A Newsletter Article From the Archives

I first published this here in July, 2008.  I felt it was worth bringing back to the top of the list.  

As an alternative to preaching on some Sundays, I’ve had people write anonymous questions for me to answer during worship. One of the questions submitted was this:

“…religion is something people do because that’s what is expected of them. We are told we must believe in God to go to heaven, so we do it blindly or not sincerely because we are afraid of the consequences….Is there true sincere faith?” 

Wow!  Why are we part of a faith community? What do we get out of it? What difference does faith make in our everyday lives?  Here’s a few possibilities:

• Some people attend church because they’ve always attended church. Their ancestors before them attended church, so they do too. It’s a habit and a duty.
• Some people participate in a community of faith because they are looking for answers to life’s questions. They are looking for what will fill emptiness in their lives, trying to satisfy an unidentified hunger. They shop from church to church, faith to faith, looking and looking, and moving on when something offends or challenges them.
• Some people attend church because they fear the wrath of an angry god. They’ve been told that God will judge harshly those who do not jump the hoops and submit to the anger of an all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-present God.
• Some are part of a community of faith because it is in relationships with others that they are fed, nourished, challenged to grow, and refreshed in their whole being.
• Some people don’t attend church because they see people who do as hypocrites and judgmental, but they still have questions, are still looking to fill that emptiness. 
•  Some people don’t attend church because they can’t wrap their minds around the whole “motivation by fear” concept.
• Some people are not part of a faith community because they have no idea what goes on there but have seen and heard in the media what “Christians” are about and they don’t like it.
• Some people are not part of a faith community because they’ve never been there, their parents didn’t attend, and none of their friends attend. These are spiritual people and the consumer’s market of offerings in the Spirituality section of the bookstores and the internet communities are great places to check things out.

I would propose that participating in a faith community and having faith are not the same. One can be a “member” of a church and not “have faith.” Humans are born with a spirit, a soul that yearns to be connected to something larger and beyond themselves. That yearning is satisfied through faith, but not by faith. Faith is not a solution, but a journey. True, sincere faith is an honest and open trek through life – both the challenges and the joys – growing and reaching toward that “something” beyond and greater than us. In Christianity, that trek is guided by the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth and the writings of his earliest followers. And that “something” is the One Jesus called God.  With faith, we never remain the same; change is the only constant.

Yes, my friend, there is true, sincere faith. It is not found in a book or on the internet. It is not found in the media or in anything someone else can give you. It’s not even found at church!  It is found by looking within yourself, recognizing the God-shaped hole within you, and seeking honest, open, and challenging ways to fill that void. It is a journey we must share with others who feed, nourish, and challenge us. Easy answers and the status quo of life will not be a part of this journey. It is a journey that will continuously transform, change, and remold you.

Blessings on the Journey!      Carly

A Sewing Machine and Ministry

My mother’s sewing machine was a mainstay of our home when I was growing up.  It was at that machine that many of my clothes were made from hand-me-downs and recycled Goodwill clothing, repairs and patches were administered to well loved wardrobe items, my sisters’ wedding gowns were crafted, several sets of drapes were assembled and later repaired, the sails for my brother’s boat were repaired, and the dress my mother wore to
my wedding was created.  The walnut case – assembled at a factory in the early 1900’s – was a  constant reminder of memories of good times, challenging times, sad times. It was a piece of furniture I received from my brother with great joy.  This I would treasure in my own home; I would use it to create and repair clothing and household items, as well as for my own memory-making. 

But my brother had stored it for 5 years in his basement.  The moisture from that Connecticut River Valley home had caused the walnut veneer to mold, buckle, and peel. The varnish finish was checked from hot summers on Cape Cod.  The machine within this case was still fully functional with a little fine tuning; but the case in which it was housed was in serious danger of being non-useable. Something needed to be done about the case, but I was conflicted about how to proceed.  To re-veneer and refinish the case would decrease its historic value; to do nothing would also diminish its value.  It was not as it used to be and, it seemed, it could never be like that again.  Change had happened and was yet to happen, and there was no course of action that I could take to avoid some type of loss.  Yet the promise – and challenge – of renewal and rebirth engaged me.

The state of the Church, to me, is very much like the status of my mother’s sewing machine.  We are in a time of major transition, and change is not something we do well.  Often when faced with limited choices we find conflict and grief are more comfortable than change.  We know things will never be the same, but we have great difficulty knowing how to proceed into God’s future. 

Ministry happens when the needs of creation, the giftedness of individuals, and the will of God collide.  Ministry is about building trust and strengthening relationships: between individuals, between people and God, between groups, within families and communities.  Ministry is about learning and growing: in our personal and spiritual lives, in our understanding of one another and “the other.”

For most of the last 28 years, my role as a pastor has been to engage, foster, and lead ministry in the settings to which has God called me. My ministry has centered on the needs of congregations and individuals who need healing from conflict, clarity in their mission and purpose, new hope and vision their future, and spiritual and faith renewal. The image of my mother’s sewing machine explains this well.

My wedding band & finger suffered damage in this work.

To restore and renew this treasured item was painful.  As I emptied the drawers, I found spools of thread that matched the colors of many memories: patch-sized pieces of cloth carefully stored to repair long-gone but remembered clothing; bobbins and needle threaders, buttons and snaps, darning needles and crochet hooks; and a shuttle bobbin from the machine that the case previously housed.  Memories flowed as I handled each item to decide what was worth keeping.  But this was just the beginning of the work.

The sewing machine – the heart of the piece, had to be carefully extracted, first by unclasping the leather belt that wound from the wheel to the treadle; then by unscrewing the bolts that held it firmly to the case.  Lifting it carefully, several small metal items fell to the floor; they were straight pins long lost in the midst of a forgotten sewing project.  Each wood screw had to be removed so that the wooden lid, the machine pedestal, and hinged spring could be separated and their veneer layers replaced.  The checked finish on the drawers and lower cabinet needed to be repaired, but was the finish shellac, varnish, or lacquer?  How to proceed depended upon the make up of the cabinet.

