A Faithful Church is in Business 24/7/365

"When I moved here 12 years ago, I expected that the church would be busy on Sunday mornings.... but there is something happening there every day.... that is not acceptable; it needs to be regulated."(1)

This was spoken at a  meeting of the Village Plan Commission last evening by a member of the community.  My initial reaction was anger.  

• How could someone not know that the work of the a faith based community is non-stop? 
• Where was this person in school when the Anglo settlement  of New England in the 1600's by people fleeing religious regulation was discussed? You remember them -- the Pilgrims, who established a faith based community where the work of faith and life itself were indistinguishable?  
• Was there an extended illness when the 1740's settlement of the  west coast was led by Roman Catholic Missionaries was taught?  You remember that -- the Roman Catholic missions that housed and educated the native population and established all of the oldest communities in California.   
• Surely someone taught about the founding of public education was done by churches who opened their doors to children returning from long hours of labor in factories and mines. 

How did public education fail the person who spoke this complaint?

I understand that someone who does not practice faith might think that Sunday morning is the only time a faith community is active.  Clearly the speaker had an impression of faith communities that did not match my experience. 

• But why would a church need a building if it is  a Sunday-only association?  
• Why not just meet in people's homes?   

Clearly the CHURCH has failed in its 24/7/365 practice of faith. 

I left the meeting with my blood pressure through the roof.  I took the long way home -- walking briskly in the night air five blocks out of my way so I could think and pray about the situation.  

God has a way of turning my reactions into responses if I can just keep my mouth closed long enough. My reactions are usually knee jerk responses in anger or defense; I should never be allowed to speak after 9 p.m. when my brain operates only in the brain stem and my reactions are reptilian .  Responses are the result of trying to understand the other point of view and offering a reasoned, rational reply.  Responses come from the cortex and upper brain anatomy.  I cannot be reasoned or rational if I'm angry. 

Through the cool night air and the brisk stride, God doused the anger with another possibility. In the middle of the second block it struck me that the church this person was talking about is doing faithful ministry -- if they are doing "something everyday," if their ministry is not just on Sunday morning, they are being the Church, the Body of Christ.  If that faith community feeds the hungry, offers drink to the thirsty, welcomes the stranger, clothes the naked, visits the sick and the imprisoned (Matthew 25), they are indeed being the church.  

Celebrate with this community of faith that someone is complaining that they are faithfully following Christ is providing for "one of the least of these who are members of [Christ's} family" [Matthew 25:40).  This IS the work of the church.

If our building is not used 24/7/365, we are not being faithful.  We are not being good stewards of the blessings God has given to us through our predecessors in the faith.  We are going to do better.  We need to fill our empty space with those busy going about the work of providing for the least of these.  We need to find the vision and the energy to commission those among us for ministries.  If the Kingdom is going to come "on earth as it is in heaven," we cannot sit around and wait for it to happen; we are called to use our hearts, minds, bodies, and spirits.  Let us fill the building with God's work!  Let us make busy the doors! Let us be the church to all the world. 


(1) This was the overarching complaint of a number of members of the community who stuck out the entire meeting for the purpose of voicing their concern that an amendment to the village zoning ordinances regarding the definition of "Religious Use" of buildings was removed from the agenda and not discussed.  

To the other concerns, I offer these responses:

Comment:  Churches rent their space to outside businesses and agencies so that they can increase their coffers and make their expenses.
Response:  Churches offer to share our space with agencies who are doing work that tends to "the least of these."  That may include, but is never limited to, young, aged, widowed, addicted, homeless, oppressed, unemployed, under-employed, poor, disabled, sick, naked, hungry, imprisoned or newly released, mentally ill, sinners of all sorts, immigrants and other strangers, and you.  

Sharing space is just that: space is offered so that those who are working toward the fulfillment of the Realm of God (see Matthew 25) can have a safe and secure place to do their work.  If churches make a profit of any kind, they lose their property-tax exempt status and will incur massive expenses; churches offer space at the cost of having that space -- which is far below the market rates.  Churches may recap the cost of the space, but nothing the church can do will ever re-cap the cost of building and upgrading the space; the best that can come of shared space is re-cooping the cost of heat, air conditioning, electricity, and maintenance of the space.  Churches do not make a profit at anything they do.

Comment: Not for profit is tax terminology; it does not relate to the what churches are doing.
Response:  Unlike other entities in our Capitalistic Economy, the goal of the church is NOT to make a profit or to stay "in business."  The mission of the church is to usher in the Realm of God by offering God's extravagant welcome, unbounded hope, abundant grace, and unlimited love to all who will accept it and be transformed by the realization that they are children of God. 

When this  mission is completed, the churches can and should go out of "business;" but it will never be complete in my or your lifetime.  It is ongoing and fueled by hope and the vision of a better world. The difference between the capitalist business (aka a "for profit") and a faith community rests on the benefactor of the activity: For-profits are fueled by the vision of benefit to the owner(s) (monetarily) while not-for-profits have a "benefit the other" driven vision. Not for profits "do it" at a loss -- always because we're not in it for the money; we're in it for the benefit of "the least of these." That's why we depend upon donations. 

The Lost Sermon

This morning my sermon notes were not available to my iPad because the internet at the church was down.  So I preached from memory.  I did okay, not fantastic.  Here's the text I could not access!


There are two odd things that run through the joseph story.

• He has and interprets dreams

• He keeps losing and changing his clothes.  

