Perhaps it is that I am preaching about our neighbors this week that prompted greater sensitivity on Friday as I flew from Midway to Manchester. I way paying attention as people boarded the plane after I had taken my seat. I sat by a window, near the back galley, reading a book about India in preparation for my upcoming trip, when the flight attendant asked for someone to move. My preferred airline does not have assigned seats, so the center spots are the last to go. Some center seats were open when a man with his five-and-a-half year old son boarded. They made their way all the way to the back, but found no seats where they could sit together. So, the crew called for someone who would move--promising extra peanuts and some imaginary awards. At first, no one budged. We liked where we were sitting. After about a minute, which must have seemed an eternity to the man and his little boy, a woman in the row in front of me said, "I'll switch." The little family took the two adjacent seats, while the woman moved herself and her over-sized duffel bag into the middle seat next to me.
The plane took off. Everyone broke out a book and began to read. It was only as the plane landed in Manchester that a conversation occurred. The woman was on her way to Connecticut for her 47th high school class reunion. (The organizer had decided not to wait for the 50th year reunion because too many classmates were dying!) The woman was from Missouri now, having grown up in New England many years ago. She spoke of her little farm, where she had horses. I mentioned that I was originally from Missouri--California, Missouri most recently. The woman replied that she always liked that area and had purchased two Peruvian horses from a man there. Immediately, I realized that she was talking about Will, my former neighbor who raised the only Peruvian horses in the area. The horses often came up to our back fence to visit. I was reminded of the time when Will kept our little cattle herd secure when they broke through the rotten woven wire fence. The week of building a new fence with Will was a good one for me. The woman and I talked about Will and his wife, Barbara, for some moments. The world got a whole lot smaller.
When I got off the plane, there in the boarding area was John, a former search committee chairperson, with whom I had worked as his congregation had searched for a new pastor. We recognized one another right away. John and I exchanged greetings, and we blessed one another on our way. The world got a whole lot smaller.
Who is my neighbor? The ones who risk a conversation that makes a connection. The world gets a whole lot smaller when we take that initial step to acknowledge and speak to our neighbors. Sometimes there is a cost in such encounters (Luke 10:25ff); but often such connections simply make the world smaller . . . and we are all blessed on our way.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Homecoming
The announcement on Friday by President Barack Obama that all US troops will come home from Iraq by December 31 is welcome news. Begun on March 20, 2003, this has been an exceedingly long US war, second only to the war in Afghanistan. Consider this: our 10-year-old children have never known a day when the United States was not fighting a war. What effect this continuous decade of intense international conflict and death will have on our national psyche is not yet clear. The toll on families and our national budget is already abundantly clear. It is time for homecoming as our fathers and mothers, daughters and sons, grandchildren, friends and neighbors return.
It is important that this homecoming be marked with celebration and many prayers. Many are returning with scars and wounds that are visible and invisible. We must honor their service and their sacrifice. Many will not be returning; 4,479 US soldiers have died in this war. Amid the joy, we sense the deep sorrow that still surrounds us all. This war has also brought pain, suffering, and death to friends and foes in Iraq and to those nations who have joined as our allies in the fight. It is time to end this war; it is time for the homecoming.
Some might ask anxious questions in light of this news: Are we leaving Iraq too soon? Should we not keep some military presence there? What if the "liberation" does not last? What if our enemies suddenly reassert themselves? Will diplomacy ensure a peaceful future for the Iraqi people and for us? There are so many questions and so many politicians and commentators who are giving voice to the anxiety that is associated with this ending and its homecoming. Yet, it is clear that it is time for our involvement in this war to end. It is time too--high time--for a similar ending in Afghanistan.
My homecoming prayer is that of the ancient Hebrew prophets--Isaiah and Micah. I pray for the day when
[God] shall judge between the nations,
and shall arbitrate for many peoples;
they shall beat their swords into plowshares,
and their spears into pruning hooks;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
neither shall they learn war any more."
--Isaiah 2:4, New Revised Standard Version
It is important that this homecoming be marked with celebration and many prayers. Many are returning with scars and wounds that are visible and invisible. We must honor their service and their sacrifice. Many will not be returning; 4,479 US soldiers have died in this war. Amid the joy, we sense the deep sorrow that still surrounds us all. This war has also brought pain, suffering, and death to friends and foes in Iraq and to those nations who have joined as our allies in the fight. It is time to end this war; it is time for the homecoming.