Ministry is, for me, a careful study of the history and life of a congregation.  I listen to the memories, hopes and dreams of the church members, and engage the congregation in a time of self study that assesses the strengths and challenges of the congregation and the gifts and abilities of its members.  Together, we carefully examine the layers of history, disclose and address the worn and painful areas, and seek to discern the direction God is calling the congregation.  This is not a painless process; how to proceed depends upon the make up of the congregation and the trust levels of its members. 

Initially, I tried out several approaches to the checked finish of the sewing cabinet, each tried in an inconspicuous place; but the finish did not respond.  I brushed the finish with lacquer thinner and finally the checked finish dissolved just enough to smooth out some of the checked area.  Ultimately, this too did not work in the larger areas, and I had to strip all of the original finish off of the case.  These first attempts were not failures but learnings.

Ministry engages the congregation in learning:  about themselves, about their faith, about their life together, about God’s purpose for them within that particular community.  Not everything works perfectly because we are human and imperfect; but when we view our experiences as a journey of learning, we grow stronger.  The journey into God’s future travels through the valleys of errors, over the mountains of success, and across the flat plains of the ordinary.

On the floor of my garage are ten components that will eventually be reassembled into my mother’s sewing machine case. I am waiting for the right time -- a warm, humid day -- to apply the new veneer with old fashion hide glue.  I have a vision of what the completed project will look like, but need to remind myself to be open to the surprises the wood may yet have in store.  Assembled, it will still be the piece that adorned my childhood home and filled my memories, even though the scratches and finish will be new.  With the Singer machine reattached, it will be put to good use toward the purpose for which it was crafted.  All this will happen in time.

Ministry, too, is a matter of vision and of timing.  For the Church to be renewed, rebuilt, and retooled for this Post-Christian era, we must actively watch and listen for the direction and vision God gives us and put our gifts, abilities, and purpose into the hard work of living into God’s future.

     Just as my mother’s sewing machine will find a new purpose in a new place, so my ministry is being transformed and changed.  For six years I led a congregation through healing (from an abusive pastor) to new vision. I have co-pastored a new church exploration.  I have guided 9 congregations through painful transitions and healing to ready them for the leadership of a called pastor.  I have experienced the transitions in these congregations and then left the new life for another to lead.  I feel strongly that God is calling me to a new challenge in leading beyond the transitions and into the new vision God provides.  In the language of my mother’s sewing machine, I have led God’s people through the remembering, disassembly, testing, and refinishing; I feel called to finish the project, to imagine and form new ministries and new life within a now-healing congregation.  

Traveling Church

I hadn't had any breakfast; it was a very early flight. As I walked down the terminal to find a cup of coffee, someone called my name. It wasn't a page over the airport PA. It was a male voice behind me. I turned around in search of its source. I recognized no one. I walked on.

He called again. "Carly!"

It couldn't be a family member; they would have called me by my given name, Carla. I still saw no one I recognized. I turned and walked on.

A third time the voice called my name.

It is unusual to hear your name called across the expanse in a strange place. I am alone in this airport and far from home. There is no one I would expect to meet in this place. But it is a holiday weekend. So it is conceivable that an acquaintance from some past existence is also traveling through this hub of an airport. But no one seems familiar within the realm of my vision. I walked on; who ever it was, he had to be calling someone else.

The narrative is reminiscent of Samuel's call in the Temple. God called and the child assumed that the old man, Eli, was calling to him in the night. Eli told him to go back to bed. The voice was unrelenting. Samuel heard his name called several times. Eli discerned the source and told the boy to respond with an appropriate response.

Is there an appropriate response to hearing your name shouted across an airport terminal? Should I have walked around seeking some familiar face? Should I have called back asking for its source to come forward? To where does one turn for direction in such a situation?

The Church finds itself in a similar situation. We are traveling through an unknown land called postmodernity, or if you prefer, a post-christian era. We hear the call to be the Church but we no longer know what that looks like. We don't recognize the faces around us, nor the voices calling to us. We are strangers in a strange land holding onto the promise of a future we cannot yet imagine.

For many congregations, the landscape is as alien as Mars; church members cannot recall a time when they didn't exist exactly as they exist today, when the role of the church in society was not dominant, when the norm was not for children to be raised in the faith. And yet today it would seem that our 1955 church no longer has influence in society and most young people have no interest and little knowledge of the faith.

For others, the change has been happening with varying paces...from a a gradual decline to rapid loss of members either through death or attrition of friends and members. All face financial challenges as the cost of maintaining a building outweighs the available sources of income; mission and ministry are hardly affordable while staff salaries are a luxury.

And still we hear the call to the future. Still our names echo in the halls of time to step forward in faith and be the church. Where do we turn for direction? Where is our Eli? Who will guide us in our response to God's call to thrive? How can we walk through this transitional terminal alone? Where are the familiar faces?

On the return walk to the gate with a strong cup off coffee in hand, I heard the voice again. This time, he called me "Pastor Carly." 

The face was only vaguely familiar, and as he walked toward me it was clear that he knew I didn't recognize him. He stretched out his hand and told me his name. I had been the pastor that married him years ago when I served a church in his town. He recalled the amusing way I had introduced the "church rules" at the rehearsal, the care I had given him and his beloved in the premarital counseling, the way I had included the children from both previous marriages in the vows and unity candle. He remembered that I cared, that I was inclusive, that I embraced the diversity of his new family, that I didn't try to "cram religion down [their] throats;" he remembered too that the other churches in town refused to marry them. Because of their experience with their marriage preparation and ceremony, the couple had become active in that congregation, were raising their children there, were participating in learning opportunities, and were supporting its missions and ministries. I had brought him into the church, he said.

Despite the memories he shared, his wedding did not come to my mind. What he shared could have been any of the marriages at which I've officiated. What I thought was ordinary ritual and liturgy, he found to be meaningful and nurturing. My putting faith in action was what put faith into his own life.

The voice that called to me across that airport was the same voice Samuel heard so many years ago. In the voice of this former groom was the wisdom of God assuring me that this new era of the Church will carry forward the essentials of the faith, that the Body of Christ has a role in the worlds of today and tomorrow, and that we will find the answers that our Still Speaking God still offers to us. If we are open to listening and responding to the call of our names in unfamiliar places.

