Go out in life...

I know what I was supposed to say.  Because when the church calendar announces that it's Ash Wednesday, we all hop to.  We talk about sin and mortality and being made clean.  We say that we're going to sit in somber sobriety for the next six weeks, and that nary an "alleluia!" will cross our lips.  I mean, it's the least we can do... you know, since Jesus died for us.  The least we can do is do a little dying ourselves.

I have to admit I've struggled with Lent the last few years.  Last year, I said the right words.  I purely wept as I marked my congregation with ashes.  And then I wrote this manifesto.  This year, my brain and heart had a mutiny. The more I sat down and tried to write the words, the less I found that anything at all would come out.  I had a pretty little temper tantrum in my office.  Because no matter what the church calendar said, the words from Ecclesiastes rattled around in my head "To everything there is a season."  And while we might be out of sync with the rest of the church, I realized that we are not in a season where it is right our good for us to mourn or weep or ponder our brokenness too deeply.  We've had a tough year, and we're not out of the desert yet.  We're in a season where our words will be "Behold, I'm doing a new thing.  The former things will not be remembered." And our words will be "Do not be afraid."

So I forewent the usual Psalm 51, and anything else that smacked of what I was "supposed" to say.  And instead I lifted up for them Isaiah 61.  Before they came for ashes, I told them that I was marking them as a sign of life, not as a sign of death. As a sign of love, not one of condemnation.  And then as each lifted their forhead to me, I said the ancient words, but with something else.  "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.  But go out in life."  Our eyes met, and every single one had the same response.  A weight lifted-- visibly.  And then a smile, mine then theirs.  Theirs then mine.  And before it was all over, we all smiled.

As the service came to a close, I said this. "Your bulletin says you should go out in silence, but for the  LOVE of God, please don't do that.  Please go out telling the good news, dancing for joy, and singing the loudest song of thanksgiving you know."

I realized what I should've added was "After all, what good is a Christian who has no alleluia to offer the world?"

It was a holy night.  A night when we traded our ashes of mourning and grief and anxiety and questions for a garland of beauty. A night when we together remembered what it is to be loved, and reclaimed our calling as people meant to shine.





Here's my Ash Wednesday meditation for those that have asked.

It’s not like Lent exactly snuck up on me.  I’ve had a year-ish, for pete’s sake.  But my brain isn’t ready for Lent-- and I think it’s having a mutiny.  Not in a forgetful way, but in a refusal to write the words way. Because what I’m supposed to say tonight is “Remember that you are mortal.  That you are broken and sinful.  That your body will die and it will be returned to the ground, Ashes to Ashes dust to dust.  That you should spent the next six weeks in somber reflection of that fact. That you should not say Alleluia, that we should not have flowers in the sanctuary.”  That’s what I’m supposed to say.

But every time I start to write it, I find that I am unable. And the more I pray about making those words come out of my mouth, and the less they still come out, I’m wondering if those are really the words I’m really supposed to say, or if they’re just words tradition says I’m supposed to say. Because every time I start to pray the Ash Wednesday words, the words that spring to my head are “Behold, I am doing a new thing.”  Maybe that’s the ashes part.  Because ashes are the most fertile thing for life.  A few years ago, when I worked at the children’s home, one of our children (out of anger) burned down one of the cottages.  But before we had gotten the building razed, there were flowers that started springing up. Beautiful, bold, alive flowers... right there in the place of burned decay.  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

And as I look out (and as I thought about each of you tonight), I know that you’ve stood in Ashes more than you should.  I know that you’re worried and anxious and grieving and remembering simpler times. 

We’re like this teapot.  Everytime I walk by it, I remind myself to polish it.  And I tell myself that who ever made that teapot wouldn’t be so thrilled to see it that way.  Heartbroken maybe. Because I’d guess that teapot was meant to be a lovely piece, that was tea between friends, that was a cup of warmth at a holiday gathering, that was the mark of true and genuine hospitality.  But since that tea pot came to my house, that’s not been it’s life.  It sits there on a lonely shelf, neglected in a room that I rarely enter anymore.  It’s badly tarnished.  It’s a tragic thing I think when something of beauty isn’t beautiful anymore.  This teapot was meant to shine.

I think maybe we get tarnished too-- though it isn’t so obvious as my poor teapot.  But don’t we get tarnished when we’re weighed down by worry and concern? Don’t we get tarnished when we’ve lost the notion that the gospel is the Good News promise of amazing love? Don’t we get tarnished when we keep it to ourselves? 

So, the more I think about it, the less I’m willing to tell you to spend the next six weeks thinking about your sin, and focusing on what you’ve done wrong. I’m unwilling to tell you that it’s proper to give up things in the name of Jesus.  Because the truth is that Jesus died for you, but he died so that you might have life and have it more abundantly than you’ve ever known.  Jesus did not die so that you or the church could sit in the ashes.  Jesus died so that you might know grace, because the problem of being a human being is that we’re all broken and incapable of getting it right.  So why would we talk about sin, except so that we can talk about grace?

