Last Sunday was Youth Celebration Sunday. The church’s after-school tutoring program and elementary youth group had ended the previous Thursday and Friday, respectively. In worship on Sunday, we recognized these programs – the children who had participated in them, the adults who had led them, and the volunteers who had helped make them possible.
I planned worship and preached. I had the children participate in worship. They were the greeters at the door. They helped to usher. One child led the call to worship. During the offertory, the children offered a worship dance I had taught them over the year. It was a lot of work, but in the end I think things went well.
On Monday, I met with my Supervised Ministry Committee. (We meet monthly to discuss my internship and the work I am doing.) This month we were discussing the youth program. I had helped with it all year. Part of the discussion included a chance for comments on the youth celebration worship service.
A retired minister who sits on my committee said: “If I had known that it was going to be Youth Celebration Sunday, I wouldn’t have come to church. I don’t like those Sundays. It’s just kids ‘playing at worship.’”
I was slightly upset by the comment that night, but conversation moved away from the worship service. However, as I have continued to reflect on the comment, I am more upset and disheartened by the response.
I believe it was not just children “playing at worship” on Sunday. I believe it was children participating in and leading actual worship; I believe it was an opportunity for the children to learn about worship; I believe it was children being given a space to use their gifts in worship too.
Because if children don’t get these opportunities, chances are they might start to think the church doesn’t care if they are there or not. And we wonder why we’re missing so many 18-35 year olds in our churches today …
I can still remember my confirmation Sunday. The confirmation class planned and led the whole service, including the sermon. I was one of four young people who preached on my statement of faith that day. I am so grateful for that experience and support from my church, for that implicit statement of “you matter as a child of God and as a member of this congregation.”
And then, of course, the Presbyterian in me can’t help but point out a few citations from the Book of Order:
• W-1.1001: “… in worship the faithful offer themselves to God and are equipped for God’s service in the world.”
• W-1.4003: “In Jesus Christ, the Church is a royal priesthood in which worship is the work of everyone … no one shall be excluded from participation or leadership in public worship in the Lord’s house on the grounds of race, color, class, age, sex, or handicapping condition.”
• W-3.1003: “… the order for worship should provide for and encourage the participation of all.”
• W-3.1004: “Children bring special gifts to worship and grow in faith through their regular inclusion and participation in the worship of the congregation. Those responsible for planning and leading the participation of children in worship should consider the children’s level of understanding and ability to respond … regular programs of the church should not prevent children’s full participation with the whole congregation in worship.”
Alright, that’s the end of my somewhat coherent rant.
May 05, 2007
April 29, 2007
Faith Like a Child
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Youth Celebration Sunday
John 21:1-19
When you walked in this morning, you might have noticed some things that are different. Colorful balloons float in the air, posters adorn the walls, some of the furniture has been slightly rearranged. In general, things are a little bit brighter and more cheery and more open.
Yet we continue with our worship service as normal. Even with a few things different, we find comfort in the things we know, the things we have come to expect – there will be a great piano duet from Fran and Hilton, there’ll be scripture and a sermon, and some hymns. We will take a long time to pass the peace and greet one another. And that regular rhythm of worship can be familiar and comforting. Even when a few things are new and different.
That comfort is what the disciples are looking for in this morning’s scripture. Their world has been turned upside down and back again. Jesus was condemned to death, crucified on a cross, and laid to rest in a tomb. Jesus’ body was missing and there was news he had been seen by Mary. And then Jesus himself appeared to the disciples and offered them his peace. But then, in a whirlwind moment, Jesus was gone again.
What do the disciples do now? Who will lead them? How do they find a way forward? They return to what is comfortable. They go back to what they know. They head out to the sea and pick up their nets and fish.
It’s what they’ve done for most of their lives. It’s what they were busy doing when Jesus first called them to follow him. It’s familiar and takes little thought. But the night does not bring a good catch. Even that one thing that was familiar and routine to them does not bring comfort.
Until Jesus appears again. It’s his third appearance to the disciples. Perhaps things are a little foggy that morning or the disciples are weary from the events of the past weeks and the long night of unsuccessful fishing, but the disciples do not recognize Jesus.
Nevertheless, he calls out from the shore: “Children, cast your nets on the other side. Try one more time before coming in for the morning.” And the disciples give it a whirl. Why not?
And they are overwhelmed by their nets that overflow with fish. Tons and tons of fish. And once again, their eyes are opened to recognize and see their savior and friend.
“It is the Lord! That’s Jesus standing on the beach. He’s appeared to us again!”
And I love Simon Peter’s reaction. He throws on some clothes. (I guess one usually fishes without them on … ) But he throws on some clothes and then dives right into the sea to start swimming back to shore, to get to Jesus, to get there as quickly as possible. In his exuberance and excitement, he can’t wait for the boat to row its way to shore. He has to do something right away to get himself to Jesus.
It’s not very logical. The boat could probably be rowed to shore just as quickly, though maybe not with the huge catch of fish. It’s not very sensible. Simon Peter and his clothes will be sopping wet by the time he is standing on the beach. It’s not very understandable or reasonable. He will only get there a little bit quicker than the boat, if at all.