Location:DTW

The Interim

Finale

Let me finish my time of interim ministry with an apology:  I didn’t get everything done I intended to get done.  For example:  every summer when I return from a week of vacation, I throw the sermon out the window and spend a Sunday with a time of questions and answers in the place where the sermon usually goes in the service.  Since last June I have had on my desk nine slips of paper with the questions I did not have time to answer on that “Stump the Pastor” Sunday.  I had promised I would put the responses into the newsletter.  I only made time to respond to one – and it was just a month ago.  

There were other things I intended to do as well: offer another class of “Called to Care,” gather a task force together to revise the Building Use Policy, follow up on the families of some of recently deceased members, and visit with certain members of the congregation just because I wanted to understand them better.  I didn’t do these things.  And for that I am sorry.

I could make excuses for these things.  I could tell you how many funerals have come up.  I could point to the number of meetings and pastoral care situations I’ve attended.  I could tally up all my missed days off and all the late nights I’ve spent doing this or that of church work.  But these are, at best, reasons for my not completing the tasks.  Excuse, in the Oxford English Dictionary, is The action of looking indulgently upon an offender or an offense; a consideration, indulgence, pardon.  An excuse is not mine to give; it requires both of us working things out and you pardoning me for my omission. 

So I am left with an apology to offer.  I did not complete all that I would have liked to complete in 24 months.  And, I am sure that along the way, I have offended more than one of the members.  To these, I confess that I am sorry; I wish it could have been different.  I seek  forgiveness.

I am sure that I have not been the pastor each one has wanted.  I am confident that a few deem my time doing interim ministry a waste and a farce.  There are things for which some will blame me, especially since my being “out of the picture” will make that convenient.  For these, I can only offer that I have done the best that I could with what gifts God has given me.  And to these I would hope they might pray about the role their expectations, participation, and words might have contributed to their disappointment. 

If there is one thing I hope each member of the churches I've served has learned in their time between pastors, it is this:  Each of us plays a role in the results we share.  If you are not happy with a situation, prayerfully and humbly examine the role you have played in helping it come about.  If you are pleased with the outcome of something, humbly acknowledge that you did not accomplish it on your own.  If you are stressed about a situation, humbly and openly discuss with those directly involved that stress and confess your own part of the making.  This is what being a member of a healthy congregation requires.  

As for me, I have been changed by all of you.  A part of each of you will go with me to a new ministry in a new location.  As Stephen Schwartz so aptly wrote in the musical, Wicked, “Because I knew you, I have been changed for good.”  I hope the same is true for you.

Blessing on your journey, where ever God leads you.        

Pastor Carly

Unfinished Work

I’m sitting at my laptop on a table with a calendar hanging over it.  The calendar sports several pictures from days gone by:  my husband and his sister singing in church at about age 12 or 13, my youngest son strumming a guitar, my husband reading a newspaper with a teddy bear under his arm, and my youngest son leaving the church amidst bubbles with his new bride on his arm.  

It’s the large picture in the center, however, that draws one’s eye first.  It is a smiling 3 year old, my first born son, who is eating freshly frosted sugar cookie.  Outside the window behind him, snow sits on the window sills and the snow on the roofs beyond the window is deep.  In the fore ground are unfrosted sugar cookies: the bottom of a snow man, a couple of candles.  By the turtleneck and long sleeves and the chapped lips on the child, it is clearly mid winter.  

It’s a memory I cherish of my oldest son’s earlier Advent seasons.  The enamel topped metal table and matching red chair upon which my son kneels reminds me of a different time when my children were so very small.  His baby teeth shine in his bright smile.  His eyes twinkle with joy as he “sneaks” a bit of a cookie he’s supposed to be decorating for Christmas.  

Those were very different times. Life was simpler.  The laughter of children in the house made a different atmosphere of daily living.  It was a harder life.  Our income level was only just enough on which to live without receiving welfare; we struggled to pay off our student loans.  It was a time of stress as we juggled the roles of young parents, freshly minted pastors, part time social advocates, and full time naïve young couple.  

As I look at this picture now, I long to tickle that little boy’s tummy with my fingers to hear him squeal with laughter.  I remember all the good times we had in that little house in Pennsylvania.  And it all feels like something I’d want to do again. 

Only I don’t.  Even if it were possible, I wouldn’t repeat those years.  Yes, I remember them fondly. Yes, I feel things were easier then.  But I wouldn’t want to repeat them because it would mean losing out on the experience of today. Today, when my sons are young adults exploring lives of their own. Today, when as empty nesters we have the joy of being able to pick up and go whenever we choose without regard to school calendars or nap times.
 Today, when I am wiser, more mature, and certainly a different person that I was 24 years ago.  Today, while a very different era, still offers its own joys, challenges, stresses, and—yes – sad times.  

I can’t go back; I am not the same now as I was then.  I can’t go back; it is not possible to turn my adult sons into children again.  I can’t do it over; I’m not young and spry, limber and energetic.  I don’t want things to be the way they used to be even if I’m not completely happy with how things are today – because I know in my heart of hearts that I wasn’t as happy then as my memories would like to lead me to believe.  

What is true in life, is also true in the church.  We can never again be what we once were because the world is not the same now as it once was and because you and I are not the same people we used to be.  We have grown older, (hopefully) more mature and more wise, and (hopefully) to a different place on our faith journey.  We can never again be what we once were because the world doesn’t need us as we used to be; Christ needs us in the world as he calls us to be for today.  What worked in the culture of yester-year cannot work in the world today.  

Friends, we’re not in Kansas any more.  We are in a new era when the Church is not dominate in culture (if indeed it ever was in our lifetimes), where the choices of belief systems have developed along side of our capitalistic, consumer based economy, and where people of faith struggle as an alien culture in a strange land.  

Working through the change of the church is constantly unfinished.  When we stop changing we die.  We must remain relevant to the ever-changing world in which we live.  And to do that, we must not focus upon the past or wish that we could repeat it.  Our focus must be on getting out of the church and listening to our neighbors and the strangers around us. The center of our focus must be upon God by living God's mission for this world: loving the world into restoration and reconciliation with one another and in union with God.  We must adapt our traditions so that they speak to the neighbor and the stranger.  And we must develop an attitude of mutuality with which to embrace those who choose to sojourn with us.  