Some might ask anxious questions in light of this news: Are we leaving Iraq too soon? Should we not keep some military presence there? What if the "liberation" does not last? What if our enemies suddenly reassert themselves? Will diplomacy ensure a peaceful future for the Iraqi people and for us? There are so many questions and so many politicians and commentators who are giving voice to the anxiety that is associated with this ending and its homecoming. Yet, it is clear that it is time for our involvement in this war to end. It is time too--high time--for a similar ending in Afghanistan.
My homecoming prayer is that of the ancient Hebrew prophets--Isaiah and Micah. I pray for the day when
[God] shall judge between the nations,
and shall arbitrate for many peoples;
they shall beat their swords into plowshares,
and their spears into pruning hooks;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
neither shall they learn war any more."
--Isaiah 2:4, New Revised Standard Version
May it be so!
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Blessed on Our Way
We have a simple ritual at our house that gives life special meaning. Each morning at 6:40 AM when the school bus comes to pick up Matt for his day at school, we stand in the doorway and wave as the bus pulls away and drives down the street. Although we cannot see through the tinted windows, we wave until the bus disappears around the corner. We bless our son on his way at the beginning of the day.
That simple gesture has become the norm for us. Matt often rushes to the front door as I leave home to meet with a church committee in some distant place. Even though he was watching a movie or playing a video game seemingly unaware of my exit, there he stands waving from the open doorway as I back out of the garage, drive down the street, and disappear around the corner. That wave means so much. I know and remember that I have been blessed on my way by one who loves me.
Perhaps it stretches the image too much, but I like to think that the benediction is our special gesture as a community of faith. The pastor or priest gives a blessing to people to encourage them on their way. An open hand is raised in a sign of grace and peace as Christ's congregation scatters into the world.
My prayer is that you will be blessed by those who love you. Indeed, may everyone be blessed and encouraged on their way. What a different world it would be!
That simple gesture has become the norm for us. Matt often rushes to the front door as I leave home to meet with a church committee in some distant place. Even though he was watching a movie or playing a video game seemingly unaware of my exit, there he stands waving from the open doorway as I back out of the garage, drive down the street, and disappear around the corner. That wave means so much. I know and remember that I have been blessed on my way by one who loves me.
Perhaps it stretches the image too much, but I like to think that the benediction is our special gesture as a community of faith. The pastor or priest gives a blessing to people to encourage them on their way. An open hand is raised in a sign of grace and peace as Christ's congregation scatters into the world.
My prayer is that you will be blessed by those who love you. Indeed, may everyone be blessed and encouraged on their way. What a different world it would be!
Monday, October 10, 2011
Decendents of Immigrants Gathered on Gibson Avenue
It was the summer of 1975. I was working as a seasonal employee at the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial in St. Louis. After several weeks with relatives, I rented a one-room apartment in an upstairs flat on Gibson Avenue. That was my first experience living in a neighborhood that was culturally, racially, and economically diverse.
Penelope Strousser, along with her husband Tom, owned the house and lived downstairs. Upstairs were three one-room apartments that shared a hallway telephone and a common bath. Tom Strousser had been hit on the head with a liquor bottle years before and was suffering from extreme dementia. Penny took care of him at home. He died that fall.
Penny, a master weaver, had her loom set up downstairs in the basement. I would hear the loom's shuttle working late into the night. Although blind, Penny wove magnificent rugs. One, in particular, stands out in my memory. Night after night, she worked to weave a rug as a Bicentennial project for the DeMenil Mansion in St. Louis. Penny was Greek, a member of St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church. A photograph of the Patriarch hung on her wall, along with a crucifix. She was devout and wise. I recall being introduced to real Greek food that summer. Gibson Avenue proved to be an important place in my formation.