In fact, Simon Peter’s actions, they’re downright impulsive and childlike. But Simon Peter is so eager to see his leader and friend again. In his mind, there is no other option but this exuberant greeting.
It’s a greeting that’s familiar to anyone who’s worked with or spent time with infants and young children. Last year at seminary, I spent two days a week with Amelia, an adorable little girl who’s almost two now. And we would read and play and giggle and sometimes cry (Amelia if she was hungry and myself when she refused to go down for a nap).
We generally had a great time together rolling around on the floor. But when Amelia’s mommy came home and she heard that voice and those footsteps, Amelia would crawl excitedly or run wobbly over to her mommy, forgetting all else.
And that’s pretty similar to Simon Peter’s impulsive action of jumping into the sea and racing toward shore when he realizes it’s Jesus standing there. As a matter of fact, it’s his childish behavior and childlike faith that drew me to his passage. Because it’s something that I think we grown-ups need to hear and remember and embrace.
For though grown-ups were once children, few of them remember it (Saint- Exupéry). O we remember the stories of childhood memories and can picture the neighborhood friends all right, but we don’t really remember that childlike outlook on life.
We’d prefer, as CS Lewis states, “to put away all childish things” and just be very grown up, to follow society’s standards for proper behavior.
Author Antoine de Saint-Exupéry illustrated this point so well in his book The Little Prince. While flying over the Sahara Desert, a man’s plane crashes. He is in the middle of nowhere. While attempting to fix the engine and make the plane usable to leave the desert, a small person appears as if out of nowhere. And the man is introduced to the little prince.
The little prince is the most extraordinary small person, with golden hair the color of wheat. He has the questioning innocence of a child coupled with the wisdom of one wise beyond his years.
The little prince, originally from Asteroid B-612, tells grand stories of the people he has met in his travels. They have all been grown-ups and sadly they have not understood what the matters of true importance are. The little prince explains, “Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them.”
Like how a mass of scribbles of some color is a magical kingdom. Or how the couch can become a fort in the wilderness. Because why wouldn’t it be?
And so, few grown-ups remember that childlike trust and belief are actually a gift. To be satisfied with simple answers, to not have to have everything proven by numbers and facts and proper sources.
Because there is no concrete proof for faith in God. There are a lot of grand stories and tales of miracles and reasons to believe, but there’s no absolute, 100%-guaranteed proof. Because that’s the nature of faith – depending with childlike trust on what cannot be perfectly explained or seen with the eyes, saying “yes” to holy mystery that cannot be fully clarified.
It’s that moment of coming to the edge of all that you know and trusting that one of two things will happen: there’ll be something to stand on in that next step or you will be taught to fly, to soar with the faith of a child. It’s that moment of seeing your savior across the sea and jumping into the water to swim to him as fast as possible.
And then it’s helping others to do the same. After a picnic on the beach of fresh fish and some loaves of bread, Jesus says to Simon Peter, “Do you love me?” And Simon Peter replies readily, “Yes Lord, you know I love you.” “Well then, feed my lambs, care for my sheep.”
Jesus asks this question not once, but three times. And by the third time, I can picture Simon Peter, with his childlike exuberance from moments before, standing up and saying “Lord you know everything. So yes, Jesus, I love you this much,” flinging his arms wide open as children are prone to do.
Yet after answering Jesus’ question three times, Simon Peter also understands. If he loves Jesus “this much,” that love has to be put into action so others can know and love Jesus “this much” too.
And in the church that means we teach the faith, we grow in our knowledge and understanding of God, and we tend for the sheep and the lambs, the children and the least of these, the “have-nots” in a world of “haves.”
As a church, we’ve done that this past school year. Some of you have spent time with a child reading a book and discussing it or listening to an older child read back to you. Some of you have taught Bible stories and played games and done crafts and assisted with the Christmas pageant with the elementary youth. Still others have prayed for these ministries and supported them with your offering.
And in doing so, we have tended for the sheep, cared for the lamb and perhaps learned from the innocence and awe and longing of a child.
May those lessons not stop today.
May you embrace some childishness and take a balloon home with you. May you find ways to tend for the lambs among you. And most importantly, may you live with that trusting, easily believing, exuberant faith – faith like a child.
In the name of the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer; Amen.
Youth Celebration Sunday
John 21:1-19
When you walked in this morning, you might have noticed some things that are different. Colorful balloons float in the air, posters adorn the walls, some of the furniture has been slightly rearranged. In general, things are a little bit brighter and more cheery and more open.
Yet we continue with our worship service as normal. Even with a few things different, we find comfort in the things we know, the things we have come to expect – there will be a great piano duet from Fran and Hilton, there’ll be scripture and a sermon, and some hymns. We will take a long time to pass the peace and greet one another. And that regular rhythm of worship can be familiar and comforting. Even when a few things are new and different.
That comfort is what the disciples are looking for in this morning’s scripture. Their world has been turned upside down and back again. Jesus was condemned to death, crucified on a cross, and laid to rest in a tomb. Jesus’ body was missing and there was news he had been seen by Mary. And then Jesus himself appeared to the disciples and offered them his peace. But then, in a whirlwind moment, Jesus was gone again.