May our work never be finished.  

The Real Threat to Traditional Marriage?

A couple of days ago, President Obama announced that his position on same gender marriage had evolved to one of acceptance of equal marriage rights.  Immediately the blasts came from all corners about this position. Prophesies about the "war on traditional marriage" fill the airwaves and the internet. And I have difficulty understanding this perspective. Has anyone looked at the state of marriage in this country lately?  Have you seen the statistics about divorce?  Really, if there is any threat to "traditional marriage" it is having a nonchalant attitude toward the permanence of the marriage relationship. 

Divorce rates are high.  Some should never have happened to begin with (see my previous post).  I understand why some marriages don't last.    Infidelity happens. People change.  I get that.  There are those who work hard to repair a relationship and just can't work it out for what ever reason.  We are all human and we fail at the perfection test.  

But, there are those who don't try to work at their relationships.  Specifically, I'm referring to those -- particularly certain public figures -- have been through many marriages that have ended in "irreconcilable differences." Is the pattern not obvious to these people?  If at first you don't succeed, learn something from your failure and get it right the next time.  I can't speak from experience here, I admit.  I just seems to me that if a certain celebrity newscaster has been through four failed marriages that there has to be something else going on besides "irreconcilable differences."  I'm just saying....

From this outsider's point of view, it would seem that to these people marriage is viewed as a disposable relationship. "If it doesn't work out MY way, I'll just walk away and pay the lawyers to get me a huge settlement" seems to be the sentiment of all together too many people. Yet certain, more public of these people seem to have the most to say about what threatens "traditional marriage."  Frankly, I feel they have no ground upon which to stand in this conversation. If they can't figure out how to preserve their own marriages, how can they make healthy judgements about what is a threat to "traditional marriage." 

For many, marriage isn't even in the vocabulary.  "Lets live together, raise children together, and avoid all the complications of marriage."  And really, who can blame them given the painful experience they had as children of divorce with one parent playing the kids against the other parent, using them as pawns to hurt the other, or even hurting the children as a means to get back at the other parent.  Without the commitment to permanence there is no marriage, let alone "traditional marriage."

So, with all the concern expressed about the fate of traditional "marriage," here is my response

.

If you want to preserve marriage, start with your own -- do you communicate well, negotiate differences fairly, treat one another with respect and dignity, and act as though you plan to spend your lives together, or are you in the marriage only until things feel uncomfortable? And, if you're concerned upon the effect a marriage has on family values, start in the same place -- practice these same values so your children will learn them and have strong marriages themselves. 

When I posted the first draft of these thoughts on my Facebook page, I started a firestorm of comments from my friends and relatives who have been through divorces and perhaps felt targeted by my comments about divorce.  I hope this clarifies from where I'm coming.  

To Wed or to Bury?

Most pastors would admit that they'd rather do a funeral than a wedding.  People ask why this is so.  Let me tell you my perspective.  

In much of my experience, weddings are occasions where the church is being used for a commercial transaction and not for a faith based covenanting ceremony.  As a member of the clergy, I am too often asked to be a servant of the couple and not a servant of God. 

When a couple decides to be wed, much is at stake.  Huge dollars go out to pay for a wedding.  There are megabucks to be spent on a dress, on a reception hall, rings, invitations, food, a rehearsal dinner, flowers, etc. etc.  There is that fairy-tale event to plan amidst the family politics, differing ideas of parents and their adult children, distances between participants.  There are many people, their calendars, and their whims to choreograph into this big event.

The couple chooses a date, buys rings, and books a reception hall before they ever contact the church or the clergy.  Many couples shop around to find the church that is the prettiest, has the largest seating capacity, or is most convenient for the family.  For many couples, the church is business to be transacted only after the "more expensive things" have been booked.  And couples (or their parents) get very upset when a church is not available on the date they choose.  Or if the church is not open to their renting the building and bringing in their own officiant.  Or if there are premarital counseling sessions required by the clergy.  And especially if there are conditions the couple must meet to be wed in the church.

A lot of planning goes into a wedding.  But little thought goes into the marriage itself.  When a couple comes before me to be wed, I want it to be a faith based decision, a faithful covenant they are making, and a worship service of integrity in which these commitments are made.  I want to be sure the couple has the communication skills and a solid foundation in relationship building before they make those promises.  In a worship setting, the focus should be on God. In a marriage, the relationship is a three-some -- the couple plus God.  

Too often, the couple who asks me to marry them wants a fairy-tale transaction where there is a princess for the day, where everyone is in costume, where each plays a role as if on stage, and anything less than perfection is deemed to ruin the special day.  More energy -- and finance -- is put into the production than into planning for what happens after the honeymoon.  Too many couples have said to me that if the relationship doesn't work out, they'll just go their separate ways.  That's the point at which I would like to cancel the transaction.  

But, if that couple has a church membership (or is the grandchild or relative of someone who has a church membership), saying "No, I will not officiate at this wedding" can and too often does, lead to employment issues for the clergy person.  There could be openly known abuse in the relationship and still a major issue will be made about the pastor who refuses to marry them.  

Weddings have become secular rituals.  And clergy have been made into agents of the state.  It is the state who issues a "license" to marry which is necessary if one wishes for marital "rights" within the state or federal laws.  In other countries, the legal contract of marriage (and it is a "contract" even within the USA) is handled in the court house.  The couple goes to the legal authorities to have their relationship made official.  They then go to the church -- if they so desire -- for the blessing of that relationship and for making their faith covenant to one another in the presence of God and a congregation of faith.  I have no desire to be an agent of the state; I am a shepherd of those who seek to be faithful  (a little like herding cats most of the time).  

So long as these conditions are present in a wedding, I am being used for a secular purpose; I am not doing ministry.  I am serving a couple, not God.