1. The Coat….a coat or cloak that extended all the way to the palms and all the way to the feet; hence, our translation “a long robe with sleeves.” It was clear that this was a special garment; this was a garment that betokened a certain exalted status, and that of course was one of the reasons the brothers were so angry when Joseph wore it.
2. ·The Coat taken from him.  Given back to Jacob with blood stains.  Joseph is sold half naked to a caravan of merchants, then to the slave trade in Egypt, and finally to Potaphar.   Slave Clothes
3. He leaves his clothes in Potaphar’s wife’s bedroom.   Prison, not death…. Made the servant of the Jailer – also named Potiphar. – he’s in charge of the prisoners.  Hence, he recognizes when the baker and the vinter are upset and interprets their dreams.
4. ·Called upon to interpret Pharoah’s dreams  .. He is shaven and he changes clothes again.  
5. ·He is made the governor of Egypt and he changes his clothes again… given a signet ring and a new wardrobe.
6. Changing clothes is a change of outward appearances.  It can help with first impressions. It can help us feel better about ourselves.  It does nothing for what is going on within our psyche or in our soul. The change is only skin deep.
7. Changing clothes is about us.  It’s about our ego and our self esteem. It’s only skin deep.

He has 2 Dreams.  

·in his dreams he was always the hero.  – The wheat bows to him.  The stars and moon and the Sun bow to him.  
·It’s about his own immaturity and arrogance.  These dreams build up his own self image and inflate his self importance.  

He Interprets 2 Dreams  

He listens to the dreams of others and helps them understand where they are headed in life.  It’s no longer about him – he give God the credit…. Though, he does tell the vintner to remember him when his day comes in so that Joseph can get out of prison.  

• He interprets Pharaoh’s 2 Dreams. 

1. It is no longer about him.  It’s about the larger picture.  It’s about the well being of all in his world.  He not only gives God the credit, Pharoah sees that it is God working through Joseph.  He sees Joseph as a representative to the One who is really in charge.  
2. This is no longer skin deep.  This is all encompassing. 
3. “It is not in me; God will give Pharaoh a favorable answer” (vv. 15-16).

• There are two dangerous dreams. 

1. Dangerous because God’s dreams disrupt the way things are. Dangerous because God’s dreams threaten the status quo, the normal order of life. 
2. Dangerous because dreaming God’s dreams might get you into trouble. 
3. If your dream just confirms what already is, rubber stamping the norm, pouring out a blessing on the sociopolitical empire of the day, it’s not God’s dream because God inverts our human way of doing things, flipping life on its head. 

• § The last shall be first.
• § The least are the greatest. 
• § The weak are the strong. 
• § The foolish are the wise. 
• § To go up, you go down. 
• § To have life, you have to die.

Joseph dreams of a different kind of world. His dream constructs a vision of a new social reality.  Joseph’s dreams disturb the “pecking order” of the world

in 1976, Jerry Garcia and the Grateful Dead sang a song penned by Mac Rebennack and first put out on a 1973 album by New Orleans R&B artist Dr. John. –It describes well what happens at the end of a dream: 

• § I been in the right place  But it must have been the wrong time
• § I'd have said the right thing But I must have used the wrong line
• § I'd a took the right road  But I must have took a wrong turn
• § Would have made the right move  But I made it at the wrong time
• § I been on the right road  But I must have used the wrong car
• § My head was in a good place  And I wonder what it's bad for

We can be in the right place at the right time, 
We can say the right things using all the right lines
We can be on the right road and take all the right turns
We can make all the right moves at the right time,
We can be on the right road in the right vehicle,
And we can have our heads in a good place, 

But if we are just operating out of a wardrobe, we’ll still end up at the end of the dream. 
If we want to really affect change in our own lives and in our world, we have to be about fueling dreams.

dreams that threaten the status quo, the normal order of life. 

• § •Dangerous because dreaming God’s dreams that will get us into trouble with the world. 
• § •Dreams that do not  pour out a sociopolitical empire of the day, 
• § Dreams that invert the human way of doing things and bring us in line with God’s Dreams.
• § We must dream of a different kind of world. 
• § Our dreams must construct a vision of a new social reality.  Our dreams need disturb the “pecking order” of the world.

So, Let’s get out of the wardrobe closet.  Let’s get into God’s bed of dreams.  

The Mask

Nearly every seat in the coffee shop is occupied.  Little boys stroll up to the door with painted faces, bike helmets as their crowns, and knee high rain galoshes hold the legs of their britches above their knees.  Little girls walk by the window with ice cream in hand and ballerina tights.  The sun shines upon the melting snow and dissipates the dust and grime.  And elderly mother and her daughter sit nearby providing a running commentary on what is happening around us.  It is not quite spring, but the weather is providing a teaser for what is to come.

People abound: 

• ,
• t'weens exploring their expanding freedom,
• mature adults absorbing the rays of the late winter sun, 
• couples walking hand in hand,
• commuters with rapid, long strides coming from the train station,
• a rough looking man with a scraggly beard baring a bouquet of flowers,
• teens side by side staring at their cell phones.  
• a woman carrying all she owns in grocery sacks on her arm.
• the men beside me speak softly in Slavic accents while a couple nearby speaks German to one another.

This is the community: diverse, vibrant, and on the move. 

The calm surrounding me is deceptive.  I've seen this community in another, less calm state.  I've heard the hurling of accusations and insults. I've listened  to suspicions and fears.  I've witnessed hatred and cold hearts. The serenity of this moment is a mask covering a teeming pool of emotion.  There is division and derision beneath the surface.  

It's one thing to disagree about something.  There was a time when disagreement did not render incivility and hatred.  There was a time when disagreeing parties could sit down together and work out a mutually agreeable solution.  There was a time.... 

What has happened to us? Why do we see things as bilateral: my way or the highway?  Why must hatred be the endgame of differences?  Why?

Saying No! and Meaning it.

 I don’t know about you, but I’m really tired.  It feels like no matter how hard I try, I cannot get ahead, cannot even keep up with some things.  There are so many things that call out for my attention.  So many special interests are vying for my energy.  There never seems to be enough {{fill in the blank here}}.  Not enough sleep, time, people… you get the idea.

