How I Measure

I have a wedding this weekend.  It is my first wedding here, in my new-ish call.  The couple at whose wedding I am officiating are fairly new members of the congregation.  She came and visited not long after I started.  A little later, he visited as well.  I have some affection for the first few people who showed up, the same hot summer that I did.

I took three young people to make chalices on Saturday.  They are going to make their first communion at the end of April.

I have a baptism on the same Sunday, at the early service.  It will be my third baptism, although my first baby.  The first baptism was a three year old, and the second was five.  A boy and a girl.

There are two 8th graders who are getting ready to be confirmed this summer.  I haven't been involved in most of their confirmation instruction, but we are going to get together and design their confirmation service.  They are going to pick the songs and the scripture readings and think about what else they might want to have in their service.

One wedding.  Three first communions.  Three baptisms.  Two confirmations.  That's what I get excited about.  That's how I measure, even.

There are probably better ways to think about this.  I could think about new ministries we have started, except that we are moving slowly and we haven't started any new ministries except for our tiny first attempts at cross generational activities.  I could think about successful stewardship campaigns (which by the way, we had, this fall), or I could think of new members, or I could think of new songs we have learned.  I could measure by the strangers I have met (which would not be a bad way to measure, actually), or the new places I have been.

But I don't.

I measure:  1 wedding.  Three baptisms.  2 confirmations.  Three first communions.

I measure:  the girl who got to help serve communion for the first time on Maundy Thursday, and says:  "I want to do that again!"

I measure:  the woman who said that her granddaughter had her first sleepover the other night, and she invited her friend to our church.

I measure:  the two girls who love to sing Holden Evening Prayer together, and sing so that everyone can hear them.

I suppose that the best measure is transformed lives.  That is what we are about.  But sometimes transformation is not visible to the eye.  It is what goes on inside, and it could be happening, even when I have no idea.  All I can see is the outstretched hand, the singing voices, the little hugs, the food left outside the church door.   All I can do is trust that God is using us, even me, to bring transformation.

1 wedding.  Three baptisms.  2 confirmations.  Three first communions.  And in so many other, ordinary ways, God is transforming us.

That's what I trust.  That's how I measure.

The First Day of Advent

It was the first day of Advent today, in my new congregation.  There were shades of blue everywhere, some deep, some aqua, and there were pink and blue candles, and I chanted the liturgy.  In some ways, the sense that it is advent again is comforting for me.  It is advent, and there is a deep resonance of familiarity, like opening the door and seeing an old friend.

So much is different this year.  I am in a different state.  It is raining, not snowing.  I am in a different sanctuary, one with a balcony up to the choir.  The rhythms of the contemporary service are different as well, with some songs I know well and some that are new to me.  We are all learning, including me.

It was the first day of Advent today, in my new congregation.   It still feels new, to me, and perhaps, to them, as well.

For some reason it seemed like a good idea to use the stories of Luke, chapter 1, for the preaching texts this month.  It's not what the lectionary says that I should do, and I know that the lectionary is wise.  But I have always loved the story of Zechariah and Elizabeth, and how Zechariah was struck dumb when he didn't believe the Angel Gabriel's message.  All of Luke 1 is about being pregnant -- being pregnant with hope, bearing God into the world.

I want my congregation to be pregnant with hope, to believe that they are bearers of God to a weary world.

I tried something new today:  well, two things, really.  They were not my ideas, actually.  We gave out crocus bulbs to everyone in church today.  I told them to plant them in a pot, or in the ground, and wait, and watch, and hope.  Besides lighting candles, it is something we can do at Advent.

The other thing we did was make a bookmark.  The bookmark had a word on it:  Expecting.  On one side of the bookmark was a definition of the word "Expecting."  On the other side of the bookmark was a short prayer.

Next week's word is "Trusting".  In case you are curious.

It was the first day of Advent today, in my new congregation.  And I am so busy doing things, and I heard the message that it is God who is doing a new thing -- in us, and in me.  I am so busy trying to figure out what the next right thing might be, and I heard that it is God who is bringing new life to us, and in us.

There was a baptism this morning.  A little boy was splashed with water and the word, received the burning candle.  "Let your light shine," we told him.

Light your candle.  Bury the crocus bulbs.  Walk in the rain, or the snow, and pray, and do the next thing, and find out if it is right, or not.

Ask for forgiveness.  Start again.  Open your hands.  Rest.  Play.  Sing.

God is making all things new.

Your Least Favorite Bible Verse

I was in a meeting with some pastor types and a consultant one evening.  We all looked down at the agenda and saw that the first item listed was "Scripture and prayer" and realized, possibly at the same time, that none of us had brought a Bible.

Before I considered that I could probably look up anything I wanted on my phone, I considered what scripture verse I might know by heart.  One of my colleagues offered to share his:  "For surely I know the plans I have for you, says, the Lord, plans for your welfare, and not for harm, to give you a future with hope."

As it turned out, it was a good scripture passage for a meeting where we would discuss efforts to collaborate in social ministry in and with our community.  My colleague is passionate about social justice, and it makes sense that this is a passage he has committed to memory.  But it's not the first scripture passage that comes to my mind, not the one that came to my mind when I suddenly thought I might be required to share something I knew by heart.

If it had been me, I would have recited, "If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation:  everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!"  It's one of my favorite Bible verses.

I like to think that our favorite Bible verses reveal something about us.  It makes a difference if the verse we have committed to memory is "Beloved, love one another," or "Do justice, love kindness, walk humbly with God."  It makes a difference if our favorite story is the one about the water and the ark and the animals, or the one about the boy who defeated a giant with a sling shot, or the one about the man who fed 5,000 people with five barley loaves and two fish.  I like to think that our favorite Bible verses (if we have them) are mirrors that reflect back the mysterious ways God is working in each of our lives.

But what about our least favorite Bible verse?  What does that say about us?

Let's not pretend we don't have one:  a scripture reading we would just as soon pass over, a story we would like to forget is even in the Bible, a phrase that is like a pebble in our shoe, irritating us every time we walk.

Maybe it's the verse about women being silent in church, or some of the particularly violent and puzzling scenes in the book of Revelation.  Maybe it's the verse where the Psalmist blesses the one who   dashes the enemy's little ones against the rock.  Maybe it's the one about loving your enemies or that one about cutting off your hand if it causes you to sin.

Or maybe it is something even more basic than that.

One of my least favorite Bible verses is one I recite all the time.  I know this one by heart, too.  So many times I go to the cemetery after the funeral, and before I recite the words "In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life…." I say these words, "Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone.  But if it dies it bears much fruit."

And I love these words, and the images they conjure up, of life springing from the ground, of the fruit of the grain, given to be shared.

But I hate what comes afterward.  "The one who loves his life loses it, and the one who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life."

I know what the words are supposed to mean, but that is not what they sound like.  I know that 'in this world' means the sinful world that has rejected the Christ.  But when I am standing in the cemetery, surrounded by a grieving family, I hate this verse.  The person who died love his life, loved her family. The one who died loved her garden, loved playing the piano or dancing or baking cookies.  I have thought about just stopping and not saying the verses, but that doesn't seem right either.  So I just plow ahead through the whole reading, wishing I could stop and say, "That's what what it means!  You can love your life!  You can love the life God gave you, and still be ready to let go of it."

What does this say about me, I wonder?  Does my least favorite Bible verse say something about me (for good or ill) like the verses I have underlined and taken to heart?  And what does it say about me that I keep reciting it anyway, arguing silently while I speak?  Is it a sign of courage or cowardice?

What is your least favorite Bible verse?