And Then . . . . An Angel Sneezed

I remember Christmas in California, Missouri, a community with a lot of civic pride and hope.  We did "Christmas California Style" on a Sunday night in December.  The event was a curious merging of  expression of community spirit, public piety, and commerce.  The city park became our little town of Bethlehem for that night of celebration.   There were carols echoing in the night.  There was light in the darkness.  There was a moment of ecumenical togetherness amid dogmatic divisions.  We braved the winter winds to welcome Christmas.  Almost everyone went to the park to keep Christmas together.

For several years, the United Church of Christ was asked to do the live nativity during the city's celebration.  We had a formal schedule and had several shifts as I remember it.  One's knees can only kneel for so long at the manger.  Other costumed characters were ready to take the place of those who grew cold or faint.    For several hours, laborers and managers were together in costumes at the manger.  It was a holy time of togetherness with our focus on the baby in Mary's arms.

But one Christmas celebration was more special than all the rest for me.  That year, an organizer from our church decided everything needed to be absolutely perfect in our depiction of the nativity scene, as perfect as a glittery Christmas card.  We practiced posing as figurines in the stable.  We barely breathed.  We dared not whisper.  Youths were admonished about chewing gum and giggling.  This was to be a somber, sacred display. 

But then, just as a crowd of pilgrims came to view the nativity, an angel sneezed from up high atop a hay bale into the cold night air.  It was a high-pitched, Achooooo!  For an uncomfortable moment, the spell was broken because an angel sneezed.

Nearly a decade later, I still remember that moment when the angel sneezed.  Why?  Probably because I was identifying with that organizer who wanted everything to be just perfect.  We were trying so hard to live up to his version of Luke's Christmas story. We were all striving for perfection.  That angel's sneeze brought me to a deeper awareness.  Jesus was not born among stiff statues whose hearts were hardened like concrete.  Perfection has to do with being human--even as God became human, enfleshed for the likes of us.

Here's the humbling and hopeful thing about all of this:  When I'm tempted to be the perfect disciple and impose a rigid, frozen perfection on everyone around me, some angel will sneeze or hiccup or sing off key--and it will still be Christmas because God makes it so.  God still comes to save me from my illusions of perfection.  God moves me to laugh with old Sarah at a birth we thought incredible and impossible.  And, the scene will still be sacred and beautiful and a blessing.  It is so because God is in it.  God makes it so.  So, God, let your miracle happen again.  Let Christmas come anew!

Blessed Christmas!
 

The Risk of Relationship

I just finished addressing the Christmas cards, an annual ritual of the Advent season in our home.  Each year I wonder whether this will be the last year that I spend the time pouring over a list of names and addresses that I have maintained meticulously throughout the year.  It takes lots of energy to maintain that list and to hold all those people in my heart.  Our list has names of family members and friends--both near and far--who have been with us over many years.  Though we seldom see them, yet these are people who have shaped our spirits.  I cherish the memories as I address each envelope and sign each card.  A prayer ascends as the ink is applied and dries.  I remember the relationship in a profound way.  I am anchored anew in great gratitude and love.

But, it also occurs to me as I write each address that this holy time summons me to build enduring relationships for today.  Advent invites a new risk--the risk of relationship.  When God came into Bethlehem's manger, an amazing risk was involved.  Jesus was born a stranger in our midst.  He didn't know a soul, yet came to save every soul, every life and every creature, all of creation.  God risked a relationship of love. The Gospel prologue puts it this way, "He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him.  But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God."  My Jesus lives and dies with arms outstretched, reaching up, extending out for embrace--for relationship.

My prayer tonight is that someone somewhere will discover in me the outstretched arms of the Christ and know that his, her, our lives are not intended to be lived in loneliness and isolation.  It's not really about the card, but the care--the openness to reach out, to be vulnerable, and to stay connected.  The risk of relationship . . . I have seen it modeled well in a little baby, the Holy Child of Bethlehem.  It is revealed in the God who always finds a way to be with us, to embrace us, and love us to new life.

Our God, come!  Please come . . . soon!

 

Ah, Advent!

The period from September through November has not been easy.  The speed at which things have appeared and disappeared on my desk and in my schedule has been disorienting.  Maybe my age is catching up, mortality is settling in.  As I write today, I remember Abe, an outspoken church leader with a big, generous heart.  He said once after Sunday morning worship, "Reverend, if you ever lose your mind, we're all in trouble."  I took that as a compliment in 1993.  Truth be told, I probably did lose my mind back in those days of parish ministry and still am in the process of losing (and finding) it again in this crazy thing called conference ministry.  I also recall a service of installation in one of our churches early in my ministry in New Hampshire.  It was during the reception following the service that a short, elderly woman peered up at me over her the rim of her teacup to ask, "Now, who are you and why are you here?"  Such is life as a Conference Minister in the Untied Church of Christ:  Who am I?  Why am I here?

