The Village Church is a booming congregation in the Fort Worth area. Friends of ours moved to Texas about six years ago, and they have made The Village their church home.
Several years ago a youth pastor at the church was electrocuted at a baptismal service and died. A power cord was somehow in contact with the metal frame of the baptistry. It was an awful loss, but the church continued to grow...reach out.
Four weeks ago my friend emailed me a notice from the congregation. Their young Lead Pastor, Matt Chandler, had a siezure on Thanksgiving Day. Tests were run. A brain tumor was discovered. Surgery was scheduled. The entire congregation -which was just moving in to a new worship center- prayed and waited for the biopsy results to come back.
They did. The people at The Village Church know the results: the tumor was malignant. Surgery got most of it -but not all of it.
When I read the email to the congregation, I began to cry for this young family...this congregation. I called my buddy. He told me Matt, the Pastor at The Village, was in rehab. He was having a tough time with his language skills. My buddy said Matt got out of the hospital for the weekend so he and his wife, Lauren, could go out on a date.
The note to the congregation asked them to keep praying for their pastor, his wife, and their three children. The people were asked to respect the privacy of the Chandlers, and not to visit without first being invited to come by.
Then, the email made two important points.
First, "As you hurt and weep for the family, do not do it alone." Which is a good word for every single one of us. Often, when we are hurt or scared or we fail, we want to slip away. Become invisible. Hanging in there, staying connected with our friends, showing up at church, seems like such work...and we go it alone. Always...always...always...a big mistake! Paul, in the New Testament (Romans 12:15), talks about being connected...weeping with those who weep, and rejoicing with those who rejoice.
Second, the email asked that people pray "The Chandlers and The Village would suffer well and for the sake of Christ's name." That may be a shocking statement for those of us in North America who assume that hanging out with Jesus means we won't suffer.
We don't talk much, in the church, about suffering well. Which is a real disservice to the people of God. One of the lessons the Bible wants to teach us is how to suffer well.
What would it look like to suffer well? Paul, in 2nd Corinthians 4, talks about what it is like to "be hard pressed on every side." He talks about what it is like to be "crushed" and "perplexed" and "struck down."
Then, the first century missionary pastor talks about keeping our eyes on the glory of God in the face of Christ, letting his light shine out of us. Paul reminds the Corinthians that the resurrection of Christ is something to focus on...as we trust God will raise us up to new life even when we are going through tough junk. Don't lose heart, Paul says, but trust God to be at work in us renewing us...growing us...deepening us...even when stuff is overwhelming.
"We fix our eyes not on what is seen," Paul says, "but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal."
The writer of Corinthians makes a statement (4:17) worth remembering: "For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all."
I'm not sure I am smart enough to make a list of everything that constitutes suffering well.
I do think, however, it involves trusting God. Focusing on the power and love and faithfulness of God. Refusing to give in to the temptation to become bitter...or withdraw from God, our friends, and the church. Suffering well may mean looking for ways to give and serve and bless others, even as we hurt and ache and tire. Finally, suffering well may mean trusting that God is able to work for good in every situation (Romans 8:28).
I'm praying for Matt and Lauren Chandler. I'm praying for their three children. I'm praying for the people of The Village Church and everyone touched by the life of that congregation
And I am praying that you and I are learning the important art of suffering well.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
The Fairy Engineer.
The other night our son called and turned his i-Phone over to our 27-month old granddaughter, Ella. She got on the phone and we had the longest phone conversation we've ever had. She chatted about coming to Elkhart for Christmas: "I going to the house. I going to the house." We talked about a slide she had been playing on.
Then, all of a sudden, there was a burst of conversation. Which ended with her breathlessly saying, "Hold on a second. I be right back!" Then, I would hear her walking around the house with the i-Phone on speakerphone...talking with Mommy and Daddy.
If I was quiet, when she came back on, she would rather sharply say, "GRANDPA!" I would reassure her that I was there. We'd talk some more and then she'd say, again, "Hold on a second. I be right back!" My son said, "How does it feel being put on hold by your 2-year old granddaughter?"
Late in the conversation I heard her ask her Mommy to help her put on her Tinkerbell outfit. With wings. Then, a minute or so later, she was sitting on the living room floor running a very simple Lionel train. The phone had been put down near the train, and the phone picked up the sound of the locomotive and rolling stock rounding the curves. I could hear the train coming... and the train going. Then, she blew the whistle on the train.
Kind of crazy, you know? She was sitting there in a green Tinkerbell outfit, with wings on her back, running a train. I don't know what kind of a world it is where a little girl wears a fairy outfit and runs a train, but I think it is pretty amazing...and cool. I pray that when she grows up and becomes reasonable, mature, she never loses the part of her that delights in wearing fairy wings and dreaming magical dreams.
Then, all of a sudden, there was a burst of conversation. Which ended with her breathlessly saying, "Hold on a second. I be right back!" Then, I would hear her walking around the house with the i-Phone on speakerphone...talking with Mommy and Daddy.
If I was quiet, when she came back on, she would rather sharply say, "GRANDPA!" I would reassure her that I was there. We'd talk some more and then she'd say, again, "Hold on a second. I be right back!" My son said, "How does it feel being put on hold by your 2-year old granddaughter?"
Late in the conversation I heard her ask her Mommy to help her put on her Tinkerbell outfit. With wings. Then, a minute or so later, she was sitting on the living room floor running a very simple Lionel train. The phone had been put down near the train, and the phone picked up the sound of the locomotive and rolling stock rounding the curves. I could hear the train coming... and the train going. Then, she blew the whistle on the train.
Kind of crazy, you know? She was sitting there in a green Tinkerbell outfit, with wings on her back, running a train. I don't know what kind of a world it is where a little girl wears a fairy outfit and runs a train, but I think it is pretty amazing...and cool. I pray that when she grows up and becomes reasonable, mature, she never loses the part of her that delights in wearing fairy wings and dreaming magical dreams.
Air Brushed Christians: a Word for the Holidays.
Our oldest son lives in Columbus, Ohio. A friend of his has a tough job: air brushing the pictures of the models whose pictures will be used in the catalogue at Victoria's Secret. Or whose pictures will be posted in the stores.
When I heard that, I wondered what constitutes a bad day for the company artist. I wonder if this young guy's wife understands when he complains about a long day...deadlines?
This may come as a shock to you, but these seemingly perfect women aren't perfect. The leaders of the company, though, want any imperfections covered over...removed.
Sometimes we are guilty, in the church, of airbrushing our lives. We want any sign of weakness or fear or failure removed. We do our best to hide all that. Not sure why we -why I- do that but I suspect it has to do with not trusting people to love us, or want to be with us, if they knew just how ragged around the edges we sometimes are. Truth is the temptation to airbrush the fears and sin and imperfection out of our lives is evidence of our lack of trust in God's grace. "How could a holy God want anything to do with a creature who has been known to yell at his kids, or who has trouble controlling his mouth, or can't get over the bitterness of a long ago divorce?" we think. So we airbrush. We hide the sad or scared or mean stuff.
I was thinking about that this afternoon. As we approach Christmas. A tv ad for Budweiser showed a team of horses pulling a perfect wagon through a gentle snowstorm. It showed a perfect white farm house with a perfect green wreath, with a perfect red bow, on the front of the house. We see these images of perfect holiday gatherings. Grandparents, aunts and uncles, parents and loving children, a well behaved dog wagging its tail to the beat of a Christmas carol. We see people in a warm home, gifts wrapped and piled beneath a tree, folks holding hands around the dinner table for prayer...and it all just seems so...perfect.
If you are thinking you are the only one in the world whose life is ragged, if you think you are the only one who gets overwhelmed or lonely during the holidays, I have news for you: few families, few relationships, and few holiday gatherings are as perfect as the idealized pictures show them to be. A lot of people get tired....during the holidays. A lot of people feel overwhelmed. A lot of people have moments of loneliness.
Two weeks ago I was coming back from a meeting in central Indiana. I called a person I love very much to tell them I was thinking about them. I called to check in on them. Our conversation went from bad to worse. At the end she was shouting at me and I was shouting back. "I called to tell you I love you!" I said into the phone. "Don't you get it?" She shouted back. I said, "This isn't good for either one of us" and I hung up on her. Twice...because she called back and started yelling again. I was driving through deep darkness, on a rainy night, in Whitley County. By the time I got home my body was humming...electric...with sadness. Disappointment. How can families and friendships get so sideways?
The dirty little secret is many of us, even in the Christian community, do our best to airbrush this stuff out. But it is still there...
Paul, in his letters, is so honest! He doesn't appear to be trying to airbrush the sin and struggle out of his life. In Romans 7 he talks about his struggle with sin. Paul looks at his heart, his soul, and describes what he finds as a war (:23) Then, Paul says God has the power -in Jesus Christ- to deliver him from that war. He begins the next chapter by saying "there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus."
Maybe God loves us so much that we can stop airbrushing. Be honest. And let God's love do some deep healing.
When I heard that, I wondered what constitutes a bad day for the company artist. I wonder if this young guy's wife understands when he complains about a long day...deadlines?
This may come as a shock to you, but these seemingly perfect women aren't perfect. The leaders of the company, though, want any imperfections covered over...removed.
Sometimes we are guilty, in the church, of airbrushing our lives. We want any sign of weakness or fear or failure removed. We do our best to hide all that. Not sure why we -why I- do that but I suspect it has to do with not trusting people to love us, or want to be with us, if they knew just how ragged around the edges we sometimes are. Truth is the temptation to airbrush the fears and sin and imperfection out of our lives is evidence of our lack of trust in God's grace. "How could a holy God want anything to do with a creature who has been known to yell at his kids, or who has trouble controlling his mouth, or can't get over the bitterness of a long ago divorce?" we think. So we airbrush. We hide the sad or scared or mean stuff.
I was thinking about that this afternoon. As we approach Christmas. A tv ad for Budweiser showed a team of horses pulling a perfect wagon through a gentle snowstorm. It showed a perfect white farm house with a perfect green wreath, with a perfect red bow, on the front of the house. We see these images of perfect holiday gatherings. Grandparents, aunts and uncles, parents and loving children, a well behaved dog wagging its tail to the beat of a Christmas carol. We see people in a warm home, gifts wrapped and piled beneath a tree, folks holding hands around the dinner table for prayer...and it all just seems so...perfect.
If you are thinking you are the only one in the world whose life is ragged, if you think you are the only one who gets overwhelmed or lonely during the holidays, I have news for you: few families, few relationships, and few holiday gatherings are as perfect as the idealized pictures show them to be. A lot of people get tired....during the holidays. A lot of people feel overwhelmed. A lot of people have moments of loneliness.
Two weeks ago I was coming back from a meeting in central Indiana. I called a person I love very much to tell them I was thinking about them. I called to check in on them. Our conversation went from bad to worse. At the end she was shouting at me and I was shouting back. "I called to tell you I love you!" I said into the phone. "Don't you get it?" She shouted back. I said, "This isn't good for either one of us" and I hung up on her. Twice...because she called back and started yelling again. I was driving through deep darkness, on a rainy night, in Whitley County. By the time I got home my body was humming...electric...with sadness. Disappointment. How can families and friendships get so sideways?
The dirty little secret is many of us, even in the Christian community, do our best to airbrush this stuff out. But it is still there...
Paul, in his letters, is so honest! He doesn't appear to be trying to airbrush the sin and struggle out of his life. In Romans 7 he talks about his struggle with sin. Paul looks at his heart, his soul, and describes what he finds as a war (:23) Then, Paul says God has the power -in Jesus Christ- to deliver him from that war. He begins the next chapter by saying "there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus."
Maybe God loves us so much that we can stop airbrushing. Be honest. And let God's love do some deep healing.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
When James Taylor Sings Back-Up.
The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, out of Cleveland, Ohio recently held two concerts in New York City. Each evening featured a series of greats from the present and the past. U2 sang, for example, with Bruce Springsteen. The line up included people like Stevie Wonder, Dion, Metallica, B.B King, Bonnie Raitt, Jeff Beck, Art Garfunkel & Paul Simon, Crosby, Stills and Nash...
Pretty stunning.
I heard about the concert...the line-up. Hadn't heard a note of it until this afternoon when our son began playing the concert broadcast he had recorded on his DVR from HBO. I hadn't intended on having my morning swallowed up by amazing music, but I kept listening...and, sometimes, dancing with my 27-month old granddaughter.
Great stuff! The clear voice of Bonnie Raitt singing about love...and then the horn section wailing away on Paul Simon's "You Can Call Me Al."
Do you know what really got me? It was watching people like Graham Nash and David Crosby singing "back up" to other artists. It was watching -and listening to- James Taylor, whose voice seems perfect to my ears, singing Stephen Stills' "Love the One You're With." (I've never been able to figure out those lyrics. Is this some call to relationships anytime and anywhere with anyone, or is he saying "there may be some perfect ideal out there but love the person God has put in your life?")
Taylor is such a star he might have said, "I'll sing only my own hits. Everyone else can join in on 'Sweet Baby James' or 'Up on the Roof" or 'Fire and Rain' but they'll be doing my songs...my music." No, there this extraordinary singer was gladly singing songs made popular by other artists. And he was singing back-up to people like Paul Simon!
Stars stepping to the back of the stage. Out of the lights. Singing backup so others could shine.
I shook my head. Listened to the music. And thought about how that is a pretty good model for relationships...for friendships...for citizenship...for marriage...for life as a Jesus follower.
Jesus gave us an example. He washed the feet of the disciples. He talked about how greatness is really all about becoming small...living as a servant...not fighting over a seat at the head table.
Paul, the first century Christian missionary pastor, talked about being a part of the Body. All of us connected. All of us having a role to play. Paul talked about giving the humblest part honor.
When life is all about me, when we insist on being in the spotlight and having everyone (and everything) else revolve around us, nothing else seems to work. Selfishness wrecks churches, friendships, marriages, and nations.
James Taylor...sweet baby James...singing back up! Wow...superstars doing their best in the shadows.
Come on, people of Jesus, let's rock! Outdo one another in showing respect...affection...honor.
Pretty stunning.
I heard about the concert...the line-up. Hadn't heard a note of it until this afternoon when our son began playing the concert broadcast he had recorded on his DVR from HBO. I hadn't intended on having my morning swallowed up by amazing music, but I kept listening...and, sometimes, dancing with my 27-month old granddaughter.
Great stuff! The clear voice of Bonnie Raitt singing about love...and then the horn section wailing away on Paul Simon's "You Can Call Me Al."
Do you know what really got me? It was watching people like Graham Nash and David Crosby singing "back up" to other artists. It was watching -and listening to- James Taylor, whose voice seems perfect to my ears, singing Stephen Stills' "Love the One You're With." (I've never been able to figure out those lyrics. Is this some call to relationships anytime and anywhere with anyone, or is he saying "there may be some perfect ideal out there but love the person God has put in your life?")
Taylor is such a star he might have said, "I'll sing only my own hits. Everyone else can join in on 'Sweet Baby James' or 'Up on the Roof" or 'Fire and Rain' but they'll be doing my songs...my music." No, there this extraordinary singer was gladly singing songs made popular by other artists. And he was singing back-up to people like Paul Simon!
Stars stepping to the back of the stage. Out of the lights. Singing backup so others could shine.
I shook my head. Listened to the music. And thought about how that is a pretty good model for relationships...for friendships...for citizenship...for marriage...for life as a Jesus follower.
Jesus gave us an example. He washed the feet of the disciples. He talked about how greatness is really all about becoming small...living as a servant...not fighting over a seat at the head table.
Paul, the first century Christian missionary pastor, talked about being a part of the Body. All of us connected. All of us having a role to play. Paul talked about giving the humblest part honor.
When life is all about me, when we insist on being in the spotlight and having everyone (and everything) else revolve around us, nothing else seems to work. Selfishness wrecks churches, friendships, marriages, and nations.
James Taylor...sweet baby James...singing back up! Wow...superstars doing their best in the shadows.
Come on, people of Jesus, let's rock! Outdo one another in showing respect...affection...honor.
Lights in the Night.
Thursday evening we headed east on the toll road. One of the odd things about my life is that unless I spend time with our two granddaughters, I don't get a day off. So although we had seen the kids over Thanksgiving, we were headed towards Columbus, Ohio.
The sky was thick with dark clouds. The sunlight slipped sideways out of the world. I was sitting, doing some work, reading the paper, and thinking...as Sharon drove.
We took the toll road into Ohio, and then headed south on state highway #49. You miss Fort Wayne but the highway has twists and turns. Takes you through one small town after the other.
I was surprised to find myself delighted by the Christmas tree lights in the yards...and in the homes along the way. The night was very dark. The world was cold. And we would drive by these houses where the Christmas lights -especially the trees decorated with all white lights- seemed to be calling us all inside. Promising warmth. Home. Someplace where we could be ourselves.
A CD of Christmas music -by the Christian rock band 3rd Day- was playing. The lights... the homes...the music...all combined to produce all sorts of feelings and memories.
I found myself thinking of our church's work, right now, to become even more welcoming. To strangers and guests. So that people who are hungry for God, for truth, for grace, will feel like they are home when they walk through our doors. I thought about churches that are like those houses with no lights hung by the windows...churches that look cold and dark and lifeless. And I thought about how churches -and individuals- sends messages out to the world that their hearts are open.
And I thought about times when our family...is together. What it feels like to have everyone under the same roof. Sometimes there are tensions...challenges...but almost always it is so very good!
I thought about the Christmas in Belguim, when I was a boy, and my folks were thinking of adopting a young Belgian child. A boy. He came to the house for a visit. I can't remember his name or face. But for whatever reason my parents chose not to take that step.
I thought about my Mom. Sometimes, you know, there are moments when you miss someone so much you think your heart will burst. I was thinking about my Mom...who was wonderful and strange and passionate and distracted and always late and full of love for God. Then, as we stopped at a stoplight in a small Ohio town, I looked over at a store window. The owner had hung four old stockings in the window as a part of a Christmas decoration. One of the stockings
-a red one- happened to have the name Anita inscribed in large script. My Mom's name was Anita. I smiled. The light turned green and we began moving south, again.