A funeral, on the other hand, is an opportunity to care for people, to provide a ministry, and to support the faith of those who are in doubt.  The family of the deceased are not trying to create a stage production, do not shop around for the best price or the longest aisle, and turn to the faith community for support not service.  They don't spend a year perseverating upon the planning of the details of the funeral.  They don't spend thousands of dollars upon clothing, food, and other cosmetic and temporal details.  They are people at a loss who seek closure and comfort, not performance and perfection.  

No one questions why a funeral is planned with religious integrity.  There is no legal role for the officiant of a funeral to play.  There is no staging about which to argue, no rehearsal to choreograph, no extravagant reception to distract from the purpose. The focus is faith based.  In a funeral, I am doing that to which I am called and for which I was ordained:  Ministry.

Occupy Church!

Occupy.  It’s the “word of the year” chosen by the linguistic gurus at some international press organization.  You’ve heard it used in reference to Wall Street, Little Rock, or perhaps even Louisville.  To “occupy” is to employment, inequality, financial regulation, or whatever else comes to mind for those who “Occupy.” Their claim to be the 99 percent is so inclusive it actually includes anyone earning less than a half a million dollars a year  The movement was inspired by the Arab Spring movement that gave rise to so much tumultuous change in the Middle East.  That movement continues to protest the abuse of power, tyranny, extremism, and oppressive governance. 

Have you heard Mary’s song in Luke 1:46-55? 

“He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.”

Or Hannah’s song in 1Samuel 2:4-7?

The bows of the mighty are broken, but the feeble gird on strength. Those who were full have hired themselves out for bread, but those who were hungry are fat with spoil. The barren has borne seven, but she who has many children is forlorn. …. The Lord makes poor and makes rich; he brings low, he also exalts. 8He raises up the poor from the dust; he lifts the needy from the ash heap, to make them sit with princes and inherit a seat of honor.

Both of these Biblical women sing about the lowly being raised up, the powerful being put in their places.  Isaiah, too, writes about the day of Jubilee when all debts are to be forgiven, the wealth redistributed, and the mighty made low.

The spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me; he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners; to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn; to provide for those who mourn in Zion— to give them a garland instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, the mantle of praise instead of a faint spirit. They will be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, to display his glory.

Jesus, too preached about these things in his home town of Nazareth declaring that Isaiah’s prophecy ‘has been fulfilled in your hearing” (Luke 4:21)

My friends, it’s time for church members to join the Occupy movement.  Not on Wall Street, not in Little Rock, not in Louisville or Evansville, but right here at the corner of 10^th and Jefferson Streets in Tell City.  It’s time to take over your church.  It is time to state your concerns, your disappointments, your frustrations, your hurts.  It’s time to give rise to your hopes and dreams for you church.  It’s time for your voice to be heard. 

Six weeks ago, the Interim Assessment was published.  It reflects the issues and concerns that were shared with the Interim Committee over a 12 month period.  It lifted up benchmarks that need to be addressed before a new pastor is called.  It laid out some goals and objectives for a future direction.  Now it’s time for you to speak up.  Your input is needed.  Please plan to attend the Pot Luck dinner following worship on January 15 when we will discern the approaches to these issues. 

The Search Committee also needs your input as they assemble a description of the church.  They will be distributing two different surveys – one demographic by household, the other on the qualities of a pastor to be completed by each member – that will be integral parts of the congregation’s “résumé.”  When you receive these surveys, please complete and return them as soon as possible so the search for a pastor can begin. 

Occupy Church!  It’s time for you to influence the future of your church!  Occupy!

Carly

The Firefight for Life

Every year wild fires tear through neighborhoods and mountain parks. Most of these are started by the forces of nature: lightening striking water starved underbrush and trees and fueled by the winds which are created by the heat of the fires. All too often they are started by a human who has either been careless or who has a need to create a stir for their own needs for power. Both of these fire-starters would love to remain anonymous -- the former out of embarrassment or ignorance of their part in the problem, the latter so they can maintain control over their source of joy.

The fire in Utah this week is a striking example of what I call "consequential ignorance." The commander of the National Guard did not think about the consequences of firing live ammunition into a parched tinderbox of a training ground. There had been posted warnings about extremely high fire risk in that region. But the commander didn't apply it to himself or his troops. He had only in mind that the Guard had to complete the annual renewal of their skills. He only did what he's always done and what he felt was best for his people.

The consequences are enormous. Hundreds of people have been uprooted for their own safety. Homes have burned to the ground. The lives of a whole community have been injured, changed, pained. Firefighters are out there risking their lives to protect and save what they can of their neighbors' -- and their own -- homes. The very National Guard Troops whose leader brought on this disaster are the ones who have to put out the fires, clean up the mess, and bring aid to those whose houses and homes are at risk.

How similar are our struggling faith communities! They are a tinder box of raw sores waiting for relief and renewal. They are struggling for their very survival. The leaders of these communities are trusted with the daunting task of empowering, enabling, and encouraging the community members to be faithful to the mission of Christ. And along comes one who is either not paying attention to the weather conditions or is in need of a control fix. The spark ignites, and the community is aflame in a hurtful and destructive way.

In the midst of the drought of faith-life, our faith communities are at high risk of wild fire. Alarms and the warnings are ignored -- or denied-- by leaders and members alike, and too often work only to draw the attention of those who need control. Otherwise petty and routine issues cause explosive results that rage out of control. They are fueled by the winds of change and panic. They are fed by the drought of trust.

Here am I, a firefighter in the midst of a wildfire. I am hot, exhausted, and in need of a break in the weather. But the sparks are flying into new quadrants while the first fire is barely contained.

Most days I work despite the exhaustion and the seemingly impossible task of a healthy community. These days I am fueled by the hope and promise upon which my faith is built. I am fed by the cool water of visible grace and comforted by the encouraging hand of the Spirit.

But some days I just wish God grant this Body a quick and peaceful death so that I can move on to greener pastures where the risk of wildfire is very low. Some days the sparks are multiplying too quickly for any firefighter to extinguish. Some days the energy of the Spirit is snuffed out by the attitudes or carelessness of communities members.

Today is one of those days. In such times as this, all I can offer is a prayer as I turn everything over to the One who soothes, heals, energizes, enables, and empowers.