All this is prologue to Advent.  Ah, Advent, the beginning of something wonderfully new.  The old is passing away; God's newness is near.  There is more to come than what I have previously experienced.  The lost things are secure and will eventually be found.  All will be revealed for what it really is.  God is coming to judge and to save, to set things right, and to bless the world with hope. 

Yesterday, as I worshipped with the Congregational Church of Hooksett, I saw a single  purple candle that was lit in the Advent wreath.  It was designated, "The Candle of Hope."  Somehow the flickering flame brought home for me the gift of hope.  Amid gray and cloudy days in my soul--and the soul of our nation--there is hope.  God is coming!  God is coming!  God is coming!

Help me, O Coming One, to bask in this Advent time, to allow it to challenge and to change me in profound ways.   Prepare me to receive your eternal life.  Move me to be a child of your grace.  Grant your church space to reflect, to lay down all our preconceived notions and opinions as we listen long for your Word.  Keep us alert and awake,  so that we may be surprised and rejoice at your appearing .  O God, come!  Amen.

A Dwelling Place for God

This summer I was invited to preach at the Lee Church Congregational, a congregation of the United Church of Christ in the New Hampshire Conference.  That was a very special day, as we met in the church's fellowship hall for worship.  We worshipped in that space because something new was happening in Lee: the sanctuary was being renovated.  The fellowship hall was a bright, inviting space for the Sunday morning service.  A different kind work--a labor of great love and deep devotion--was happening in the regular worship space.

Following worship, I was taken on a tour of the sanctuary.  It had been stripped back to the studs.  The attic was exposed.  It was amazing to perceive the old in the midst of the new that was emerging.  Other hearts had sensed the stirring of God's Spirit.  Other hands had generously given.  Other bodies had labored long to make that sanctuary a reality.  And now, in our own time, Pastor Gail Kindberg and the congregation that is Lee Church Congregational are joining that work in a very special, even sacred way.  They are building for the future, building in faith, hope, and love on the foundational work of those who have gone before.  Theirs is an act of devotion and love.  They will leave a beautiful worship space for the generations that will come to call this sanctuary home.  A refrain in a recent article by the Pastor rings with joyful gratitude, "We are richly blessed."

As I write today, I note that the congregation will move into the renovated sanctuary for a first service on October 27.  If you seek a sanctuary and a community of Christ's people, where God's Spirit stirs hearts and minds, where resurrection hope is real--here's one!  The New Hampshire Conference of the United Church of Christ is also "richly blessed" by the loving devotion of our local churches and the courage and compassion with which they serve God in our time.

A text springs to mind in the midst of my gratitude: 

So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God, built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets with Christ Jesus himself as the cornerstone.  In him, the whole structure is joined together and grows into a holy temple in the Lord; in whom you also are built together spiritually into a dwelling place for God.  (Ephesians 2:219-22, NRSV)

 

An End of Summer Reflection

I have learned that summer is short in New England.  The growing season passes swiftly.  The heat of summer, though perhaps intense for a time, is short-lived.  In recent days, the mornings have been cool.  The days are getting noticeably shorter.  An ending is coming.

A text from Jeremiah, caught my eye last night.  This is one of the readings in the lectionary for September 22, 2013, which is the Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Cycle C).   I am scheduled to preach in one of our churches that morning, but I will likely not bring this text into the pulpit with me.  Even so, I know it will be lodged in the depths of my heart.

Here's the text that speaks to my spiritual depths in these waning days of summer:

My joy is gone, grief is upon me,

     my heart is sick.

Hark, the cry of my poor people

     from far and wide in the land:

"Is the LORD not in Zion?

     Is her King not in her?"

("Why have they provoked me to anger with their images, with their foreign idols?")

"The harvest is past, the summer is ended,

     and we are not saved."

For the hurt of my poor people I am hurt,

     I mourn, and dismay has taken hold of me.

Is there no balm in Gilead?

     Is there no physician there?

Why then has the health of my poor people

     not been restored?

O that my head were a spring of water,

     and my eyes a fountain of tears,

so that I might weep day and night

     for the slain of my poor people!