The lights along the way make the darkness more than bearable, don't they?
Interesting how Jesus, John explains, was light coming into the darkness. And the darkness has not overcome it.
The sky was thick with dark clouds. The sunlight slipped sideways out of the world. I was sitting, doing some work, reading the paper, and thinking...as Sharon drove.
We took the toll road into Ohio, and then headed south on state highway #49. You miss Fort Wayne but the highway has twists and turns. Takes you through one small town after the other.
I was surprised to find myself delighted by the Christmas tree lights in the yards...and in the homes along the way. The night was very dark. The world was cold. And we would drive by these houses where the Christmas lights -especially the trees decorated with all white lights- seemed to be calling us all inside. Promising warmth. Home. Someplace where we could be ourselves.
A CD of Christmas music -by the Christian rock band 3rd Day- was playing. The lights... the homes...the music...all combined to produce all sorts of feelings and memories.
I found myself thinking of our church's work, right now, to become even more welcoming. To strangers and guests. So that people who are hungry for God, for truth, for grace, will feel like they are home when they walk through our doors. I thought about churches that are like those houses with no lights hung by the windows...churches that look cold and dark and lifeless. And I thought about how churches -and individuals- sends messages out to the world that their hearts are open.
And I thought about times when our family...is together. What it feels like to have everyone under the same roof. Sometimes there are tensions...challenges...but almost always it is so very good!
I thought about the Christmas in Belguim, when I was a boy, and my folks were thinking of adopting a young Belgian child. A boy. He came to the house for a visit. I can't remember his name or face. But for whatever reason my parents chose not to take that step.
I thought about my Mom. Sometimes, you know, there are moments when you miss someone so much you think your heart will burst. I was thinking about my Mom...who was wonderful and strange and passionate and distracted and always late and full of love for God. Then, as we stopped at a stoplight in a small Ohio town, I looked over at a store window. The owner had hung four old stockings in the window as a part of a Christmas decoration. One of the stockings
-a red one- happened to have the name Anita inscribed in large script. My Mom's name was Anita. I smiled. The light turned green and we began moving south, again.
The lights along the way make the darkness more than bearable, don't they?
Interesting how Jesus, John explains, was light coming into the darkness. And the darkness has not overcome it.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
The Ding & the Bass Line.
Giving your life to Jesus for full-time ministry is a journey full of blessings. However, there is a part to this -as there is to any line of work- that involves carrying a cross.
One of the toughest parts of this is the realization that you cannot -nor should you- please everyone. You do your best for God, and some people -and they are great, good people- head the other direction. I call those "dings." Sometimes I understand the reasons and sometimes I don't. Just two months ago a woman caught me after worship, thanked me for my ministry, told me Trinity's ministry needs to be on a national stage, and then just weeks ago I found out she was leaving the church. Hmmm....figure that out. I dare you.
The crazy thing is that 98% of everything can be going right in a great church like Trinity, and that 2% that criticize, pull back, withdraw...that really stings. Those are "dings" to the heart and soul. You tell yourself not to care so much. You tell yourself that no one church or pastor is for everyone. You tell yourself different people need different styles of ministry. You tell yourself that Jesus was always getting clobbered by those who didn't understand him or who thought he was getting it all wrong. And it still stings.
So the other day I had this "ding." It was a pretty good "ding." Great stuff...people growing their giving to God in a tough environment...notes from people about what Trinity means to them...a report about the $25,000+ our church will have given to a community food ministry this year...and the "ding" hurt.
Do you know what I did?
Well, first I prayed. That's always good. Because being strongly connected to God is the key to having the ability to endure...bounce back from...the "dings." God opens our eyes to a bigger picture and reminds us that our value is not based on pleasing people.
The second thing I did is I told a couple of very close friends I had been "dinged." They understood. The one, also a pastor, sent me a note saying leadership is tough and sometimes lonely. He told me "hang in there."
The third thing is I made a very careful, very strategic selection of music to listen to as I drove across town. I have a great collection of rock and roll, country, and classical (not so much jazz). Some of the rock is soft...introspective...quiet...deep. I didn't think that was going to help me. That kind of music might put me deeper into "ding-land." So it came down to a new CD, The Monsters of Folk, or two older CD's - "Help" by the Beatles or "The Ultimate Collection" by the Temptations.
I made a good choice: I chose the Temptations. (If you aren't familiar with Motown music it's never too late to get that kind of musical salvation! Listen in on Smoky Robinson and Martha Reeves and Stevie Wonder and The Four Tops and The Supremes and The Temptations.) What started me smiling were those amazing, opening notes by the bass on "My Girl." How can the "dings" have you permanently when you hear that bass line and the sweet voices of the Temptations sing: "I've got sunshine on a cloudy day. When it's cold outside I've got the month of May. I guess you say 'What can make me feel this way?' My girl! My girl! Talking 'bout my girl. I've got so much honey the bees envy me. I've got a sweeter song than the birds in the trees."
Jesus saves. I know that. And am so thankful!
But good music helps, you know? Especially with the "dings."
One of the toughest parts of this is the realization that you cannot -nor should you- please everyone. You do your best for God, and some people -and they are great, good people- head the other direction. I call those "dings." Sometimes I understand the reasons and sometimes I don't. Just two months ago a woman caught me after worship, thanked me for my ministry, told me Trinity's ministry needs to be on a national stage, and then just weeks ago I found out she was leaving the church. Hmmm....figure that out. I dare you.
The crazy thing is that 98% of everything can be going right in a great church like Trinity, and that 2% that criticize, pull back, withdraw...that really stings. Those are "dings" to the heart and soul. You tell yourself not to care so much. You tell yourself that no one church or pastor is for everyone. You tell yourself different people need different styles of ministry. You tell yourself that Jesus was always getting clobbered by those who didn't understand him or who thought he was getting it all wrong. And it still stings.
So the other day I had this "ding." It was a pretty good "ding." Great stuff...people growing their giving to God in a tough environment...notes from people about what Trinity means to them...a report about the $25,000+ our church will have given to a community food ministry this year...and the "ding" hurt.
Do you know what I did?
Well, first I prayed. That's always good. Because being strongly connected to God is the key to having the ability to endure...bounce back from...the "dings." God opens our eyes to a bigger picture and reminds us that our value is not based on pleasing people.
The second thing I did is I told a couple of very close friends I had been "dinged." They understood. The one, also a pastor, sent me a note saying leadership is tough and sometimes lonely. He told me "hang in there."
The third thing is I made a very careful, very strategic selection of music to listen to as I drove across town. I have a great collection of rock and roll, country, and classical (not so much jazz). Some of the rock is soft...introspective...quiet...deep. I didn't think that was going to help me. That kind of music might put me deeper into "ding-land." So it came down to a new CD, The Monsters of Folk, or two older CD's - "Help" by the Beatles or "The Ultimate Collection" by the Temptations.
I made a good choice: I chose the Temptations. (If you aren't familiar with Motown music it's never too late to get that kind of musical salvation! Listen in on Smoky Robinson and Martha Reeves and Stevie Wonder and The Four Tops and The Supremes and The Temptations.) What started me smiling were those amazing, opening notes by the bass on "My Girl." How can the "dings" have you permanently when you hear that bass line and the sweet voices of the Temptations sing: "I've got sunshine on a cloudy day. When it's cold outside I've got the month of May. I guess you say 'What can make me feel this way?' My girl! My girl! Talking 'bout my girl. I've got so much honey the bees envy me. I've got a sweeter song than the birds in the trees."
Jesus saves. I know that. And am so thankful!
But good music helps, you know? Especially with the "dings."
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Young Blood.
There is this thing that happens to young adults. Even if they have been raised in the church, or in a family of Jesus followers, they tend to drift disappear between the ages of 18 and their late 20's.
In the past many people had grown up with a spiritual foundation. They knew the story of Jesus. They had a basic knowledge of things like the Ten Commandments, the Beatitudes, etc. So even though they might slip away from the church after heading into the service, or going off to Purdue or Indiana State or Western Michigan, they would have a spiritual foundation to fall back on -when getting married or having children would bring them back to the church. Not anymore. More and more folks seem to be raising with little or no spiritual foundation.
So our church -and we're not alone in this- has set reaching 16-32 year olds as our #1 ministry priority for 2010. We're not sure quite how to do that but we know God is calling us to try. Just after our Administrative Board voted to do this, I read an article saying that the church needs to challenge young adults to grow up and participate in the full life of the fellowship
-instead of creating new worship services for a particular age group.
We'll start by asking questions of young adults inside and outside the church. We'll start by knowing we don't know what to do. (Admitting your ignorance, being humble enough to be open, is a good place to start in a lot of areas of life!)
We'll start by praying. Prayer is always the only way to get from here to there in a good way.
And we'll start by reading. Last night I began a book by Dan Kimball...a leading spokesperson for the "emergent" Christian movement.
Here is what I am learning so far:
Young adults want real -not glitz and entertainment.
Young adults want real community. They want a place where they can be honest. Where people love. Where people are gracious. Where people are courageous.
Young adults want to change the world. They want to live lives of impact. They aren't interested in just showing up...phoning in their life...going through the motions.
So here we go.
Wonder where this journey is going to end up?
In the past many people had grown up with a spiritual foundation. They knew the story of Jesus. They had a basic knowledge of things like the Ten Commandments, the Beatitudes, etc. So even though they might slip away from the church after heading into the service, or going off to Purdue or Indiana State or Western Michigan, they would have a spiritual foundation to fall back on -when getting married or having children would bring them back to the church. Not anymore. More and more folks seem to be raising with little or no spiritual foundation.
So our church -and we're not alone in this- has set reaching 16-32 year olds as our #1 ministry priority for 2010. We're not sure quite how to do that but we know God is calling us to try. Just after our Administrative Board voted to do this, I read an article saying that the church needs to challenge young adults to grow up and participate in the full life of the fellowship
-instead of creating new worship services for a particular age group.
We'll start by asking questions of young adults inside and outside the church. We'll start by knowing we don't know what to do. (Admitting your ignorance, being humble enough to be open, is a good place to start in a lot of areas of life!)
We'll start by praying. Prayer is always the only way to get from here to there in a good way.
And we'll start by reading. Last night I began a book by Dan Kimball...a leading spokesperson for the "emergent" Christian movement.
Here is what I am learning so far:
Young adults want real -not glitz and entertainment.
Young adults want real community. They want a place where they can be honest. Where people love. Where people are gracious. Where people are courageous.
Young adults want to change the world. They want to live lives of impact. They aren't interested in just showing up...phoning in their life...going through the motions.
So here we go.
Wonder where this journey is going to end up?
Always a Little Messy.
It is easy for the previous generation to look as if it were made up of giants...heroes who saw things clearly. They may have been more ordinary than we imagine.
Remember in high school when, as a freshman or sophomore, you regarded the seniors as if they were gods walking the earth? Then, you became a senior and you felt...so...ordinary.
It is also easy to think that the messy way we move through change, today, is very unlike the clear, thoughtful, courageous way our forefathers and foremothers worked through change. My hunch, though is change is almost always messy...and the people who lead through it are often making up things as they go along.
Right now the United Methodist Church in Indiana is going through lots of change. Two annual conferences becoming one. New structures being put in place. New leaders. New processes. On and on and on. This afternoon many of the pastors and laity of northcentral and northwestern Indiana met at LaPorte for the first meeting of the Northern District.
Our leader is the Reverend Cindy Reynolds. She is one cool person! And she will lead this new herd of cats with as much faith and love and courage as any human could muster, but the change will be messy. Progress will come with two steps forward and one step back.
Change is messy. We see that in Washington right now with the whole healthcare debate. We see that as our national leaders try to sort out options in Afghanistan. We see that in our own community as the leaders of Elkhart County scratch their heads, look at the challenges, and search for new ways forward.
Change is messy.
And it is often led by people who are doing their best to figure out the next step.
The early Christian church faced a huge decision: would Jewish Christians need to be circumcised before becoming Jesus followers and members of the Church. They held this big conference or council in Jerusalem. It looks pretty neat and simple and clean, if you look in the book of Acts, but the truth is I think it was a mess. Even with people praying and the guidance of the Holy Spirit.
So if you are frustrated by the mess in your life, our country, or your church...maybe that's just the way we get from here to there. The way progress and change takes place.
Remember in high school when, as a freshman or sophomore, you regarded the seniors as if they were gods walking the earth? Then, you became a senior and you felt...so...ordinary.
It is also easy to think that the messy way we move through change, today, is very unlike the clear, thoughtful, courageous way our forefathers and foremothers worked through change. My hunch, though is change is almost always messy...and the people who lead through it are often making up things as they go along.
Right now the United Methodist Church in Indiana is going through lots of change. Two annual conferences becoming one. New structures being put in place. New leaders. New processes. On and on and on. This afternoon many of the pastors and laity of northcentral and northwestern Indiana met at LaPorte for the first meeting of the Northern District.
Our leader is the Reverend Cindy Reynolds. She is one cool person! And she will lead this new herd of cats with as much faith and love and courage as any human could muster, but the change will be messy. Progress will come with two steps forward and one step back.
Change is messy. We see that in Washington right now with the whole healthcare debate. We see that as our national leaders try to sort out options in Afghanistan. We see that in our own community as the leaders of Elkhart County scratch their heads, look at the challenges, and search for new ways forward.
Change is messy.
And it is often led by people who are doing their best to figure out the next step.
The early Christian church faced a huge decision: would Jewish Christians need to be circumcised before becoming Jesus followers and members of the Church. They held this big conference or council in Jerusalem. It looks pretty neat and simple and clean, if you look in the book of Acts, but the truth is I think it was a mess. Even with people praying and the guidance of the Holy Spirit.
So if you are frustrated by the mess in your life, our country, or your church...maybe that's just the way we get from here to there. The way progress and change takes place.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
The Downside of a Good Sermon.
Preaching is such a strange thing...such an odd art.
Last weekend I felt nearly dead. Had been without a voice for most of the week.
When it's time for worship, though, it's time for worship. So I gathered up my notes (the manuscript is left in the office and I place a small card with some handwritten notes in my Bible), and headed across the street to preach. I wasn't sure I would get through all four weekend services.
But I did.
And, strangely enough, more than a few people told me it was the best sermon they have heard me preach in the last 12 1/2 years. One of the best parts of the message turned out to be a story I told about my youngest coming home from New York City on a Friday afternoon to ski with me. Being right outside the lake cottage when I was wondering where he was. It was a story I had not even thought of including in the sermon...didn't have it written down. A last- minute thing.
Just goes to show.
As I worked on the message for this weekend, I found myself feeling the pressure to match or top whatever God did in our worship last weekend. That kind of feeling is not a good feeling, let me tell you.
I think preaching is like prayer: it's the way a lifetime of it shapes you. Shapes others. Preaching is not a series of "talks" disconnected or isolated from one another.
That is what people miss when they are in worship only now and then. We have occasional attenders. They're sort of like someone who shows up at a restaurant every Thursday when the special is meatloaf and then they complain because of the lack of variety on the menu. They miss the All-U-Can-Eat Fish on Friday and the Pasta Night on Tuesday. They aren't there. And then they complain because the only special is meatloaf.
Sermons to a congregation are a conversation over the long haul. One message building on the other. Continuing a dialogue.
I don't know what this weekend is going to be like. Long ago I gave up predicting how a message would work...well or not. There is an unpredictable, Holy Spirit part of all this. Sometimes the preacher has worked hard, the pieces seem to be in place for a powerful moment, and things are flat. Other weekends you come exhausted, with a voice that has been reduced to a whisper, not sure if you'll make it...and God shows up in a convincing, powerful, soulful way. You never know.
Sermons are a dialogue...a continuing conversation as the congregation, the preacher and God travel together.
They are also a gift the preacher makes to Jesus. Like the rather crudely made clay bowls made by children in a kindergarten class, the sermon is my weekly gift to the Savior who loves me and died for me on the cross...who lives and reigns. "See what I have made for you this week, Lord" I say. Holding out what I have worked to make...
Last weekend I felt nearly dead. Had been without a voice for most of the week.
When it's time for worship, though, it's time for worship. So I gathered up my notes (the manuscript is left in the office and I place a small card with some handwritten notes in my Bible), and headed across the street to preach. I wasn't sure I would get through all four weekend services.
But I did.
And, strangely enough, more than a few people told me it was the best sermon they have heard me preach in the last 12 1/2 years. One of the best parts of the message turned out to be a story I told about my youngest coming home from New York City on a Friday afternoon to ski with me. Being right outside the lake cottage when I was wondering where he was. It was a story I had not even thought of including in the sermon...didn't have it written down. A last- minute thing.
Just goes to show.
As I worked on the message for this weekend, I found myself feeling the pressure to match or top whatever God did in our worship last weekend. That kind of feeling is not a good feeling, let me tell you.
I think preaching is like prayer: it's the way a lifetime of it shapes you. Shapes others. Preaching is not a series of "talks" disconnected or isolated from one another.
That is what people miss when they are in worship only now and then. We have occasional attenders. They're sort of like someone who shows up at a restaurant every Thursday when the special is meatloaf and then they complain because of the lack of variety on the menu. They miss the All-U-Can-Eat Fish on Friday and the Pasta Night on Tuesday. They aren't there. And then they complain because the only special is meatloaf.
Sermons to a congregation are a conversation over the long haul. One message building on the other. Continuing a dialogue.
I don't know what this weekend is going to be like. Long ago I gave up predicting how a message would work...well or not. There is an unpredictable, Holy Spirit part of all this. Sometimes the preacher has worked hard, the pieces seem to be in place for a powerful moment, and things are flat. Other weekends you come exhausted, with a voice that has been reduced to a whisper, not sure if you'll make it...and God shows up in a convincing, powerful, soulful way. You never know.
Sermons are a dialogue...a continuing conversation as the congregation, the preacher and God travel together.
They are also a gift the preacher makes to Jesus. Like the rather crudely made clay bowls made by children in a kindergarten class, the sermon is my weekly gift to the Savior who loves me and died for me on the cross...who lives and reigns. "See what I have made for you this week, Lord" I say. Holding out what I have worked to make...
The Gap.