Here’s my proposition for you for Lent.  If you’re really feeling called to give up something, do.  If you’re really called to take on acts of service, do. That’s fine and good. But I’d like to invite you into a very different spiritual discipline for the next six weeks.  Warning: it may not be any easier than giving things up. It will require discipline.  My invitation to you is to spend the next six weeks shining.

Whatever it is that is tarnishing you, let it go.  Let it go, let it go, let it go. And instead, shine. We shine when we are joyful from the inside out, shine when our trust is unshakable because of the one it is in whom we trust. We shine when we love, even when it is hard or inconvenient.  We shine when we tell the story.  We shine when we invite people in-- meeting them where they are, not where we want them to be. 

So.  Shine.  This (hold up cup) is who you are meant to be.

These are the words I leave you with: 

The spirit of the Lord God is upon me,    because the Lord has anointed me;
he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed,    to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim liberty to the captives,    and release to the prisoners;

2 

to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor,    and the day of vengeance of our God;    to comfort all who mourn;

3 

to provide for those who mourn in Zion—    to give them a garland instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness instead of mourning,    the mantle of praise instead of a faint spirit.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,    the planting of the Lord, to display his glory.

4 

They shall build up the ancient ruins,    they shall raise up the former devastations;
they shall repair the ruined cities,    the devastations of many generations.

I will greatly rejoice in the Lord,

    my whole being shall exult in my God;
for he has clothed me with the garments of salvation,    he has covered me with the robe of righteousness,
as a bridegroom decks himself with a garland,    and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels.

11 

For as the earth brings forth its shoots,    and as a garden causes what is sown in it to spring up,
so the Lord God will cause righteousness and praise    to spring up before all the nations.

Make Space, Make Art

Confession: There's one room in my house I never finished moving into-- uhem... a year and a half ago. Oh, I by turns made it presentable when I had to, but it's never been my space.  (Which is a shame because the space was intended to be my sanctuary-- a beachy themed room with the loveliest light blue walls where I would write and think deep thoughts and create. Maybe even do yoga if I felt extra rowdy.) There were boxes I never unpacked, and the things I wanted were not where I could easily access them. And lately, in effort to keep other parts of my house clean (or to get it company ready), it's become a storage facility for stuff I didn't have time to deal with.  It was always a project for "one day".

Today was finally the day, courtesy of an unexpected snow-in.  Well, that... and a fierce need to be creative. I was an artist in my pre-preacher life.  Not in a professional way, though I entertained the notion for a little while.  But in a way that I saw things in a creative way, with big bold colors and strokes of inspired imagination.  I painted and drew and took pictures and designed a quilt or two.  I wrote.  But somehow, over the last few years, I've blocked that piece of me off.  I've done other things with my time.  I've been sort of remaking myself. I've been intentional about both growing up and growing young.  Those things take a lot of energy I guess.

But the creative energy is resurfacing--and has been clawing to get out for the last few months.  I've longed to paint things with vibrant colors and alive energy.  I've wanted to play with messy and dramatic charcoals.  And to dot myself to death with stipling.  I've wanted to actually print some of the pictures that have been living in my computer for years.  And I want more than ever what I've always wanted: to write.

I made myself a deal.  If I would clean up my blue room, I would allow myself to buy some fun new art supplies.  I'd buy a lamp for my drawing table.  I'd quit telling myself that I'm not creative or that I don't have time for it or that I don't miss it.

So I did it.  I really did it. I cleaned the room-- and threw away tons of stuff that had just never been dealt with, or things that no longer suited me.  I cleared away clutter on my shelves and desk. For the first time in years,  I opened my art bins. I sorted markers and gathered up the cheap pens I'd never use for any serious writing. I threw away brushed that I hadn't taken care of, or ones that just didn't feel right in my hands. I threw away the dried up paints.  I repurposed a seven drawer thingy and put all my supplies where I could easily access them. And I made a list of what I needed to buy and what I wanted.  A box of fun will be arriving on Monday.

  I did a lot of saying goodbye today
-- to energy sucking stuff, to various pictures of who I've been, to things that had "so much potential", to a feeling of dread at knowing I had such a task ahead of me.  But in the saying goodbye, I made space for me. Who I am now, and who I still want to become.  I made space for breathing.  I've made space for art, and mess, and capturing beauty and life.

When I Grow Up

When I was in kindergarten, I made a dinosaur.  No, really.  He took up the whole width of the classroom, and had as many names as there were children in the class. Parents came in and helped our inept hands slap papier mache on to the form, of what would be a green diplodocus.  (That's dip-LO-doc-us.  Making the dinosaur also inspired a 27 year debate between me and my dad.  He, mistakenly, thinks it is a di-PLOD-o-cus.  That's just plain silly.) But 27 years later, I'm still pretty awed by the whole experience.

I had some phenomenal teachers: one who helped me imagine I was in France by having a group of us over to her house to watch Sleeping Beauty in French and giving us brie and baguettes and sparkling grape juice; one who was brave enough to take a group of middle schoolers to New York City; one who finally taught me about vectors by teaching me about a pool table; one who opened the world of writing to me; one who taught me to see the Bible in a whole new, living way; one who taught me that art was mostly about seeing; and one whose job was to teach me about literature, but who really taught me about life, and knitting, and relationships.