God, grant me the...
Serenity to accept things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can, and the
Wisdom to know the difference
Patience for the things that take time
Appreciation for all that I have, and
Tolerance for those with different struggles
Freedom to live beyond the limitations of my past ways, the
Ability to feel your love for me and my love for others and the
Strength to get up and try again even when I feel it is hopeless.

May it be so.

Reclaiming Real Life.

I'm deactiviating my Twitter Account. And my Bebo account. And possibly my LinkedIn account. I might even put Facebook on hold for a week or so. Just to see what difference it makes.


I'm anything but Anti-Social-Networking. I love being able to pull up a screen and see what all my long time friends and acquaintances -- and my more than 70 neices, nephews, cousins, in-laws, and siblings are doing. But I'm wondering if this is a healthy connection. I'm wondering if it isn't superficial, pretentious, or a cheap fix. I'm wondering if I'm missing out on the deeper connections, the deeper listening, the deeper knowing. I wonder if I am really connecting with people or just brushing their sleeve as I pass them amidst a busy and distracted journey.


Don't misunderstand me -- Social Media is a wonderful place for me to put my 250 character thoughts as a witness to my moment on the journey called life. I certainly enjoy the quips and slices of life my connections share out here on the cloud. But these feel skin deep. I am missing the deep soaking rains of face time, the long cups of tea, and leisurely walks where the sinew and bone of life are exposed and examined; where tight and sore muscles in relationships are massaged; and where wounds are cleansed and dressed with gentle care. A computer screen cannot wrap its arms around you with joy, sigh deep sighs, or cry on your shoulder.


Maybe it's the resurgence of hot weather on this September day, or perhaps the distance between my work and home. It could even be that the sentimentality of Fall. What ever the source of the affect, I'm cutting the wires and renewing my claim on face time, on hot cups of tea, on long walks, and real life.


C

The Layers of Life

As I looked at the night stand, I wondered if it was salvageable. It looked ragged and worn, as though it had been through a battle. Scratches revealed raw red beneath the surface. Several gashes in the veneer reveal the old-style of plywood beneath.

This is the night stand given to us when we were married. It came to us well used. It was painted brown to refresh and renew it for our use. It had been in our homes for 26 years, carried through 11 moves, served as everything from a television stand to a dresser. It has lived a long life, served well in its role. It is time to retire it? Or will there be something beautiful and useful beneath all those layers of paint?

Drawers open, the workmanship is obvious: Dove-tail construction at all four corners of each. On the underside, paint splotches speak of some of the cover up time has dealt: brown latex covers a red, oil-based paint. One can only wonder what the wood grain beneath these looked like. Was the veneer finish sanded before that fire engine red oil paint was applied? Or was that step disregarded and the varnish left intact? The brown latex has peeled a great deal over the years; now I know why: Latex doesn’t adhere well to oil paint.

So again I wondered, “Is this tiny chest of drawers salvageable? Can it have a new life?” The only way to find out is to remove the layers of paint. Only then will the quality and condition of the wood beneath be known. Only then can its new future be revealed.

It takes a lot of patience to remove layers of paint. If one uses a traditional paint remover, there will be hours of careful scraping with a soft putty knife and then gentle scrubbing with fine steel wool. This is labor intensive and very harsh on ones hands. There is always the risk of scratching the wood beneath, or scraping off the veneer. Or, if one uses a “dip” or gel that simply “paints” on and changes color when the underlying layers have been softened, the putty knife will lift off the layers of finish very easily; however, if the veneer was sanded before applying that layer of red oil paint, the dip may also soften the hide glue that holds the veneer to the wood beneath. And regardless to the method of removing the paint, one has to be sure the wood beneath is worth the work of removing what covers it.

The time between pastors can be likened to my query about this nightstand. Evangelical church has undergone many changes over the years. Many layers of “paint” have been applied to what the founders of this congregation envisioned nearly 145 years ago. What was their vision? What was their purpose? What did they do as a community of faith and why? And what was the reason for the changes as they happened? How many layers of change have there been and what got covered over in the “remake.” Is there, underneath all the “stuff” that has happened, still a sustainable and promising future?

As the Interim Committee is formed and begins its work, we will try to gently lift the layers that years of use have applied to our community. We will be opening things up and listening to your stories as we interview members. We will be gently scratching off layers of old habits as we gather with you for Congregational Events. We will be looking for the beauty that peaks from beneath to reveal what God has in store for the congregation’s future.

My tiny chest of drawers turned out to be a real keeper. Its walnut veneer is beautiful and shines through its new finish; its sturdy construction promises to serve us well in a new way: as a focal point in our home. The work to reveal this new purpose was worth the steel-wool-raw fingers it took to bring it out. We are better off for all the hard work.

Our churches have some hard work ahead. There will be some rough spots to work through. There may be some sticky places where grace and gentleness are required. There will be some surprises at what beauty lay beneath the surface. And through it all, we will rediscover what God has in mind for this community of Christ in this place at this time. We will get through it by the grace of God and with God’s help.

Shocked and horrified.

I am shocked and horrified. One of my Facebook "friends" has been sexually harassing one of my relatives. The only thing the two have in common is my Facebook page. How did this happen? How could someone that I accepted as a contact, someone I have known in my life's journey, turn into a cyber-stalker and sexual fiend, someone who would go so far as to threaten to pay a visit to this relative if the relative dare tell me that the abuse was happening?
Further, how could this happen to two people on MY "friends" list -- when I am the one who keeps spouting on about how the privacy system on Facebook works well, that Facebook is a safe place for productive and meaningful communication?
First, let me say that I am appalled and dismayed that this has happened. I am absolutely disgusted by the behavior of this acquaintance toward a relative of mine. I would be disgusted if it hadn't been an acquaintance or a relative. The behavior reported to me by yet another relative is rude, lewd, disgusting, and just plain wrong. While I won't comment about possible legal action, the perpetrator is clearly in need of serious psychological counseling. This person, who has a family of his/her own, does know that what s/he is doing is immoral, unethical and flat out wrong. This person would undoubtedly be infuriated if his/her spouse or child was the recipient such behavior. Yet this person has continued to stalk and harass this member of my family.
So, how did this come to be? How did these two otherwise unconnected people ever make contact? Through my Facebook wall. My relative responded to a comment on my wall made by this person from my past. That person furthered the conversation through the Facebook inbox system. My relative responded in good faith; after all, if this person was a friend of mine, it must be safe to continue the conversation. The relative and this person established the Facebook “friend” status between them The conversation was not initially harassing or sexual, but this person became infatuated by my relative.
With “friend” status, more private information is available, including phone numbers and your address – if you are not careful to protect your information. With this information in hand, a person can contact you by phone, by text, by e-mail, and even – if you don’t protect the information – know where you live.
By the time I post this on my blog and in my Facebook notes, I will have contacted the person involved, expressed by disgust and anger, blocked him/her completely from my Facebook account and posts, and told others in my Facebook circle of friends of what has happened so they will be aware of the risk involved in choosing to “friend” someone they have never personally met. And my point in posting this at all is this: Protect you private information on Facebook by setting your privacy settings and being very selective in who you allow into your circle of friends. Learn how to make groups in your friends list and block those who might turn into your stalker.
And to this person who I thought I knew: please choose to get the psychological counseling you so desperately need, confess your wrongs, and make amends.