What do the disciples do now? Who will lead them? How do they find a way forward? They return to what is comfortable. They go back to what they know. They head out to the sea and pick up their nets and fish.
It’s what they’ve done for most of their lives. It’s what they were busy doing when Jesus first called them to follow him. It’s familiar and takes little thought. But the night does not bring a good catch. Even that one thing that was familiar and routine to them does not bring comfort.
Until Jesus appears again. It’s his third appearance to the disciples. Perhaps things are a little foggy that morning or the disciples are weary from the events of the past weeks and the long night of unsuccessful fishing, but the disciples do not recognize Jesus.
Nevertheless, he calls out from the shore: “Children, cast your nets on the other side. Try one more time before coming in for the morning.” And the disciples give it a whirl. Why not?
And they are overwhelmed by their nets that overflow with fish. Tons and tons of fish. And once again, their eyes are opened to recognize and see their savior and friend.
“It is the Lord! That’s Jesus standing on the beach. He’s appeared to us again!”
And I love Simon Peter’s reaction. He throws on some clothes. (I guess one usually fishes without them on … ) But he throws on some clothes and then dives right into the sea to start swimming back to shore, to get to Jesus, to get there as quickly as possible. In his exuberance and excitement, he can’t wait for the boat to row its way to shore. He has to do something right away to get himself to Jesus.
It’s not very logical. The boat could probably be rowed to shore just as quickly, though maybe not with the huge catch of fish. It’s not very sensible. Simon Peter and his clothes will be sopping wet by the time he is standing on the beach. It’s not very understandable or reasonable. He will only get there a little bit quicker than the boat, if at all.
In fact, Simon Peter’s actions, they’re downright impulsive and childlike. But Simon Peter is so eager to see his leader and friend again. In his mind, there is no other option but this exuberant greeting.
It’s a greeting that’s familiar to anyone who’s worked with or spent time with infants and young children. Last year at seminary, I spent two days a week with Amelia, an adorable little girl who’s almost two now. And we would read and play and giggle and sometimes cry (Amelia if she was hungry and myself when she refused to go down for a nap).
We generally had a great time together rolling around on the floor. But when Amelia’s mommy came home and she heard that voice and those footsteps, Amelia would crawl excitedly or run wobbly over to her mommy, forgetting all else.
And that’s pretty similar to Simon Peter’s impulsive action of jumping into the sea and racing toward shore when he realizes it’s Jesus standing there. As a matter of fact, it’s his childish behavior and childlike faith that drew me to his passage. Because it’s something that I think we grown-ups need to hear and remember and embrace.
For though grown-ups were once children, few of them remember it (Saint- Exupéry). O we remember the stories of childhood memories and can picture the neighborhood friends all right, but we don’t really remember that childlike outlook on life.
We’d prefer, as CS Lewis states, “to put away all childish things” and just be very grown up, to follow society’s standards for proper behavior.
Author Antoine de Saint-Exupéry illustrated this point so well in his book The Little Prince. While flying over the Sahara Desert, a man’s plane crashes. He is in the middle of nowhere. While attempting to fix the engine and make the plane usable to leave the desert, a small person appears as if out of nowhere. And the man is introduced to the little prince.
The little prince is the most extraordinary small person, with golden hair the color of wheat. He has the questioning innocence of a child coupled with the wisdom of one wise beyond his years.
The little prince, originally from Asteroid B-612, tells grand stories of the people he has met in his travels. They have all been grown-ups and sadly they have not understood what the matters of true importance are. The little prince explains, “Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them.”
Like how a mass of scribbles of some color is a magical kingdom. Or how the couch can become a fort in the wilderness. Because why wouldn’t it be?
And so, few grown-ups remember that childlike trust and belief are actually a gift. To be satisfied with simple answers, to not have to have everything proven by numbers and facts and proper sources.
Because there is no concrete proof for faith in God. There are a lot of grand stories and tales of miracles and reasons to believe, but there’s no absolute, 100%-guaranteed proof. Because that’s the nature of faith – depending with childlike trust on what cannot be perfectly explained or seen with the eyes, saying “yes” to holy mystery that cannot be fully clarified.
It’s that moment of coming to the edge of all that you know and trusting that one of two things will happen: there’ll be something to stand on in that next step or you will be taught to fly, to soar with the faith of a child. It’s that moment of seeing your savior across the sea and jumping into the water to swim to him as fast as possible.
And then it’s helping others to do the same. After a picnic on the beach of fresh fish and some loaves of bread, Jesus says to Simon Peter, “Do you love me?” And Simon Peter replies readily, “Yes Lord, you know I love you.” “Well then, feed my lambs, care for my sheep.”
Jesus asks this question not once, but three times. And by the third time, I can picture Simon Peter, with his childlike exuberance from moments before, standing up and saying “Lord you know everything. So yes, Jesus, I love you this much,” flinging his arms wide open as children are prone to do.
Yet after answering Jesus’ question three times, Simon Peter also understands. If he loves Jesus “this much,” that love has to be put into action so others can know and love Jesus “this much” too.