This country kid relished those summer months on Gibson Avenue. The street was always alive with activity. Wagoner Memorial United Methodist Church was at the end of the block. The Rev. Larry Shores was the young pastor in a congregation of twenty or so elderly members. He was very energetic and honest in his ministry. In that huge, cavernous sanctuary, this tiny congregation was, nevertheless, the Church of Jesus Christ. Sadly, most members drove to Sunday worship from the suburbs. There was a disconnect with the neighborhood. Today, the church been transformed into a United Methodist social service ministry and homeless center. The ministry has been transformed. This, too, is the Church.
There were also resident African and Chinese Americans on Gibson Avenue. There were medical students, who were attending Washington University School of Medicine and working at Barnes Hospital just across the interstate. Forest Park was not far. I used to ride my bicycle through the busy traffic to get to the park and ride the bike trails. I was alone in the big city, but I seldom thought about that. I was young and enjoyed the life. I was surrounded by people--all God's children. Our ancestors had come from other countries. We all were at home on Gibson Avenue.
I think of immigrant communities today on this Columbus Day. My prayer is that those arriving now will find a Gibson Avenue, a house like Penny's, and a church like Wagoner Memorial UMC, places that are home, where all are welcome, and where all have the opportunity to enjoy a good life together. May it be so!
For this, . . . and so much more, I am grateful to God.
Penelope Strousser, along with her husband Tom, owned the house and lived downstairs. Upstairs were three one-room apartments that shared a hallway telephone and a common bath. Tom Strousser had been hit on the head with a liquor bottle years before and was suffering from extreme dementia. Penny took care of him at home. He died that fall.
Penny, a master weaver, had her loom set up downstairs in the basement. I would hear the loom's shuttle working late into the night. Although blind, Penny wove magnificent rugs. One, in particular, stands out in my memory. Night after night, she worked to weave a rug as a Bicentennial project for the DeMenil Mansion in St. Louis. Penny was Greek, a member of St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church. A photograph of the Patriarch hung on her wall, along with a crucifix. She was devout and wise. I recall being introduced to real Greek food that summer. Gibson Avenue proved to be an important place in my formation.
This country kid relished those summer months on Gibson Avenue. The street was always alive with activity. Wagoner Memorial United Methodist Church was at the end of the block. The Rev. Larry Shores was the young pastor in a congregation of twenty or so elderly members. He was very energetic and honest in his ministry. In that huge, cavernous sanctuary, this tiny congregation was, nevertheless, the Church of Jesus Christ. Sadly, most members drove to Sunday worship from the suburbs. There was a disconnect with the neighborhood. Today, the church been transformed into a United Methodist social service ministry and homeless center. The ministry has been transformed. This, too, is the Church.
There were also resident African and Chinese Americans on Gibson Avenue. There were medical students, who were attending Washington University School of Medicine and working at Barnes Hospital just across the interstate. Forest Park was not far. I used to ride my bicycle through the busy traffic to get to the park and ride the bike trails. I was alone in the big city, but I seldom thought about that. I was young and enjoyed the life. I was surrounded by people--all God's children. Our ancestors had come from other countries. We all were at home on Gibson Avenue.
I think of immigrant communities today on this Columbus Day. My prayer is that those arriving now will find a Gibson Avenue, a house like Penny's, and a church like Wagoner Memorial UMC, places that are home, where all are welcome, and where all have the opportunity to enjoy a good life together. May it be so!
For this, . . . and so much more, I am grateful to God.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Saying No
On Friday afternoon, I went to Manchester for a seminar with the Rev. Dr. David Olsen, Executive Director of the Samaritan Counseling Center of the Captial Region in Scotia, New York. The seminar, When Helping Starts to Hurt: The Need for Clear Boundaries, was offered by Pastoral Counseling Services and The New Hampshire Conference of the United Church of Christ.
Even though Friday is normally my day off, I went to the seminar and am glad that I did. There I met many other ministers. Dr. Olsen's presentation gave us much to consider. We have mandatory Boundary Awareness Training in the Conference, but this expanded my understanding in helpful ways. Dr. Olsen contends, and I believe it to be true, that the lesser boundary violations that happen in the course of one's ministry may lead to more severe situations. It is true that "we violate boundaries daily." Even though these are not as egregious as sexual boundary violations (misconduct), they are also cause for concern. These boundary crossings can also lead to great trouble for us and for those we serve.