Is the Great Recession over?
That's the question business writers have been asking this week as the Dow Jones has tip-toed up over the 10,000 mark. Experts say the indicators show the economy is moving into the plus side of the ledger. Officially out of recession territory.
The word is that folks in the financial industry, especially around Wall Street, are paying stunning bonuses -again.
Yesterday I opened my quarterly pension report, and because of the rise in the stock market I'm doing much, much better than I was a year ago. As I smiled at this good news, I realized that younger folks -who have not yet had a chance to contribute to a pension system over a working life of 20 or more years- aren't in such good shape.
There is a growing gap between those who have and those who do not. That's not just true in our country. The New York Times this morning carried a column about the growing gap in Russia between the affluent world of Moscow and the crumbling economies of old, Soviet-era company towns out in the far regions of the country. People in some places are eating grass to stay alive.
The growing gap between haves and have nots is seen in other areas. Bob Herbert's most recent column recalls the days when a family of four could reasonably afford to attend an NFL or Major League Baseball game. He remembers going to NY Jets games with his Dad and watching Joe Namath throw passes to Don Maynard and George Sauer. Now, we have athletic palaces like the new Dallas Cowboys' stadium where ordinary people have been priced out of the game.
I don't think the growing gap between rich and poor, the employed and unemployed, is a good thing. I wouldn't even pretend to have the answer since our nation appears -to a layman- to be near broke and heading towards really broke every day.
Can a country be strong and healthy and whole if a few prosper and many are left behind?
Paul talks, in the New Testament, about how we are all connected. Like a body. Hands and legs and arms and hands and eyes and ears - all a part of one body. So what one part of the body experiences has an impact on the rest of the body.
I don't know exactly what that says to a nation and world economy where the gap seems to be growing, but I believe it means we are all in this together. And that somehow even when my pension numbers are jumping up each month, shoving cash in my pocket, things aren't good if the families down the street are still distressed and hopeless. When I was in high school our civics teachers reminded us that the strength of America was a strong and broad middle class. Where ordinary people could afford to buy a home, a new car, and send their children to college.
What will we do to close the gap?
That's the question business writers have been asking this week as the Dow Jones has tip-toed up over the 10,000 mark. Experts say the indicators show the economy is moving into the plus side of the ledger. Officially out of recession territory.
The word is that folks in the financial industry, especially around Wall Street, are paying stunning bonuses -again.
Yesterday I opened my quarterly pension report, and because of the rise in the stock market I'm doing much, much better than I was a year ago. As I smiled at this good news, I realized that younger folks -who have not yet had a chance to contribute to a pension system over a working life of 20 or more years- aren't in such good shape.
There is a growing gap between those who have and those who do not. That's not just true in our country. The New York Times this morning carried a column about the growing gap in Russia between the affluent world of Moscow and the crumbling economies of old, Soviet-era company towns out in the far regions of the country. People in some places are eating grass to stay alive.
The growing gap between haves and have nots is seen in other areas. Bob Herbert's most recent column recalls the days when a family of four could reasonably afford to attend an NFL or Major League Baseball game. He remembers going to NY Jets games with his Dad and watching Joe Namath throw passes to Don Maynard and George Sauer. Now, we have athletic palaces like the new Dallas Cowboys' stadium where ordinary people have been priced out of the game.
I don't think the growing gap between rich and poor, the employed and unemployed, is a good thing. I wouldn't even pretend to have the answer since our nation appears -to a layman- to be near broke and heading towards really broke every day.
Can a country be strong and healthy and whole if a few prosper and many are left behind?
Paul talks, in the New Testament, about how we are all connected. Like a body. Hands and legs and arms and hands and eyes and ears - all a part of one body. So what one part of the body experiences has an impact on the rest of the body.
I don't know exactly what that says to a nation and world economy where the gap seems to be growing, but I believe it means we are all in this together. And that somehow even when my pension numbers are jumping up each month, shoving cash in my pocket, things aren't good if the families down the street are still distressed and hopeless. When I was in high school our civics teachers reminded us that the strength of America was a strong and broad middle class. Where ordinary people could afford to buy a home, a new car, and send their children to college.
What will we do to close the gap?
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
A Hand Worth More Than $750,000.
A week ago Sharon and I did something very atypical: we took off and drove to Washington D.C. At the center of the trip was a Tuesday night concert by U-2 at FedEx Field just outside D.C. Along with that we got to hang out with Nathan and Westra, our kids in DC, and ride along with Bryan, Joleen, beautiful Ella, and lovely Olivia.
Bryan, our oldest, and his wife, Joleen, rented a van in their hometown of Columbus, Ohio. We drove over there, loaded everyone in the van, and headed for DC.
Mom and Dad rode in the front of the van. Grandpa rode in one of the middle seats with Ella in her carseat to his right, in the other seat. Grandma and Olivia were in the back.
Rolling Stone magazine says the U-2 concert is the biggest ever. The massive stage filled most of the football field at FedEx Field. RS says it takes $750,000 to keep the touring going each day!
As cool and as impressive as all that is, as spectacular as the light show and music was, the best parts of the journey were just hanging out. I won't tell you about all the cool little moments, but I will tell you one.
Ella and I were riding along. Chatting. Handing toys back and forth. She would sleep. Then, Grandpa would doze off. Late in the evening, someplace near Cumberland, Maryland, she reached out and -without a word- took the index finger of my right hand in her left hand. Slept on while holding my finger. I guess it felt reassuring to this 2-year old to hold onto the hand of someone she knew who loved her...especially since we were driving through the dark and around mountains.
I sat there and smiled.
It was worth the trip.
Bryan, our oldest, and his wife, Joleen, rented a van in their hometown of Columbus, Ohio. We drove over there, loaded everyone in the van, and headed for DC.
Mom and Dad rode in the front of the van. Grandpa rode in one of the middle seats with Ella in her carseat to his right, in the other seat. Grandma and Olivia were in the back.
Rolling Stone magazine says the U-2 concert is the biggest ever. The massive stage filled most of the football field at FedEx Field. RS says it takes $750,000 to keep the touring going each day!
As cool and as impressive as all that is, as spectacular as the light show and music was, the best parts of the journey were just hanging out. I won't tell you about all the cool little moments, but I will tell you one.
Ella and I were riding along. Chatting. Handing toys back and forth. She would sleep. Then, Grandpa would doze off. Late in the evening, someplace near Cumberland, Maryland, she reached out and -without a word- took the index finger of my right hand in her left hand. Slept on while holding my finger. I guess it felt reassuring to this 2-year old to hold onto the hand of someone she knew who loved her...especially since we were driving through the dark and around mountains.
I sat there and smiled.
It was worth the trip.
Half-Empty or Half-Full (It's a Sabbath Thing)?
People, when they are sorting through life, looking over a situation, will sometimes use the phrase, "Do you see the cup as half-full or half-empty?" The point being, of course, that some of us see things in the worst possible light...and others see a situation from a more positive perspective.
I've been silent for awhile. No blogging. And that has been because the cup hasn't been half empty or half full but overflowing! Overflowing with lots of good stuff...great things going on in the church, trips back and forth to Columbus, Ohio to visit Olivia and Ella, quick trips to ski or to catch a film. And life has been overflowing with some things that are challenging. I won't go into detail about those but let's just say pastoring a large church, which is passionate about reaching and serving a region for Christ, that is in the middle of big changes...well, that can get kind of crazy!
So the cup has been overflowing.
Even a recent, super cool trip out to Washington D.C. was a part of this overflowing thing. Preached Saturday night, packed my stuff before heading to bed late, preached three more times on Sunday morning, jumped in the car for Columbus...hung out...re-packed a van and headed for D.C....a U-2 concert that was awesome but kept me out until 1:30 in the morning... granddaughters to play with first thing the next morning...all delightful....a drive home that ended at 3:30 in the morning.
Non-stop. Pretty much non-stop.
Not much time to write on the blog.
You understand, right?
I've been home about a week, since that DC trip, and have been very sick most of the week. I'm getting better but this is going to be slow.
Our bodies have a way of encouraging us to observe Sabbath, don't they? For five days I have been unable to speak...so I thought I would take this chance to write.
Too much can be too much -even if it is too much good.
Stopping is a good thing.
So here I am...stopping...forced to the side of the road...weak as a kitten...and discovering the world seems to do okay without me making sure everything is just fine.
God has this simple idea. He shares it with Moses and the Hebrew ex-slaves in Exodus 20:8-10: "Remember the Sabbath. Every seven days you need to stop. Every member of the family. Even your dogs and cats and cattle. Let everybody have time to breathe!" (Okay... well, I've taken a few liberties with the text but you get the point, right?)
Too much can still be too much.
I've been silent for awhile. No blogging. And that has been because the cup hasn't been half empty or half full but overflowing! Overflowing with lots of good stuff...great things going on in the church, trips back and forth to Columbus, Ohio to visit Olivia and Ella, quick trips to ski or to catch a film. And life has been overflowing with some things that are challenging. I won't go into detail about those but let's just say pastoring a large church, which is passionate about reaching and serving a region for Christ, that is in the middle of big changes...well, that can get kind of crazy!
So the cup has been overflowing.
Even a recent, super cool trip out to Washington D.C. was a part of this overflowing thing. Preached Saturday night, packed my stuff before heading to bed late, preached three more times on Sunday morning, jumped in the car for Columbus...hung out...re-packed a van and headed for D.C....a U-2 concert that was awesome but kept me out until 1:30 in the morning... granddaughters to play with first thing the next morning...all delightful....a drive home that ended at 3:30 in the morning.
Non-stop. Pretty much non-stop.
Not much time to write on the blog.
You understand, right?
I've been home about a week, since that DC trip, and have been very sick most of the week. I'm getting better but this is going to be slow.
Our bodies have a way of encouraging us to observe Sabbath, don't they? For five days I have been unable to speak...so I thought I would take this chance to write.
Too much can be too much -even if it is too much good.
Stopping is a good thing.
So here I am...stopping...forced to the side of the road...weak as a kitten...and discovering the world seems to do okay without me making sure everything is just fine.
God has this simple idea. He shares it with Moses and the Hebrew ex-slaves in Exodus 20:8-10: "Remember the Sabbath. Every seven days you need to stop. Every member of the family. Even your dogs and cats and cattle. Let everybody have time to breathe!" (Okay... well, I've taken a few liberties with the text but you get the point, right?)
Too much can still be too much.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
The Work of the People.
The word "liturgy", we were told in seminary, means "work of the people." (At least that's what I recall on this perfect, Summer, Sunday afternoon...)
This weekend our congregation welcomed Shea Reyenga to our pulpit. Shea grew up at Trinity. Even as an elementary school student, Shea would take his turn reading scripture in our main weekend services. People would -as people do in a church- take notice of his confidence, reading ability, and "presence."
He and his family moved to the Fort Worth, Texas about five years ago. We've stayed in touch.
So, about half way through his first year at Perkins School of Theology in Dallas, I sent him a note and asked if he would want to come back this Summer and preach at the church where he grew up. He was the preacher at all four weekend services.
Shea did great. Amazing delivery...obviously a scholar...with a passion to see the church fully alive with a radical degree of devotion to Jesus Christ.
As I watched and listened to Shea, as I heard the people buzzing in the hallways between services, I was struck again by the fact that preachers are grown up by the church. I'm not sure all lay people understand this, but their gracious, patient, encouragement when we are starting out...is crucial.
Lay people at Walkerton and Door Village and Wanatah Faith and Lebanon UMC all endured my best efforts, when I was starting out. They were gracious. Didn't point out that the big words sometimes got in the way of the message. Didn't note that Jesus preached simple messages using every day illustrations...from every day life...and I could have easily left the quotes from Barth and Tillich back in the study.
I remember one Summer Sunday morning at Door Village (just outside LaPorte, Indiana), when the small sanctuary was like an oven. Just out of IU, I was preaching in a suit and tie. Finally, beaten by the heat, I looked out and took off my jacket. Told the men, "Okay, guys it's so warm you don't have to sit there in a suit and tie!" I thought I was being brilliant... truth is I was the only man in the room silly enough to even try wearing a suit and tie on that Summer morning. They knew...they already knew... and they were waiting for me to learn the lesson.
Listen to pastors and they will tell you about a Sunday School teacher who stopped them and told them, "I see a preacher when I look at you." Listen to pastors and they will tell you how they watched a youth director or pastor and began to learn the rhythms of ministry...the necessity of both faith and courage if you are to lead people in the name of Jesus.
Lay people...congregations...grow up preachers just like a gardener plants and tends tomato plants. Raises sweet corn.
Shea will learn this...more and more. His ministry will be, in large part, a product of all the Sunday School teachers and laity and youth directors who have poured love and faith into his life.
It isn't just liturgy that is the work of the people: the making of preachers and pastors is also the work of the people!
This weekend our congregation welcomed Shea Reyenga to our pulpit. Shea grew up at Trinity. Even as an elementary school student, Shea would take his turn reading scripture in our main weekend services. People would -as people do in a church- take notice of his confidence, reading ability, and "presence."
He and his family moved to the Fort Worth, Texas about five years ago. We've stayed in touch.
So, about half way through his first year at Perkins School of Theology in Dallas, I sent him a note and asked if he would want to come back this Summer and preach at the church where he grew up. He was the preacher at all four weekend services.
Shea did great. Amazing delivery...obviously a scholar...with a passion to see the church fully alive with a radical degree of devotion to Jesus Christ.
As I watched and listened to Shea, as I heard the people buzzing in the hallways between services, I was struck again by the fact that preachers are grown up by the church. I'm not sure all lay people understand this, but their gracious, patient, encouragement when we are starting out...is crucial.
Lay people at Walkerton and Door Village and Wanatah Faith and Lebanon UMC all endured my best efforts, when I was starting out. They were gracious. Didn't point out that the big words sometimes got in the way of the message. Didn't note that Jesus preached simple messages using every day illustrations...from every day life...and I could have easily left the quotes from Barth and Tillich back in the study.
I remember one Summer Sunday morning at Door Village (just outside LaPorte, Indiana), when the small sanctuary was like an oven. Just out of IU, I was preaching in a suit and tie. Finally, beaten by the heat, I looked out and took off my jacket. Told the men, "Okay, guys it's so warm you don't have to sit there in a suit and tie!" I thought I was being brilliant... truth is I was the only man in the room silly enough to even try wearing a suit and tie on that Summer morning. They knew...they already knew... and they were waiting for me to learn the lesson.
Listen to pastors and they will tell you about a Sunday School teacher who stopped them and told them, "I see a preacher when I look at you." Listen to pastors and they will tell you how they watched a youth director or pastor and began to learn the rhythms of ministry...the necessity of both faith and courage if you are to lead people in the name of Jesus.
Lay people...congregations...grow up preachers just like a gardener plants and tends tomato plants. Raises sweet corn.
Shea will learn this...more and more. His ministry will be, in large part, a product of all the Sunday School teachers and laity and youth directors who have poured love and faith into his life.
It isn't just liturgy that is the work of the people: the making of preachers and pastors is also the work of the people!
Saturday, July 25, 2009
I Can Do It Myself - but It's Nice Having You Close.
Our soon-to-be-two-year-old granddaughter sat carefully on the edge of the swimming pool at a motel on the edge of Columbus. Wedged between her grandmother's legs. She wanted nothing to do with getting into the pool... despite the fact I was already in the 4' deep pool and encouraging her to join me.
Then, after about 20 minutes of swinging her legs around in the water, she was in the pool with me. I swung her around. I tossed her in the air. I encouraged her to put her face in the water and blow bubbles.
Ella watched some teenagers and was then determined to swim on her own. She would climb up out of the pool using the aluminum ladder, with the help of Grandpa, and then turn around to jump into the water like the teenagers.
"I can do it myself!" she insisted over and over again. I pointed out that she didn't know how to swim and that the water was 4' deep, but she was sure she didn't need me...she was ready to do exactly what she saw the teenagers doing.
Still, though, she let me hold her...swing her around...help her in and out of the pool.
As I held her I noticed something. She had her right arm around my neck, and she was gently patting my shoulder with her fingers. Four of them working in time. We were laughing and playing...but that hand was resting on my shoulder and she was patting me...almost as if the action was automatic. Without thought.
We spend a lot of time telling God we can do it on our own, don't we? Still, though, it is nice having God close...
I'm glad God refuses to let go of us...no matter how much we insist that we can do life on our own.
Then, after about 20 minutes of swinging her legs around in the water, she was in the pool with me. I swung her around. I tossed her in the air. I encouraged her to put her face in the water and blow bubbles.
Ella watched some teenagers and was then determined to swim on her own. She would climb up out of the pool using the aluminum ladder, with the help of Grandpa, and then turn around to jump into the water like the teenagers.
"I can do it myself!" she insisted over and over again. I pointed out that she didn't know how to swim and that the water was 4' deep, but she was sure she didn't need me...she was ready to do exactly what she saw the teenagers doing.
Still, though, she let me hold her...swing her around...help her in and out of the pool.
As I held her I noticed something. She had her right arm around my neck, and she was gently patting my shoulder with her fingers. Four of them working in time. We were laughing and playing...but that hand was resting on my shoulder and she was patting me...almost as if the action was automatic. Without thought.
We spend a lot of time telling God we can do it on our own, don't we? Still, though, it is nice having God close...
I'm glad God refuses to let go of us...no matter how much we insist that we can do life on our own.
Who Do You Belong To?
(I know. The title of this entry is grammatical incorrect. Still, it works, right?)
T-shirts have become a way of saying something about who we are...where we are from...the school we attended...our favorite teams. It's certainly not as high-tech as Facebook or Twitter but it is a way of communicating. Saying something to the world about who we are.
My t-shirt collection is heavy on Duke University and Indiana University. One of my favorites, though, is a very soft, 100% cotton shirt that has blue shoulders and an ivory front and back. The message on the shirt simply says PROPERTY of JP CHASE.
Two of our three sons, along with one of our two daughters in law, work for that particular bank. So I can't remember who gave the shirt to me.
I was wearing this shirt -which is really more than a t-shirt- when I walked into a Columbus, Ohio pizza place yesterday evening. It's a real simple little place. A woman behind the counter looked at me and said, "You must owe them so much money they own you!"