The fact that these people were so passionate about their love of learning that they took the time to make it an experience still impresses me. They went way beyond the bounds of their "job" and they invested themselves.  They were wildly creative, but I'm sure that didn't come without cost.  I'm sure these are the ones that stayed awake at nights daydreaming and brainstorming and planning the best way to show us things that really mattered.  All of these people in some way moved me to excitement, which far exceeded the boundaries of book learning.

It occurs to me as I look at a brand new year that this is the pastor I want to be.  Not that I want to generate experiences of the gospel, but that I want to do everything I can to move people to excitement by the ways they have already experienced the Good News. I want to tell the stories of a God and covenant people in a way that draws people in so that they can continue to experience love and hope and joy, and in a way that invites them to share the stories with all that they meet.  I want to be the pastor who will look for ways to put new life in ancient wisdom. I want to be the pastor who helps people know, not just in an intellectual way, but in a lived way, the depth and bredth of Love their God has for them.

That's what I want to be when I grow up.  That's all.

I Have a Dream

Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.  (Martin Luther King, Jr.)

I'm young enough to easily say that one of my heroes, trite those this seems, is Martin Luther King, Jr.   His writing alone is enviable, never mind the amazing things for which he stood.  Of course, I didn't live through those times.  I don't know what it was like to have to deal with this thing that seemed to completely fly in the face of "But it's always been that way."  Wait, maybe I do understand.  And maybe that's another reason I admire him.  Because he was able to dream of better when it was just that-- a dream.  He was able to hold a vision in the midst of living in a world that told him he was wrong to hold such a brazen hope.

Probably someone will tell me I'm wrong too. Somehow dreams are like that.  One person's dream threatens another's comfort.  But still I have a dream.

I have a dream that our love for Christ may change who we are-- that it spills over on to everything we do, enabling us to really love each other-- even more than we love to call attention to our differences.  I have a dream that love becomes the most important thing we do, more important than practices or politics or polity, more important than gatekeeping or glowering... or dare I say it, even growing.  But of course there's the "Begat Rule": Love begets love.  So if there is love, there will be growing too.

I have a dream that we begin to pay attention to what Jesus did and did not say, and that we stop incorrectly attributing words we want to hear to Jesus.  Jesus had a peculiar need to use "All" and "Every" with alarming regularity.

I have a dream that when we hear "Do not be afraid", we take that every bit as seriously as the "Thou Shalts." Fear is all to often at the heart of decisions in the church. We are fearful that people will take their marbles and go home, fearful that we won't meet the budget, fearful that the church will change, fearful that what the church has always stood for is in jeopardy.  We are even fearful that grace is too extravagant, and that some how, it must be for only perfect people.

I have a dream that "Behold, I am doing a new thing" might indeed be good news, not a source of sheer terror, and that we may hear "Sing a New song" as an invitation rather than a threat.

I have a dream that we might be Christians Who Get It Right, not people, who in the name of Christ, perpetuate smallness.  May we take notice of the world around us and feel responsible for it and all things created, including people, including people we don't like.

I have a dream that the Church might be a place of authenticity and genuine hospitality, that having the right answers may not be nearly important as having the courage to ask the hard questions.

I have a dream that the Church may have a more grand and glorious mission than pointing fingers and drawing lines.  I long for the day when mouths are only used for building up the community, not tearing it down, and when hands are only used to extend love and forgiveness, not to bear witness to hate.

I have a dream that the Church may be filled with people of all generations.  Each has something to offer to the others.  One generation cannot be catered to at the exclusion of the others, for all are necessary to the vitality and mission of the Church.

I have a dream that "church" may be something more than a Sunday habit or a "necessary to-do" in order to get in line for heaven.  I dream that that the community is so inviting, engaging, real and hospitable that it's the highlight of all the things we do.

I have a dream that the church will begin to see itself as a hospital for sinners, not a hotel for saints.  It's the people that have missed the mark, and been beaten down by the world that most need the church.  Of course, though, people who judge themselves to be saintly might need a place to heal just as badly as anyone else.  The thing about hospitals is that they take anyone who needs them, not just the ones who look nice or speak well.

I have a dream that the church will rise up from the ashes of mourning yesteryear, and become the bold and vibrant pheonix that is a living testimony to resurrection, as well as The Resurrection.  I dream of the day when our songs (not just the ones we sing on Sundays, but the ones we live) no longer sound like death marches, but joy-filled jigs.

I have a dream that the church will be loosed from notions of comfort and safety and "right", that we will be set free from all things that hold us captive.




When I saw this, I knew that it was a glorious visual representation of my dream. Because at the heart of my dream for the church (not just "mine" but the church universal) is creating this joyful playground of sacred and ordinary, a place where people in tuxedos (or 3 piece suits) can break it down with those wearing hole-y jeans, a place where all can play a part and know that their presence changes the whole symphony for the good.  I dream of a place where a little child, who can offer only a smile, is as important as the grown-up ringleaders.  I have a dream that the church becomes so grand a song that any who are near enough to hear want to join in, and that all who leave do with a memory of having their world rocked by such an encounter.

Yeah, I have a dream.