And in the church that means we teach the faith, we grow in our knowledge and understanding of God, and we tend for the sheep and the lambs, the children and the least of these, the “have-nots” in a world of “haves.”
As a church, we’ve done that this past school year. Some of you have spent time with a child reading a book and discussing it or listening to an older child read back to you. Some of you have taught Bible stories and played games and done crafts and assisted with the Christmas pageant with the elementary youth. Still others have prayed for these ministries and supported them with your offering.
And in doing so, we have tended for the sheep, cared for the lamb and perhaps learned from the innocence and awe and longing of a child.
May those lessons not stop today.
May you embrace some childishness and take a balloon home with you. May you find ways to tend for the lambs among you. And most importantly, may you live with that trusting, easily believing, exuberant faith – faith like a child.
In the name of the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer; Amen.
April 26, 2007
Joy and Life
I love to dance. I danced at a studio for 13 years growing up.
When I started at internship church, a member told me about a worship dance program at another church on the other side of town. I made contact and was welcomed to visit. I visited and continued to drop in when I could.
This past Sunday was the year end Worship Dance Celebration. It brought me such joy and life to dance in one of the pieces and to assist backstage.
When I started at internship church, a member told me about a worship dance program at another church on the other side of town. I made contact and was welcomed to visit. I visited and continued to drop in when I could.
This past Sunday was the year end Worship Dance Celebration. It brought me such joy and life to dance in one of the pieces and to assist backstage.
Here I am with my fellow angels.
April 24, 2007
Some learnings
So things have picked up again after the post-Lent break. The admin assistant is on vacation this week. Here are some of the (not-so) fun things I've learned already this week:
That's it for now. I think that's enough.
- Bugs, specifically grain weevils, lay eggs in cardboard boxes in food plants. These eggs lay dormant for a long time and we never even know they are there. Until ... boxes of pasta sit on the food pantry shelf at the outreach center for too long. Then when someone walks in and is really quiet it sounds like milk hitting Rice Krispies. Snap, crackle, pop ... ewwww! Lots of pasta got tossed. Lots of dead bugs on the floor and on the shelves and probably in other unseen locations. We are now storing pasta in the freezer.
- The church is getting a new pest control company. The old one wasn't always showing up every month. So the church is getting bids from five different companies over two days. I showed one of the guys around today. He was checking out the kitchen area. I told him that we had found boxes with corners chewed off a few months ago, but hadn't seen any problems recently. He opened up the cupboard under the sink, took one look, and said "See that. Rat poop. He's still around." Nice ...
- The church has a building that it used to rent to a health clinic. The clinic left it a mess and the church is ready to utilize the space again. So that building, first and second floor, got demoed last week. Only problem is the plans the demo crew was using were not completely accurate and they started to bust through a load bearing wall. A plank is supporting the area that got knocked out before the crew realized what it had done. It does not look good and the church has got to get someone in there soon to fix it.
That's it for now. I think that's enough.
April 08, 2007
Hearing is Believing
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Easter Sunrise Service
John 20:1-18
It is the third day.
For Mary Magdelene and the other disciples
time might have been flying by
or slowly marching onward
as they continued to contemplate
what they had seen and heard over the past week.
How did it all fit together?
Had only a handful of days passed?
Had it all really happened?
How could Jesus,
the one who had healed so many of the sick and lame,
the one who had come into town on a donkey,
the one who had just broken bread with them,
how could that Jesus really be dead?
But he is.
“It is finished.”
His body has even been laid in a tomb.
A stone has been rolled in front of it.
But it is the third day,
and Mary, who has risen while it is still dark,
(much like us today)
is drawn to the tomb.
Perhaps she goes to anoint Jesus’ body with more oils;
or to continue her period of mourning;
maybe she just wants to sit outside the tomb and keep watch.
Regardless, she expects to find death there.
But she finds something that seems even worse –
the stone has been rolled away.
The stone that was supposed to protect Jesus’ body.
Who could have done this?
Who would do such a thing?
Mary turns on her heel and leaves to tell the others.
They are little help.
Simon Peter and the other disciple race to the tomb.
The stone really has been rolled away.
They peer in and see that the tomb really is empty.
But then they return home.
And in the early hours of the third day,
Mary is left alone … outside the tomb … weeping.
For everything she sees points to
a friend who is dead and whose body is now missing:
a stone removed from the tomb;
the linen wrappings lying there;
the cloth that had covered a sacred head there also;
two angels in white.
And it all just adds to her weeping and her grief and her mourning.
Until a word – the Word – shatters the illusion.
“Mary,” Jesus says.
It’s enough to make her turn around
and take a second look at the gardener.
“Mary.”
It’s a voice she knows.
And with that one word, Mary recognizes him.
Suddenly, she knows; she really knows.
It isn’t the gardener standing before her.
This is her Teacher; this is her dear friend; this is Jesus!
And Mary begins to see.
Hearing has helped her to believe.
Jesus is alive!
Christ has risen from the dead!
It wasn’t what she expected, even though he talked about it.
It wasn’t what she anticipated that early morning.
This is something genuinely new and radical,
and only possible with God.