--Jeremiah 8:18-9:1, NRSV

This is not a cheery, carefree kind of text!  It is so heavy, so gloomy, so deeply down.  Yet, this text is where I dwell in these days.  Even in the light of  a new day, I relish this text.  The subtext is a dose of stark reality:  "The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved."  There is unfinished business, and the season for salvation appears to have come and gone. We missed it.  It is over.  We are not saved.  We are not healed, as we had so fervently hoped.  Many hearts still ache and break.  A river of tears wells up and flows out like a fountain.    We are a long way from the New Jerusalem where we hear the voice, announcing, that God is in the midst of her, that tears and death and mourning and pain and death all over.  No more!  In God's good time it will be so; but for now, all is still not well with God's world: 

Syria poses a deadly, international dilemma.  How then shall shall the world respond? 

Medicaid expansion is freighted with paralyzing political posturing and rhetorical talking points, while the poor people are silenced, pushed aside, left to fend for themselves, . . . left to die.

The changes in the earth's climate are accepted as inevitable and natural when human influence is clearly involved.  We are complicit in the crisis.  Our actions and attitudes have consequences that will affect our generation and those yet to come.

The gathering in Washington, D.C. to commemorate the historic March on Washington, which  happened fifty years ago this very week, reminds us that we have such a long, long road to walk for equality and freedom for all God's children in this land. Is there still a dream today or have we succumbed anew to the sin of a segregated society?

I know Jeremiah well; we are kindred souls.  He gets to the heart of things.  The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved.  His words sound disturbing and depressing, but they move us toward a wider horizon, toward the horizon of hope, toward an empty tomb and a Holy City and amazing joy.

Is the Lord not in the Zion?  Is the Sovereign not in the city?  So, is there a balm in Gilead?  Is there hope to counter the weighty despair that underlies this holy text?  Answers do not spring forth quickly; but imploring questions abound.  And, in these piercing questions is where I find hope.  When people of faith are driven back to their questions and find their voice to ask them--this is a movement toward hope.  Questions become pleas and prayers for those who refuse to give up on God's promise.  Questions name the reality.  They give us pause and move us to listen for deeper responses.  Questions are expressions of faithful people, struggling to find their footing when all appears lost.  Indeed, I am grateful for the witness of every Jeremiah, who is moved to pray in questions in the midst of disappointment and despair.  It is there, near the bottom--near the end of summer--that hope is born.

O God, who joins us in our tears, our sadness, and our death: When easy answers elude and fail to satisfy our deepest longings, grant us courage to ask you the hard questions.  Grant us such faith that we may trust through the sorrows and the silences of life.  As this summer season ends, reassure us with the hope of restoration and resurrection.  In this ending, in your good time, let life sprout and spring forth.  Is there still a balm in Gilead?  Do you not care that we are languishing and perishing?  Will your poor people be remembered and healed?  See us through, O God.  Yes, see us through.

Engaging Faith

This morning we were in worship led by a colleague in the Missouri-Mid South Conference of the United Church of Christ.  Dale has been one of those memorable mentors in my ministry. He has been an influential figure in my life, a brother in Christ, who has served with great joy and a dash of holy irreverence in every setting where he has been called.  Dale has persevered as a pastor and teacher; ministry is clearly his calling.  He stays long--but never too long.  His life continues to be led by a joyful, even playful Spirit.  He connects with his congregants.

This morning's worship was a contemporary service.  It was powerful.  (I usually prefer "traditional" worship to "contemporary" worship.)  Today was different.  The whole service was about faith, grounded in scriptures from Hebrews 11:1-16 and Luke 12:32-47.  Dale reminded us of the Question 80 in the Evangelical Catechism:  What is faith?   The response:  "Faith is complete trust in God and willing acceptance of [God's] grace in Jesus Christ."  I memorized that answer in my youth, but now I am not convinced: Complete trust in God?  My trust is often fractured and scattered.  It is a long way from "complete."  When I think of complete trust in God, I hear Jesus cry out in victory in the midst of his dying, "It is finished!" (John 19:30)   I admire that kind of courage and confidence; I aspire to it.  My prayer includes a confession that my trust in God is incomplete and far from finished.  But God continues to be engaged and committed to love even through suffering and death.  That's complete faith!

Here, though, is what I took away this morning as I listened for the Spirit to speak through my friend Dale:  Faith is the resilience to remain engaged even when we are not sure where the journey may lead.  Faith is God's determination to stay engaged with us even when we are easily distracted and even oblivious to God's claim on our lives.  Faith is in our decision to stay connected with those we love and those we have not yet learned to love.  Faith is the joyful commitment to stay, even when we feel like giving up and running away toward the mirage of an  easier, carefree life.

