy Spirit at work.
2) It is true that often-times churches are not open to the ideas, doubts and questions that younger adults bring. It is also true that churches are not always open to the ideas, doubts and questions that new-comers bring, whatever their age. I actually think that this is an a more accurate (and sadder) statement.
3) It is true that not all young people like contemporary worship, or traditional worship, or ask the same questions or have the same ideas. It is also true that not all old people like the same things either. God hates stereotypes, and will blow them apart, and perhaps screw up your church.
4) It is true that the general culture outside the church values youth and de-values age. In our earnest and well-meaning attempts to screw up the church by reaching out to young people, I hope we do not de-value the very real gifts that older adults bring.
Still, when I read his post, I wanted to share some stories:
Last fall I met a couple of older women at a Writing Conference held at a progressive church. We had a great conversation over lunch. I did confess, at one point, that I was a pastor. One of the women told me that though she was very active in social ministries, she no longer attended a church, and sort of felt an aversion to it. She had grown up Pentecostal and felt that she had enough church then for the entire rest of her life.
I used to visit a retired pastor and his wife every month, to bring them communion. She was in a nursing home suffering from Alzheimer's disease; he visited her faithfully every day. He was a pretty conservative, confessional Lutheran, but always with a commitment to social justice. One day we broached the subject of the ELCA's position on ordaining gays and lesbians in committed relationships. (This was before the 2009 vote.) After beating around the bush for a little while, I came out and asked him, "What do you think we should do?" He answered, "I think we should ordain them!"
One of our part-time receptionists is an 85 year old woman who comes in to help with bookkeeping and building management. She loves all kinds of Bible study, including the rigorous historical critical study that our senior pastor used to give. She is very open to change in our congregation, and once mused to me that the fear of change of some of the other older members of our congregation is not so much a function of their age, but of the length of their tenure in the congregation.
On the other hand, a young woman I'm friends with said to me that she was looking for a church with traditional worsihp, but a progressive sermon.
I suppose that my points are that: 1) it's true, reaching out to young adults will screw up your church, but that perhaps reaching out to anyone new who is at all different than you will screw up your church. Immigrants. Poor people. People who are not native to Your Particular Denomination or your Political Orientation. But, it's possible that this will be the Holy Spirit at work.
2) It is true that often-times churches are not open to the ideas, doubts and questions that younger adults bring. It is also true that churches are not always open to the ideas, doubts and questions that new-comers bring, whatever their age. I actually think that this is an a more accurate (and sadder) statement.
3) It is true that not all young people like contemporary worship, or traditional worship, or ask the same questions or have the same ideas. It is also true that not all old people like the same things either. God hates stereotypes, and will blow them apart, and perhaps screw up your church.
4) It is true that the general culture outside the church values youth and de-values age. In our earnest and well-meaning attempts to screw up the church by reaching out to young people, I hope we do not de-value the very real gifts that older adults bring.
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.
Friday, November 11, 2011
The Old Neighborhood
Not my Old Neighbor, at least not exactly, but my dad's old neighborhood, where he grew up, and the community that formed him, or at least, his faith.
I was at the nursing home across the street from the church where he was baptized and confirmed, Augustana Lutheran Church in downtown Minneapolis. It is now situated across the street from the Metrodome Stadium. The nursing home where I visited was begun by the church many years ago. It's a large complex, with different kinds of nursing facilities, assisted living, and apartments.
But the church itself is very small, or, at least it is now. In fact, I heard recently that the church building is up for sale, and that the tiny congregation is looking to move to another location not so far away.
Like I said, it's not my Old Neighbhood exactly; it's my dad's old neighborhood. He grew up at this church. In fact, when my parents were first married they belonged there. I was baptized at Augustana Lutheran Church, and started Sunday School there. I remember climbing up the many steps to the sanctuary, and having one of the ushers hand me a bulletin. That old entry with many steps was closed up many years ago; too hard for the elderly members to navigate.
I remember the large sanctuary and the tall ceiling, and the man who spoke from the pulpit (but I couldn't see him). I remember getting picked up for Vacation Bible School by the associate pastor and his family. They had a station wagon.
When I was in first grade, we moved to a church in our neighborhood, away from the city, into the suburbs. It was the first great migration, and many of the families that belonged to Augustana moved as well. They enlivened the churches in those first ring suburbs, the churches that are now experiencing decline, and wondering what their mission is.
Augustana became a small congregation, but it did not have a small vision. As I went in the door to the Augustana Home last Wednesday, I considered the ongoing legacy of care. The church may be tiny, and the church may even die, but Augustana gave itself away for the sake of the gospel. They gave themselves away starting mission congregations, too, some still going strong out in the suburbs. But at they gave themselves away most of all for the sake of the mission of caring for the elderly, for the vulnerable, for those who could no longer care for themselves.
It seems to me that there are worse things that could happen to a church. A church could disappear without ever giving itself away, preserving itself until everyone is gone and the doors are locked. The only legacy would be the building standing unused.
Of course I wish that Augustana Lutheran church, and those hardy Swedish immigrant like my grandparents could have found a way to reach out and be a vital worshipping community to the people who live there now. There is another church, I hear, who wants to buy their building perhaps. I wish that of all of our churches, in fact -- that we could learn a way to welcome one another, worship together, offering the bread of life to people who are our neighbors, even if they aren't Swedes or Germans or Irish anymore.
But it seems to me that there are worse things that can happen to a church than what is happening to Augustana. The faith of the our ancestors continues to bear fruit there, in the Nursing Home, in the Assisted Living Center, in the chapel where people gather.
I hope we can say the same when we are done. I hope they will say of us that we had dreams worthy of the mission of God, that we gave ourselves away for the least and the lost.
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