Those things she had seen earlier –
the empty tomb and the linen clothes and the head wrapping –
they didn’t mean that someone had stolen the body.
They were signs that God had defeated death.
Christ had been raised from the dead.
And now that Mary gets it,
she wants to hold on to him.
But Jesus tells her no.
His place is on the right hand of the Father.
And Mary knows that is true.
She sets off to find the other disciples.
To tell them what she has heard,
the thing that has enabled her to believe her eyes:
“Christ is risen!
He is risen indeed!
And he called me by name!
“He knew I didn’t yet understand what had happened;
and he called my name to make sure I got it.
Christ has been raised from the dead!”
Indeed, Christ has been raised from the dead!
And that Christ who appeared in the garden outside the tomb
and called Mary by name that first Easter morning,
is the Christ who still calls us by name.
He is the one who knows his own –
each weeping woman, every doubting disciple;
each tired follower, every joyful worshipper –
Christ is the one who knows each of his own
and calls out to them,
calls out to us.
Christ calls each one of us by name.
And with that single word,
we, who were nobodies, have been named and called anew –
we are children of God.
Children of God who have heard the voice of Jesus –
the voice of the One who knows us and calls us.
Calls us to celebrate and sing and dance.
Calls us to worship and praise and honor God.
Calls us to remember and hear the story anew.
But Jesus does not call us here for just a single revelation;
Jesus also commands us to go and speak –
to become proclaimers of the Word –
like Mary that first Easter morning.
And in so doing, Jesus not only calls us by name, but also calls us on.
Calls us on to Easter living.
Calls us to spread the Good News.
Calls us to tell the story so others may also hear the call,
that hearing may lead to believing.
In the name of our Risen Lord and Savior;
Alleluia. Amen.
Easter Sunrise Service
John 20:1-18
It is the third day.
For Mary Magdelene and the other disciples
time might have been flying by
or slowly marching onward
as they continued to contemplate
what they had seen and heard over the past week.
How did it all fit together?
Had only a handful of days passed?
Had it all really happened?
How could Jesus,
the one who had healed so many of the sick and lame,
the one who had come into town on a donkey,
the one who had just broken bread with them,
how could that Jesus really be dead?
But he is.
“It is finished.”
His body has even been laid in a tomb.
A stone has been rolled in front of it.
But it is the third day,
and Mary, who has risen while it is still dark,
(much like us today)
is drawn to the tomb.
Perhaps she goes to anoint Jesus’ body with more oils;
or to continue her period of mourning;
maybe she just wants to sit outside the tomb and keep watch.
Regardless, she expects to find death there.
But she finds something that seems even worse –
the stone has been rolled away.
The stone that was supposed to protect Jesus’ body.
Who could have done this?
Who would do such a thing?
Mary turns on her heel and leaves to tell the others.
They are little help.
Simon Peter and the other disciple race to the tomb.
The stone really has been rolled away.
They peer in and see that the tomb really is empty.
But then they return home.
And in the early hours of the third day,
Mary is left alone … outside the tomb … weeping.
For everything she sees points to
a friend who is dead and whose body is now missing:
a stone removed from the tomb;
the linen wrappings lying there;
the cloth that had covered a sacred head there also;
two angels in white.
And it all just adds to her weeping and her grief and her mourning.
Until a word – the Word – shatters the illusion.
“Mary,” Jesus says.
It’s enough to make her turn around
and take a second look at the gardener.
“Mary.”
It’s a voice she knows.
And with that one word, Mary recognizes him.
Suddenly, she knows; she really knows.
It isn’t the gardener standing before her.
This is her Teacher; this is her dear friend; this is Jesus!
And Mary begins to see.
Hearing has helped her to believe.
Jesus is alive!
Christ has risen from the dead!
It wasn’t what she expected, even though he talked about it.
It wasn’t what she anticipated that early morning.
This is something genuinely new and radical,
and only possible with God.
Those things she had seen earlier –
the empty tomb and the linen clothes and the head wrapping –
they didn’t mean that someone had stolen the body.
They were signs that God had defeated death.
Christ had been raised from the dead.
And now that Mary gets it,
she wants to hold on to him.
But Jesus tells her no.
His place is on the right hand of the Father.
And Mary knows that is true.
She sets off to find the other disciples.
To tell them what she has heard,
the thing that has enabled her to believe her eyes:
“Christ is risen!
He is risen indeed!
And he called me by name!
“He knew I didn’t yet understand what had happened;
and he called my name to make sure I got it.
Christ has been raised from the dead!”
Indeed, Christ has been raised from the dead!
And that Christ who appeared in the garden outside the tomb
and called Mary by name that first Easter morning,
is the Christ who still calls us by name.
He is the one who knows his own –
each weeping woman, every doubting disciple;
each tired follower, every joyful worshipper –
Christ is the one who knows each of his own
and calls out to them,
calls out to us.
Christ calls each one of us by name.
And with that single word,
we, who were nobodies, have been named and called anew –
we are children of God.
Children of God who have heard the voice of Jesus –
the voice of the One who knows us and calls us.
Calls us to celebrate and sing and dance.