I smiled and said, "No, not really. Actually, I'm a Chrisitian so I belong to God." I paid for the pizza and left.
Funny, you know. I've thought about that before. I've wondered about the wisdom of any of us walking around with clothing that seems to indicate we belong to a company like Nike or JP Chase. Or that we are the property of some school's athletic department.
I like the shirt. I may wear it again...but I wonder if it is a good thing to walk around casually announcing that I belong to any one particular company.
Interesting. I wear a cross...around my neck and under my clothing. The bank thing...the name of IU or Duke or the Mucky Duck restaurant? Those are on the outside for the world to see!
T-shirts have become a way of saying something about who we are...where we are from...the school we attended...our favorite teams. It's certainly not as high-tech as Facebook or Twitter but it is a way of communicating. Saying something to the world about who we are.
My t-shirt collection is heavy on Duke University and Indiana University. One of my favorites, though, is a very soft, 100% cotton shirt that has blue shoulders and an ivory front and back. The message on the shirt simply says PROPERTY of JP CHASE.
Two of our three sons, along with one of our two daughters in law, work for that particular bank. So I can't remember who gave the shirt to me.
I was wearing this shirt -which is really more than a t-shirt- when I walked into a Columbus, Ohio pizza place yesterday evening. It's a real simple little place. A woman behind the counter looked at me and said, "You must owe them so much money they own you!"
I smiled and said, "No, not really. Actually, I'm a Chrisitian so I belong to God." I paid for the pizza and left.
Funny, you know. I've thought about that before. I've wondered about the wisdom of any of us walking around with clothing that seems to indicate we belong to a company like Nike or JP Chase. Or that we are the property of some school's athletic department.
I like the shirt. I may wear it again...but I wonder if it is a good thing to walk around casually announcing that I belong to any one particular company.
Interesting. I wear a cross...around my neck and under my clothing. The bank thing...the name of IU or Duke or the Mucky Duck restaurant? Those are on the outside for the world to see!
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Thriller.
My first experience with the music of Michael Jackson was during college. When a lot of hard rock was screaming away, I would walk through the Student Union at IU and hear The Jackson Five singing "I'll Be There" or "ABC." The music certainly wasn't Cream or The Band or Chicago or Dylan, but it was good...made the world feel lighter. Brighter.
Now, as the stories of the pressure on young Michael to record one hit record after another come out, I realize the price he paid to be successful
- and please all those adults around him who kept pushing. And pushing. And pushing him.
His appearance began to change years ago. Later in life Michael did not resemble at all the handsome young black man who first came on the scene back in the late 60's and early 70's. I've heard speculation -there is plenty of that going around right now, isn't there?- that he had over fifty surgical procedures done to change his look
The more successful he became, the more bizarre his life choices seemed to get. Poor choices, bad investments, drug abuse...you name it. It was like watching a plane come apart, slowly, high in the air. We were left to wonder where the wreckage would land.
The more successful he became, the more unhappy he seemed to be.
The more people there were in his security detail, his retinue, the more lonely he appeared.
Everyone is saying he was the greatest. Certainly, the album "Thriller" is top selling LP/CD of all time. The greatest? I'm not so sure about that. It seems like we often use the word "greatest" to describe the latest celebrity or actor or musician to die.
I wonder what Michael wanted to look like -and why? I wonder why he seemed determined to erase every trace of the face he had as a young adult. Was it an attempt, as some say, to remove any connection -in terms of appearance- with the father who pushed him...and appears to have used him for his own financial gain? Was it an attempt to become "white?" Was it an attempt to copy someone he knew...admired...had seen in a crowd...or on the pages of some magazine? Who was he trying to be... what was he trying to hide?
Everyone talks about how many times Michael Jackson had doctors work on his face to change his look. The truth is we are all tempted to hide our faces, aren't we? More often than we want to admit we spend a good part of our lives trying to take on the face of the person we want to be. We do our very best to create a mask and live behind that mask.
Always in control.
Always okay.
Never a doubt in the world.
Strong always...never weak...never dependent on another human being.
Always happy.
Successful.
There are all these masks we slip on. The difference between us and Michael, though, is our desperate attempt to become someone else... hide the real us...isn't so obvious.
The sad thing about all of this is that when God made Michael Jackson, God made him beautiful. The psalmist in Psalm 139 remembers (:13) how God was doing something good when God made him: "You created every part of me; you put me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because you are to be feared; all you do is trange and wonderful. I know it with all my heart. When my bones were being formed, carefully put together in my mother's womb, when I was growing there in secret, you knew that I was there - you saw me before I was born."
Sometimes we try running from the man in the mirror.
Grace invites us to stop running. See us as God sees us. And be whole.
Now, as the stories of the pressure on young Michael to record one hit record after another come out, I realize the price he paid to be successful
- and please all those adults around him who kept pushing. And pushing. And pushing him.
His appearance began to change years ago. Later in life Michael did not resemble at all the handsome young black man who first came on the scene back in the late 60's and early 70's. I've heard speculation -there is plenty of that going around right now, isn't there?- that he had over fifty surgical procedures done to change his look
The more successful he became, the more bizarre his life choices seemed to get. Poor choices, bad investments, drug abuse...you name it. It was like watching a plane come apart, slowly, high in the air. We were left to wonder where the wreckage would land.
The more successful he became, the more unhappy he seemed to be.
The more people there were in his security detail, his retinue, the more lonely he appeared.
Everyone is saying he was the greatest. Certainly, the album "Thriller" is top selling LP/CD of all time. The greatest? I'm not so sure about that. It seems like we often use the word "greatest" to describe the latest celebrity or actor or musician to die.
I wonder what Michael wanted to look like -and why? I wonder why he seemed determined to erase every trace of the face he had as a young adult. Was it an attempt, as some say, to remove any connection -in terms of appearance- with the father who pushed him...and appears to have used him for his own financial gain? Was it an attempt to become "white?" Was it an attempt to copy someone he knew...admired...had seen in a crowd...or on the pages of some magazine? Who was he trying to be... what was he trying to hide?
Everyone talks about how many times Michael Jackson had doctors work on his face to change his look. The truth is we are all tempted to hide our faces, aren't we? More often than we want to admit we spend a good part of our lives trying to take on the face of the person we want to be. We do our very best to create a mask and live behind that mask.
Always in control.
Always okay.
Never a doubt in the world.
Strong always...never weak...never dependent on another human being.
Always happy.
Successful.
There are all these masks we slip on. The difference between us and Michael, though, is our desperate attempt to become someone else... hide the real us...isn't so obvious.
The sad thing about all of this is that when God made Michael Jackson, God made him beautiful. The psalmist in Psalm 139 remembers (:13) how God was doing something good when God made him: "You created every part of me; you put me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because you are to be feared; all you do is trange and wonderful. I know it with all my heart. When my bones were being formed, carefully put together in my mother's womb, when I was growing there in secret, you knew that I was there - you saw me before I was born."
Sometimes we try running from the man in the mirror.
Grace invites us to stop running. See us as God sees us. And be whole.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Interpreting the Silence..
We United Methodists are a friendly, chatty family. Even in worship. When we pastors invite people to greet the people around them, the members of our congregation jump up and its like a family reunion (without the watermelon seed spitting contest). The room just roars with conversation and laughter!
Even during the sermon there is a low-level "buzz" or hum in the congregation. Not that people are jawing away at one another, outloud. (Well, okay, there are some people who turn to their neighbors and just talk and talk and talk while the preaching is going on. But those verbal non-conformists are few.) But there is a hum in the room.
Every now and then, though, the rooms gets absolutely still. It's like people have stopped breathing.
Now, as a preacher you know people can get quiet because they have fallen into a deep sleep. The way the young man, Eutychus, falls asleep when Paul is preaching in Acts 20:9.
There are other times, though, when the people are absolutely still because the preacher has stepped into a place...a subject...that is so real to them they almost can't bear it. Sometimes people stop whispering to their neighbor, they stop scribbling out their shopping list, and sit absolutely still because they didn't think anyone else in the whole world knew how they were hurting...and apparently the preacher knows. Because she is talking about it as if she is very familiar with the territory of the parishioner's silent, desperate pain. "I didn't think anyone else knew about that," people think to themselves. "In fact...I have been trying to pretend my life, in that particular area, isn't torn wide open."
So you have to interpret the silence.
It is almost always surprising to me, as a preacher. We are working along, the room is humming, and then I make a statement and suddenly everyone is still. When that happens I -deep inside- lean back, and tell myself, "Okay...we have arrived. We're someplace important for these people I love." It's must be the way a deer feels when he walks out of the dense, shaded, undercover and finds himself unexpectedly standing in a open space in the woods. The air is still...the sunlight is bright...and nothing seems to be moving.
"The Lord is in his holy temple," Habakkuk 2:20 says. "Let all the earth be silent before him."
The silent spaces in worship, during the sermon, when the hum stops and people almost stop breathing? They are usually a surprise...unexpected. And they are almost always holy ground.
Even during the sermon there is a low-level "buzz" or hum in the congregation. Not that people are jawing away at one another, outloud. (Well, okay, there are some people who turn to their neighbors and just talk and talk and talk while the preaching is going on. But those verbal non-conformists are few.) But there is a hum in the room.
Every now and then, though, the rooms gets absolutely still. It's like people have stopped breathing.
Now, as a preacher you know people can get quiet because they have fallen into a deep sleep. The way the young man, Eutychus, falls asleep when Paul is preaching in Acts 20:9.
There are other times, though, when the people are absolutely still because the preacher has stepped into a place...a subject...that is so real to them they almost can't bear it. Sometimes people stop whispering to their neighbor, they stop scribbling out their shopping list, and sit absolutely still because they didn't think anyone else in the whole world knew how they were hurting...and apparently the preacher knows. Because she is talking about it as if she is very familiar with the territory of the parishioner's silent, desperate pain. "I didn't think anyone else knew about that," people think to themselves. "In fact...I have been trying to pretend my life, in that particular area, isn't torn wide open."
So you have to interpret the silence.
It is almost always surprising to me, as a preacher. We are working along, the room is humming, and then I make a statement and suddenly everyone is still. When that happens I -deep inside- lean back, and tell myself, "Okay...we have arrived. We're someplace important for these people I love." It's must be the way a deer feels when he walks out of the dense, shaded, undercover and finds himself unexpectedly standing in a open space in the woods. The air is still...the sunlight is bright...and nothing seems to be moving.
"The Lord is in his holy temple," Habakkuk 2:20 says. "Let all the earth be silent before him."
The silent spaces in worship, during the sermon, when the hum stops and people almost stop breathing? They are usually a surprise...unexpected. And they are almost always holy ground.
Can You See the Stretch Marks?
A web site on metal says this: "The term tensile strength refers to the amount of tensile (stretching) stress a material can withstand before breaking or failing."
This has been a beautiful day...great worship, an afternoon getting the house ready for the senior high youth group, a visit with a wonderful couple who are facing some challenges, and an evening on the patio watching the sun go down. Still, the last two weeks have been a pastoral whitewater trip: lots of rocks, churning water, and spray. You use your paddle, dig as hard as you can to get through one situation, and then the raft dips and you are into another rough stretch.
You get a call one night, and sit with a couple as they tell their children the marriage may be ending. That's how one week begins. It ends with an email from a friend whose marriage has just collapsed. In between is a friend's battle with cancer, a man in the community whose hidden addiction has suddenly come out in the open, a 80-year old whose 47-year old daughter is dying. This is "normal" stuff. People whose lives -their rafts- are hitting some large rocks. Everything normal is spun around. Maybe turned upside-down.
And there has been other stuff. Seems like every time I have turned around there has been someone who is upset with something we have done (or not done). These are people I love, and so their frustration...their sense that we should do ministry differently...hurts. I want everyone to be happy and yet sometimes they aren't. These hurting moments come at a time when the church is growing...when the vital signs are so strong in so many areas.
A friend told me, "Just keep praying. And leading. That's the only thing you can do."
So I have been thinking about tensil strength. It's the capacity of a material to bend...to handle stress...without breaking. Can the wings stretch enough to handle the added pressure when the jet runs into turbulence?
Tensil strength is an important quality in life. Some people have this way of "bouncing" back. Others hit turbulence and they come apart.
Women aren't -I know I'm going out on a limb here- very eager to show off their "stretch marks" to the world. I hear things advertised that are supposed to cover up those marks...make them disappear.
We tend to keep our psychological and emotional "stretch marks" hidden, don't we? Whether we are a teacher in a tough situation, or a social worker with an overwhelming caseload, or a doctor who spent half the night working to keep a patient alive and then was in the office for that first 8 o'clock appointment, or a business person trying to keep the doors open and the employees working for another month. We all have "whitewater" times. We all go through times when we are flying along and hit turbulence.
I don't know what keeps you going, but I would suggest prayer. And I would suggest remembering that you need to take good care of yourself... remember to walk away now and then. Take a breath. Focusing on today and letting tomorrow wait...can help.
Paul, in 2nd Corinthians 4:16, says he doesn't lose heart because he has confidence that the God who was able to raise Jesus Christ from the dead will also raise us up with Jesus.
You may be doing a good job of keeping your "stretch marks" hidden. Not letting people know about the rocks you have been hitting, the whitewater you have been paddling through, but God knows. You're not alone. Hang in there. Bend, flex, give, and keep coming back, okay?
This has been a beautiful day...great worship, an afternoon getting the house ready for the senior high youth group, a visit with a wonderful couple who are facing some challenges, and an evening on the patio watching the sun go down. Still, the last two weeks have been a pastoral whitewater trip: lots of rocks, churning water, and spray. You use your paddle, dig as hard as you can to get through one situation, and then the raft dips and you are into another rough stretch.
You get a call one night, and sit with a couple as they tell their children the marriage may be ending. That's how one week begins. It ends with an email from a friend whose marriage has just collapsed. In between is a friend's battle with cancer, a man in the community whose hidden addiction has suddenly come out in the open, a 80-year old whose 47-year old daughter is dying. This is "normal" stuff. People whose lives -their rafts- are hitting some large rocks. Everything normal is spun around. Maybe turned upside-down.
And there has been other stuff. Seems like every time I have turned around there has been someone who is upset with something we have done (or not done). These are people I love, and so their frustration...their sense that we should do ministry differently...hurts. I want everyone to be happy and yet sometimes they aren't. These hurting moments come at a time when the church is growing...when the vital signs are so strong in so many areas.
A friend told me, "Just keep praying. And leading. That's the only thing you can do."
So I have been thinking about tensil strength. It's the capacity of a material to bend...to handle stress...without breaking. Can the wings stretch enough to handle the added pressure when the jet runs into turbulence?
Tensil strength is an important quality in life. Some people have this way of "bouncing" back. Others hit turbulence and they come apart.
Women aren't -I know I'm going out on a limb here- very eager to show off their "stretch marks" to the world. I hear things advertised that are supposed to cover up those marks...make them disappear.
We tend to keep our psychological and emotional "stretch marks" hidden, don't we? Whether we are a teacher in a tough situation, or a social worker with an overwhelming caseload, or a doctor who spent half the night working to keep a patient alive and then was in the office for that first 8 o'clock appointment, or a business person trying to keep the doors open and the employees working for another month. We all have "whitewater" times. We all go through times when we are flying along and hit turbulence.
I don't know what keeps you going, but I would suggest prayer. And I would suggest remembering that you need to take good care of yourself... remember to walk away now and then. Take a breath. Focusing on today and letting tomorrow wait...can help.
Paul, in 2nd Corinthians 4:16, says he doesn't lose heart because he has confidence that the God who was able to raise Jesus Christ from the dead will also raise us up with Jesus.
You may be doing a good job of keeping your "stretch marks" hidden. Not letting people know about the rocks you have been hitting, the whitewater you have been paddling through, but God knows. You're not alone. Hang in there. Bend, flex, give, and keep coming back, okay?
Watching People Wave Goodbye.
Saturday evening after our worship service I slipped over to the Roosevelt Community Center where the good people of Prairie Street Mennonite Church were celebrating the ministry of their soon-to-depart pastor, the Reverend Andrew Kreider.
The reason I went, sat in a corner of the room, and watched this church family say things like "We love you," "Thanks," and "Goodbye" is -first- that I was invited to the party.
I raced over late, and slipped in after missing the meal, for another reason: Prairie is a lively Christian community and they have been especially strong under Andrew's leadership. You can tell, you can sense, when a congregation has a strong heartbeat. When they are alive. Making a difference. And I have sensed that about Prairie Street. When I heard Andrew had resigned so that he could support his wife in a new chapter in her work, I was surprised and saddened. Because I love this community, I know how healthy, vital churches can make a difference in a neighborhood, and I don't take outstanding pastoral leaders for granted. The truth is people who can do ministry the way Andrew does ministry are few and far between.
So I sat there...and listened to the stories.
As people talked about Andrew's preaching and the movement of the Holy Spirit, I found myself wishing I had slipped over there to worship on a Sunday morning. And I could tell what preaching means to a community of Christians.
I also found myself thinking about the night (or day) when the people at Trinity will gather together to say goodbye to me. Bless me and release me to whatever is next. Who will be there? When will it be? What will people say?
And I sat near the back of the crowd and began praying for that congregation. Every church is much more than the pastor who happens to serve it at the time. I know that. I say that. I remind laity of that when pastors come and go. But I also know that some "matches" are really amazing. Particularly effective. So I was praying because you could hear, in the people's voices, their recognition that this change meant something profound to all of them. While they were saying they were confident the creative ministries and outreach efforts would continue in the future, if you listened closely enough you might have heard them wondering if it would be okay.
I remember when Lucchese's -one of Elkhart's fine local, Italian restaurants- changed bakers. You'd think finding someone to bake the bread your customers have come to know and love would be pretty easy to do. But it -the transition- proved to be tricky. The new baker did it differently...some people liked the change. Others didn't. So the new baker tried to learn the old recipes and also introduce something new.
Guess ministry and baking bread may have a few things in common, when it comes to change and transition.