Henry

We adopted Henry when the family that had raised him from a bottle fed kitten moved to another state and were afraid this this "outside cat" would be eaten by the coyotes or bob cats that lived in the woods behind their new home.  Henry was 18 at the time.  He was declawed and neutered.  He was flea infested, had a matted coat, but was as friendly a cat as I had ever met.  He greeted me every time I walked by his house while I was out walking.  He begged for love when I knocked at the door doing census work.  The humans who brought him this far in life had put him outside because they had acquired two very large dogs who lived in the house. 
We adopted Henry in June.  After a trip to the vet and some de-flea-ing, he was the most affectionate cat I've ever met.  Anyone who came into the house would be "Henry'ed" -- he would jump onto your lap and climb up onto your chest, lay his head on your shoulder and purr.  He could never get enough. 

Just before Thanksgiving, Henry had a stroke.  It paralyzed one whole side of his body.  He could neither walk with balance nor get to the food or litter box.  Henry was not happy even on anyone's chest. 

The day before Thanksgiving, I brought Henry to the vet's for the last time.  He lay across my chest as the I.V. was put into his leg.  He purred as the chemicals flowed from the syringe to his veins.  He clung silently to my shoulder as his last breath left him. 

Henry, you lived a long life.  I can only hope that in your last months in a new home you found peace, love, and care. We will miss you.

This is my community of faith. Could it be yours?

A tasty winter meal.

Several people asked for this recipe.  You're welcome to share it with others, but please give due credit.  Enjoy!

Butternut Squash Lasagna

This recipe could be Vegan with the changes in parenthesis
Sauce:
4 cups skim milk, or low fat soy milk
2 large garlic cloves – or 2 Tbsp minced – no garlic powder!!
1 large bay leaf
1 slice of sweet onion, ½ inch thick
¼ cup fresh parsley loosely packed or 2 Tablespoons dried parsley
4 Tablespoons white flour
4 Tablespoons unsalted butter (olive oil)
Sea Salt & Pepper to taste

Filling:
1 medium butternut squash (2.5 lbs or so)
1 large sweet potato or yam
3 Tbsp olive oil
3 cloves of garlic, chopped – not dried or powder!
1 small onion, chopped coarsely
1 cup finely chopped walnuts or ¾ cup if using black walnuts
1 cup chopped parsley, loosely packed
2 teaspoons rubbed sage or 15 or so big fat sage leaves, chopped
½ nutmeg, grated; or ¼ tsp ground nutmeg from a spice bottle

1 cup grated Gruyere cheese (good tasting soy cheese of a melting Swiss variety)
1 cup freshly grated Parmesan or Romano cheese --NOT out of a green can, please!  (the equivalent in soy)

9 no-boil lasagna noodles

Filling:-- Can be done 2 days ahead
Heat the oven to 400 degrees.
Halve the squash and scoop out the seeds.  Oil the cut sides lightly. Spray a baking sheet with non-stick oil. Place the squash flesh down on the baking sheet.
Poke fork holes in the skin of the sweet potato or yam.  Place on the baking sheet.
Roast at 400 degrees for an hour, or until a fork easily penetrates the squash.
Scoop out the flesh of the squash and the potato and place in a food mill or food processor.  Sieve the flesh to remove the stringing things and any stubborn skin.
In a sauce pan, heat the oil and warm the garlic until golden.  Add the chopped onion and sauté until tender.  Stir in the nuts and allow to brown slightly.  Remove from the heat and add the herbs.  Stir this mixture into the squash mixture.  Season with the nutmeg. 

Sauce:
In a large microwavable measuring cup, heat the milk to scalding – don’t let it boil.  Add the garlic, bay, onion, and parsley.  Cover and allow to steep at least half an hour. Longer if you have the time.  Strain in a tea strainer to remove the solids.  Reheat to about 120 degrees.
In a sauce pan, melt the butter/olive oil and slowly whisk in the flour.  Stir until bubbly but not yet brown.  Whisk in the strained milk and stir until the mixture begins to thicken.  Reduce heat and allow to thicken and flour to cook, stirring occasionally. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Assembly
Heat oven to 350 degrees.
Spray a rectangular pan (10 X 12 or 9 X 13) with non stick spray.  Spread 1cup of the sauce on the bottom of the pan.  Place three noodles on top of the layer. Spread half of the squash over the noodles.  Spread a cup of the sauce, 1/3 cup of Parmesan and ½ cup of Gruyere over the sauce.  Repeat noodles, squash, sauce and cheeses.  Add last layer of noodles, and spread the last of the sauce over the top.  Sprinkle with the last of the Parmesan
Cover the pan with foil and bake for 30 minutes.  Uncover and bake for 25 minutes longer or until the top is golden.  Remove from oven and allow to sit for 20 minutes before cutting.

This is really good served with a dark green Kale or brightly steamed broccoli.

