A View from the Balcony

You then, my child, be stong in the grace that is in Christ Jesus; and what you have heard from me through many witnesses entrust to faithful people who will be able to teach others as well.

--II Timothy 2:1-2 (NRSV)

 Faith gets formed in a variety of places.  Mine grew on the balcony.  For one who has always had a strong aversion to high places, sitting in the front row of the balcony at Zion-St. Paul United Church of Christ in Bay, Missouri posed a massive challenge. 

I moved up to the balcony to hold down the bench with old Louie, who sang bass on the hymns he liked and stood silently through the rest of them.  We sat on opposite ends of the front pew with a lot of open space between us.  We nodded in greeting, but never conversed.  It was probably the generation gap thing.  But Sunday after Sunday, we shared that same pew, worshipping God in the balcony--each with our own gifts and perspectives.

Several years ago, I spent some time in the empty sanctuary, reminiscing about the place that had been so special to me.  It was mid-morning on a mid-week day.  The building was empty--but unlocked, open for all--just like always.  From the balcony I remembered the saints.  I could still locate them in the pews.  I remembered the pastors of my youth and the legendary stories that accompanied their ministries. 

Sure, it's just another old church building; yet it is so much more to me--it is the sanctuary for a community that lives in and beyond time.  Here is a place where we learned the first words of faith.  It is a holy space where little ones are still cradled in pastors' arms and welcomed through the waters of baptism, where the hungry are fed and sustained with Holy Communion, where couples make vows for a lifetime, where prayers are prayed in seasons joy and in sorrow, where the resurrection is celebrated in the valley of the shadow.  It is the place where the cross leads to trust.  It is a home for Christ's community amid the tensions and the troubles of the world. 

Louie is long gone now, but I still think I can hear his deep bass voice. Others, too, have come to sing the songs and be strengthened in the faith.  There is always movement as we come and go from such spaces.  I hope some other child has found the stairs up to that balcony and found a place to grow in faith, accepted and loved by a gracious and merciful God.

And, I hope it is so in every church building.  I pray there will be a loving community that teaches faith.  May God be blessed, and may God bless that community with peace and power and life. 

Ashes, Ashes

Here we are: Lent again.  This season takes considerable spiritual discipline, a trust that goes far deeper than human ingenuity and initiative.  In the days of my parish ministry, I remember well the rigors of preparing to preach twice (sometimes three times) a week during Lent.  I remember how sanctuary lighting was always so dim.  It was harder to see at night than in the light of day.  The light was always subdued.  The windows were darkened to those on the inside; the light was reversed, flowing inside out. 

To keep Ash Wednesday among a people who resist a demonstrative faith was always a challenge.  We heard Jesus say, "Beware of practicing your piety before other people."  It gave us reason to resist the smudge of ash.  We had all the rationalizations ready to resist the ancient practice.  But, in every church, there was a group eager for the ashes.  I would number myself among them.  There is something special, holy in the ritual reminder that I am mortal, a creature of the Creator, who belongs--body and soul, in life and in death to my faithful Savior, Jesus Christ.

I remember Ash Wednesday and how the line would form, moving forward in silent somberness--young and old, the well-to-do and those with so very little.  We all came for the mark of the cross, a mark that would soon turn to a gritty smudge.  The vestments and thumb of the celebrant were often deeply marked too. 

I remember Ash Wednesday and how I learned a different way.  The imposing expression, "Remember that you are dust, and to the dust you shall return.  Repent, and believe the Gospel" was transformed to "Remember that we are dust, and to the dust we shall return.  Repent, and believe in the Gospel."  I needed to be included in the mortality and in the community that entrusts itself to God.  We are not alone, even as the ashes are imposed.  I remember choking on the ash, as those getting "treatments" came forward in their feebleness and frailty.  It was hard to whisper the word about dust in the ear of the dying; but it was, for many of those with a difficult diagnosis--a call to a deeper trust.  Our hope is in the One who knows the dust and ashes of our lives and is able to create anew.

I remember Ash Wednesday.  In the line would be little children and babies carried forward in the arms of their parents and grandparents.  What is the word for this child on Ash Wednesday?  "Remember, that Jesus loves you and will be with you always."  I took great liberty with the literal words when the little children came.  What more important word for a child at the beginning of life's journey?  "Remember that you are loved by a Gracious and Merciful God, who loves you--dust, ashes, and all.  You will never be abandoned.  You will never be forgotten.  You will never be alone."

I remember Ash Wednesday, and a simple song called "Ashes" by Tom Conroy:

We rise again from ashes,
from the good we've failed to do.
We rise again from ashes,
to create ourselves anew.
If all our world is ashes,
then must our lives be true,
An offering of ashes,
An offering to You.

We offer You our failures,
we offer You attempts;
The gifts not fully given,
the dreams not fully dreamt.
Give our stumblings direction,
give our visions wider view,
An offering of ashes,
An offering to You.