“Not Enough” is a mindset our culture has been ingrained into our thinking.  It is the basis of our economy: there’s not enough to go around so the maximum profit can be made by sellers because we’ll always want for more; we don’t want to fall behind.  This mindset is the basis of our self image:  we can never be enough.  We’re never good enough, pretty enough, smart enough, efficient enough, thin enough, fit enough, strong enough, successful enough.  If we fall short, the culture shames us with its stress on being better than ordinary.  So we say “yes” to doing and having as much as possible so we don’t suffer the “shame of failure.” This mindset of scarcity feeds our greed, our jealousies, our prejudice, and our struggles in living. 

This scarcity mindset undermines the work of the Body of Christ.  Frankly, we become exhausted when we hear the call of the church to be more hospitable, do more in the community, feed the hungry, house the homeless, or free the oppressed.  We long for more community and deeper connection with God and with one another.  But we just don’t have time or energy to do anything more.  We feel depleted, exhausted, run down, tired, stressed, and overextended. We are so controlled by the scarcity mindset of the culture around us that being a disciple of Jesus is just too overwhelming of a prospect.  

If nothing else, Jesus was a counter culture revolutionary.  He stood up against the demeaning and belittling habits of the culture so as to bring people wholeness and fullness of joy.  His ministry and his teaching were about building up, supporting, and strengthening individuals in a culture that ostracized and devalued those who were not perfect in the eyes of the culture.  He did this by valuing them exactly as they were, for who they were. 

Friends, it is past time for us to stand up to the cultural mindset of scarcity.  We do not need to be successful by the culture’s standards; we do not need to measure up to the market’s standards of prosperity.  The way out of scarcity thinking is Sabbath Rest.  I’m not talking about sleeping through church!  I’m suggesting that we need to say, “NO!” to the cultural rat race that feeds of fear of failure and of falling behind.  We need to learn to say “NO!” to doing one more thing that does not build us up as disciples, that does not help to build the Realm of God on Earth.  We need to practice saying, “NO!” to those things that exhaust us and not nourish us, things that manipulate our self esteem, things that do not lead us to wholeness.

To practice Sabbath is to practice resistance.  Walter Brueggemann reminds us that Sabbath resists the spirituality of the principalities and powers--the culture around us--to nurture the physical and spiritual resources to fuel further resistance, making us increasingly available for both community and prophetic ministry[1].  Sabbath requires letting go of the shame-based fear of being ordinary as we allow the world to rush by as we settle into the humble, small and human rhythms of Sabbath. To practice Sabbath means to go quiet, to be less noticed, to rest into the ordinary.

As we move into Lent, I invite you to take Sabbath with me.  Let us take a sacred pause and find new habits. Let us seek together the Joyful Kingdom of God and find the deep joy of following Christ.  I pray you’ll find in this Lenten season fruitful, spirit feeding opportunities to grow in faith. 

[1] Walter Bruggemann:  Sabbath as Resistance: Saying No to the Culture of Now.  Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press,  2014.

Reflecting on this

I found this in the comments on one of my regular sermon prep sites.....

"[T]he church is evolving into a new form that is going to be less institutional and more flexible and moving into the world.  For most of our congregations and denominational bodies, going out to people with the Gospel is to bring them into our buildings and make them members. We are too hung up on the numbers game.  Christ told his disciples to go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them, and teaching them everything that he had taught them.  I see nothing here in getting people to get their names on a membership roll or doing anything else than giving one's life to Jesus.

What Jesus told his disciples was simple:  "Follow me."

Where in that simple sentence does it say to believe X, Y, and Z?

Where in that simple sentence does it tell them to Testify? Obey? Convert?

fol·low

verb \ˈfä-(ˌ)lō\

: to go or come after or behind (someone or something)
: to go after or behind (someone) secretly and watch to find out what happens

: to come after (something) in time or place or as part of a series

http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/follow

No matter which of these definitions we choose, what Jesus asks is that we pattern ourselves after him, that we walk his walk, look at what he does, and do likewise. 

How are we doing?

Sundays Sermon in a Wordle 

Epiphany's Love

On this Epiphany morning, the sun is reflected on the crystalline snow.
Powder iced trees produce wind blown dandruff
Squirrels prance across fence tops.
If this is my Epiphany, my heart has been iced
For the beauty of the Christ's light is aimed toward the dark and dreary
Recesses of this cold world,
Places where only Love's warmth can thaw 
       hatred
           hunger
              injustice
                 poverty
                    prejudice
                         pride
Cots upon which only the Healer's hand can bring life.
The beauty of this day is a gift;
Ours to return is the face of Love to the unloved.

Let The Children Come!

  I remember those days when my oldest son, Andrew, was very young and my middle was bulging with my second son who even in utero did not hold still. I chose to sit in the back pew of the church so Andrew's incessant questions and boisterous objections would not disturb the mostly "chronologically advantaged" people in my husband's congregation. The embarrassing moment of which I will forever remind Andrew occurred when his plastic truck rolled down the raked sanctuary floor under the pews toward the chancel steps. As a toddler who had not yet refined his speaking motor skills, all of his consonant clusters in front of words were pronounced as F's. In the silence of a pause in the pastoral prayer, a loud voice rose to the rafters proclaiming for the entire world to hear, "Mommy, ##uck! Mommy, ##uck!"  

     At that moment, I wanted to disappear into the woodwork. His father looked up, saw my utter dismay, and warmly wrapped into the prayer thankfulness to God for the voices of children that remind us to laugh and to welcome the sleep deprived parents who care enough to bring their children to worship. 

     I remember those tired days of bringing my children to worship: the struggle it was just to get to church on time, how hard it was to make the children behave or at least not disturb the others around us, and how no matter the effort, someone was usually disturbed. The backward glances, the glares when I stood rocking a crying infant while shushing the talkative toddler betrayed the feelings behind their kind words during the passing of the peace. I felt guilty bringing my children to worship! I did not feel welcome or wanted. 

