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.