In this letter to a young Christian leader, 2nd Timothy 4:2-8 (NIV) likens Christian ministry to running a race...being in a 15-round fight:
Preach the Word; be prepared in season and out of season; correct, rebuke and encourage--with great patience and careful instruction. {3} For the time will come when men will not put up with sound doctrine. Instead, to suit their own desires, they will gather around them a great number of teachers to say what their itching ears want to hear. {4} They will turn their ears away from the truth and turn aside to myths. {5} But you, keep your head in all situations, endure hardship, do the work of an evangelist, discharge all the duties of your ministry.
{6} For I am already being poured out like a drink offering, and the time has come for my departure. {7} I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. {8} Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day--and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing.
Maybe this sounds odd coming from a pastor, but I am so thankful to those men and women who love Jesus and serve creatively, faithfully...in local congregations. I'm grateful, Andrew. I've been watching from across, town and you have done good work, my friend. Good work!
The reason I went, sat in a corner of the room, and watched this church family say things like "We love you," "Thanks," and "Goodbye" is -first- that I was invited to the party.
I raced over late, and slipped in after missing the meal, for another reason: Prairie is a lively Christian community and they have been especially strong under Andrew's leadership. You can tell, you can sense, when a congregation has a strong heartbeat. When they are alive. Making a difference. And I have sensed that about Prairie Street. When I heard Andrew had resigned so that he could support his wife in a new chapter in her work, I was surprised and saddened. Because I love this community, I know how healthy, vital churches can make a difference in a neighborhood, and I don't take outstanding pastoral leaders for granted. The truth is people who can do ministry the way Andrew does ministry are few and far between.
So I sat there...and listened to the stories.
As people talked about Andrew's preaching and the movement of the Holy Spirit, I found myself wishing I had slipped over there to worship on a Sunday morning. And I could tell what preaching means to a community of Christians.
I also found myself thinking about the night (or day) when the people at Trinity will gather together to say goodbye to me. Bless me and release me to whatever is next. Who will be there? When will it be? What will people say?
And I sat near the back of the crowd and began praying for that congregation. Every church is much more than the pastor who happens to serve it at the time. I know that. I say that. I remind laity of that when pastors come and go. But I also know that some "matches" are really amazing. Particularly effective. So I was praying because you could hear, in the people's voices, their recognition that this change meant something profound to all of them. While they were saying they were confident the creative ministries and outreach efforts would continue in the future, if you listened closely enough you might have heard them wondering if it would be okay.
I remember when Lucchese's -one of Elkhart's fine local, Italian restaurants- changed bakers. You'd think finding someone to bake the bread your customers have come to know and love would be pretty easy to do. But it -the transition- proved to be tricky. The new baker did it differently...some people liked the change. Others didn't. So the new baker tried to learn the old recipes and also introduce something new.
Guess ministry and baking bread may have a few things in common, when it comes to change and transition.
In this letter to a young Christian leader, 2nd Timothy 4:2-8 (NIV) likens Christian ministry to running a race...being in a 15-round fight:
Preach the Word; be prepared in season and out of season; correct, rebuke and encourage--with great patience and careful instruction. {3} For the time will come when men will not put up with sound doctrine. Instead, to suit their own desires, they will gather around them a great number of teachers to say what their itching ears want to hear. {4} They will turn their ears away from the truth and turn aside to myths. {5} But you, keep your head in all situations, endure hardship, do the work of an evangelist, discharge all the duties of your ministry.
{6} For I am already being poured out like a drink offering, and the time has come for my departure. {7} I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. {8} Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day--and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing.
Maybe this sounds odd coming from a pastor, but I am so thankful to those men and women who love Jesus and serve creatively, faithfully...in local congregations. I'm grateful, Andrew. I've been watching from across, town and you have done good work, my friend. Good work!
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Graced Filled Waffles.
They've always been places I drove by, those ubiquitous Waffle House restaurants along main highways and interstates. The last time I remember being in one, before this Spring, was the Fall of 1975 in Durham, North Carolina.
They just never were a place I wanted to stop.
A few weeks ago, though, I found myself in Buckhead, Georgia. Attending a conference of preachers. It was late enough the cool coffee shop down the road had closed up. So two friends and I found the only place open that might offer an inexpensive cup of coffee: a Waffle House.
Other than ourselves, there was only one other paying customer. Three employees were working the place. All African-Americans. They seemed glad to see us. Seemed thankful for the company. Stood nearby while we had our coffee and our raisin toast...our slice of pie...and talked with us. About the weather and traffic in Atlanta and the way folks from South Carolina talk. About the weather up north. One woman told us about her son, who is graduating from Oberlin College, and her youngest who is doing well in school...she sees to that! There was such a gracious spirit in that place!
Last night, here in Columbus, we didn't leave the hospital -where our second granddaughter had just been born the day before- until after 11. None of us had supper. Not many options at 11:20 at night if you are looking for something other than a hamburger. So I pulled into another Waffle House located across from a truck stop...and adjacent to I-670 West.
Ella, our 21-month old granddaughter, was a bit worn around the edges. Sharon rocked her. We ordered something to eat and then Sharon walked Ella outside. They stood there in the night air, under a nearly full moon, and the little girl found her second wind.
Our waitress was young. Doing her best. Working behind the counter. Unaware that her co-workers had taped a ragged piece of white paper to her back that said, KICK ME. When she forgot my decafe coffee she came over and apologized. Then, tried to finish a cheeseburger she had ordered, and which was growing cold on the plate sitting on the counter.
Sharon, Ella and I sat in the booth. Ella refused any food...but she did dip her finger in the syrup on my waffle and lick the sweetness off her finger! An older woman was sitting in a booth, by herself, about twelve feet away from us. She watched us...watched Ella. Sharon told her about Ella...how old she is.
Before we left the older woman, Agnes, approached our table. She bent down to talk with Ella. Asked her if she had a piggy bank. Ella looked perplexed. The woman opened her hand to reveal two quarters. "Put one in your piggy bank," she said quietly, "and put one in the piggy bank of your new, little sister."
The woman didn't look like she had two nickles to rub together -let alone quarters to give away.
I found myself thinking about the widow in the Jerusalem temple. Putting her last copper coins in the temple's offering box as a way of saying "thank you" to God. No one else noticed what she did, but Jesus had his eyes on her the whole time. And he told us about her.
I also found myself thinking of the Sermon on the Mount. Where Jesus says the poor and the humble and the seekers after God will be blessed.
Looking around, as I paid my bill, I had a hunch Jesus would have hung out in places like that...with people like that. We sing and talk a lot about God's grace in churches. Theologians write about that in journals and books too heavy to lift. Then, you pull into the parking lot of a Waffle House. The sound of tractor-trailers a non-musical backdrop to the scene. A nearly full moon adding a touch of beauty to such an ordinary setting. And you come face-to-face with grace.
It's surprising...which is a kind of judgement, you know? We talk about God's grace being loose in the world, and then we are surprised when we run into it.
Somehow, as I drive north and west tonight, towards home...I hunch that these places...glowing with their yellow lights late into the night...will not look the same to me.
They just never were a place I wanted to stop.
A few weeks ago, though, I found myself in Buckhead, Georgia. Attending a conference of preachers. It was late enough the cool coffee shop down the road had closed up. So two friends and I found the only place open that might offer an inexpensive cup of coffee: a Waffle House.
Other than ourselves, there was only one other paying customer. Three employees were working the place. All African-Americans. They seemed glad to see us. Seemed thankful for the company. Stood nearby while we had our coffee and our raisin toast...our slice of pie...and talked with us. About the weather and traffic in Atlanta and the way folks from South Carolina talk. About the weather up north. One woman told us about her son, who is graduating from Oberlin College, and her youngest who is doing well in school...she sees to that! There was such a gracious spirit in that place!
Last night, here in Columbus, we didn't leave the hospital -where our second granddaughter had just been born the day before- until after 11. None of us had supper. Not many options at 11:20 at night if you are looking for something other than a hamburger. So I pulled into another Waffle House located across from a truck stop...and adjacent to I-670 West.
Ella, our 21-month old granddaughter, was a bit worn around the edges. Sharon rocked her. We ordered something to eat and then Sharon walked Ella outside. They stood there in the night air, under a nearly full moon, and the little girl found her second wind.
Our waitress was young. Doing her best. Working behind the counter. Unaware that her co-workers had taped a ragged piece of white paper to her back that said, KICK ME. When she forgot my decafe coffee she came over and apologized. Then, tried to finish a cheeseburger she had ordered, and which was growing cold on the plate sitting on the counter.
Sharon, Ella and I sat in the booth. Ella refused any food...but she did dip her finger in the syrup on my waffle and lick the sweetness off her finger! An older woman was sitting in a booth, by herself, about twelve feet away from us. She watched us...watched Ella. Sharon told her about Ella...how old she is.
Before we left the older woman, Agnes, approached our table. She bent down to talk with Ella. Asked her if she had a piggy bank. Ella looked perplexed. The woman opened her hand to reveal two quarters. "Put one in your piggy bank," she said quietly, "and put one in the piggy bank of your new, little sister."
The woman didn't look like she had two nickles to rub together -let alone quarters to give away.
I found myself thinking about the widow in the Jerusalem temple. Putting her last copper coins in the temple's offering box as a way of saying "thank you" to God. No one else noticed what she did, but Jesus had his eyes on her the whole time. And he told us about her.
I also found myself thinking of the Sermon on the Mount. Where Jesus says the poor and the humble and the seekers after God will be blessed.
Looking around, as I paid my bill, I had a hunch Jesus would have hung out in places like that...with people like that. We sing and talk a lot about God's grace in churches. Theologians write about that in journals and books too heavy to lift. Then, you pull into the parking lot of a Waffle House. The sound of tractor-trailers a non-musical backdrop to the scene. A nearly full moon adding a touch of beauty to such an ordinary setting. And you come face-to-face with grace.
It's surprising...which is a kind of judgement, you know? We talk about God's grace being loose in the world, and then we are surprised when we run into it.
Somehow, as I drive north and west tonight, towards home...I hunch that these places...glowing with their yellow lights late into the night...will not look the same to me.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Sometimes You Just Have to Tip-Toe In.
You rarely dive all the way under, in June, when you want to go swimming in Lake Michigan. You wade out a few feet. Let part of your body get used to the cold. And then you go all the way under.
There are all moments in life when that is true. I know people say it's better to pull a Band-Aid off all at once, but there are many moments when it takes us awhile to get our heads -and hearts- around some big change. Some big truth. There are times when gradual is better...easy does it.
That was never more apparent than during the last 24 hours. Our second granddaughter, Olivia Rose, was born yesterday around 2:50 p.m. It was late afternoon before Sharon and I brought Olivia's 21-month old big sister up to the hospital here in Columbus. Olivia was out of the room when we entered Joleen's room. Ella was unsettled by the sight of her Mommy in a hospital bed. She teared up when she say the IV's in her Mommy's arm. But she ended up sitting next to Mommy in the hospital bed. Watching a video on her Mommy's i-Phone.
When the nurse brought Olivia into the room, Ella looked up for a second, glanced at this little bundle that was placed in her Mommy's arms, and then went right back to her video. There was hardly a ripple of recognition that something was different....but you could tell she knew the universe was shifting.
Ella paid little attention to Olivia, and preferred to walk up and down the halls with Grandpa. Work the elevator. When I would say, "Do you want to go see Mommy?" Ella would respond with, "No...no way." Late in the evening, though, I held her as she looked through the glass into the Nursery. I pointed out Olivia to her, and a nurse brought Olivia to the windows. Ella studied her little sister and quietly said, "Baby sister."
Today when we went to the hospital, Daddy was holding Olivia. Ella sat down next to them. Reached out...carefully touched her little sister's feet. Bent over and kissed them...kissed Olivia's knees...and her lips. After about 20 minutes, though, she was ready to go...said, "Grandpa...elevator!"
So we left...headed to McDonald's and the Columbus Zoo.
It has been something watching the mixture of emotions in this 21-month old. It has been something to see her carefully taking in this big thing that has happened. Not trying to "get it" all at once. There is recognition... and then there is some time getting close...and then there will be more discoveries to come.
Life changes and we tip-toe up on the reality of what this means. I think that is just fine, you know? Sometimes, if you dive into the cold water all it once, it almost makes your heart stop. (And that's not a good thing!)
Jesus didn't, in the beginning, tell Simon Peter what he said three years later in John 21. "You're going to be taken where you don't want to go, and there going to put you away." No, Jesus said, "Come, follow me, and I'll show you how to catch people." The rest of it Peter -and the others- would learn along the way. Begin to understand along the way.
So one evening she glances over for a second, and then looks away. The next day she sits close, tenderly touches those small feet, and then is ready to run the halls. It will only be sometime later that she will fully understand what it means to share the world...the house...Mommy and Daddy...with someone who is your sister.
There are all moments in life when that is true. I know people say it's better to pull a Band-Aid off all at once, but there are many moments when it takes us awhile to get our heads -and hearts- around some big change. Some big truth. There are times when gradual is better...easy does it.
That was never more apparent than during the last 24 hours. Our second granddaughter, Olivia Rose, was born yesterday around 2:50 p.m. It was late afternoon before Sharon and I brought Olivia's 21-month old big sister up to the hospital here in Columbus. Olivia was out of the room when we entered Joleen's room. Ella was unsettled by the sight of her Mommy in a hospital bed. She teared up when she say the IV's in her Mommy's arm. But she ended up sitting next to Mommy in the hospital bed. Watching a video on her Mommy's i-Phone.
When the nurse brought Olivia into the room, Ella looked up for a second, glanced at this little bundle that was placed in her Mommy's arms, and then went right back to her video. There was hardly a ripple of recognition that something was different....but you could tell she knew the universe was shifting.
Ella paid little attention to Olivia, and preferred to walk up and down the halls with Grandpa. Work the elevator. When I would say, "Do you want to go see Mommy?" Ella would respond with, "No...no way." Late in the evening, though, I held her as she looked through the glass into the Nursery. I pointed out Olivia to her, and a nurse brought Olivia to the windows. Ella studied her little sister and quietly said, "Baby sister."
Today when we went to the hospital, Daddy was holding Olivia. Ella sat down next to them. Reached out...carefully touched her little sister's feet. Bent over and kissed them...kissed Olivia's knees...and her lips. After about 20 minutes, though, she was ready to go...said, "Grandpa...elevator!"
So we left...headed to McDonald's and the Columbus Zoo.
It has been something watching the mixture of emotions in this 21-month old. It has been something to see her carefully taking in this big thing that has happened. Not trying to "get it" all at once. There is recognition... and then there is some time getting close...and then there will be more discoveries to come.
Life changes and we tip-toe up on the reality of what this means. I think that is just fine, you know? Sometimes, if you dive into the cold water all it once, it almost makes your heart stop. (And that's not a good thing!)
Jesus didn't, in the beginning, tell Simon Peter what he said three years later in John 21. "You're going to be taken where you don't want to go, and there going to put you away." No, Jesus said, "Come, follow me, and I'll show you how to catch people." The rest of it Peter -and the others- would learn along the way. Begin to understand along the way.
So one evening she glances over for a second, and then looks away. The next day she sits close, tenderly touches those small feet, and then is ready to run the halls. It will only be sometime later that she will fully understand what it means to share the world...the house...Mommy and Daddy...with someone who is your sister.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Love Multiplies.
This is a big week. On Friday afternoon our second granddaughter, Olivia Rose, is to be born at 2:30 p.m. in Columbus, Ohio. (Being an IU grad and having your granddaughters born in the heart of Ohio State country is really tough...I feel like a rabbi whose kids have moved to Teheran!)
Those of you who know me, know how crazy I am about Beautiful Ella. Being a Grandpa has surprised me...this 21-month old has my heart. She tells me she misses me over the phone. She squeals and jumps into my arms when her Mom comes her way to change her diaper or give her a bath. When we watch basketball on tv she even imitates my muttered, "Oh, come on!" when the refs don't make the call.
So Olivia is on the way. I wonder how I can feel the same kind of delight...and yet I know I will.
Love has this way of multiplying...the heart has this way of expanding. When there are more people to love, God gives us the gift of more love. There is always enough.
I've been in a conversation with a friend who is thrilled with her small group at Trinity. She and her friends are so delighted that they hesitate to divide the group and help grow some new groups with that same kind of gracious, loving, Jesus-centered DNA. I tell her God will multiply the love.
Sometimes, when I talk with people in churches where there is a proposal to go from one weekly worship service to two, or two to three, I hear them say, "We won't know everyone." I tell them, "Yes, you're right. If we need to know everyone in the church then the church is going to have to stay really small. Which means we turn our backs on all sorts of folks who want to know Jesus...know God...experience grace-filled community." I tell people it is okay...God will multiply the love.
Paul, the tough, old rabbi turned Christian preacher, is writing to the early Christians in 1st Thessalonians 2:7b, uses the image of a nursing mother to describe his relationship as pastor. He talks about how much he loves them and has worked among them. Truth is, though, he says the same thing to Christians in other early churches. He loves them...all. God multiplies the love. There is always enough to go around when we hang out with Jesus.
Olivia Rose.
I think I'll call her, Lovely Olivia.
I'm ready to welcome you and love you, Olivia. And we'll make sure Ella doesn't get lost in the celebration...there will be enough love to go around.
Those of you who know me, know how crazy I am about Beautiful Ella. Being a Grandpa has surprised me...this 21-month old has my heart. She tells me she misses me over the phone. She squeals and jumps into my arms when her Mom comes her way to change her diaper or give her a bath. When we watch basketball on tv she even imitates my muttered, "Oh, come on!" when the refs don't make the call.
So Olivia is on the way. I wonder how I can feel the same kind of delight...and yet I know I will.
Love has this way of multiplying...the heart has this way of expanding. When there are more people to love, God gives us the gift of more love. There is always enough.
I've been in a conversation with a friend who is thrilled with her small group at Trinity. She and her friends are so delighted that they hesitate to divide the group and help grow some new groups with that same kind of gracious, loving, Jesus-centered DNA. I tell her God will multiply the love.