     It was a moment of relief when Helen Straub offered to watch after my little ones so I could sing with the choir. I remember feeling that it was a huge sacrifice for her to sit with a fidgety toddler and an infant when she was there to spiritually fed. When I raised this with her, her response was joy filled and uplifting. She said she loved to have children in worship because children are holy; they bring a layer of hope to the congregation and especially to those, like her, whose children are grown and whose grandchildren live far away. She said that the children were for her a lesson in wonder as they followed the light of the acolytes' flames to the altar candles, as they watched the fly in the window, as they caught glimpses of the holiness of worship in between their wiggles and their squirms. And, she said that whenever people told her to hush the children, she reminded them that they too were once children and that a church without children has no future.

     Helen Straub was my angel in disguise! With her caring and her warm words, she helped me to feel welcome. Her attitude of gratitude helped to build a culture of acceptance of all within the congregation. Her advocacy for the children and families of the church was what kept me going to church each week. 

     What a blessing it is for those of us who are beyond our youth to have the energy of little ones to lift our spirits and help us sing praise to God. And what a joy it is to have children with us in worship to remind us to laugh, to not take ourselves quite so seriously, to raise our sense of wonder, and bring out the child in each of us. What encouragement and hope young families bring to our congregation! Thanks be to God for new generations of young people who will unwrap and unfold God's promised future for our congregation!

     You see, a church without children will cease to be the Body of Christ. God requires of each generation to make the faith their own; that will happen only if we welcome the future into our present. Jesus said, "Let the children come to me ....for such belongs the Realm of God." The reign of God is not ours; it belongs to the children. 

     And all God's children said, "Amen!" 

Blessings, 

Carly

Fall Fell

This from the archives of my hard drive.  Written in 1997.



This past weekend brought Fall to a climax here.  The maples, sumac, and beechnut trees were glorious in their brilliant colors.  The air was cool and crisp to breathe, like a polar bear swim for the lungs -- shockingly cold, yet tantalizing.  On my way home from church yesterday, the sky was deep blue. Together with the Fall foliage and the deep green evergreens, it was wonderful.   A colorful picture using every hue on the palette.

I made another batch of grape jam from my dwindling stores of frozen pulp.  The house is more comfortable when the air is filled with the smell of something cooking.  My mind goes back to the smell of Mom making stew or goulash and it feels like home.  The grape pulp simmered its scent throughout the downstairs as it reduced down to just the 6 cups I needed for jam. When the pectin and sugar had been added, and the hot jam ladled into waiting jars, I spread the scrapings from the kettle onto some warm toast.  It's a good batch of jam, deep purple and sweet.

As Andrew and I walked late in the day,  the clouds on the horizon created a new palette of color as the sun settled in behind it.  The sunset's colors clashed with the colors of the trees.  We couldn't believe how many squirrels there were -- everywhere they were gathering acorns, beechnuts, black walnuts, and even pampas grass seeds.  Their cheeks were swollen with their harvests, and they scurried around digging holes to bury their treasures.   Andrew noticed the geese first.  He heard them coming.  They visit every year about this time in the park next to the house.  There's never more than 12. Their calls resemble the faded off-key melody of the ice cream vendor's truck in the height of a humid summer's day.  When the geese landed in the field, they circled around one another as if counting noses.  They made themselves at home on the carpet of grass and settled in for the night calling to one another like feathered Waltons on Walton Mountain.  Good night John-boy. Good night 'Lizabeth....

Night fall brought the cold rain. In the last light, the leaves began to flurry toward the ground with the added weight of the rain.  And the north wind bustled them along toward the ground.  As the street lights fragmented the darkness, the leaves, just hours ago a sight to behold, flew about the street and sidewalks, scattered and torn, no longer the palette of color. Like the snow that is to come, they are blown and gathered into drifts and piles that will have to be moved.

As the clock turned over to a new day and I wandered toward bed, the moon began to peek through the clouds, showing the faded glory of the foliage strewn like rags about the neighborhood.  The trees, still clinging to the last vestiges of their wardrobe, are notably more exposed, almost quivering in the night air.  Under the moon's dim glow, the geese in the field look like lumps of cold earthen clay;  they'll be gone with the first glimmer of morning light. Gone to their warm winter home, leaving behind the barren trees and drifting snow.

This morning the sky is cloudy.  The trees stand with carpets of faded color at their feet.  And the park field is empty.

Fall fell.

Piles, sinkholes, and climbing out.

It's been a weird day.  I woke up early after a late night.  All day I've had a nagging desire to skip over what has to get done and make a phone call.  So much to get done, I really don't have time to go there. 

 I used to call every Saturday morning. Not because there was anything new to talk about but because it was a good way just to check in and make sure everything was okay.  

I called Dan earlier than usual this morning.  I woke him up.  And chitchatting with him was a great.  About nothing really: our schedules for the day, whether and what time we could talk tonight, a bit of politics and a bit of church talk: nothing of earth shattering importance. A good conversation nonetheless; but not really the one for which something deep inside of me is longing. Why? and Why today?

Every time I picked up the office phone, I considered twice the number to be dialed.  I still remember the number -- how weird is that?!  It was never my home phone number.  These days calling someone is choosing an icon from the phones screen.  But those 10 digits -- area code, town code, number -- still echo through my head. Numbers have always stuck in my head so that shouldn't surprise me; when I was just a puny 3 year old and was accidentally left at the lake, I was able to tell some tourist from New York City what my phone number was so she could call from the payphone and scold whomever answered the phone. 2269.  Just 4 digits then.  