Calls us to worship and praise and honor God.
Calls us to remember and hear the story anew.
But Jesus does not call us here for just a single revelation;
Jesus also commands us to go and speak –
to become proclaimers of the Word –
like Mary that first Easter morning.
And in so doing, Jesus not only calls us by name, but also calls us on.
Calls us on to Easter living.
Calls us to spread the Good News.
Calls us to tell the story so others may also hear the call,
that hearing may lead to believing.
In the name of our Risen Lord and Savior;
Alleluia. Amen.
April 07, 2007
Silence
I like silence.
I'm an introvert and I enjoy good periods of being silent (especially if I'm reading while it's silent).
But I also really like silence in worship services.
I had the privilege of staying a week at the Taize community in France a year and a half ago. I loved attending worship three times a day there because silence is such an integral part of it. There was sufficient space to just be in the presence of God. Words were minimal. And the space was holy.
The pastor and I tried to craft holy, silent space at the Maundy Thursday service. People were pretty good at entering in silence. The narthex and sanctuary were lit by candlelight and the pianist played some beautiful prelude selections that helped people meditate or just be quiet. At the end of the service, there was no benediction and the bulletin indicated that people should exit singing the last verse of "Were You There?" and then leave in silence. The pastor and I walked down the aisle during the verse in hope that people would follow. We then circled back around to the sanctuary - no receiving line/greeeting time. People did follow, but they were not silent once the verse was over. There was lots of chatting and calling across the narthex to others. I was in the sanctuary starting to extinguish the candles. A congregant came up to me and offered to do that so I could go greet people. I politely told him that I was okay extinguishing the candles because I would prefer that people would leave in silence.
When we so often fill so much of our time and space with words, how do we teach others to honor silence?
I'm an introvert and I enjoy good periods of being silent (especially if I'm reading while it's silent).
But I also really like silence in worship services.
I had the privilege of staying a week at the Taize community in France a year and a half ago. I loved attending worship three times a day there because silence is such an integral part of it. There was sufficient space to just be in the presence of God. Words were minimal. And the space was holy.
The pastor and I tried to craft holy, silent space at the Maundy Thursday service. People were pretty good at entering in silence. The narthex and sanctuary were lit by candlelight and the pianist played some beautiful prelude selections that helped people meditate or just be quiet. At the end of the service, there was no benediction and the bulletin indicated that people should exit singing the last verse of "Were You There?" and then leave in silence. The pastor and I walked down the aisle during the verse in hope that people would follow. We then circled back around to the sanctuary - no receiving line/greeeting time. People did follow, but they were not silent once the verse was over. There was lots of chatting and calling across the narthex to others. I was in the sanctuary starting to extinguish the candles. A congregant came up to me and offered to do that so I could go greet people. I politely told him that I was okay extinguishing the candles because I would prefer that people would leave in silence.
When we so often fill so much of our time and space with words, how do we teach others to honor silence?
April 05, 2007
Living into Holy Week
I'm having trouble living into Holy Week.
- My pastoral intern mind is thinking about Easter Sunday and what the weather will be like at 6:45 in the morning.
- I've started to plan for the 4th Sunday in Easter when I will preach next and have to incorporate a celebration of youth into the service.
- I'm starting to think about the 5th Sunday in Easter when I will dance in worship with at least one little girl from the congregation.
And so, I'm having trouble living into Holy Week.
And these are some of my favorite worship services of the year. Last year I showed my church nerd colors by attending and liturgizing at a noonday Holy Week Service on Wednesday, attending a Maundy Thursday service done house church style with a meal, a Good Friday service on the seven last words of Jesus, an Easter Vigil (a first time for me and I loved it!), and an Easter Sunday service.
So this is my hope and prayer - that I will stop at some point over the next few days and live into that day of Holy Week.
March 31, 2007
The Lull Before the Storm
Today was a wonderful Sabbath for me. Lots of lounging around and reading. Watched some movies on tv. Got my haircut.
This past week I only worked 40 hours. It was nice. I also find it hard to believe since the "Clergy Superbowl" is almost upon us.
But Maundy Thursday service is planned, including liturgical dance that is already choreographed and has been practiced with musician and soloist.
Easter Sunrise Service bulletin is completed. Sermon/meditation is outlined.
For right now, I'm enjoying the lull before the storm ...
This past week I only worked 40 hours. It was nice. I also find it hard to believe since the "Clergy Superbowl" is almost upon us.
But Maundy Thursday service is planned, including liturgical dance that is already choreographed and has been practiced with musician and soloist.
Easter Sunrise Service bulletin is completed. Sermon/meditation is outlined.
For right now, I'm enjoying the lull before the storm ...
March 26, 2007
A Way Through
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Isaiah 43:16-21
Have you ever had to make your way through the jungle? Cutting back the brush, holding back the limbs, searching for a path of least resistance? Looking for a way to let some light into the habitat that is so thick and dense that it blocks out all of the sun’s rays.
Think George of the Jungle. Fighting through the thick of untended vegetation. Finding a new path in the wilderness of creation.