Sometimes, when I talk with people in churches where there is a proposal to go from one weekly worship service to two, or two to three, I hear them say, "We won't know everyone." I tell them, "Yes, you're right. If we need to know everyone in the church then the church is going to have to stay really small. Which means we turn our backs on all sorts of folks who want to know Jesus...know God...experience grace-filled community." I tell people it is okay...God will multiply the love.
Paul, the tough, old rabbi turned Christian preacher, is writing to the early Christians in 1st Thessalonians 2:7b, uses the image of a nursing mother to describe his relationship as pastor. He talks about how much he loves them and has worked among them. Truth is, though, he says the same thing to Christians in other early churches. He loves them...all. God multiplies the love. There is always enough to go around when we hang out with Jesus.
Olivia Rose.
I think I'll call her, Lovely Olivia.
I'm ready to welcome you and love you, Olivia. And we'll make sure Ella doesn't get lost in the celebration...there will be enough love to go around.
Forgetting the Basics.
One of my favorite parts of summer is water skiing. I learned how to do that late one summer afternoon about eight years ago, and I have a blast getting out on the water about an hour before sunset...when the lake is still and most sensible people have gone in for the day.
This past Sunday afternoon we zipped down to Koontz Lake (after a quick stop to pick up a plastic, push, toy lawnmower for Beautiful Ella). Nervous about the cold water, I set the skis in the boat, climbed into my suit and a wet suit, got in the boat...and we headed out into the middle of the lake.
When Sharon stopped the boat, I took a deep breath...grabbed a ski in one arm...and jumped in. As I struggled to put on the skis I realized I had forgotten to put on a ski/life jacket. So we had to go back to shore to pick up that particular little item.
Sometimes we get so focused on something that we forget the basics. We do that in life, don't we? Jesus said, "Seek first the kingdom of God." It's easy, as we are trying to balance our budgets or look for a job or muddle through a tough situation at work, to forget that basic kingdom stuff. I was so worried about the cold water that I forget the life jacket...had never done that before. What has you so worried that you are tempted to forget the basics of life with God?
This past Sunday afternoon we zipped down to Koontz Lake (after a quick stop to pick up a plastic, push, toy lawnmower for Beautiful Ella). Nervous about the cold water, I set the skis in the boat, climbed into my suit and a wet suit, got in the boat...and we headed out into the middle of the lake.
When Sharon stopped the boat, I took a deep breath...grabbed a ski in one arm...and jumped in. As I struggled to put on the skis I realized I had forgotten to put on a ski/life jacket. So we had to go back to shore to pick up that particular little item.
Sometimes we get so focused on something that we forget the basics. We do that in life, don't we? Jesus said, "Seek first the kingdom of God." It's easy, as we are trying to balance our budgets or look for a job or muddle through a tough situation at work, to forget that basic kingdom stuff. I was so worried about the cold water that I forget the life jacket...had never done that before. What has you so worried that you are tempted to forget the basics of life with God?
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Rain, Rain - Go Away (really?)
It's been gray from start to finish today. We seem to have than our share of those in this corner of northern Indiana. Low clouds...a light mist...after some serious rainfall earlier in the week.
The grass is so green it looks electric. Homeowners are having a tough time keeping it cut down because it is growing so fast.
Seems like everyone I've talked to today says something like, "I'm so tired of this. I am ready for sunny...dry weather."
I understand that. I was hoping to go water skiing this evening, but the cool temps and the low clouds discouraged me from putting that particular plan into action.
As I was driving down the road, though, I realized there are parts of the world where people would be standing outside weeping with joy at the wet stuff falling out of the sky! Australia and parts of the US -as well as other corners of the globe- are in the grip of a terrible drought. Good topsoil is drying up and blowing away. Herds of livestock are being sold off.
When people have complained about the rain today, I have started responding, "There are parts of the world where people would be standing outside, faces upturned towards the sky, weeping with joy at the gift we are receiving."
Sometimes we complain even about the blessings God sends our way, don't we?
In Matthew 5 Jesus is talking about loving our enemies and praying for the people who make our lives miserable. He's trying to shake us loose from our human temptation to treat our friends well and our enemies like
-well- enemies. He points out, in verse 45, how God is different. He says God makes the sun to rise on the evil and the good, and that God sends rain on the just and the unjust. Sun is blessing...rain is blessing.
We grumble about cancelled golf games, bicycling trips, and picnics. Truth is we might look up at the wet stuff falling from the sky and say, "Thank you, Father. Thank you, Lord!"
The grass is so green it looks electric. Homeowners are having a tough time keeping it cut down because it is growing so fast.
Seems like everyone I've talked to today says something like, "I'm so tired of this. I am ready for sunny...dry weather."
I understand that. I was hoping to go water skiing this evening, but the cool temps and the low clouds discouraged me from putting that particular plan into action.
As I was driving down the road, though, I realized there are parts of the world where people would be standing outside weeping with joy at the wet stuff falling out of the sky! Australia and parts of the US -as well as other corners of the globe- are in the grip of a terrible drought. Good topsoil is drying up and blowing away. Herds of livestock are being sold off.
When people have complained about the rain today, I have started responding, "There are parts of the world where people would be standing outside, faces upturned towards the sky, weeping with joy at the gift we are receiving."
Sometimes we complain even about the blessings God sends our way, don't we?
In Matthew 5 Jesus is talking about loving our enemies and praying for the people who make our lives miserable. He's trying to shake us loose from our human temptation to treat our friends well and our enemies like
-well- enemies. He points out, in verse 45, how God is different. He says God makes the sun to rise on the evil and the good, and that God sends rain on the just and the unjust. Sun is blessing...rain is blessing.
We grumble about cancelled golf games, bicycling trips, and picnics. Truth is we might look up at the wet stuff falling from the sky and say, "Thank you, Father. Thank you, Lord!"
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Mixed Signals.
Mixed signals can mean whatever we have to say for Jesus will be lost.
I thought of that as I heard a sermon about how important it is that Christians be all about mission. Not about self or ego. Set on fire with a desire to serve the least and the lost.
The preacher was wearing a beauitful robe with doctoral bars down the sleeves (that tells you that folks like me have a doctoral degree and are really important), and the lobby of the mega-church would have shamed the furnishings in the fanciest hotel. In his introduction of himself the preacher pointed out the academic degrees, honors and prestigous work roles of his children.
It's not about us - it's all about Jesus. Really?!
A friend attended a Christian concert by a woman who plays guitar -and sings- like an angel. He went to the lobby where her CD's were being sold, and the man managing the table snapped at my friend. Not once. Not twice. But three times. Made him feel stupid for asking a question about the woman's music and her web site. The music she sings is being drowned out by the lack of grace by the people on her team.
It's always more easy to see the mixed signals in other Jesus followers than it is to see how we say one thing and do another. Jesus says, in the Sermon on the Mount, that we are always ready to point out the wood speck in the eye of another person while being oblivious to the 2 x 4 in our own eye!
Here is the deal: people don't just pay attention to our words but they are watching the rest of our lives. Does this match up? Are they congruent?
None of us are perfect. All of us make mistakes. Each one of us is a sinner. One person struggles with gossip. Another with sexual sin. Another with ego. Another with a low-grade fever of greed so they never have enough.
But this business of sending mixed signals is really important.
Does the setting of your life match the words you speak for Jesus?
I thought of that as I heard a sermon about how important it is that Christians be all about mission. Not about self or ego. Set on fire with a desire to serve the least and the lost.
The preacher was wearing a beauitful robe with doctoral bars down the sleeves (that tells you that folks like me have a doctoral degree and are really important), and the lobby of the mega-church would have shamed the furnishings in the fanciest hotel. In his introduction of himself the preacher pointed out the academic degrees, honors and prestigous work roles of his children.
It's not about us - it's all about Jesus. Really?!
A friend attended a Christian concert by a woman who plays guitar -and sings- like an angel. He went to the lobby where her CD's were being sold, and the man managing the table snapped at my friend. Not once. Not twice. But three times. Made him feel stupid for asking a question about the woman's music and her web site. The music she sings is being drowned out by the lack of grace by the people on her team.
It's always more easy to see the mixed signals in other Jesus followers than it is to see how we say one thing and do another. Jesus says, in the Sermon on the Mount, that we are always ready to point out the wood speck in the eye of another person while being oblivious to the 2 x 4 in our own eye!
Here is the deal: people don't just pay attention to our words but they are watching the rest of our lives. Does this match up? Are they congruent?
None of us are perfect. All of us make mistakes. Each one of us is a sinner. One person struggles with gossip. Another with sexual sin. Another with ego. Another with a low-grade fever of greed so they never have enough.
But this business of sending mixed signals is really important.
Does the setting of your life match the words you speak for Jesus?
When Whatever You Say is Wrong.
Have you ever been in a relationship or meeting or class where whatever you said was wrong?
I'm in one of those places with someone I have known a long time...and loved for a long time.
The person is hurting. Feeling cut-off. And whatever I say turns out to be wrong.
Words I mean to be gracious are experienced as judgemental.
Words I mean to be empathetic are interpreted as critical.
It's a helpless feeling for me. There is the intent of the heart, but the words are proving inadequate. Like telephone lines that have been knocked to the ground by strong winds and falling limbs, my words are sent out but the message of the heart gets lost.
And I know it is a helpless feeling for her. She is feeling desperate, cut off, isolated, and in need of support - and whatever I offer feels like another weight. Another indication that she doesn't have anyone she can turn to.
So what do you do? Paul, in Romans 1st Corinthians 14:1, says "follow the way of love."
Here is what I have been reduced to doing:
1. Saying that I love her. That's it. Anything more somehow goes off in the wrong direction. Like a driver whose car is on ice, and no matter which direction he turns the steering wheel, the car ends up clipping the pole and ending up in the ditch. So I just keep saying, "I love you."
2. Praying for her. I am giving her to God. Maybe God can sort things out. Maybe God can help her hear the love behind my words. Maybe God can help me learn to use words that "get through." In the 1st chapter of 2nd Corinthians, Paul says (:9) he not relying on himself but on God "who raises the dead." Sometimes God gets through when we can't. Sometimes God sends someone else who can get over the defensive walls another person has constructed so carefully. I am giving this person to God. (I do that with people in the church who only seem to be irritated by my best efforts to lead and to love.)
3. Keeping the door open. I'm not a big believer in burning bridges. Writing other people off once and forever. Jesus, in Luke 18, has a conversation with a rich man who refuses to sell his possessions and give the money to the poor. The man fails the invitation to be free and healthy in God, but Jesus doesn't write him off forever. Doesn't tell him never to come back. So I do my best to keep the door open...allow for the possibility that the relationship may recover. Grow. Head off in a more healthy direction. Some people say "I'll never send any more cards" or "I won't call that person until they call me first." Not me. I'll keep calling (now and then). I'll keep sending cards. I'll keep letting her know I love her. But I'll not force her to deal with me. The door is open.
Sometimes whatever you say is wrong.
And all I am left with are the words, "I love you."
I'm in one of those places with someone I have known a long time...and loved for a long time.
The person is hurting. Feeling cut-off. And whatever I say turns out to be wrong.
Words I mean to be gracious are experienced as judgemental.
Words I mean to be empathetic are interpreted as critical.
It's a helpless feeling for me. There is the intent of the heart, but the words are proving inadequate. Like telephone lines that have been knocked to the ground by strong winds and falling limbs, my words are sent out but the message of the heart gets lost.
And I know it is a helpless feeling for her. She is feeling desperate, cut off, isolated, and in need of support - and whatever I offer feels like another weight. Another indication that she doesn't have anyone she can turn to.
So what do you do? Paul, in Romans 1st Corinthians 14:1, says "follow the way of love."
Here is what I have been reduced to doing:
1. Saying that I love her. That's it. Anything more somehow goes off in the wrong direction. Like a driver whose car is on ice, and no matter which direction he turns the steering wheel, the car ends up clipping the pole and ending up in the ditch. So I just keep saying, "I love you."
2. Praying for her. I am giving her to God. Maybe God can sort things out. Maybe God can help her hear the love behind my words. Maybe God can help me learn to use words that "get through." In the 1st chapter of 2nd Corinthians, Paul says (:9) he not relying on himself but on God "who raises the dead." Sometimes God gets through when we can't. Sometimes God sends someone else who can get over the defensive walls another person has constructed so carefully. I am giving this person to God. (I do that with people in the church who only seem to be irritated by my best efforts to lead and to love.)
3. Keeping the door open. I'm not a big believer in burning bridges. Writing other people off once and forever. Jesus, in Luke 18, has a conversation with a rich man who refuses to sell his possessions and give the money to the poor. The man fails the invitation to be free and healthy in God, but Jesus doesn't write him off forever. Doesn't tell him never to come back. So I do my best to keep the door open...allow for the possibility that the relationship may recover. Grow. Head off in a more healthy direction. Some people say "I'll never send any more cards" or "I won't call that person until they call me first." Not me. I'll keep calling (now and then). I'll keep sending cards. I'll keep letting her know I love her. But I'll not force her to deal with me. The door is open.
Sometimes whatever you say is wrong.
And all I am left with are the words, "I love you."
What Do You Do with the Gift?
When we give time to something (or someone), we are announcing that it (or they) have value.
For the last three days I have been listening to preachers preach, and I have been leaning forward as theologians talk about faith and communication and what it means to follow Jesus in a world that isn't sure what to make of Jesus. I don't take three or four days away for something like this very often. But preaching is important.
Preaching is important. There was a time in the 60's and early 70's when Christian leaders and communication/worship experts thought preaching was an obsolete relic. Dramas, video clips, experiential worship...all of that was thought to be more "relevant" than preaching.
One of the ways I know preaching is important is that we see God using it to change people and change the world. The sermons of prophets like Elijah and Elisha put tyrants on notice that God is a God of justice. When God sent Jesus into the world, he spent his ministry doing a couple of essential tasks: preaching and healing. In Luke 4 he reads from the Isaiah and says, "The Lord has anointed me to preach..." The book of Acts records some of the sermons of people like Peter and Paul, and God used those sermons to turn the world upside-down.
Another way I know preaching is important is that as a lay person I have heard it done well - and badly. When it has been done well, my life has changed. My experience with God has deepened. I have come face to face with a kind of truth that challenged my ways of thinking and living. When sermons have been limp and lifeless, thrown together at the last minute, I have come away hungry...disappointed...frustrated.
As a preacher it is a powerful thing to be a part of a moment when the Word is declared with power and integrity. You can tell when the room changes and we all suddenly realize we are standing on holy ground. When I have preached and failed, you can tell. We can all tell.
I always do my best. You need to know that. One sermon is better than another. One message reaches inside your head and heart with the truth of Jesus. You can't avoid it or escape it. Another sermon doesn't get anywhere close to where you need for it to be. But I always do my best. I give everything I have to the task of preaching.
You may be curious to know what it takes to deliver one of those "talks," as some people outside the church refer to them. A couple of times each year I go away for two or three days to look ahead...open the Bible...pray...and plan preaching themes. I make notes. Identify possible points within the sermon.
The week before the sermon I spend part of Thursday outlining the sermon, and on Friday I begin writing around 9:30 in the morning. (Many people at TUMC think Friday is my day off, but it is usually the longest workday of my week!) The manuscript is finally finished around 6. I walk away. Let God have some time with the words put down on paper.
Saturday afternoon I read the sermon and re-read the manuscript. (It's usually about 10 or 12 pages long!) Before I enter the sanctuary, I jot down some key phrases on a piece of scrap paper, slip that in my Bible, and pray.
Somewhere between the writing of the sermon and the preaching of the message, I "cut out" about one-half of what I have written. Sometimes, from service to service, the message changes as I watch the clock and the eyes of the congregation. At one service a story is shared, and at the next service it isn't. The messages shifts through the weekend as the Holy Spirit works in my. heart and head..in you...between us.
My preaching has changed over the years. I once put a lot of time in making sure the "presentation" was polished. My preaching, like many other pastors, has become much more of a conversation with people. It is more of a dialogue than a religious lecture. So in some sense my preaching is more rough around the edges...and it is more real.
Another change is that the sermons have gotten longer. There was a time in the "Mainline Church" when sermons were 15-20 minutes. More and more, in healthy, vital, growing large churches the preaching time has become a serious teaching time that takes up 30-45 minutes. (Rob Bell up in Grand Rapids often preaches for 80 minutes! Heh...did some of you just break into a sweat?! Don't worry...we're not going to try and head in that direction!)
Preaching, I tell people, is like Jacob's wrestling match with the heavenly messenger. Some weeks I am drained. Some weeks the words come easily and quickly, and some weeks the process of sermon writing is exahusting. Frustrating beyond words. God refuses to let me get a hold of him.
If you find yourself vaguely dissatisfied with the preaching/'teaching ministry at TUMC, it may be your fault. (Didn't expect that, did you?) You play a key role in what happens in our teaching ministry! I challenge you to be praying for the service and preacher as you head to church. I invite you who attend the 8 o'clock service to join us in the Conference Room at 7:40 a.m. every Sunday as we pray for the sermon and the services. I encourage you to read the text of the day before the service begins. The sermon may seem lifeless and irrelevant if you wander in 10 minutes late to worship, work on a shopping list during the Bible reading, and only half-listen while you are trying to decide what you'll do for dinner. Your role in our church's preaching ministry is important!
The art of preaching is something I love to do. Some weeks I do better than others. But I always do my best...give my best...hold nothing back.
Jesus refers to himself, in John, as living bread. I love breaking that bread and sharing it with a hungry world.
For the last three days I have been listening to preachers preach, and I have been leaning forward as theologians talk about faith and communication and what it means to follow Jesus in a world that isn't sure what to make of Jesus. I don't take three or four days away for something like this very often. But preaching is important.
Preaching is important. There was a time in the 60's and early 70's when Christian leaders and communication/worship experts thought preaching was an obsolete relic. Dramas, video clips, experiential worship...all of that was thought to be more "relevant" than preaching.
One of the ways I know preaching is important is that we see God using it to change people and change the world. The sermons of prophets like Elijah and Elisha put tyrants on notice that God is a God of justice. When God sent Jesus into the world, he spent his ministry doing a couple of essential tasks: preaching and healing. In Luke 4 he reads from the Isaiah and says, "The Lord has anointed me to preach..." The book of Acts records some of the sermons of people like Peter and Paul, and God used those sermons to turn the world upside-down.