0417.  That's the number.  255 the town code.  I wonder who would answer that phone number now. I see the number in my mind and my thoughts drift toward the wall phone in that kitchen. There were speakers plugged into it so everyone could hear every conversation, but most of all because the handset could never be loud enough.  Big, lit numbers replaced an old dial, the pale beige phone attached to the end of the upper cabinet over the end of the snack bar that divided the kitchen between work and dining space. Inside the cabinet and under the back side of the phone jack was a warm spot over the florescent lights on the underside of the cabinet; every night that warm spot held hearing aids with the battery case open so those tiny batteries would not wear themselves down.  Next to them, stacks of dishes -- unmatched and cracked -- that fed so many of us over the years.  And plastic tumblers that held ice tea with a splash of diet cola. Memory is a curse sometimes. 

I hadn't been clear about why this particular day this craziness popped into my head for the first time in a long time. Maybe because there's so much to do or maybe because it's a cool summer day.  When I accidentally put the cursor for the mouse over the bottom of the computer screen, however, it all became clear.  The date.  Another curse:  I cannot forget dates.  Yes.  It is August 6th. The first day of a long last 10 days.

It's been a long time since I've dialed those 10 digits and called.  And longer since I was there.  But it was on this date that I arrived for the last time.  The long, sandy driveway covered in crushed oyster and quahog shells, the buoy and lobster pot markers hanging off the rail of the deck, the bristly Cape Cod grass under my bare feet, and the faint smell of musty, marshy saltwater bogs.  Bikes were on the back of the minivan to keep two teenage boys occupied while I spent days cooking and caring.  Those last days I spent with my dying mother.  

http://goo.gl/w5lT7s

Don't ever believe that the pain of a loss leaves or heals; that is a lie.  The pain is there forever; we just learn to live with it.  With time we learn to jump over that hole, or walk around it in our travels. But it's always there, lurking and luring.   But even now -- 13 years later -- I've fallen into it again today by just looking at a date on a tiny calendar in the corner of my computer screen.  

So with stacks of paper and even more digital stuff piled on my desk and desktop, I've stopped to assess how deeply I've fallen into an old wound, and process a plan to climb over the memories, through the streams of thought and tears, and back onto the road of the living.  And assess the real value of that stack of things to be done.

Perhaps it is time to leave the stacks where they are and go for a walk on this lovely August evening.  It will all still be there in the morning, but the evening will pass.  Yes. The evening is more important. 

Hospitality? Extravagant Welcome?

You know that car advertisement where the song from Cheers! is playing whilst a known character walks in the convenience/gas mart and is warmly welcomed?  Then the guy driving the fuel efficient car walks in, and the music stops.  And the conversations stop.  The warmth of the gathering goes cold while the second guy is buying a bottle of water. It's an awkward moment. 

That was my experience at a gathering of "the church" a while ago.  I was the unknown person in the diesel car. Only instead of everyone staring at me, I was alone in the crowd.

I entered the gathering not knowing anyone; but, hey, it's  a church gathering and I'm an extrovert, so I wouldn't leave that way, right? Not! I've never felt so unwelcome and alone at a gathering of church people. The only people who spoke to me were the person who received my attendance fee and handed me a name tag, another person who I approached but who didn't remember me from when we both worked for the same entity, and the person who was there from my church. To be fair, the person from my church did introduce me to a few people before the meeting. And each welcomed me as a new person. But no one continued the conversation after the gathering or sought us out during the break.

While worship was lively and rousing, for me it was a solitary and not a corporate experience.  The printed worship outline was very sparse.  Music was sung from memory; only I didn't know all the melodies or the lyrics.  The accompanist was so loud I couldn't hear the song leaders or soloists.  A couple of prayers were recited from memory; only, again, I didn't know them.   

Throughout the gathering,  "Insider" language (terms for undefined groups, ministries, property names, positions, etc) was used and unexplained, assuming all knew to what it referred. I took out my phone and looked up the website of the gathering only to be further stymied by there being no definitions there either; and the site had not been updated in a number of years!  In the gathering, nothing was explained. References were made to narratives with which I was not familiar.  The leaders and attendees assumed all knew what was going on.

The most painful time, however, came after the business of the gathering at what in my previous experiences of gatherings would have been a time of fellowship and widening the circle... lunch. Where two or three are gathered, Christ is present!  While waiting alone in line for lunch, people ignored me when I tried to introduce myself; without offering their name or eye contact, they turned to the person they were with in line and continued to talk to one another. After 4 attempts, I decided that either my breath was really foul, or I was not welcome to join them. I stepped out of the line and left the gathering. On my way to my car, even the people on the street were more friendly and welcoming than had been the "church."  I drove home without lunch feeling very much alone and wondering why I had spent my day off at this gathering.

Three days following the meeting, a person who spoke at the meeting and who needed the support of area "Church" people to raise support for a ministry of the gathered group left a message in my voice mail box.  The person was asking me to attend an informational gathering where financial support would be solicited for this important ministry.  This person was one of those who had turned away when I introduced myself.  Hearing the name on my voice mail felt like a stab in my chest.  I listened to that voice mail twice.  I even wrote down the phone number to which a response was requested.  Inside I raged with hurt.  I checked my reaction and chose to simply delete the voice mail.  I did not pass the message on to others who could have attended.  I could not bring myself to feel at all interested in the cause.  

I am an extrovert.  I have never met a stranger.  Until that gathering.  And I was the stranger.  I did not seek to be the center of attention; I sought to be welcomed as a stranger, as one seeking belonging amid the body of Christ gathered.  I left a stranger unwelcomed.

I now have a much better understanding of the guest who visits a new church.  I understand why some never return after being ungreeted in worship or standing alone in the fellowship hour.  I have felt first hand the sting of being the outsider within a group who see themselves as very friendly and who claim to have an "Extravagant Welcome."  

I believe in the Extravagant Welcome of the my church. I have experienced it in many settings! I'm sorry that it was not exercised or visible at this gathering. We CAN do better!  We MUST do better for Christ commands it!

• What made you feel welcome in a gathering of people?  
• What can the Church do differently to aid in authentic hospitality?  
• What can you, personally, do to help a guest in your congregation feel welcomed and want to belong?
• Who might be avoiding involvement in a ministry because they have felt unwelcome, and how might the bridges be mended and the hurt healed?