Tonight I am basking in the glow of today's worship and continuing to reflect about what all this might mean in my own ministry.  It will soon be seven years since I began as the Conference Minister of the New Hampshire Conference of the United Church of Christ.  The days have been full, often stretching my spirit in ways that I could not have imagined when I began.   The years have gone so quickly.   Sure, there has been some personal sacrifice in this service; but mostly, there has been receptivity, satisfaction, and deep joy.  It is my calling.  God's Spirit has seen me through and will still see me through--of this I am convinced.  Faith is the predisposition to care enough to remain engaged, listening to the Spirit and loving those for whom Christ died and rose again.  I trust this to be so, and it is.

Great is your faithfulness, O God! 
     Great is your love and mercy! 
          Great is your call to life! 

Thank you for the gift of a Sabbath day and for your servant Dale.  May his ministry continue to be a source of strength and joy for so many of us.  May we be found faithful now, in the end, and always.  May it be so!  Amen.

"No More of This!"

Christopher Harris
by sculptor Rudolph Torrini

On June 7, 1991, in a section of the City of St. Louis that had once been my home, a gun fight between two men broke out in a drug deal that went terribly wrong.  Christopher Harris, a nine-year-old African American boy was used as a human shield.  Christopher was shot in the back and died as a result of the violence.  The tragedy prompted some in the St. Louis community to surrender their guns.  A bronze cast statue of Christopher, dedicated six years after the killing, is filled with the melted parts of handguns.  It is a memorial to all the children lost in violence and as a symbol of healing.  The statue stands as part of the SSM Cardinal Glennon Children's Medical Center on South Grand Boulevard in St. Louis.

Trayvon Martin
February 5, 1995-February 26, 2012

On February 26, 2012, another African American youth, a seventeen-year-old high school student named Trayvon Martin was killed in gun violence in Sanford, Florida.  George Zimmerman, a neighborhood watch coordinator was charged with murder in Martin's death and was eventually acquitted of second-degree murder and manslaughter charges on July 13, 2013.  That verdict has prompted an outcry from many who believe that justice was not served by this case.  Racial profiling is rooted in prejudice that threatens the very foundations of our society.  The tragic rush to violence diminishes us all.

I wonder today about how it will all end . . . What is the antidote to our deadly disease of violence?  Where is the monument that will help us remember, grieve, and heal after the tragic death of Trayvon Martin?  What sense might be made of this?  What difference will I make?  What will we do now? 

Today, I hear Jesus say, "No more of this!"  In Luke 22:49ff., when Jesus' followers tried to resist his arrest with violence, Jesus rejected their action with a stern rebuke.  "No more of this!" was his response to the injury they inflicted on the high priest's slave.  When the threat against him was great, when his death was drawing near, Jesus responded to bring healing to a slave's ear.

Yes, today, I hear Jesus say, "No more of this!" to the endless arguing by advocates for gun ownership without any restrictions.  Our real security is never in the idolatrous weaponry that we would use to defend ourselves.  "No more of this!"

"No more of this!" echoes down to those who would be self-proclaimed vigilantes for justice.  Tin-star, stand-your-ground laws will not make our society safer.  Ultimately, our true security is not in our own right or our own might to defend our selves.  "No more of this!"

"No more of this!" is Jesus' warning to all who would divide us by teaching doctrines of fear and separation.  Our security is not in huddling in closed circles but in growing in our understanding of and love for others no matter what their race or creed or nationality or sexual orientation--or whether we deem them to be friend or foe.  "No more of this!" 

I hear our Jesus crying out, "No more of this!" to the deaths of children and youth in our own streets.  The violence in St. Louis, Aurora and Newtown, and  Sanford must stop.  Now!  "No more of this!"

O God, in your suffering may we find our true security.  Lift the cross of your Son, Jesus, as a symbol of hope and healing amid all the injurious words and deeds that we inflict on others.  May it remind us that none of us is truly innocent, but that all of us are enmeshed in the way of violence and death.  Help us to remember, to grieve the deaths, and to cherish the lives of those who have been victims of violence in your world.  Make us agents of your reconciling love, your justice, and your peace.  Amen.

 

And Nothing Will Hurt You

It was great to be in Gorham, leading worship and meeting with the pastoral search committee this morning.  Last year, when the congregation celebrated its 150th Anniversary, the chosen theme was Honor the Past . . . Build the Future.  I sense that this church is living into a new future.  Of the 41 folks in worship on this holiday weekend (it looked like more to me), six were guests who came to visit.  The Spirit is stirring in Gorham.  A future is being built.  It is good.