No? Well, I haven’t either, but I imagine its hard work. (Harder work than even Ed and Bill and Tom had yesterday as they tore down the fence that has become entangled in the bush on the corner of 13th Street. And that looked like really hard work.)
So, maybe we haven’t had to fight our way through the Amazon jungle …
but what about the jungles of life? Or the wilderness of Lent?
Have you ever been in that dry place, in that desert? And when you look around, all around you, all you can see is miles of hills of sand – an unchanging landscape. No relief. No trees to offer shade and a place to stop and rest. No water to cool you and strengthen you for the journey. Nothing but dryness and sand as far as the eye can see.
My family found itself in that figurative wilderness about 12 years ago.
My dad woke up one Sunday morning and had a little difficulty moving his left arm and leg. He stayed home from church while my mom took my brothers and I to Sunday School and worship. When we returned home, my dad’s whole left side seemed to be paralyzed. He had a difficult time moving his arm and leg at all by this point. My mom and dad rushed to the emergency room and my brothers and I were shipped off to the neighbors’ house.
And so began our desert living; that would be the trend for many weeks to come. My parents at the hospital, as my dad endured test after test and visit after visit from a variety of specialists; and my brothers and I getting shuffled around to family and friends and neighbors – not too sure or clear about what was going on.
And the tests would continue, and the answers would not come. And my mom would come home at night and weep on the kitchen floor, crying out to God to do something, anything … because living in the wilderness of not knowing was too hard.
It was not a place we wanted to stay. But as we glanced around, the terrain all looked the same. More pricks and pokes, scans and prods. And still no answers. Another night in the hospital. More tests and still the bafflement of what was happening in my dad’s body. Desert living – it’s not very enjoyable. But there’s no easy way out.
Eventually, the doctors would decide to do exploratory brain surgery. And when the doctors started to poke around in my dad’s brain, they discovered a tangled web of blood vessels; and we had a name for what was happening – a cavernous angioma and with the name, a little bit of water in the desert. Some relief.
Those blood vessels had probably been in my dad’s brain since birth, but that fall they had started to bleed on my dad’s motor strip, causing the abrupt, unexplainable paralysis and our sudden wilderness surroundings. But the doctors were able to remove it successfully and my dad began the slow process of recovery.
Rivers began to spring up in our wilderness. Hope began to blossom.
And that’s the same hope the writer of Isaiah is conveying to the people of God: today’s Scripture passage is a “proclamation of salvation” – it’s scandalous good news! It invites us to remember what happened the last time the Lord’s people found themselves in a dry wilderness.
It was during the exodus from Egypt. Difficult times indeed. But …
God showed up. God provided. God listened. God was there.
When all the exhausted Hebrews could see ahead was wilderness, God offered them some water. When all the worn out and worn down people could see behind was a land of slavery, a land that started to look good again, God offered them some shade. When all the chosen people could do was complain and sulk, God was there.
God was there providing nourishment – enough water and manna each day;
God was there providing leadership – through Moses and Aaron.
God was there intruding into their lives –
into their messy, often ungrateful lives –
providing a way where there was no way. A way through to the other side.
Through.
The Hebrew people didn’t have a non-stop ticket to the Promised Land. They had some layovers. Forty years of layovers in the wilderness to be exact. But, that wilderness was the way to the Promise.
Through it.
Because sometimes the only way out, or on, or forward is through.
And as I’ve been thinking about this all week – finding a way through –
a song with motions came to mind. Are you surprised?
It’s the childhood song “We’re Going on a Bear Hunt.”
Do you know the song I’m talking about?
Did you learn it as a child in preschool or at camp around a campfire?
If not, it goes like this
(you can join me if you know it, it’s a repeat after me song)
We’re going on a bear hunt. We’re going on a bear hunt.
We’re going to catch a big one. We’re going to catch a big one.
Oh, oh! Grass. Oh, oh! Grass.
Long, wavy grass. Long, wavy grass.
Can’t go over it. Can’t go over it.
Can’t go under it. Can’t go under it.
Can’t go around it. Can’t go around it.
Gotta go through it. Gotta go through it.
Swishy, swashy, swishy, swashy.
We’re going on a bear hunt. We’re going on a bear hunt.
We’re going to catch a big one. We’re going to catch a big one.
Oh, oh! Mud. Oh, oh! Mud.
Thick, oozy mud. Thick, oozy mud.
Can’t go over it. Can’t go over it.
Can’t go under it. Can’t go under it.
Can’t go around it. Can’t go around it.
Gotta go through it. Gotta go through it.
Squelch, squelch, squelch, squelch.
And the song continues in the same manner,
as the bear hunters also travel through
a deep, cold river;
a big, dark forest;
and into a big, dark cave.
They travel through each of these physical barriers because there’s no other way forward – can’t go over it, can’t go under it, can’t go around it; the grass must swish at their legs, the mud must ooze between their toes, the river must rush over their feet. Because that’s the way to the bear. And so the bear hunters travel on and through.
And even though that’s just a silly childhood song
and we’re not going on a bear hunt through all sorts of terrain,
there's the simple message in it of having to travel through.