Bibs and Aprons, part 2.

This is the second in a three part series.  Here is the first.

Having spent many summers on Cape Cod, I treasure the flavor and messiness of eating lobster.  While my family did not have a commercial interest in lobsters, my father purchased permits for each of his 4 or 5 lobster pots; we enjoyed a lot of fresh lobster.  This was a source of great joy and puzzlement for some of our summer visitors; the flavor and delicacy always brought smiles while the complicated process of eating it always raised the eyebrows of those who had never eaten it before.

Not long ago, lobster was considered to be the food of indentured servants and prisoners.  The crustacean is a bottom feeder and its nickname was the “cockroach of the ocean;” it was considered to be “beneath” the palates of the well heeled.  Often employment contracts for household staff would include a provision that they not be fed lobster more than once a week!  The primary use for these crabs was as fish bait and as fertilizer.  But for the less fortunate, this “bottom of the food chain” was a valuable source of protein and nutrition.  (For an interesting read on how we came to see lobster as a delicacy, see this.)

Steamed lobster is not a clean thing to eat.  Aside from being a gatekeeper for drawn butter, the inner flesh of these water dwelling insects is tough to access. It requires a nutcracker and pick.  The resulting messiness runs down our arms and chin(s).  Lobster is hard work!  But, since we’ve come to regard it as a delicacy, it has become acceptable to wear a bib to protect our clothing – even if doing so causes us to question our dignity!

Wearing a bib is necessary when eating some foods even if we are adults!  The same is true of our faith life.  Every follower of Jesus needs to be nourished with the very basics of the faith “food chain.”  Every believer needs to chew on and digest the scriptures and to crack open the difficult issues of faith.  This feeding is not a once in a life time thing; we don’t contract with God to be fed only once a week, once a month, or twice a year.  It is necessary that each of us be fed and nourished repeatedly so that we can grow in the faith.  Even though we’ve “graduated” from confirmation classes and attained higher things in life and in the Church, we must don our bibs and nourish our faith.

Notice that I did not say we must don our bibs and be fed!  We must still feed ourselves!  We must choose to get our hands and chins into the work of cracking open the Word, wrestling with the hard shells to reach the succulent nutrition within.  It is necessary that the juices flow from our heads to our hearts and from the faith to our hands; only as a result of having worked through the issues of faith will that stickiness pass from our hands to our everyday work and lives.  The bib represents our willingness to delve in; it does not so much protect us as serve as a symbol of our need for God’s ongoing and ever-generous grace and care.  When we don the bib, it is God who feeds and nourishes us so that we will continue to grow in faith.

This is not to say that we wear the bib all the time.  Even an infant dons a bib only to eat!  We must use those learnings, burn those “faith calories” in service to others; for that we must don the apron.  More on that next time.

Anniversary

A friend's post on Facebook reminded me last week that I have an anniversary today.  It's not something I think about often, but occasionally the date has happened and I'm reminded of the significance it.  More frequently, the date passes and I never notice.

It's not my wedding anniversary.  That early September date is rarely forgotten.  Although we rarely make a huge deal of it, Dan and I usually do something to commemorate that day in 1983 when we promised to God and one another that we were committed to a life long bond.  And after, now, 30 anniversaries neither of us can imagine having lived any differently.  We could manage without one other and simply choose not to do so.  Perhaps that is the secret to having lived in different homes at least 4 times in our marriage is that we  recognize and appreciate both our individuality and our unity.  But it is not my wedding anniversary.

It's also not the anniversary of that "heart incident."  That also is a September event.  It also rarely passes without my recognizing that it is THAT day.  And while that too is well behind me, that date reminds me of the fragility of life.  Things could have turned out so very differently had I continued to ignore the situation.  The decision to follow the suggestion of one who knew first hand the signs and symptoms changed me, allowed me to witness my sons growing to be men, and so much more. After, now, 10 anniversaries of that day I am a healthier person physically, spiritually, and emotionally.  But it is not the heart attack anniversary. 

I've written before about the anniversary of my baptism.  I was unaware or had forgotten that date until I recently wrapped and packed my framed baptism certificate.  It hangs on my wall central to my degrees and certificate of ordination.  I feel that my baptism is more important to me than my birth;  I had no choice to make about being born but being baptized was my decision about how I would live my life.  But it is not my baptism anniversary.

It is the anniversary of my ordination.  Most years I would not remember this date.  Most years, it does not fall on a Sunday, let alone on Pentecost Sunday.  I was not ordained on Pentecost; I was ordained on the Sunday the follows Pentecost, Trinity Sunday.  The day was memorable; the date is not.  For me, ordination was a formal recognition of what had already been; it followed a number of years of licensed ministry.  For me, ordination was the icing on the cake of my call; the inscription that offered the Church's official recognition of my call to ministry. 

Perhaps I don't routinely remember this anniversary because I believe each person who is a follower of the way of Jesus is called to ministry, is called to live a life that proclaims God's unconditional love, grace, and mercy.  Perhaps it is because I don't see ordination as being set apart but rather as being set in the midst of the community of believers as we sojourn together through this ever-changing world.

Today is the anniversary of your call to ministry too.  Pentecost is that day when all are set aflame in the breath of the Holy Spirit; the day when each is given the gifts necessary for God's work in their midst.

So, won't you celebrate with me?  Let's light some fires and change the world.

What is the Church?

I'm on an Ann Weems kick this week. As I think about how we witness to a new generation of pilgrims, as I imagine what being authentic means, as I dream about celebrating Pentecost in a new congregation, and as I imagine a new future for an established, traditional faith community, I am drawn to yet another of Ann Weem's poems.