Remembered

When I was young, I plastered my walls with Bible Verses.  It made sense to me, and as I was learning what it meant to be a Christian in a Southern, Bible-belt town, I thought that's what we were supposed to do: to have a plethora of Bible verses at the ready, for any given circumstance. The verses I seemed to gravitate toward and hold on to were the ones that said "Do not worry" or "Do not be anxious" or "Do not fear." As a person who very much likes to be in control and who very much dislikes being surprised, these were the reminders I needed.

I'm great at sharing these verses with anxious people I encounter.  I'm fabulous at reminding people that fear and anxiety is our human condition-- if there weren't a need, then the scriptures wouldn't have repeated the same reassurances over and over.  Of course there is a need.  We're always franctic about something.  Yet, even as I'm so great at saying these powerful words, I have to acknowledge that I'm not so great at hearing them.  Or maybe I hear them, and I just forget that they are meant for me too.

So I sit.  Or more exactly, I flounder and writhe in my own anxiety and need to have things play out exactly as I imagined them. And when something is bigger than I am, I'm a mess. I had that happen this week.  I was beyond anxious about an event.  I called several people to ask them to pray. I couldn't eat.  Every time I thought about it, my heart started to race.  It felt like a disaster waiting to happen. If I were being honest, I'd have to say that I felt pretty alone.

But then things played out in a way that was thousands of times better than what I could've ever imagined.  And I know.  Those powerful words are for me too.  Because it is always the case, whether I can see it or articulate it, that I too am remembered.  My needs and worries and frustrations do not go unnoticed.  I do not go it alone.

So maybe the words I hang on to now are different.  Maybe I'll still tell myself not to worry and fret.  But maybe I'll more helpfully remind myself that I am remembered.  And it is enough.

Be Opened

I'm now a week-ish removed from the Festival of Homiletics.  The event, on the whole, proved rather disappointing to me-- and maybe in some ways I've out grown it.  But in other ways, there were surprises and learnings and Words.

The preacher with whom I most identified was not one of my careful, wordsmith preaching heroes.  It wasn't someone that would ever wear a preaching robe, not someone who'd likely ever have a Ph.D behind her name. No, she was not that kind of preacher-- she was not the kind of preacher I've always dreamed of being. Instead, she was tattooed and ripped, and had the huge ear-stretching earrings.  She wore sleeveless shirts that showed off her tats, and a stole and clerical collar.  She cussed during her sermon, completely unbothered by the "that's not a proper way to worship" tsks.  She was honest. And raw.  And the person who most faithfully and unapologetically brought the word.

Her text was Mark 7:31-37.  It was the story of Jesus healing the deaf-mute man, where Jesus (who apparently had no boundaries, as the preacher pointed out) actually stuck his fingers in the man's ears and said "Be opened!" (Ephphatha! in the greek, if you're that preacher.)

She made an interesting point.  The ones who brought the man, brought him for his healing.  As she said, "He was the designated sick person-- all the rest were the designated well ones. They never realized they were broken too."

Then she said, "Be opened. Maybe healing is not about finding what's wrong and fixing it.  Maybe it's more about being opened."

Those are powerful words that I needed to hear.  But she didn't stop there.  She said, "Be opened! Be opened to the fact that your value is not in working 60+ hours for someone who will never be pleased.  Be opened to the fact that you are stronger than you think, and opened to the fact that you are not as strong as you think.  Be opened to the fact that the gospel is true, and that it is for you."

And then she drove it home with, "Whatever it is that you cling to with frozen fingers cannot love you like Jesus loves you. Be opened to hearing that Good News."

It was gospel.

As I sit here, a week later, those words still rattle around my soul.  What is it that have stopped up my ears? What is it that has caused blockages in my heart?  What expectations have I let define who I am, instead of believing that my value comes only from being a beloved child of God?

I don't know that I want Jesus to stick his fingers in my ears and shout "Be opened!" But maybe, refusing to let Christ deal with my brokenness is just too costly.  To what am I called to be opened to?

Disengaged

Dis-engaged

            I love worship.  I believe that it is sacred and holy.  And I traveled a long way to be able to worship with 3,000 other preachers.  I’ve given up in a week of my pastor life to be here.  I’ve looked forward to this since last May,  when I came to last year’s conference.  This is, in many ways, the highlight of my years as a preacher—it’s my chance to have my spirit filled so I can go back to my community, ready again to be their pastor.  It’s my chance to rest and reflect, my chance to have my passion reignited.

            So I was primed for a great worship experience.  But that is not what I found the first night.  Apparently the venue was too small for all of us.  But they knew that, so the organizers were ready with a live-stream equipped overflow space.

            It turns out that watching a livestream is not the same thing as being in the worship space.  We had no hymnals—and few were lucky enough to have bulletins.  But it was more than that.  We were not part of the worshipping community.  The preacher was not looking at us, we couldn’t hear the fullness of the whole cloud of witnesses singing the praises of the Holy One.  And all of us felt it.   At first we tried to make the best of it—a few of us awkwardly stood for the hymn, but it just didn’t feel right.  When the preacher spoke, the livestream focused on his bible, or on the faces of the crowd.  The Word was an afterthought.