Another way I know preaching is important is that as a lay person I have heard it done well - and badly. When it has been done well, my life has changed. My experience with God has deepened. I have come face to face with a kind of truth that challenged my ways of thinking and living. When sermons have been limp and lifeless, thrown together at the last minute, I have come away hungry...disappointed...frustrated.
As a preacher it is a powerful thing to be a part of a moment when the Word is declared with power and integrity. You can tell when the room changes and we all suddenly realize we are standing on holy ground. When I have preached and failed, you can tell. We can all tell.
I always do my best. You need to know that. One sermon is better than another. One message reaches inside your head and heart with the truth of Jesus. You can't avoid it or escape it. Another sermon doesn't get anywhere close to where you need for it to be. But I always do my best. I give everything I have to the task of preaching.
You may be curious to know what it takes to deliver one of those "talks," as some people outside the church refer to them. A couple of times each year I go away for two or three days to look ahead...open the Bible...pray...and plan preaching themes. I make notes. Identify possible points within the sermon.
The week before the sermon I spend part of Thursday outlining the sermon, and on Friday I begin writing around 9:30 in the morning. (Many people at TUMC think Friday is my day off, but it is usually the longest workday of my week!) The manuscript is finally finished around 6. I walk away. Let God have some time with the words put down on paper.
Saturday afternoon I read the sermon and re-read the manuscript. (It's usually about 10 or 12 pages long!) Before I enter the sanctuary, I jot down some key phrases on a piece of scrap paper, slip that in my Bible, and pray.
Somewhere between the writing of the sermon and the preaching of the message, I "cut out" about one-half of what I have written. Sometimes, from service to service, the message changes as I watch the clock and the eyes of the congregation. At one service a story is shared, and at the next service it isn't. The messages shifts through the weekend as the Holy Spirit works in my. heart and head..in you...between us.
My preaching has changed over the years. I once put a lot of time in making sure the "presentation" was polished. My preaching, like many other pastors, has become much more of a conversation with people. It is more of a dialogue than a religious lecture. So in some sense my preaching is more rough around the edges...and it is more real.
Another change is that the sermons have gotten longer. There was a time in the "Mainline Church" when sermons were 15-20 minutes. More and more, in healthy, vital, growing large churches the preaching time has become a serious teaching time that takes up 30-45 minutes. (Rob Bell up in Grand Rapids often preaches for 80 minutes! Heh...did some of you just break into a sweat?! Don't worry...we're not going to try and head in that direction!)
Preaching, I tell people, is like Jacob's wrestling match with the heavenly messenger. Some weeks I am drained. Some weeks the words come easily and quickly, and some weeks the process of sermon writing is exahusting. Frustrating beyond words. God refuses to let me get a hold of him.
If you find yourself vaguely dissatisfied with the preaching/'teaching ministry at TUMC, it may be your fault. (Didn't expect that, did you?) You play a key role in what happens in our teaching ministry! I challenge you to be praying for the service and preacher as you head to church. I invite you who attend the 8 o'clock service to join us in the Conference Room at 7:40 a.m. every Sunday as we pray for the sermon and the services. I encourage you to read the text of the day before the service begins. The sermon may seem lifeless and irrelevant if you wander in 10 minutes late to worship, work on a shopping list during the Bible reading, and only half-listen while you are trying to decide what you'll do for dinner. Your role in our church's preaching ministry is important!
The art of preaching is something I love to do. Some weeks I do better than others. But I always do my best...give my best...hold nothing back.
Jesus refers to himself, in John, as living bread. I love breaking that bread and sharing it with a hungry world.
Hanging in There.
Dave and I got to know one another, just slightly, when we were both students in seminary back in the late 70's. We didn't have all that much in common...we just happened to cross paths at Duke.
Herb and I first really hung out together at a National UM Youth Workers' Conference in Estes Park, Colorado, back around 1980. We climbed over boulders, looked down at the valley and up at the mountains, and thought about what the future could be in ministry. In life.
This week the three of us have been in Atlanta for a national preaching festival. Not as preachers or presenters. Nope. We are journeymen preachers but not special enough to merit much attention. With about one thousand others we have been gathering in the new, massive, Gothic-like sanctuary at Peachtree Road United Methodist.
We've heard some great preaching...and lectures. We just finished having lunch with Bishop Woodie White who -retired- lives and teaches here.
In a few hours we head back north.
Here is what I want you to know: hanging in there has its rewards.
There have been times when each one of us was so busy with our own challenges and agendas that it was tough even seeing one another. Contacts were more sporadic. Plans to get away for sermon planning or a continuing education event fell apart and we each kept working in our churches...or dealing with our families.
We hung in there, though. We didn't give up. Friendship is many things, but one of the things it certainly is is hanging in there.
Paul, in Romans 15, prays that God will give the people of Jesus "endurance and encouragmement." He prays they will have unity. And then, in verse 7, he prays that they will accept one another.
The three of us -and our buddy, Steve- work on one another. Coach one another. Confront one another. Along with the days and moments when we just listen and affirm and accept one another.
Our friendship has shown endurance. And that is something good.
Herb and I first really hung out together at a National UM Youth Workers' Conference in Estes Park, Colorado, back around 1980. We climbed over boulders, looked down at the valley and up at the mountains, and thought about what the future could be in ministry. In life.
This week the three of us have been in Atlanta for a national preaching festival. Not as preachers or presenters. Nope. We are journeymen preachers but not special enough to merit much attention. With about one thousand others we have been gathering in the new, massive, Gothic-like sanctuary at Peachtree Road United Methodist.
We've heard some great preaching...and lectures. We just finished having lunch with Bishop Woodie White who -retired- lives and teaches here.
In a few hours we head back north.
Here is what I want you to know: hanging in there has its rewards.
There have been times when each one of us was so busy with our own challenges and agendas that it was tough even seeing one another. Contacts were more sporadic. Plans to get away for sermon planning or a continuing education event fell apart and we each kept working in our churches...or dealing with our families.
We hung in there, though. We didn't give up. Friendship is many things, but one of the things it certainly is is hanging in there.
Paul, in Romans 15, prays that God will give the people of Jesus "endurance and encouragmement." He prays they will have unity. And then, in verse 7, he prays that they will accept one another.
The three of us -and our buddy, Steve- work on one another. Coach one another. Confront one another. Along with the days and moments when we just listen and affirm and accept one another.
Our friendship has shown endurance. And that is something good.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Love in the Ragged Places.
I enjoy being very active...working out, waterskiing, etc. But I also love to read. Over the last two weeks I have spent a lot of time reading. Some history, a silly detective/mystery novel by a Floridian, a wonderful account of the Beatles and their music...the culture of the 60's and 70's.
One book I savored was Will Allison's "What You Have Left." Never heard of Will, before, but he has some ties to Indiana and Ohio. The book is about a young girl in South Carolina whose mother is killed in a water skiing accident. Her father feels overwhelmed, and so he drops his daughter off at her Grandfather's. Says he'll come back for her in a day or two...and then disappears.
Her Grandpa loves her and cares for her (the cover of the book has a child falling out of the sky into the arms of a surprised looking middle-aged man). He hangs in there when she runs away...keeps loving her.
The girl, Holly, does okay. She says she has no expectation -or need- for her father, but there is this persistent desire to find him... re-connect with him...punish him for his abandonment. There are times when Holly is a mess. She drinks too much. She is loved by a young man who wants to marry her, but she has this way of taking the engagement ring off and throwing it when she is frustrated. Holly gambles thousands of dollars of their savings away, years after they are married.
Finally, near the end of the book, she finds her father. He is a mechanic in another town. Struggling with some health issues. And racing stock cars at a local track.
I finished the book as Sharon drove us towards home from the Indianapolis airport. When I closed the book I just sat and looked at the fields... the trees with their bright, green, new leaves...the redbuds in blossom back in the Hoosier woods. And I thought about how love is rarely simple...or easy. Love doesn't move in a straight line, but it takes off in a zag here and a zig there.
One of the life patterns I've bumped into, time and time again, is the life story of women being abandoned by their dads or grandpas. It's more common than you might think, and -tragically- more and more frequent. For some reason men step out of the lives of their daughters early on, and there is -despite the best efforts of the young women to heal and even fill their broken hearts with the love of God- always this aching, sad place in the women's lives. I'm not sure why men leave...I don't understand it. I'd like to ask men who have jumped ship, but perhaps they would all have a different story...different reasons.
So I thought about that, and I also thought about the way my Mom died just over eight years ago this Spring. She was an incredible woman. Amazing faith in God despite fearsome losses...a husband early on, multiple miscarriages, the death of two sons (one by Sudden Infant Death Syndrome and the other in a car accident), losing her home in Africa, and spending 4 1/2 years blessing and giving and surviving in northwest Alaska. My mom, Anita, spoke all over America to church groups. She was an eloquent spokeswoman for the Christian faith, and led weekend retreats from her to both coasts.
When she was diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer (I remember the night...Notre Dame had played a home game in the NIT basketball tournament the day she received the test results...my Dad called late at night...and I knew that wasn't good), she pulled back. She pulled in. She pulled away from me...my siblings...and into a private world that none of us were allowed to visit.
So we never had "closure," as some experts call it. We never had a chance to say what we wanted to say...needed to say...to one another. Her funeral was a gathering of lay people and church leaders from across the state of Indiana. It was a big deal...but for those of us closest to her it felt like she had slipped out the side door just ahead of us. Without saying "goodbye."
Why do I say all of this? Well, I figure when you love people you love them on their terms. Each and every one of us is a work in progress. Each and every one of us has flaws...fears...and there are some dents in our psychic "bumper" that no soul "body man" is going to knock out and smooth off.
Holly meets up with her absent father, who has failed in all sorts of ways, but there is grace in the reunion. My Mom left this world in a way that just puzzled the heck out of those of us most close to her, but she was an amazing woman. A real case. Could put words together that would fill your heart with faith, and she was always late...ate Hostess Cupcakes while drinking Diet Tab...and had a "thing" for jewelery.
When you love someone, you love them.
Even when there are ragged places. I think that may be what Paul was trying to help us see in 1st Corinthians 13: "love is patient and kind... love bears all things."
One book I savored was Will Allison's "What You Have Left." Never heard of Will, before, but he has some ties to Indiana and Ohio. The book is about a young girl in South Carolina whose mother is killed in a water skiing accident. Her father feels overwhelmed, and so he drops his daughter off at her Grandfather's. Says he'll come back for her in a day or two...and then disappears.
Her Grandpa loves her and cares for her (the cover of the book has a child falling out of the sky into the arms of a surprised looking middle-aged man). He hangs in there when she runs away...keeps loving her.
The girl, Holly, does okay. She says she has no expectation -or need- for her father, but there is this persistent desire to find him... re-connect with him...punish him for his abandonment. There are times when Holly is a mess. She drinks too much. She is loved by a young man who wants to marry her, but she has this way of taking the engagement ring off and throwing it when she is frustrated. Holly gambles thousands of dollars of their savings away, years after they are married.
Finally, near the end of the book, she finds her father. He is a mechanic in another town. Struggling with some health issues. And racing stock cars at a local track.
I finished the book as Sharon drove us towards home from the Indianapolis airport. When I closed the book I just sat and looked at the fields... the trees with their bright, green, new leaves...the redbuds in blossom back in the Hoosier woods. And I thought about how love is rarely simple...or easy. Love doesn't move in a straight line, but it takes off in a zag here and a zig there.
One of the life patterns I've bumped into, time and time again, is the life story of women being abandoned by their dads or grandpas. It's more common than you might think, and -tragically- more and more frequent. For some reason men step out of the lives of their daughters early on, and there is -despite the best efforts of the young women to heal and even fill their broken hearts with the love of God- always this aching, sad place in the women's lives. I'm not sure why men leave...I don't understand it. I'd like to ask men who have jumped ship, but perhaps they would all have a different story...different reasons.
So I thought about that, and I also thought about the way my Mom died just over eight years ago this Spring. She was an incredible woman. Amazing faith in God despite fearsome losses...a husband early on, multiple miscarriages, the death of two sons (one by Sudden Infant Death Syndrome and the other in a car accident), losing her home in Africa, and spending 4 1/2 years blessing and giving and surviving in northwest Alaska. My mom, Anita, spoke all over America to church groups. She was an eloquent spokeswoman for the Christian faith, and led weekend retreats from her to both coasts.
When she was diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer (I remember the night...Notre Dame had played a home game in the NIT basketball tournament the day she received the test results...my Dad called late at night...and I knew that wasn't good), she pulled back. She pulled in. She pulled away from me...my siblings...and into a private world that none of us were allowed to visit.
So we never had "closure," as some experts call it. We never had a chance to say what we wanted to say...needed to say...to one another. Her funeral was a gathering of lay people and church leaders from across the state of Indiana. It was a big deal...but for those of us closest to her it felt like she had slipped out the side door just ahead of us. Without saying "goodbye."
Why do I say all of this? Well, I figure when you love people you love them on their terms. Each and every one of us is a work in progress. Each and every one of us has flaws...fears...and there are some dents in our psychic "bumper" that no soul "body man" is going to knock out and smooth off.
Holly meets up with her absent father, who has failed in all sorts of ways, but there is grace in the reunion. My Mom left this world in a way that just puzzled the heck out of those of us most close to her, but she was an amazing woman. A real case. Could put words together that would fill your heart with faith, and she was always late...ate Hostess Cupcakes while drinking Diet Tab...and had a "thing" for jewelery.
When you love someone, you love them.
Even when there are ragged places. I think that may be what Paul was trying to help us see in 1st Corinthians 13: "love is patient and kind... love bears all things."
Quiet.
The blog site says I last "posted" in early April. So it's been awhile. I meant to write something while we were in Florida the last eight days, but somehow I didn't get around to it.
I think it's okay that I have been quiet.
Sometimes -and I know this sounds funny coming from someone who works with words for a living, and who loves to read books- there are too many words. In this era of 24/7 news channels we say too much. We wear words out. We've lost the art of filtering our thoughts, and if it is "in there" we somehow think the world needs to know every last detail of what just popped into our heads.
There are times when I get quiet, and people around me get nervous. "What's wrong with you?" they ask with a puzzled smile. "Nothing," I say. "I'm just tired of talking." (As I write that I think of the character in "Forrest Gump" who talks and talks about shrimp...unless he just runs out of wind.)
Actually, I've been soaking up a lot of quiet in Florida. Stayed away -pretty much- from the tv and radio and CD player. Spent time stretched out beneath the sun reading...or on the beach...walking. Listening to the waves. Catching the sound the palm leaves make, at night, when the wind catches them and makes it sound like there is a light rain falling.
"Be still," Psalm 46:10 says, "and know that I am God."
Believe it or not, this particular verse is one of my favorites.
Sometimes being quiet is just the right thing, you know?
I think it's okay that I have been quiet.
Sometimes -and I know this sounds funny coming from someone who works with words for a living, and who loves to read books- there are too many words. In this era of 24/7 news channels we say too much. We wear words out. We've lost the art of filtering our thoughts, and if it is "in there" we somehow think the world needs to know every last detail of what just popped into our heads.
There are times when I get quiet, and people around me get nervous. "What's wrong with you?" they ask with a puzzled smile. "Nothing," I say. "I'm just tired of talking." (As I write that I think of the character in "Forrest Gump" who talks and talks about shrimp...unless he just runs out of wind.)
Actually, I've been soaking up a lot of quiet in Florida. Stayed away -pretty much- from the tv and radio and CD player. Spent time stretched out beneath the sun reading...or on the beach...walking. Listening to the waves. Catching the sound the palm leaves make, at night, when the wind catches them and makes it sound like there is a light rain falling.
"Be still," Psalm 46:10 says, "and know that I am God."
Believe it or not, this particular verse is one of my favorites.
Sometimes being quiet is just the right thing, you know?
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Wondering.
It's Easter evening. Surveys of preachers talk about the "post preaching" emotional dip. It's sort of like a "post partum depression" (on a small scale). You work and pray over the message...if things go well there is this moment when God shows up and faith spreads to some hearts that haven't been sure. Then, the service ends. The preachers feels a bit lost... wondering what to do with himself or herself.
Some pastors, according to the survey, just want to go off...be left alone. They go home and curl up with a book...take a nap...go for a walk. Others throw themselves into a frenzy of activity...out to lunch with friends...phone calls to visitors...the evening youth group gathering... doing a load of laundry. (Never been tempted to do that last thing...on a Sunday evening.)
It's Easter evening and I am not suffering from a post-preaching "dip." The services have been amazing...not because of our skill or brilliance but because God has this way of showing. Because the story of the Empty Tomb is true...and Jesus is loose.
The worship gatherings have been stunning...moments with the children. Energy and praise from our Praise Team. Music from our Chancel Choir and Handbell Choir and Orchestra that just took our breath away...eliciting a very unprofessional "Oh, my!" from the Lead Pastor at Trinity in the middle of worship. There was the moment when I handed newly baptized Aubrey Ann to a tough guy...expert in security systems...who wasn't sure what to do with a baby! And there was the little girl who, during the children's moment, said, "There were so many people here today that I didn't know where you were... but I looked down from the balcony and saw your bald head and knew where to go!"
So it has been good. All good. My Dad came over...Ella and her folks were here. Before Ella and her parents headed back to Columbus, Ohio she grabbed the index finger of my left hand and took me for a walk...over to see some daffodils...and then we circled the car before Mommy put her in the car seat. I've been watching The Masters and reading the New York Times.
All good. No dip. Just thanksgiving...tonight.
Luke 24 tells us that Simon Peter leaves the empty tomb not sure about what God is up to...but he is "wondering" if the empty tomb story is true. If Jesus is, in fact, alive.
Here is what I am hoping for: I am hoping that the news that Christ is Risen will stick with people. That it doesn't get tossed, after a few days, like the flowers in the centerpiece on the dining room table. That it doesn't set aside. I am hoping that this faith, this hope, Jesus brings sticks... and just keeps showing up in the lives of people. In rough moments and sweet moments. Big times and little times.