As I was preaching, a tiny text within the text caught my attention as it had not done before.  It is part of Jesus' response to the ministry of the seventy apostles that he commissioned and sent out to be his advance teams.  Here it is: "See, I have given you authority to tread on snakes and scorpions, and over the power of the enemy; and nothing will hurt you."  And nothing will hurt you.  I take this to be a powerful promise.

Of course, there are things that might cause us trouble--like scorpions and snakes, biting criticism and intense conflict, boredom or restlessness of spirit, chronic or incurable diseases, grief and loss, and death itself.  Jesus does not say that snakes won't strike or that scorpions won't sting.  But his promise feels stronger to me than anything we can experience or imagine:  And nothing will hurt you.

In some respects, this reminds me of the way that Paul taunts death itself in I Corinthians 15. 

 

"Death has been swallowed up in victory."

 

"Where, O Death is your victory?

   Where, O Death is your sting."

 

 

There are still lots of things that may unsettle me and cause trouble.  Something sometime will kill me; but I hold fast to the word I heard in the midst of other words today:  "And nothing will hurt you."  Here is the source of my courage and my comfort. 

 

 

O Lord Christ, when I am tempted to fear, grant me such faith that in life and in death I may trust your presence and your promise.  You inscribe my name on your heart.  You fit me for eternal life.  You bless me with empowering assurance--no matter what comes--it will be well.  I hear you say, "And nothing will hurt you."  I take your word to heart.  You are my hope.  Alleluia.  Amen.

The Dragon Outside My Door

In the early years of my ministry, I kept a chalkboard outside my office door and would leave simple notes for those who might drop by while I was away.  "Gone to lunch, back by 1:00 o'clock."  "At the hospital -I'll be in tomorrow morning."  It was a low-tech communication tool, and it worked well in those days.

Sometimes, visitors would erase my note or write around its edges, leaving their own messages.  One morning when I arrived at the office, I was amazed to find an elaborate chalk drawing of a dragon.  The scene was complex and frightening.  The background was a forest.  Huge boulders were strewn around in the foreground.  In the center of the scene, a dragon loomed large and angry.  It was many times larger than the small man it was attacking with flames of deadly fire flowing from its nostrils. 

In addition, to feeling amazed when I discovered the artwork on my chalkboard, I felt scared, threatened, and vulnerable.  Who would have put such a scene outside my office door?  What did it mean?  My initial impulse was to see myself as that tiny little person.  I jumped to the conclusion that some congregant was angry with me, upset about a Sunday sermon or a missed opportunity for pastoral care.  Sometimes a pastor's ego and insecurity really works overtime!  Mine did as I came upon that drawing of the dragon.

Then I saw it, in the right corner down in a small clump of grass in front of a boulder were the tiny initials, "JT"  Ah, yes, this was Joe, the congregant who often stopped by to chat about how things were going in the church.  Joe was the owner and manager of the local office supply store.  He had inherited the family business and from his father and his grandfather and his great-grandfather.  For nearly a century, Joe's family had run the business in the small-town community.  I was even more confused now:  What was up with Joe?  He never drew pictures like this before.

Later that week, I visited a professor who had deep insights into the interpretation of images and dreams.  Thankfully, she helped me to see that the image on the board was not about some deep-seated animosity towards me.  The dragon was not Joe; and the little, vulnerable man was not me.  Nor was this a theological statement with a fire-breathing God who is out to intimidate and destroy humanity.  She suggested what a subsequent visit with Joe confirmed.  The weight of the family business, its place in the community and the assumption that it would go on forever, handed down from generation to generation was the oppressive issue.  Joe would have been far better suited to running a building design company or using his artistic gifts instead of managing a family business that was becoming increasingly irrelevant in a world of mega office supply stores.  The world was changing rapidly.  There was no son or daughter in Joe's home who would take over the business when he retired.  The kids had other aspirations and interests.   So, Joe would be the last of the local owners of a business that bore the family name.  The end was imminent.  It was with some sadness, but also a wonderful sense of relief that Joe sold the family business and moved away to Arizona with his wife, Sandi.  There in semi-retirement he paints landscapes and enjoys a new life . . . without the dragon.

Many today might draw the parallel between the weight of a family business and that of managing a mainline, old-line church.  The weight of the centuries now rests upon us.  We have inherited a heavy tradition, and there is the expectation that we must leave a legacy of faith for the next generation.  Clergy and lay leaders worry over the future of our houses of worship, which are vestiges from a far different era.  While they hold many special, even sacred, memories, they also are a heavy burden for congregations that are smaller and older, serving in a different world than when they were first gathered.  I am not suggesting we throw up our hands in despair or post a For Sale sign on the front lawn, but I do question whether it all rests with us.  Last summer's reading of Edwin Friedman's Generation to Generation taught me that too much "seriousness" in a system is a sign stress and disease.  A fire-breathing dragon is a serious and scary symbol.