The church of Jesus Christ is where a child brings a balloon…
   is where old women come to dance . . .
   is where young men see visions and old men dream dreams.
The church of Jesus Christ is where lepers come to be touched . . .
   is where the blind see and the deaf hear . . .
   is where the lame run and the dying live.
The church of Jesus Christ is where daisies bloom out of barren land . . .
   is where children lead and wise men follow . . .
   is where mountains are moved and walls come tumbling down.
The church of Jesus Christ is where loaves of bread are stacked in the sanctuary to feed the hungry . . .
   is where coats are taken off and put on the backs of the naked . . .
   is where shackles are discarded and kings and shepherds sit down to life together.
The church of Jesus Christ is where barefoot children run giggling in procession . . .
    is where the minister is ministered unto . . .
   is where the anthem is the laughter of the congregation and the offering plates are full of people.
The church of Jesus Christ is where people go when they skin their knees or their hearts . . .
   is where frogs become princes and Cinderella dances beyond midnight . . .
   is where judges don’t judge and each child of God is beautiful and precious.
The church of Jesus Christ is where the sea divides for the exiles . . .
   is where the ark floats and the lamb lies down with the lion . . .
   is where people can disagree and hold hands at the same time.
The church of Jesus Christ is where night is day . . .
   is where trumpets and drums and tambourines declare God’s goodness . . .
   is where lost lambs are found.
The church of Jesus Christ is where people write thank-you notes to God . . .
   is where work is a holiday . . .
   is where seeds are scattered and miracles grown.
The church of Jesus Christ is where home is . . .
   is where heaven is . . .
   is where a picnic is communion and people break bread together on their knees.
The church of Jesus Christ is where we live responsively to God’s coming . . .
   even on Monday morning the world will hear . . .
   an abundance of alleluias! 

                                                                               —Ann Weems


Ann Weems is a Presbyterian elder, a lecturer, and a popular poet. She is the author of Family Faith Stories, Reaching for Rainbows, Searching for Shalom, Kneeling in Bethlehem, Kneeling in Jerusalem, Psalms of Lament, and Putting the Amazing Back in Grace.  

Happy Birthday Church!

Sunday is Pentecost.
It's What?
Pentecost.
What's that?
It's the Birthday of the Church!
Oh, you mean like the anniversary of our congregation?
No.  It's the day we celebrate God sending the Holy Spirit upon the early church.
Huh?
Read all about it in Acts 2.

Then come back and read the poem here by Ann Weems.  It’s called, “Happy Birthday Church!”  [from Reaching for Rainbows, 1980]

There once was a church that had only party rooms: the Session’s Party Room, the Music Party Room, the Feasting Party Room, the Do Justice Party Room, the Love Mercy Party Room, the Touch Lepers Party Room.  In the center of the building was a large round room with an altar and a cross:  God’s Party Room.

There was in the church an air of festivity and brightness that could not be denied.  The

people outside the church pointed their fingers and shook their heads:  “Something should be done about that church.”  They were especially upset when they saw that the members wore party hats and smiles both inside and outside the church.

Other congregations came to take a look and were shocked when they saw this church having so much fun during a worship service, snapping their fingers and dancing.

“Sacrilegious,” screamed the crowd.  But the people in the church just smiled at them and went right on doing things like taking people in wheelchairs to the park and playing ball with them.

When everybody else was collecting canned goods for the poor, this church bought pizza and marched right into dingy, dirty, paint-peeling apartments and sat down to eat with the tenants.

They held picnics for the old folks home, and old men ran races while the congregation stamped their feet in applause.  It was at one of these picnics that some of the members climbed up on the roof and shouted:  “Good news!”

“Now we can get them for disturbing the peace,” said one of the outsiders.  The police arrived with sirens, ready for the arrest, and came out two hours later wearing party hats and smiles.

One Sunday afternoon, the entire congregation met at the jail and passed out flowers to the prisoners.  The following week after bread and wine and much laughter at the Lord’s table, the people went to the hospital and asked to see the dying patients.  They held their hands and mopped their brows and spoke to them of life.

“Disgraceful!” shouted the crowd.  “They must be stopped.”  So the crowd appealed to the governing body of the denomination, and this committee of respected church people went to see for themselves.

“Do you deny the charges of heresy?” asked the committee.  “do you deny that you’ve mocked the church and the Lord?”  The people of the church looked into the stern red faces and smiled at them.  They held out their hands to the committee and led them to the Birthday Cake Party Room.  There on a table sat a large cake decorated beautifully in doves descending and red flames and words that read: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHURCH!  The people began cutting cake and blowing up balloons and handing out party hats to the committee members.

“Wait!  Wait!” cried the chairperson.  “Can’t you take anything seriously?”

“Yes,” said the people.  “We take our commitment to the Lord very seriously indeed.”

“You don’t take it seriously at all,” interrupted the chairperson in loud voice and red face.  “You have parties and wear silly hats and blow up balloons and sing and dance and have fun.  Do you call that commitment?”

The people smiled at the chairperson and asked him if he’d like a glass of wine.  The chairperson hit his fist on the table.  “I don’t want wine, and I don’t want birthday cake.  We’re here to reprimand you.  We’re here to show you that you’re wrong.  Can’t you be serious?”

“We are,” said the people.  “We’re asking you to take communion with us.”

“With birthday cake?” screamed the chairperson.  “Outrageous!”

“Outrageous?” [asked the people] “We ask you to sit at our table and sup with us.  God gave the Holy Spirit to believers, and that is something to celebrate!  It’s an occasion for a party.  We are celebrants of the gift of Life.  We are community.  We are God’s church.  Why are your faces red when we are trying to do justice and love mercy?  Why do you shake your fists at us when we are trying to discover the hurting and begin the healing?  We are overjoyed that we can be the church, a community of people, who are many, yet one—who are different, but who walk together and welcome any who would walk with us.  When we weep there is someone to weep with us and to affirm us and to take us to a party.  When we see injustices, we must be about God’s business of freeing the oppressed.  When we are faithless, we have God’s promise of forgiveness.  Isn’t it remarkable that we can be God’s good news?  Is it any wonder we have a church full of party rooms?  There is so much love to celebrate!”