            What was fascinating to me was how the mood changed throughout the worship service.  I sense that most of us were excited to be there—we wanted to worship, we needed to be in the presence of the Sacred and to worship with each other.  But as the night went on,  not only the sense of palpable excitement of the community, but the community itself dissolved.  Cell phones (including mine) came out—and we began to engage with other people outside the room.  Likely most of us were complaining to others  about the experience.  At least that’s what I was doing.

I was dis-engaged with what was going on.  And heartbroken too.

            But now, it leads me to think about the communal nature of worship.  What is it that makes worship worship? I know, I know… God is everywhere—and therefore,  just as much in our living room as in a sanctuary.  Well, yes.  And, no.  Because God is also present in people.  If we are just seeing a preacher on a TV screen, we have one chance to see God—and that’s if the preacher is faithfully bringing the word.  But when we gather in church with a community of people, we see God in their faces, in their eyes, in their hugs, in their songs, and in their stories.  We were designed to be in community.  Can we learn about God’s forgiveness in the privacy of our living room?  Yes.  But  we experience it when we offer the genuine peace of God to someone with whom we have disagreed.  Can we sing songs of praise in the silence of the shower? Sure.  But we cannot hear the great cloud of witnesses singing together unless we are that… together.

            And more than these things, our presence in worship matters because each of us is part of the community.  Our presence changes the worship experience of those around us—and what we do while we’re there affects all those around us.  Dis-engagement breeds more dis-engagement.  

            So my question is this:  how do we create engaging, community building worship?  Because worship is neither about the individual nor is it complete when there is no genuine community.   

Coveting Koinonia

[Cross-posted from my other blog, www.thepudgyparson.blogspot.com)

I wish I could remember who said this, but I love it even if I can't correctly attribute it. Speaking on what is good about the church, she (whomever she is...) said, "Your yoga teacher won't bring you a casserole when your mom dies." She was talking about the community that is at the heart of who the church is. Don't get me wrong, sometimes the church blows it. Sometimes we become gossipy and self-interested, but that happens within any organization. Yet, a church can be a very valuable gift when you need someone to be in your corner.

I've been interested to see this unfold as I've become public with my journey of losing weight. I was kind of nervous about being so open, but especially as a leader. I wondered if people would frown when I let them know that I would be making time for the gym and that it was a priority. I wondered how many I would upset when I hit the point of no longer eating at church dinners. (Which has actually been a gift-- now I'm free to talk and listen and make eye contact, knowing that I'll eat my 200 carefully measured calories at home.) I made a game plan for defending myself, saying that if I wasn't healthy, then I couldn't be a healthy pastor for them. But I've never needed to defend myself. No one questions it when I go to the gym mid afternoon if I have an evening meeting. Aside from curiousity, no one seems to mind my lack of food consumption at meals.

And more than not needing to defend myself, I've actually found myself on the receiving end of lots of support. I have an elder who calls me "Slim." ( I tell him that his elder status is not in question and that he doesn't need brownie points, but we both know he gets them!) I had a lady who used to work for weight watchers offer to make some low calorie things just for me so I wouldn't feel left out. And when I told another lady that I had some questions as to whether I needed to see a doctor to rule out some medical issues, she not only gave me a recommendation, but is faithfully following up with me every time she sees me to make sure that I do it. Someone once told me that "a real friend is one who loves you into being accountable for the intentions you set for yourself."

But maybe that's more than friendship. Maybe that's Koinonia. Koinonia is the greek word that loosely means "fellowship" or "common life." But in classical Greek, it also means partner or companion. The idea denotes a unity of purpose in some ways. In other words, because my health matters to me, it matters to them. They see themselves as partners in what I would have described as a completely individual journey. Maybe that's why Weight Watchers is so popular-- because anyone who has ever done this knows that it's easier to have a community. I'm grateful for the ways my congregation teaches me about Koinonia-- and for the ways they love me enough to help me love myself.

Worship is Messy

[Cross-posted from www.fpc-franklin.blogspot.com]

If something is going to go wrong, more than likely it's going to happen during Communion. (Not, of course, that I haven't found ways to mess up other parts of the service... I've now gone completely blank on the words to the benediction no less than three times. I've face planted out of the pulpit. I've gotten my high heel stuck in a grate in the floor. I shouldn't say this or I'll jinx myself, but so far, *fingers crossed* I haven't had a bad vocal preacher flub-up that we're known for.) Which is completely logical, because that is the time when you are trying to be the most careful and somber and reverent. It's simply a prime opportunity for something to go amiss.

And amiss it went-- at least Sunday. I didn't do anything as innocuous as tangle with the Great Thanksgiving or anything so easily covered. But as I was sitting down meditating after the communion had gone out, I looked at the table and realized my error. One side of the sanctuary had gotten bread and the other had gotten juice. My first thought was "How the heck did that happen?
Which was followed closely by "How the heck do I fix it?" The first was easy-- I had sent out the wrong element on my side. Bread first, then juice-- unless you're me, apparently. And I knew why. I'd had a heavy conversation right before worship, and it was weighing on my mind. That comes with the territory of being a pastor sometimes-- trying to be fully present in one moment, even while trying to figure out something completely unrelated.