Perhaps we need to remember a text, attributed to Jesus, first spoken to Simon Peter back at the beginning:  "And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it."  (Matthew 16:18, NRSV).  It is not so much about Peter or his profession of faith, but about the promise of the One who does the building:  I will build my church!  I think it is time for a breath--the deep, life-giving breath of the Spirit--in a new day.  It is time for the return of joy, rather than seriousness and dire predictions of our demise.  It is time to confront our dragons and demons and be free of the heavy burdens we try to carry in the name of Christ.  It is time for listening for a call, for being disciples who can be surprised and inspired, for serving in the midst of God's beautiful and broken world. 

O God,
Build your church anew today.
Shape us by your Spirit, so that we may be the church together, making the faith our own in this generation.
Free us to laugh and to love and to serve with courageous and joyful hearts.
Give us wisdom to manage well, but not to take our management too seriously.
Surprise us with what may yet be in store, and help us paint a landscape of justice and peace.
Amen.

   

So This Is Ministry

Those who are engaged in ministry, especially the introverts among us, have been confronted with the question:  "So what is it that you do?"   It may be voiced by our families or our congregants or total strangers.  Often I have stammered for a succinct answer.  I know well that air travel cartoon where a neighbor in the next seat asks the vocational question, and I am stuck for the next two hours in a theological conversation or a impromptu pastoral care session on the spot.

But, I think the deeper reality for me is to make peace with my ministry, or more precisely with God, who summoned (and still summons) me to this service.  Ministry is complex.  Every minster's job description falls short of a check list.  "Do this, and you will be successful."  "Do this, and you will have a meaningful life, a fruitful career."  "Do this, and you will make a difference in the world."  Faithfulness to our vocation is multifaceted, and it can be complicated.  It is not really about the questioning of strangers on airplanes, but those wonderings that emerge when I am in the stillness of the night, as I survey the high moments of this calling along with the disappointments and the sorrows that I have experienced.

After nearly seven years as a Conference Minister of the United Church of Christ and a seemingly endless, anxious conversation about the future of the "institutional church," I want to say, "Enough already!"  Yes, things are changing, as well they should.  But I am not called to be a CEO of a business that measures its effectiveness by the profits on the balance sheet.  This is not a call to be an executive that somehow sets me apart from others.  It's in my title, Conference Minister.  A Conference is a setting of the church; it is the church to which I am called for this time in the journey.  Ministry is service offered in the Spirit of Christ, crucified and risen, my Judge and my Hope.  It is listening attentively for the Shepherd's voice, and following--as best I am able--that call.  It is leading with humility and hope, confidence and courage, into a future, where there is justice and peace, blessedness, glorious life.

There will likely be more airplane rides with inquisitive seatmates.  There will surely be more anxious conversations about the place of the "middle judicatory" and whether it has any vitality and future.  Today, I choose to be a servant of the Servant in the midst of many others who know their baptism to be a call to ministry.  Today, I am grateful to God for this calling; and for the deep assurance that, whatever comes, all will be blessed and well in the presence of the Living God.
 

 

It's Morning?

Last Sunday's sermon was anchored in Psalm 30:

Weeping may linger for the night;

But joy comes with the morning. 

I taught the congregation to declare it over and again, "But joy comes with the morning."  It's Easter after all, the season of resurrection and new life.  It's time to move beyond old laments to the new songs of praise.  It's  time to put away the sad, heavy dirges and sing for joy.   Alleluia!

That was Sunday . . . then came Monday, with two explosions at the finish line of the Boston Marathon.  A day that began with glorious, beautiful morning turned to tragedy in the afternoon.  I sat at a table and prayed at the opening of a meeting, oblivious to what had happened in Boston and to what was happening in the hearts of those who prayed beside me.  They had received the terrible news as they arrived.  I had not yet heard it.  The deeper prayer happened in the silence after the spoken prayer.  We were carried back to other tragic times.  We went all the way back to Holy Week, from Sunday to Monday to Friday all over again.  "But joy comes with the morning."  It's morning?  Really?  Where?