It's Easter evening. Tomorrow is Monday. And Jesus is on the road ahead of us...out there. I'm so glad...so very glad...and hopeful.
Some pastors, according to the survey, just want to go off...be left alone. They go home and curl up with a book...take a nap...go for a walk. Others throw themselves into a frenzy of activity...out to lunch with friends...phone calls to visitors...the evening youth group gathering... doing a load of laundry. (Never been tempted to do that last thing...on a Sunday evening.)
It's Easter evening and I am not suffering from a post-preaching "dip." The services have been amazing...not because of our skill or brilliance but because God has this way of showing. Because the story of the Empty Tomb is true...and Jesus is loose.
The worship gatherings have been stunning...moments with the children. Energy and praise from our Praise Team. Music from our Chancel Choir and Handbell Choir and Orchestra that just took our breath away...eliciting a very unprofessional "Oh, my!" from the Lead Pastor at Trinity in the middle of worship. There was the moment when I handed newly baptized Aubrey Ann to a tough guy...expert in security systems...who wasn't sure what to do with a baby! And there was the little girl who, during the children's moment, said, "There were so many people here today that I didn't know where you were... but I looked down from the balcony and saw your bald head and knew where to go!"
So it has been good. All good. My Dad came over...Ella and her folks were here. Before Ella and her parents headed back to Columbus, Ohio she grabbed the index finger of my left hand and took me for a walk...over to see some daffodils...and then we circled the car before Mommy put her in the car seat. I've been watching The Masters and reading the New York Times.
All good. No dip. Just thanksgiving...tonight.
Luke 24 tells us that Simon Peter leaves the empty tomb not sure about what God is up to...but he is "wondering" if the empty tomb story is true. If Jesus is, in fact, alive.
Here is what I am hoping for: I am hoping that the news that Christ is Risen will stick with people. That it doesn't get tossed, after a few days, like the flowers in the centerpiece on the dining room table. That it doesn't set aside. I am hoping that this faith, this hope, Jesus brings sticks... and just keeps showing up in the lives of people. In rough moments and sweet moments. Big times and little times.
It's Easter evening. Tomorrow is Monday. And Jesus is on the road ahead of us...out there. I'm so glad...so very glad...and hopeful.
Monday, April 6, 2009
The Silliness of the Greatest Ever.
It's a letter in the current issue of Sports Illustrated. Written by a fellow named Joseph Evans of Roselle Park, New Jersey. Joseph is talking about an article that appeared in the March 16th issue of SI on New Jersey Devils' goalie, Martin Brodeur.
Now, I don't follow pro hockey all that closely...although I fell in love with minor league hockey when we lived in the Fort Wayne, Indiana area for eight years. And I have heard about Brodeur. He is supposed to be something else.
What Joseph said, though, caught my attention. At the end of his letter he says this about Brodeur, "He's unquestionably the greatest goaltender ever to play in the NHL."
What is the deal with our need to proclaim people the "best ever" or "greatest of all time?" I have a hunch there were some hockey goalies in the 50's, 60's, 70's, and 80's that were pretty amazing. I mean, to compete at the highest levels of sports -whether as an F1 driver, a golfer, a football player, a hockey goalie, a rider in the Tour de France- means you are an extraordinary athlete.
Maybe it is generational myopia. Every generation likes to stand on their little chronological hill, and announce that a pitcher or hitter or goalie or painter or actor or novelist is the greatest ever. Really?
This may come as a surprise to those who have announced that Tiger Woods is the best ever, but Jack Nicklaus was pretty amazing in his day. Lebron James is something else, but so was Oscar Robertson...and Gail Goodrich. There are some great big men in the NBA, but for my money Bill Russell was the best (or should I say one of the best?). U2 is stunning...but so were the Beatles...The Band...Booker T. & the MG's... The Four Tops. Tom Brady and Peyton Manning are great quarterbacks, but Joe Montana and Kenny Stabler and Johnny Unitas and Sid Luckman were breath-taking in their day.
I wish we could just appreciate the amazing work of great athletes, writers, actors, directors...without feeling the need to pronounce someone "the greatest ever." It is a silly statement. A statement that reveals our own generation's need to be the axis around which all other generations pivot.
Jesus said the greatest among you must be the least. Servant of all. It's upside-down definition of greatness, but it is true.
Great runners run, great goalies block impossible shots, great writers put words together in ways that change our hearts and the way we see...the way we live. They take our breath away.
How about we agree to stop declaring this person or that "the greatest ever," and just give thanks for what is?
Now, I don't follow pro hockey all that closely...although I fell in love with minor league hockey when we lived in the Fort Wayne, Indiana area for eight years. And I have heard about Brodeur. He is supposed to be something else.
What Joseph said, though, caught my attention. At the end of his letter he says this about Brodeur, "He's unquestionably the greatest goaltender ever to play in the NHL."
What is the deal with our need to proclaim people the "best ever" or "greatest of all time?" I have a hunch there were some hockey goalies in the 50's, 60's, 70's, and 80's that were pretty amazing. I mean, to compete at the highest levels of sports -whether as an F1 driver, a golfer, a football player, a hockey goalie, a rider in the Tour de France- means you are an extraordinary athlete.
Maybe it is generational myopia. Every generation likes to stand on their little chronological hill, and announce that a pitcher or hitter or goalie or painter or actor or novelist is the greatest ever. Really?
This may come as a surprise to those who have announced that Tiger Woods is the best ever, but Jack Nicklaus was pretty amazing in his day. Lebron James is something else, but so was Oscar Robertson...and Gail Goodrich. There are some great big men in the NBA, but for my money Bill Russell was the best (or should I say one of the best?). U2 is stunning...but so were the Beatles...The Band...Booker T. & the MG's... The Four Tops. Tom Brady and Peyton Manning are great quarterbacks, but Joe Montana and Kenny Stabler and Johnny Unitas and Sid Luckman were breath-taking in their day.
I wish we could just appreciate the amazing work of great athletes, writers, actors, directors...without feeling the need to pronounce someone "the greatest ever." It is a silly statement. A statement that reveals our own generation's need to be the axis around which all other generations pivot.
Jesus said the greatest among you must be the least. Servant of all. It's upside-down definition of greatness, but it is true.
Great runners run, great goalies block impossible shots, great writers put words together in ways that change our hearts and the way we see...the way we live. They take our breath away.
How about we agree to stop declaring this person or that "the greatest ever," and just give thanks for what is?
Friday, April 3, 2009
Muscle Cars.
Born in 1951, I have great memories of "muscle cars" of the 60's to the 70's. Detroit turned out these awesome machines. Simple vehicles, engines that moved that steel down the two-lane blacktop roads of the upper midwest in a hurry, and lines that made the hearts of most young menman beat a little faster.
There was that line of Pontiac models that were awesome. The GTO made us stop and look as it went rumbling by. Chrysler had the Roadrunner and the Charger and the Fury and the Barracuda...those and others were powered by Hemi engines. Chevy had the Chevelle Mailbu SS 396 and the earlier Chevy Nova and the Camaro. Ford had the Mustang. Pontiac made sure the basic lines, from model to model, were present. Designers at Chrysler talked about their "Pepsi bottle" styling. Narrow lines near the front of the car, and then things suddenly widening out over the rear wheels.
For some of us cars are a part of the storyline of our lives. I can tell you where I was when I saw my first Camaro. It was a Sunday morning, in Walkerton, and I had just walked out of church. Can't remember for the life of me what the preacher said that morning, but I remember walking around the Camaro. Comparing its lines to the look of already-released Ford Mustang.
Pretty girls made my heart beat a little faster, but my jaw dropped when I saw my first Ford Mustang 2+2 Fastback. It was a sort of pearl blue. With interior lighting, white bucket seats (or where they blue?), and a state-of-the-art 4 (or was it 8?) track tape player stereo system. The car was sitting in the gravel parking lot behind the old John Glenn High School. I stood there studying that car, which was owned by a kid from Argos, and I knew immediately what the Bible is talking about when it says "thou shalt not covet...your neighbor's Mustang."
My first kiss was in a car. I first heard Linda Ronstadt sing "Different Drum" over the car stereo.
Detroit has been in the news, lately, and it has been pretty painful to hear about...read about. Rolling Stone had a recent article that described Detroit as a city that needs rebirth...or it will continue to decline into an urban relic. GM and Chrysler have been in the news as the government tries to figure out what the next step should be...if either of these great companies is to survive. Ford seems to be doing okay...but they have come perilously close to financial ruin over the last several years.
I don't know what the answer is, but I believe our country needs a healthy auto industry. Where state of the art vehicles are built in our factories by our people. That doesn't mean there isn't a place for great companies like Nissan and Toyota and Honda and Mercedes and Hyndai. I know what some economists say about America moving beyond a manufacturing-based economy, but I still am convinced we need good people, working hard, making a good wage, building cars (and refrigerators and furnaces and air conditioners and orthopedic equipment and steel and aircraft) in America.
Detroit has made some terrible decisions over the years. As the ads from GM, Ford and Chrysler kept encouraging folks to buy trucks and SUV's these last few years, and as foreign manufacturers offered more and more in the way of well-designed, well-built sedans, I shook my head in dismay. Some executives have been overpaid for their ineffective leadership, and some folks on the line haven't been willing to adapt quickly enough.
And yet I some segments of our country sort of enjoy kicking Detroit. People sneer about people being paid $70,000 a year to tighten bolts, but I hear the truth is otherwise. For example, much of the cost of an American car goes to health care costs -while the health care costs for employees in Japan are covered by the government. The actual pay for a line worker at GM is, I read, just slightly below the compensation paid a similar worker at Toyota.
My paternal grandparents worked for GM in Anderson, Indiana. The UAW and GM helped that part of our family join the American middle class. Working people could own their own homes, take vacations, send their kids to college, and retire in dignity: not a bad goal for a nation that aspires to greatness and justice and opportunity, I'd say.
I don't understand all of this. I know I worry about a country without GM or without Chrysler. I worry about communities without those kinds of jobs. I worry about families dealing with the loss of jobs, and I worry about -pray for- cities like Flint, Detroit, Kokomo, Anderson, Toledo, and others. And I feel a twinge of guilt about the fact that my wife and I drive a Nissan product, a Mazda product, and use an old Dodge van as a "winter beater." Next time I buy a car I am going to look long and hard at some of those great new products beng turned out by Chrysler, GM and Ford.
I love cars. I've always loved cars. They still make my heart beat a little faster. There is a kind of magic that happens when you sit in the driver's seat, put the key in the ignition, turn the key to the right and feel the engine come alive. And, like favorite songs from long ago, the beauty of cars like the Chevelle SS-396 and the Mustang and the Pontiac GTO and the top-of-the-line Olds Cutlass haunt my dreams.
There was that line of Pontiac models that were awesome. The GTO made us stop and look as it went rumbling by. Chrysler had the Roadrunner and the Charger and the Fury and the Barracuda...those and others were powered by Hemi engines. Chevy had the Chevelle Mailbu SS 396 and the earlier Chevy Nova and the Camaro. Ford had the Mustang. Pontiac made sure the basic lines, from model to model, were present. Designers at Chrysler talked about their "Pepsi bottle" styling. Narrow lines near the front of the car, and then things suddenly widening out over the rear wheels.
For some of us cars are a part of the storyline of our lives. I can tell you where I was when I saw my first Camaro. It was a Sunday morning, in Walkerton, and I had just walked out of church. Can't remember for the life of me what the preacher said that morning, but I remember walking around the Camaro. Comparing its lines to the look of already-released Ford Mustang.
Pretty girls made my heart beat a little faster, but my jaw dropped when I saw my first Ford Mustang 2+2 Fastback. It was a sort of pearl blue. With interior lighting, white bucket seats (or where they blue?), and a state-of-the-art 4 (or was it 8?) track tape player stereo system. The car was sitting in the gravel parking lot behind the old John Glenn High School. I stood there studying that car, which was owned by a kid from Argos, and I knew immediately what the Bible is talking about when it says "thou shalt not covet...your neighbor's Mustang."
My first kiss was in a car. I first heard Linda Ronstadt sing "Different Drum" over the car stereo.
Detroit has been in the news, lately, and it has been pretty painful to hear about...read about. Rolling Stone had a recent article that described Detroit as a city that needs rebirth...or it will continue to decline into an urban relic. GM and Chrysler have been in the news as the government tries to figure out what the next step should be...if either of these great companies is to survive. Ford seems to be doing okay...but they have come perilously close to financial ruin over the last several years.
I don't know what the answer is, but I believe our country needs a healthy auto industry. Where state of the art vehicles are built in our factories by our people. That doesn't mean there isn't a place for great companies like Nissan and Toyota and Honda and Mercedes and Hyndai. I know what some economists say about America moving beyond a manufacturing-based economy, but I still am convinced we need good people, working hard, making a good wage, building cars (and refrigerators and furnaces and air conditioners and orthopedic equipment and steel and aircraft) in America.
Detroit has made some terrible decisions over the years. As the ads from GM, Ford and Chrysler kept encouraging folks to buy trucks and SUV's these last few years, and as foreign manufacturers offered more and more in the way of well-designed, well-built sedans, I shook my head in dismay. Some executives have been overpaid for their ineffective leadership, and some folks on the line haven't been willing to adapt quickly enough.
And yet I some segments of our country sort of enjoy kicking Detroit. People sneer about people being paid $70,000 a year to tighten bolts, but I hear the truth is otherwise. For example, much of the cost of an American car goes to health care costs -while the health care costs for employees in Japan are covered by the government. The actual pay for a line worker at GM is, I read, just slightly below the compensation paid a similar worker at Toyota.
My paternal grandparents worked for GM in Anderson, Indiana. The UAW and GM helped that part of our family join the American middle class. Working people could own their own homes, take vacations, send their kids to college, and retire in dignity: not a bad goal for a nation that aspires to greatness and justice and opportunity, I'd say.
I don't understand all of this. I know I worry about a country without GM or without Chrysler. I worry about communities without those kinds of jobs. I worry about families dealing with the loss of jobs, and I worry about -pray for- cities like Flint, Detroit, Kokomo, Anderson, Toledo, and others. And I feel a twinge of guilt about the fact that my wife and I drive a Nissan product, a Mazda product, and use an old Dodge van as a "winter beater." Next time I buy a car I am going to look long and hard at some of those great new products beng turned out by Chrysler, GM and Ford.
I love cars. I've always loved cars. They still make my heart beat a little faster. There is a kind of magic that happens when you sit in the driver's seat, put the key in the ignition, turn the key to the right and feel the engine come alive. And, like favorite songs from long ago, the beauty of cars like the Chevelle SS-396 and the Mustang and the Pontiac GTO and the top-of-the-line Olds Cutlass haunt my dreams.
The Greatest Threat.
A few weeks ago a reporter from MSNBC asked me, "What is the biggest threat ahead of your community...your people?"
"Despair," I said.
We'll get through the short-term crisis of this economic downturn, I said. In our city of 55,000 people the actual unemployment rate is probably above 20%. Our folks have been through economic recessions before, and they are pretty resilient. They are creative and they'll come back.
Human beings have a pretty amazing capacity to come through a short-term crisis. The soldiers under fire in a Baghdad neighborhood react with amazing resourcefulness. The family with a very sick young child pulls together and gets through the crisis.
When thngs can get really tough, though, is after the crisis passes or first hits. it's the long haul that can wear a military unit down...or a family...or a marriage...or a community.
"We'll get through the first stages of the crisis okay," I said, "but I worry about people surrendering to despair when the challenges linger for months. When that great job doesn't come back...or when some changes we thought were going to be temporary look like they might become temporary."
Yesterday I got a phone call from a buddy: after months of searching he had just received a job offer. The application process, the interviews and all, had gone on for weeks. The job was his! I could hear the relief in his voice. Today I found out another friend didn't get the job they had been hoping for, interviewing for, and I know this must feel like a very, very tough Friday. A member of the family told me, after hearing the news, that God is good...God is faithful...and there is another job out there.
We are focused on helping one another through the crisis. I find myself wondering about the long term.
I keep thinking about the empty tomb of Easter. I keep thinking about the two men traveling to the town of Emmaus, after they had heard Jesus had been nailed to a cross and buried in the ground. "But we had hoped..." they said to a stranger (who turned out to the risen Christ).
Despair is like a dog that prowls the neighborhood. Always ready to dig its teeth into us. But we are going through this together. And we have a God whose resurrection power shows up in all sorts of ways.
"Despair," I said.
We'll get through the short-term crisis of this economic downturn, I said. In our city of 55,000 people the actual unemployment rate is probably above 20%. Our folks have been through economic recessions before, and they are pretty resilient. They are creative and they'll come back.
Human beings have a pretty amazing capacity to come through a short-term crisis. The soldiers under fire in a Baghdad neighborhood react with amazing resourcefulness. The family with a very sick young child pulls together and gets through the crisis.
When thngs can get really tough, though, is after the crisis passes or first hits. it's the long haul that can wear a military unit down...or a family...or a marriage...or a community.
"We'll get through the first stages of the crisis okay," I said, "but I worry about people surrendering to despair when the challenges linger for months. When that great job doesn't come back...or when some changes we thought were going to be temporary look like they might become temporary."
Yesterday I got a phone call from a buddy: after months of searching he had just received a job offer. The application process, the interviews and all, had gone on for weeks. The job was his! I could hear the relief in his voice. Today I found out another friend didn't get the job they had been hoping for, interviewing for, and I know this must feel like a very, very tough Friday. A member of the family told me, after hearing the news, that God is good...God is faithful...and there is another job out there.
We are focused on helping one another through the crisis. I find myself wondering about the long term.
I keep thinking about the empty tomb of Easter. I keep thinking about the two men traveling to the town of Emmaus, after they had heard Jesus had been nailed to a cross and buried in the ground. "But we had hoped..." they said to a stranger (who turned out to the risen Christ).
Despair is like a dog that prowls the neighborhood. Always ready to dig its teeth into us. But we are going through this together. And we have a God whose resurrection power shows up in all sorts of ways.
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