On this Ash Wednesday, deeper than all my remembering, I hope in the God who calls me back to the ashes . . . and through the ashes to life. 

Blessed Lent, sisters and brothers, . . . Blessed Lent!

Can This Church Live?

"Many contemporary congregations (particularly in the old-line denominations) are declining because they do not have a distinctive sense of Christian identity and mission or a sufficient flow of spiritual energy."  This critique is offered by Ronald Allen in the Foreword of God in Pain: Teaching Sermons on Suffering by Barbara Brown Taylor (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1998).  We have lost our identity, forgotten our mission, and become spiritually dead organizations.  Heavy stuff!

My ministry takes me to some wonderfully vibrant congregations, where there is a deep commitment to following Jesus' call and command.  The members are disciples, who know--ultimately and always--that the church belongs to Jesus Christ.  It does not belong to some prominent lay member or to a spiritual leader, pastor or preacher; but it belongs to Jesus Christ.  The congregation is not mine or ours; but rather, it is always Christ's body, visible and broken, in the midst of the world.

Those congregations that are most alive are able to see beyond themselves and their own needs and anxieties, to see the world.  They have a mission; they exist for mission--to bring healing, hope, and life to their communities and, indeed, to the whole world.  Many times I will ask the leaders of a conflicted church to talk about what they hear to be their Gospel mandate:  Why are you here?  What's the point and purpose or your existence?  What are you passionate about?  Those are centering questions for Christian identity and mission.

The decline in the mission support that flows to and through denominations is a symptom of spiritual disease.  When we no longer understand our covenant connections as life-giving relationships with others.  We are adrift and alone.  We say to our partners in mission, "I have no need of you."  When we can no longer imagine changing the world, welcoming the strangers, feeding and sheltering the hungry, standing up for those who are being pushed down--we are as good as dead. 

Being a church is not about maintaining the shrine and preserving our antiquated heritage.  I once served a congregation that was surrounded by its cemetery.  Right outside the sanctuary--just feet from the windows and doors--were the graves of the saints, who were long dead and gone.  It was hard in that context to think about living when there was so much focus on heritage and history . . . and death.  The guests who would return for the annual Memorial Day service were surprised that the little congregation persisted, their focus was on hallowing the memory of ancestors and preserving the weathered stones.

It is in preaching and worship that the Spirit energizes us and reminds us of our Christian identity and mission.  Yesterday, I worshipped with Maranatha Indonesian United Church of Christ.  Most of the service was in the Indonesian language, which I do not understand.  Yet, I felt the power of Christ's life there.  I sensed that this small congregation, facing into the imminent deportation of some its members and friends, is still Christ's church.  It is alive and vital.  It is connected in covenant.  These disciples know their mission and are generous in the midst of their adversity.  They are a fellowship together in and after worship.  Would that our old-line churches had such spirit!

I am grateful to God for glimpses of vitality.  May the ministry we share help the church to live.  May they all be one, and may the dead live again.

Postponing Life

As I write this morning, I am surrounded by papers that beckon for my attention.  There are calls to return, emails that seek some response, crises of various degree that would claim my undivided attention.  All are important, few are urgent. 

As I write, I also behold the beauty.  From outside bright sunshine streams through the window panes, glistening snow, and forest shadow patterns.  Inside are those who share ministry with me in the New Hampshire Conference.  All are busy at their stations, engaged in their labors.  Beautiful, committed folks who care about the church.  I am grateful to God!

And yet, I must confess.  The stacks of papers, the calls, and the emails all give shape--perhaps too much shape to my life.  They are my routine.  They become my focus.  They become my obsession, my purpose, and my future. 

How often we postpone life because some project or problem seems more immediate today.  The hours evaporate.  Days fly fast away.  The years disappear . . . gone.  I find myself in tune with the author of Ecclesiastes:  "I have seen everything that is done under the sun; and behold, all is vanity and a striving after wind."  Sometimes it is tempting to put off life until . . .

until the kids are grown and mature,

until life is more settled,

until the the market finally recovers,

until I have more leisure time, . . .

until.

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of worshipping with the congregation at South Congregational Church, United Church of Christ, in Concord.  It was the church's 175th anniversary celebration--a day of re-dedication.  That congregation did not become the community of ministry and mission that it is today by postponing life until some time down the road--when discipleship would be easier and life would be simpler.  It did not delay sharing its bread and shelter with the community around it.  Experiencing God's life--welcoming the stranger and the outcast as Jesus' friends--was not left for some future time.  As I remember yesterday, I find a faithful witness that restores my hope today.

So, here is my resolution amid this reflection:  I will live this day to the full, glorifying and praising God, loving my neighbors, and resting in the sure and certain hope of resurrection and new life.  God is in this moment, and God will be in whatever the future brings.