The committee stared at the people, and the people moved closer to them and put their arms around them.  The committee chairperson stepped up to the table and sliced a piece of birthday cake, took a bite, and laughed out loud.  He began slicing and passing it out.

When the wine was poured and the hands were held, the chairperson raised his glass and said,  “There is so much Love to celebrate!  Happy Birthday, Church!”

Donning the Apron of Service

With Memorial Day behind us, the official start of summer is here.  The grills have come out of storage and, in many families, the men have donned aprons while they watch over the sizzling dinners.  The apron is a symbol of the one who cooks, or who hosts the gathering of people.  The one who wears the apron is usually the one who waits upon others whether at home or in a restaurant.

One year my (then) young sons made their dad an apron for Father’s Day.  Using a fabric pen, I outlined their hand prints onto the pocket of the apron and they each filled in their print.  Andrew insisted that we were making a bib for Daddy.  He was remembering his bibs that fit like backward, sleeveless shirts.  The apron we were decorating did look like that wrap-around bib!

The bib and the apron both protect the clothing by adding a layer of protection.  But there is a significant difference in the cultural connotations of bibs and aprons.   A bib is worn by someone who is being fed, being served; an apron is worn by one who is the servant.  A bib is donned by the consumer; an apron, by one who produces and provides. Wearing a bib is a necessary precursor to fitting into an apron.

The juxtaposition of the apron and bib is apt for the Church in this ever-changing time.  As we mature in faith, we move from wearing a bib to donning an apron.  As children, we are fed and nourished in the faith, guided and mentored on the journey by those who have walked their own spiritual path.  We grow out of our constant need for the bib as we learn to feed ourselves and share in the work of feeding others.  We don the apron of service and hospitality as the result of having been fed, nurtured, and growing by the faith community.

Hospitality is an important part of the culture of the scripture:

• Remember the three men who came to Abraham under the oaks of Mamre – Sarah had to cook for them a meal from scratch while the men waited.
• Remember the men of Sodom who were destroyed for their lack of hospitality?
• Remember Jesus’ words “I came not to be served but to serve.”

This is the way of the Middle East then and still today.  A stranger is always to be welcomed, always to be treated as the guest.  “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

As we grow in faith and character, we become the hosts who wear the apron and allow the guest to determine how they are to be treated.  Being a Christian requires us to give up the bib and don the apron.

Barbara Brown Taylor wrote,  “To be where God is -- to follow Jesus -- means going beyond the limits of our own comfort and safety. It means receiving our lives as gifts instead of guarding them as our own possessions. It means sharing the life we have been given instead of bottling it for our own consumption.”  (Barbara Brown Taylor, Seeds of Heaven: Sermons on the Gospel of Matthew. Louisville, Kentucky: Westminster John Knox Press. 2004. p. 81)

Buy This!

Our society would have us think that life is all about us - our desires, our needs, our achievements. And, so in our pride, we ignore the gospel proclaimed to us by God's love and hope for us. In our greed, we ignore the needs of those God has called us to serve.  We are so afraid of losing what we have, that we hold tightly to it and fail to share God’s love with others in ways that are meaningful and nurturing to them.

I wonder if in the Church, we continue to wear the bib as consumers of church programs and
services, expectant that we will be waited upon by others.  I wonder if there were more apron-wearing servants, would we be able to nurture and grow more seekers toward full belonging?  I wonder if the shortage of leadership in churches is a reflection of continuing need to be spoon fed. 

Friends, it is time for the Church of Jesus Christ to take off our bibs and put on our aprons.

• It is time for us to live trusting the God who keeps promises, and to do the work of hospitality for people who need the Good News and who need God’s assurance that they need not be afraid.
• It is time we lived the Gospel of God’s abundance and shared in that grace.
• It is time we stopped expecting everything to be our way and seek the comfort of those who need God’s abundance and hospitality to be shown to them
• It is time we stop catering to the needs of those who are here and start serving those who most need to hear and experience God’s promises for the first time.

 Let’s make some new aprons and let us wear them boldly into service in God’s name.

See You in Church?

Since my husband is completing his interim position some 3.5 hours away, I often eat dinner out in one of the local pubs or restaurants. Since I dine alone, if the establishment is particularly empty, I will sit at the bar and chat with the wait staff.

Having missed lunch yesterday, I went to the pub nearest my office for an early dinner -- around 4:30. The place is diagonally across the street from the church, and from its door one can see the church's sign and front door.

As the place was quite empty, I sat at the bar. I ordered the special and a glass of wine. There were numerous empty stools on either side of me.

After I ordered, a guy comes into the establishment and asked if he could sit in stool next to mine. What can I say? Not wanting to be rude, I say sure. He was cleanly and neatly dressed; probably one of the local professionals, I thought.

He proceeds to strike up a conversation. I'm polite in a "pastorally" way. We chat about being new in town, and the like. Several times in the conversation I mention my husband. I'm clearly wearing a wedding band.

I finished my meal and asked for my check. When I'd signed the credit card slip, I stood up to leave and bid him farewell. He reached for my hand (still on the bill voucher), tapped it, and said, "I hope to run into you again."

Without missing a beat, I pulled my other hand out of my pocket, handed him my business card, and said, "Maybe I'll see you on Sunday."

I turned and left.

As I reached the door, I heard him say, "You've got to be kidding! I just hit on a minister!"

"Yes, sir. You did. See you Sunday?"

Community presence at it's best!


Postscript:  A colleague has pointed out the irony that the name of the pub is the Wild Monk.... :D

UCC and Proud of it.

I am proud to be a pastor in the United Church Of Christ. Here is yet another reason why.