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.