Then came Wednesday with its news that our elected leaders had rejected an opportunity to speak and act to limit gun violence in our society.  It was not even a bold bill that was before them.  Could they not remember what had happened on Gibson Avenue to little Christopher Harris so many years ago?  He would have been nearly fifty now.  His life was taken by a culture saturated with guns, drugs, and violence.  His life was taken away.  Day became night.  Could they not remember what had happened so recently in Columbine and Aurora, and so recently in Newtown?  All those precious lives taken away.  "But joy comes with the morning."  It's morning?  Really?  How?

Then came Thursday and the news of an horrific blast in the night in West, Texas.  Volunteer firefighters rushing to save a burning fertilizer plant . . . to save their town.  Lives taken in a flash, given up in the service of others.  A town destroyed, left in broken pieces.  Where are the lilies, the trumpets and the echoes of the alleluias now?  "But joy comes with the morning."  This is morning? 

I wonder, in light of all that has happened in but one week--this week--how I would revise my Sunday sermon were I preaching this Sunday--the Fourth Sunday of Easter.  "Weeping may linger for the night; but joy comes with the morning."  I still believe it to be a word of God for the people of God.  I still anchor my soul in this hope: God's righteousness and love will prevail. Christ's resurrection will be our reality. For now, I will stretch myself toward Sunday, longing for the dawning of God's new day.  I will sit with the silence.  I will pray for all those whose lives are have been changed and taken.  I will cry out for justice, for shalom in this society.  I will pray for the dawn yet again; and I will continue to be confident in the refrain of an ancient poet:  "But joy comes with the morning."

O God, through my tear-filled eyes and my broken heart, give me but a glimpse of your dawn.  Grant us all wisdom and courage.  Bless all people with your joy.  Alleluia!

Life on "Low Sunday"

Yesterday, as we walked toward the front door of our church building, a violet crocus had poked up through the soil where just days before a ridge of snow had been piled.  There were baskets of pansies on either side of the door to greet us.  The signs of life were apparent, even on a Sunday that is often considered to be "low" after the exuberant joy of Easter Sunday.

Once inside the sanctuary we were greeted with more life.  Our congregation had a larger than anticipated crowd of congregants.  The praise band played with joy and taught us to sing a new song in a new day.  Seven new members joined the church.  We heard about the faith of Thomas and came to a greater appreciation for his discipleship.  The Communion Table was spread and shared.  The Risen One was among us.  There was life--joyous, glorious life--even on Low Sunday.

In the afternoon, I attended the Installation of Rev. David Keller at South Newbury Union Church.  This was no ordinary installation, but a service overflowing with promise, energy, and life.  So many came to witness and celebrate the new covenant that was made.  It was probably the final formal service of the Sullivan Association (our oldest) as it soon will merge with other Associations; yet, there was life in the service.  There was hope.  There was the possibility of a new future, a new beginning--the joy of resurrection.  The Risen One was there!

Sometimes, when I least expect it--even on Low Sundays and Mondays--life breaks in and breaks out.  The Risen Christ comes and leads my heart to deeper joy and renewed hope.  Resurrection is the reality that changes the heart and transforms the world.  It is so!  Alleluia!

No One Goes Hungry Here

Last Sunday, I received a revelation.  It was a moment of powerful clarity about the purpose and mission of the church.  During the announcements, I heard the pastor say, "No one goes hungry here."  It was a rather ordinary Sunday morning announcement, sharing about an upcoming fellowship event in the life of the congregation.  But, I heard God speak in the voice of that pastor, "No one goes hungry here."

What if those five words were to become a mission statement for the churches?  

• What if, on any given Sunday morning, our hunger for the living God were satisfied?  "No one goes hungry here."  
• What if the local pantry were stocked to overflowing, so that everyone who came hungering for daily bread was satisfied?  "No one goes hungry here."  
• What if God's forgotten and frightened little ones found friendship and community in a common meal where Jesus, crucified and risen, is eternally present.  "No one goes hungry here."
• What if . . . ? 

I remember the wise teacher who taught that those who receive Communion are themselves called to be feeders of others.  When the bread and wine are served at the chancel steps, there must always be an attentive, watchful deacon who sees those who are unable to make their way to the front.  The most wonderful symbol of care comes as the pastor makes her way down the aisle, moving through the congregation, carrying the bread and cup to an isolated member.  Holy Communion requires that "No one goes hungry here."

When the church carries consecrated elements of grace and peace into the world--into nursing homes and hospitals, into Alzheimer's units, into prisons, into homeless shelters--there is true communion.  "No one goes hungry here."

This is more than a clever slogan, another marketing strategy for the Church.  It is Christ's mission.  I heard a great sermon in five words, a simple sentence with propelling implications:  "No one goes hungry here."

May we become the church we profess to be!  Let the hungry be fed. 
May it be so, O God!  May it be so!