But this was a helpful reminder of theology I've held as long as I've been a church attender: worship is messy! If only it were easy enough to turn worship into a carefully rehearsed performance! Surely the Lord would smile on something so well-crafted? But worship can never be a performance because it is filled with people. And people are messy. We come as we're told: Just as we are without one plea! We come with "stuff"-- with minds overloaded, with shaky hands, with unshed tears, with a song ready to burst forth, with wiggly children and grandchildren. We come with agendas and needs, seeking power and simultaneously yearning for peace.

And we're only part of the mess of worship. Because whenever the Holy Spirit is involved, all our "rules" and preconceived notions are undone. We are in the hands of one who makes dry bones dance, who causes smart people to babble ridiculously. We're in the hands of one who doesn't mind shoving us out of our comfortable worship to teach us what it means to worship truly. Maybe the Holy Spirit is even messier than people!

Worship is messy. Sometimes I wonder if God minds that things don't always go the way they were planned. Then I ponder the God I meet in the scriptures--and I always come back to my image of God--the one whose eyes sparkle with merriment. And I think that God must smile at us, who think we can so carefully plan and construct so that we can iron out every wrinkle. And over and over in the scriptures, I hear that God chooses to dwell with us. With us. The broken ones. The overly structured ones. The messy ones. Maybe God doesn't mind messy worship.

And maybe that's part of the lavishness of grace-- knowing that we don't have to be perfect to be loved.

No Buts

I’ve said it thousands of times: The church’s favorite word is “But”. (Yes, with a capital “B”) ”But we don’t have the money.” “But it’s risky.” “But I’m not sure that’s really related to our mission.” “But we don’t have enough volunteers.” Or, my personal favorite: “But we’ve never done it that way before.” It seems there’s always a gigantic but in every conversation.
Yet, until recently, I didn’t know that my favorite word is also But. I would’ve sworn it was something much more positive and affirming, much more forward thinking. And I would’ve happily continued in my ignorance had it not been for a gifted outside-the-box thinker, an unapologetic “none”. He gives me wonderful ideas about the church, and all I can do is stammer that word. “But, polity says I can’t do that.” “But the session won’t approve it.” “But that’s not my job as pastor.” “But I’ll make people mad.”
How is it that three letters have become so powerful in not only the life of the church, but also in the life of one who longs for and believes in what’s NEXT? But is, at best, a word with its feet in the past. But does not know how to dream of a future or imagine possibilities. All But knows is limitation.
A few weeks ago, the lectionary stepped on my toes. Peter was all “Nuhuh, not me, Lord. I’d never touch anything that was unclean.” And the Lord easily countered that Peter didn’t get the deciding vote on what was clean and unclean. I’d never heard the story this way before, but suddenly I realized that maybe the church still shouts “Unclean” not just at people, but at ideas. We decide that something is “unclean” if we don’t have all the answers or if it requires too much stepping out in faith. It’s unclean if its a little bit radical or if it necessitates the use of scarce and precious resources. The thing that really grabbed ahold of me in that passage was Peter’s rhetorical question as he’s trying to defend himself: “Who am I to hinder the Lord?”
What else could But ever be except a hindrance to the Lord? Jeremiah said it: “But I’m too young.” Moses said it: “But I stutter and I killed a guy.” Sarah said it: “But I’m too old.” Mary said it: “But I took the ‘stay away from boys’ lecture to heart!” Somehow, the Lord transformed But into something more. The Lord gave them three new letters– Y.E.S.
I want new letters too. If I want them, though, I recognize I’m going to have to give up my old ones. Whether the church always knows it or not, it too is longing to embrace something other than But. The church yearns for new language that gives it promises to cling to. The church is praying for the courage to be able to say yes and needs leaders who will help them try out the word.
If I’m going to be that leader, then I’m going to have to go on a But diet. (Which might just be harder that the butt diet I’ve been on the last few months.) I will no longer start sentences with But. I will not let But be a defining part of who I am or what I’m doing as a pastor. I will lovingly challenge my congregation to fast their Buts off too.
Maybe that’s at the heart of NEXT: a community of people who face boldly into an uncertain future, not because we are any braver than the rest, but because we have embraced a different word. Our word also only has three letters, and they seem to be even more powerful than snarly and limited But. Our word is yes. Conveniently enough, the God who calls us to be reformed according to the Word specializes in transforming But into YES!.

(Cross Posted from the Nextchurch.net site)

Phoenix

It happens every year.  I look them in the eyes, these that I love.  And as I go to say those words, they catch in my throat.  I choke on them.  They're just too dusty. Then the tears, always the tears.  But somehow I manage to say "Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return."  I say it to sweet little ladies with skin as delicate as fine paper. I say it to people who sit in my office and make me howl with laughter. I say it to people with whom I've disagreed.

When our eyes meet, these ashen ones, our humanity touches-- and we realize that we're all bound by the frail limits of living in mortal bodies.  It's holy, when it's all said and done.

But I'm tired of the ashes.  Usually, I let my cross linger as long as it will--not necessarily consciously, but it's just not a thing. This year I just needed it gone.  I need not to sit in the ashes anymore.