Remembering

A novelty to me when I moved to the Midwest was the tradition within some German heritage congregations of Totenfest: the celebration of the the dead. Usually this is held either on the Sunday nearest All Saints Day, or the last Sunday of the liturgical year, often the Sunday after Thanksgiving -- just before the start of Advent. Call it a Memorial Day for the church, perhaps. In the New England congregations of my younger years, this was not part of my experience. Though I would not consider myself to be liturgical in a traditional way, this is a lovely tradition.

In this season between the traditional times of Totenfest, I find myself remembering my mother. Anyone who knew her well and knows me at all can see traits of hers in my being. Practicality, logic, ration, frugality, eccentricity are all words that could describe either of us. Can do and make do are attitudes I learned from her. Like her, I often forget where I've left my purse; and like her, I've taken to wearing it over my shoulder and across my chest so that it doesn't get away from me. (Unlike her, my purse is tiny and contains the bare necessities instead of anything that might possibly be needed.)

Over the 8+ years since my mother's death, the hole in my being where she lived has become a familiar part of who I am. Early on, I stumbled into it frequently and found myself shedding tears over my loss. That hole is still there: I still long to pick up the telephone and call her for a recipe or to share some good news (shouting it so she'd actually hear it, then explaining it so she'd understand its importance to me). I still miss her e-mail notes with daily itinerary and menus from her days since her last e-mail. When I open my cookbooks or photo albums and find a note with her handwriting -- a piece cut from old file folder turned into a post card with a recipe or an address she sent to me by request-- the vacuum is obvious to me. As my children have become young men with lives of their own, as my nieces and nephews have babies, as my life reaches numeric and chronological markers, I look into that hole and wonder -- even speculate -- what her response would be to these.

The hole has not filled in over time, but it has become familiar and less forbearing. As time has passed, it has even become the source of celebration, of joy, of moments of warmth and loveliness. That does not discount nor make nostalgic the less than happy memories: embarrassment, hurtful words exchanged, inexplicable actions. Those will always be part of the memory and, fortunately, part of the vacuum. Those memories have become markers and reminders of where I need to draw the line between her being and my being.

When I find myself doing or saying something particularly frugal, practical, rational, or otherwise "Evelynesque," I've been know to break out into song -- a particular song with an Easter melody:

She lives! She lives! Dear Evelyn lives today!
She walks with me and talks with me
Along life's rational (or practical or frugal) way!
She lives! She lives! Frugality none too terse
You ask me how I know she lives,
She lives within my purse!

Perhaps that could be seen as sacrilegious. That's not the intent. As with her, there's no malice in my actions here. To me it's a humorous way to honor one whose influence on my life is noticeable in everyday ways, to acknowledge that seed of who I have become and am becoming, and to celebrate the life of one important to me.

What do you do with regularity to lift up and honor the life of someone important to you? Where is his or her life reflected in your actions, attitudes, perspectives, or words? How does a sense of loss become a source of celebration in your everyday living?

Blessings.

So I'm sitting here wondering about how one thing leads to another. We ripped up a piece of carpet and padding in the computer room and found black mold. That led back to a broken dishwasher in the kitchen 18 months ago. The insurance adjuster came and pulled the new dishwasher out from the cabinets and found a lot more mold. He took down a piece of drywall in the computer room and found the base of the wall behind the kitchen black with mold. He lifted the carpet in the living room along the same wall and found more mold. He crawled under the house and found mold on the underside of the floors under the kitchen cabinets and under the adjacent computer room floor.

I've never liked the arrangement of the cabinets in my kitchen. I've always wanted ceramic tile on the floor and a matching ceramic splash guard above the counters. This mess might make it possible. But, it's going to come at a cost. The money isn't the issue. It's the mess and the timing. We're supposed to host Dan's family for Thanksgiving. And, the insurance guy is telling me that once they remove the cabinets and floors, we can't live here. Black mold.

When I was living in Terre Haute in 2007, we had a massive flood. It hit the hardest in an area of town that was not on a flood plain and hadn't seen flooding in the 150 year recorded history of the town. The folks who owned those houses were lower middle class folk, most of them retired and living in houses whose mortgages had been paid off for years. These folks had their houses flooded to the height of window sills. The church I was serving flew into action helping people find temporary housing, organizing work crews from other churches to help us clean up people's homes, helping people put their lives back together.

Work crews were given their task: take everything apart and empty the houses so that we can stop the mold before it starts. Tearing apart the walls was no problem because all that mattered was opening up the walls to get rid of the moisture before mold could form. We used sledge hammers and shoveled everything away into giant dumpsters and trash heaps. We had huge crow bars to lift up hardwood flooring and carpets. Most of their belongings from their main floors and basements were damaged beyond salvage. Furniture was piled on the curbs, food from basement freezers rotted before the water receded. Life long collections of memorabilia was handled by people with N-95 respirator masks and full body protection from the mess. We helped people through the loss -- the shock, the grief, the anger, the numbness, the mindless FEMA paperwork, backlogged adjusters and contractors, and no savings to cover their losses -- not to mention the scammers that such a disaster attracts. And we stayed with the families until they were back into their homes 6, 9, 12, and 15 months later. Those masks and body protection outfits were a barrier between the workers and the mold. They were also a barrier between us and the pain of those home owners.

This is my house. We didn't have a flood. We had (maybe) 30 gallons of water (three loads of dishes in the dishwasher). We're not losing all our belongings; we're only dealing with the inconvenience and mess that's probably no worse than a remodeling job. We have insurance that will cover a large portion of the expense, a bank account to cover the difference, and an adjuster who was in the house within 24 hours of my reporting it, and who was able to take his time and go through the house systematically and thoroughly. We have a list of contractors who are hungry for work instead of being back logged. We'll be back into the house in weeks, not multiple months. We won't be the ones swinging hammers, carrying trash, wearing protective clothing. We're not losing our live-long memorabilia or, frankly, any of our "stuff."

In the midst of all this confusion and mess, I am thankful that I have been blessed with prosperity, with the means to make this happen smoothly. When I complain about the delays and the hassles, I hope I can rejoice that it's not a disaster, the it's only an inconvenience, not a loss. As the kitchen I really wanted to begin with begins to take shape, I hope I will be grateful. And when I'm not, I hope you all will remind me to count my blessings.