I gained a deeper awareness that habitually crossing my professional boundaries will lead to (a) burnout and/or (b) to misconduct. From my experience, I would add a third outcome: Mischief. A minister who is not aware of her/his limits will cause injury and harm in a congregational system. Such trouble may not rise to the level of misconduct, but the minister is living at the edge, functioning in a way that is not a worthy example for others to follow. It is not leadership that builds up the church.
Consider a river whose waters have risen above flood stage. The waters rush beyond the boundaries of its banks, sweeping away adjacent homes, roads, and crops. The overflowing of personal and professional boundaries creates destruction in the communities where we live and serve. The devastation caused in the souls of the people around us will linger long after repair crews have gone and life seems to be "normal" again. Churches are haunted by the effects of misconduct for generations. It is exceedingly difficult to exorcise the demons from their systems.
Well, that's enough theory. Dr. Olsen spoke to my boundary breaking when he said, in effect, "Saying no is one of the most important boundary setting activities clergy can practice." My schedule is often overbooked--not because people ask too much of me, but because I have not set good limits. My ego tempts me to believe that I can do everything; but my mind, body, and spirit collapse in exhaustion. Such ministry gets marked by mediocrity. I have not said "No" enough. Professor Walter Brueggemann taught a class on preaching the Old Testament when I was a student at Eden Seminary. I remember him saying, "Tired preachers preach tired sermons." I know that to be true; but even more, I know that a weary preacher has lost his/her ability to be self-reflective and self-aware. It's hard to assess how we are doing in ministry when we are too tired to think, reflect, and pray.
So, here it is: "No." I'm rehearsing it this morning. It is important that I know my priorities and set appropriate boundaries (and keep them) for this ministry. Busyness is not an excuse for burning out, hollowing out, and dying out. Yes, I am grateful to have been at the seminar to last Friday; but next time . . . . No.
Even though Friday is normally my day off, I went to the seminar and am glad that I did. There I met many other ministers. Dr. Olsen's presentation gave us much to consider. We have mandatory Boundary Awareness Training in the Conference, but this expanded my understanding in helpful ways. Dr. Olsen contends, and I believe it to be true, that the lesser boundary violations that happen in the course of one's ministry may lead to more severe situations. It is true that "we violate boundaries daily." Even though these are not as egregious as sexual boundary violations (misconduct), they are also cause for concern. These boundary crossings can also lead to great trouble for us and for those we serve.
I gained a deeper awareness that habitually crossing my professional boundaries will lead to (a) burnout and/or (b) to misconduct. From my experience, I would add a third outcome: Mischief. A minister who is not aware of her/his limits will cause injury and harm in a congregational system. Such trouble may not rise to the level of misconduct, but the minister is living at the edge, functioning in a way that is not a worthy example for others to follow. It is not leadership that builds up the church.
Consider a river whose waters have risen above flood stage. The waters rush beyond the boundaries of its banks, sweeping away adjacent homes, roads, and crops. The overflowing of personal and professional boundaries creates destruction in the communities where we live and serve. The devastation caused in the souls of the people around us will linger long after repair crews have gone and life seems to be "normal" again. Churches are haunted by the effects of misconduct for generations. It is exceedingly difficult to exorcise the demons from their systems.
Well, that's enough theory. Dr. Olsen spoke to my boundary breaking when he said, in effect, "Saying no is one of the most important boundary setting activities clergy can practice." My schedule is often overbooked--not because people ask too much of me, but because I have not set good limits. My ego tempts me to believe that I can do everything; but my mind, body, and spirit collapse in exhaustion. Such ministry gets marked by mediocrity. I have not said "No" enough. Professor Walter Brueggemann taught a class on preaching the Old Testament when I was a student at Eden Seminary. I remember him saying, "Tired preachers preach tired sermons." I know that to be true; but even more, I know that a weary preacher has lost his/her ability to be self-reflective and self-aware. It's hard to assess how we are doing in ministry when we are too tired to think, reflect, and pray.
So, here it is: "No." I'm rehearsing it this morning. It is important that I know my priorities and set appropriate boundaries (and keep them) for this ministry. Busyness is not an excuse for burning out, hollowing out, and dying out. Yes, I am grateful to have been at the seminar to last Friday; but next time . . . . No.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)