We've had seven deaths in four months.  And that doesn't include the ones the church still grieves that happened in rapid succession last year. And the year before that.  Our numbers are dwindling.  Our budgets are the cause for much anxiety.  Our programs don't feel manageable any longer.  Our building is literally crumbling with age and wear.  

And of course, we are just one church.  But churches everywhere are saying the same thing: "We're dying."

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

The Church is sitting in ashes. We're mourning days gone by.  We're singing the only songs we know-- but they all come out sounding like a death march.  All we can think about is our own mortality.  As if dying is our chief end, and not glorifying and enjoying.

Why doesn't anyone talk about the life? Didn't Jesus say "I have come that you might you have life more abundantly?" Why don't we talk about the life?  Are we called to trumpet the world's death song or are we called to rise from the ashes like a vibrant pheonix?

And what is ash but flakes of carbon? Carbon.  That's life stuff--in fact, it's the building block of life. Doesn't death then lead to life? Isn't that our story?

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust?

But sometimes we get stuck in the ashes.  Wallowing, waiting, wailing.  We forget the life part.

I'm giving up Lent for Lent this year.  I will not once sing a death song.  I will not ban flowers from the sanctuary.  I will not stifle alleluias. I will not talk about sin, except so I can talk about grace.  No, I will stand in the ashes and I will call the church to rise up in life.  I will talk about life because life is what Christ was about.  Jesus didn't die so the church could sit in the ashes.

Sent

She said, "It's terminal, and that's ok.  But I'm not planning on dying tomorrow or anything.  The doctors are guessing I have 9-12 months left. I still have a lot of laughing to do."

That was Saturday. And this morning, I got a call that she had died.

Somedays its no fun being the pastor.

Not when you get one call like that.  And definitely not when that's the third call like that in two weeks, or when you've gotten six other calls like that in the four months that you've been the pastor.  It's no fun when all you can do is weep for the ones who weep, who have no place to go with their anger.  It's no fun when all you can do is wail to God and impishly say, "This is NOT why you brought me here! This is NOT what I signed up for."  And it's even less fun when you hear yourself saying that and know that this is exactly why you were brought here-- or at least part of it. And doubly true that this is exactly what you signed up for.

Because that's the calling.  To stand in the tough places. To boldly point a way and declare that death never ever gets the last word. To be a human face to an intangible God. To say "I'm so sorry" and mean it, even when there is anger seemingly directed at you--but is really more intended for God's hears than yours. To grieve yourself, even while creating a holy space for others to grieve.  To acknowledge loss while at the same time displaying vibrant life.

So you do it.  Because you are the one the living God has put right here.  Not because you are perfect, but because you are sent.

And in the doing, you discover anew that others have been sent too.  Maybe not to be the capital P Pastor, but just as sent to do the pastoring.  They are the ones who see the tear marks on your face, and tell you that they are praying for you. ("Me? Of all things you're praying for me? Pray for world peace or something. I'm ok." You wish you were strong enough to say that. But the only words that will come are "That means more to me than you can ever know.) They are the ones who will stand with you-- not to remind you where you fail to live up to your calling-- but to help you do the job you've been sent to do.

That's the nature of being sent. Because just as you head out to do a job that feels bigger than you, you discover that you were enough on God's radar that someone-- or ones-- were sent to you.

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

{In response to the shootings in Conneticut on 12/14}

12.16.12

Advent 3c

Zephaniah 3:14++

            Like the sermons that many churches will hear today, this is not the one I was planning on preaching today.  I was dutifully slogging away with the name-calling John the Baptist and his good news that didn’t feel like good news.   When I woke up in the wee hours of Friday morning, I had several things on my mind:  finish a sermon, make our house spotless so that you would think that’s how we keep our house, and prepare some dishes for you to enjoy as you’re at our house this afternoon.  But by 1 or 2, the whole world felt like a different place.  None of those things that seemed so pressing mattered much in the wake of the news that came out of Connecticut.  28 people lost their lives in a massacre.

            There just aren’t words.  There are no beautiful words that can make any sense out of it, no words that can make it ok.  There are only prayers, the kind that are beyond words, the kind that comes in gasps and broken utterances.  There are only tears that weep boldly for those that have lost—that dare to express a hope that Christ reigns even in the midst of all the things

  Long before the world woke up yesterday morning, I was sitting in front of the fire—with its lights and two stockings.  The dogs were snoring beside me, and as I opened up my computer, trying to figure out what to say, the Vienna Boys choir began singing Silent Night.  It was the perfect picture of a quiet Advent morning.  And it undid me.  Because juxtaposed with that was the headline that showed up on my news feed:  Connecticut school shooting: Witness inside school: 'I've got bodies here'.  And juxtaposed with that  was my virtual Advent candle that was waiting to be lit.  Yesterday’s candle still heralding peace, today’s—the one that we haven’t lit yet here either: joy.