Pure Gratitude

Yesterday, I found myself delivering a cake to Concord High School.  It was a bittersweet moment.  The cake was an expression of gratitude for the five years of wonderful education, structure, and friendship that the school has brought into the life of our son Matthew.  On January 25, Matt will leave Concord High for the last time as a student and enter the bigger world of services for special needs adults.  This new network of support is a bit scary to contemplate.  It depends, it seems, more directly on the cooperative spirit of politicians and community leaders to fund programs for those who have different abilities and the more vulnerable members of our society.  But that is another topic for another day.

Today, I am thinking about the feeling of extreme generosity that swept over me as I drove the cake to the party.  I found myself tearing up with gratitude for Mr. Bombacci, for classroom teachers, the teaching assistants, for bus drivers, for the principal and office staff, for coaches, and for fellow students who extended hospitality and friendship to Matt when he was new to Concord nearly six years ago.  It has been an amazing, wonderful experience for our family. 

I felt gratitude--pure gratitude, and still feel that.  I suspect I'll always feel this way.  If someone from the school calls and asks our help with a project, we'll be there.  If the school needs an increase in funding, we'll advocate for that.  If another family needs a testimonial, we'll have no trouble giving that.  It's pure gratitude, wanting to give and to give back so that someone else will be helped along the way.

Isn't that what the church should be, too?  Shouldn't such feelings of pure gratitude to God for the gifts of the Spirit, for the hope of new life, for healing and help--shouldn't these motivate us to be generous?  Sadly, I don't always see such gratitude underneath calculated pledge campaigns and weary pleas for funding next year's church budget.  I don't see pure gratitude for the gift of a pastor's care and leadership.  I don't hear hymns of gratitude sung with great joyous acclamation to God.  I must confess it:  I felt more gratitude delivering the cake than I often feel when I sit in the pew of a local church.  Why is that?  What's that about?  Has faith flattened out, squashing and squelching the feeling of gratitude?  Hard, but necessary questions today.

Generous God, thank you!  Thank you!  Thank you!  Thank you for the great gift of relationships that make a difference in our world.  Thank you for the educators and students at Concord High School (and other schools).  Thank you for your presence in your church and in your world.  Move me to deeper gratitude and generous relationships; in the Name of that One who comes, risking poverty and death, that we might have a future filled with joy and abundant life--in the name of Jesus  Amen.

One Slightly Soiled White Stole

Yesterday I had a mini crisis.  I needed my white stole, one that I seldom wear.  I was headed to a formal, ecumenical event where clergy had been asked to wear white stoles.  My stole was not where I last saw it.  I searched high and low in the closet where I keep my vestments.  That search took me back to another time . . . . a blessed memory:

It was Easter Sunday in California, Missouri.  I had been up for a long, long time.  There had been the traditional sunrise service at the break of day.  Then, came Easter worship at Salem United Church of Christ out in the country.  Finally, I was readying myself for worship at the United Church of Christ in California.  When I arrived that morning, the parking lots were already filled.  There were no on-street parking spots for three blocks away.  It was going to be a big day of celebration.  The folks turned out for Easter!

But, when I began to vest for the service, my white stole was nowhere to be found.  It had been on the hanger under my robe when I left Salem half an hour before.  Where had it gone?  Then, at the very last minute, at the office door an usher appeared with my stole in his hand.  Some worshipper had found it lying in the street a block or so from the church, along the route that I had walked after parking my car.  The stole had been retrieved and delivered to me--just in time before the trumpets began to sound for the processional.

That white stole was no worse for the time that it spent in the street.  It just seemed more real, more authentic--more grounded than before.  Once while wearing that stole at a committal in the church cemetery, it had gotten saturated with rain--but just on one side.  It had a water mark--maybe a baptismal mark--already.  And, before that my Aunt Dolores' sister, Norma, had kissed me at my installation in 1982.  Somehow she managed to get a little smudge of red lipstick on the back of the white stole that I did not hurry to launder away.  My white stole, a symbol of light and purity, had made its pilgrimage over the years of ministry.  It was holy because it had gone through earth's sufferings--even landing in the street on an Easter Sunday.

Well, yesterday I panicked, thinking that I had abandoned my white stole in some lonely parish hall after an installation or ordination.  I searched my memory.  No usher appeared at our door.  But . . . then I looked again in the closet, and the old stole was hanging right along with the others.  Waiting to be worn.  It was like finding an old friend--one who has been through the times, seasons, and sufferings of life.  I was grateful to put it on--a vivid, though slightly soiled reminder, of God's marvelous, victorious light.