On Tuesdays during Advent, we’re praying through the Advent candles. I shared with the people that were there last Tuesday as we were talking about peace that in 2011, during the second week of Advent, several things happened in the world and in my community.  The 70^th anniversary of Pearl Harbor happened.    There was a bombing in Afghanistan that killed 56 people.  And in Fayetteville, just a few weeks before, there had been a shooting at our mall on Black Friday.  How do you begin to talk about or pray for peace when those things are happening around you?

How do you begin to talk about Joy, when the sound of mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and grandparents weeping can be heard all across our country? 

And even if that weren’t the case, how to you begin to go there with a congregation who has lost so many of its loved ones within the last year?  In the horrible words of the headlines, “We’ve got bodies here”.  The sense of loss in this congregation is strong. The names you’ve named for me have become a litany of grief—because those that you’ve lost haven’t just been people that you casually worshipped with.  They’ve been dear friends.  They are the people that you still almost see when you take your regular pews—the ones who were such a fixture of the church that you can’t imagine how life in the church can go on without them.   And not only is the church in mourning, but many of you as individuals have faced great loss this year.  You’ve gotten devastating news that has rattled everything you thought you knew.  You’ve been touched by the very frailty of life.

How indeed do any of us begin to talk about joy when the grief is just so great?  Do you simply light a candle in hopes that the sentiment given to that candle will one day be true?  Do you read scriptures that feel just a little bit too glib to be helpful right now?  Or do you sit with the things that break your heart?  There’s a verse in the book Jeremiah, that’s later quoted in Matthew, that says, “This is what the LORD says: "A voice is heard in Ramah, mourning and great weeping, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because her children are no more."  And maybe that’s where we are right now.  I’ve never done this before, and I have no idea how it will work or what will come of it.  But I’m going to stop preaching for a few minutes—and leave some space.  And maybe this is the time to name some of those things that are just too heavy—whether you want to name them outloud or silently.  But maybe this is the place to name the places where you are broken hearted, to name the ones that you miss, to cry out to the Lord.   So I invite you to do that, to shape a word or two into a prayer—to lift it gently to this holy space.

We long for the Lord to redeem our broken places—to comfort us, to hold us tight, to promise that we won’t be left alone to defend ourselves from the world.  And we admit that sometimes it’s hard to hold on to our joy.  Sometimes, it feels like it’s gone from us all together.

I had an experience in my former church that I swore I’d write about sometime.  We had oil-filled advent candles—which were great.  They lit without a problem.  Except the pink joy candle.  Every year, for four years, we had to fight with the pink candle to get it to light…the church folks laughed and we had some good natured, but awkward moments trying to light the candle of joy. 

I’ve kind of begun to see that as a metaphor—sometimes Joy is the thing that’s hardest to get started in us.  We can do love and peace, and on most days hope—but it feels like joy takes a bit more work for us.   It takes a lot of work to ignite joy within ourselves.

But here’s the thing that I didn’t tell you.  The pink joy candle was not only contrary at the beginning of the service.  It was also contrary when we tried to put it out.  It was like one of those trick birthday candles that you thought was out, but would slowly come back to life.   And maybe that’s as much a metaphor as the fact that it was hard to light—it’s just as hard to make it go completely out, once you’ve gotten it lit.  Maybe that’s something important.  Because maybe we know that we aren’t the ones who make joy.  We don’t make it at the holidays, or at the times when we need it most, or any other time.  But there is something that lives deep in us that tells us that we bear witness to a joy that shall soothe all the tears, that the Holy God of Israel is working to redeem all the broken places.

Our weeping last for a night, but doesn’t joy come in the morning? It comes, when we open our eyelashes that have become stuck together with tears—when we peak out and see that the Lord isn’t finished. It comes, when we have wailed to the Lord—and a voice whispers back to us from the silence “Do you know how much I love you?  Do you know that I won’t leave you—not ever?”  Joy comes when we’ve been emptied out by the world, and our neighbor scoots a little closer to give us a hug and make us smile.  Joy comes when all we’ve known is the night terrors—the silence that last for hours, the questions that speak louder than anything—when we feel a presence that will. Not. Let. Us. Go.

I wrote something several years ago after I went to pray with a woman who was going into surgery—a woman whose life was shattered by violence.  But it seems to fit today—after the events of the week—after what has surely been a hard year for this congregation.

It's darkest before the dawn, or so they say.

Before even the surgical waiting room has been opened, or anyone is ready to wait.

Before she has been taken back.

Before the visitor's desk is staffed, or the parking deck, for that matter.

Before the cafeteria has opened.

Before the nurses are fully awake.

Before the rules are thoroughly enforced.

Before the sun (or son) has started tinting the world a lovely shade of pink.

It's darkest then.

But it's there, in the before, that God feels closest.

Because the light of love is waiting to break in.

And for the ones, waiting and watching,

the great divide between heaven and earth seems a little thinner.

Because we need God just a little more,

and we're a little less guarded and a little more vulnerable.

It's darkest before the dawn.

But not really.

Because in that great darkness a voice gently whispers in my ear,

"I am the light of the world.  And the darkness has never, will never, put the light out."

Weeping lasts for a night, but Joy always comes in the morning.  That is the very real presence of Christ in our midst. 

God rest you, troubled gentle ones—let nothing you dismay.

For I bring you tidings of comfort and joy.