Because we also travel through:
Maybe not through thick, oozy mud or a deep, cold river,
But through the endless nights of worry;
Or through the lonely places of loss;
Or through the heavy days of grief and sorrow;
Straight into the depth of pain.
Through.
Through the illness, the changes, the divorce, the waiting, and the difficulties.
Through whatever it is that you may be facing this day.
We travel through this Lenten journey, also.
A journey that’s almost done.
Beginning in the wilderness and then on
through a parade of palms, a final meal with friends, a cross, and a tomb.
Through, but not alone.
For on the journey through whatever dry land
you or I have faced, or may currently face, or will face,
there is a gracious God with us:
a God who speaks and brings nourishment;
a God who acts and crafts a new future;
a God who creates something out of nothing,
a bright future out of a dismal present;
a God who is there.
For, in the desert and dry wilderness places of life, our hope is that God intrudes and walks with us on our way through. Water in the wilderness; a river in the desert. Our God does not abandon us in the wilderness or leave us to negotiate the difficult places alone. God is with us on the way through.
God was with my family on the way through – hearing our prayers, allowing our tears, enduring our questions, and carrying us through.
And God’s presence was not the only stream that provided some relief in the desert. There were also the prayers of family and friends, strangers and numerous congregations. Cards with prayers filled one whole wall of our kitchen. And the sight of that wall, that well of water in our parched land, helped us make our way through.
Through. It’s not the easy path. Over and around would certainly be better at times. Avoid the heartache and bypass the difficulties.
But that’s not the “proclamation of salvation,” that’s not the good news in the text this morning. The good news is that God provides a way through; makes a way where there is no way; opens our imagination to behold a new thing; and is our ever faithful companion on the journey.
For God cries out:
“Behold, I am doing a new thing! It’s bursting out! Don’t you see it?!”
There’s a way through.
Thanks be to God. Amen.
Isaiah 43:16-21
Have you ever had to make your way through the jungle? Cutting back the brush, holding back the limbs, searching for a path of least resistance? Looking for a way to let some light into the habitat that is so thick and dense that it blocks out all of the sun’s rays.
Think George of the Jungle. Fighting through the thick of untended vegetation. Finding a new path in the wilderness of creation.
No? Well, I haven’t either, but I imagine its hard work. (Harder work than even Ed and Bill and Tom had yesterday as they tore down the fence that has become entangled in the bush on the corner of 13th Street. And that looked like really hard work.)
So, maybe we haven’t had to fight our way through the Amazon jungle …
but what about the jungles of life? Or the wilderness of Lent?
Have you ever been in that dry place, in that desert? And when you look around, all around you, all you can see is miles of hills of sand – an unchanging landscape. No relief. No trees to offer shade and a place to stop and rest. No water to cool you and strengthen you for the journey. Nothing but dryness and sand as far as the eye can see.
My family found itself in that figurative wilderness about 12 years ago.
My dad woke up one Sunday morning and had a little difficulty moving his left arm and leg. He stayed home from church while my mom took my brothers and I to Sunday School and worship. When we returned home, my dad’s whole left side seemed to be paralyzed. He had a difficult time moving his arm and leg at all by this point. My mom and dad rushed to the emergency room and my brothers and I were shipped off to the neighbors’ house.
And so began our desert living; that would be the trend for many weeks to come. My parents at the hospital, as my dad endured test after test and visit after visit from a variety of specialists; and my brothers and I getting shuffled around to family and friends and neighbors – not too sure or clear about what was going on.
And the tests would continue, and the answers would not come. And my mom would come home at night and weep on the kitchen floor, crying out to God to do something, anything … because living in the wilderness of not knowing was too hard.
It was not a place we wanted to stay. But as we glanced around, the terrain all looked the same. More pricks and pokes, scans and prods. And still no answers. Another night in the hospital. More tests and still the bafflement of what was happening in my dad’s body. Desert living – it’s not very enjoyable. But there’s no easy way out.
Eventually, the doctors would decide to do exploratory brain surgery. And when the doctors started to poke around in my dad’s brain, they discovered a tangled web of blood vessels; and we had a name for what was happening – a cavernous angioma and with the name, a little bit of water in the desert. Some relief.
Those blood vessels had probably been in my dad’s brain since birth, but that fall they had started to bleed on my dad’s motor strip, causing the abrupt, unexplainable paralysis and our sudden wilderness surroundings. But the doctors were able to remove it successfully and my dad began the slow process of recovery.
Rivers began to spring up in our wilderness. Hope began to blossom.
And that’s the same hope the writer of Isaiah is conveying to the people of God: today’s Scripture passage is a “proclamation of salvation” – it’s scandalous good news! It invites us to remember what happened the last time the Lord’s people found themselves in a dry wilderness.
It was during the exodus from Egypt. Difficult times indeed. But …
God showed up. God provided. God listened. God was there.
When all the exhausted Hebrews could see ahead was wilderness, God offered them some water. When all the worn out and worn down people could see behind was a land of slavery, a land that started to look good again, God offered them some shade. When all the chosen people could do was complain and sulk, God was there.
God was there providing nourishment – enough water and manna each day;
God was there providing leadership – through Moses and Aaron.
God was there intruding into their lives –
into their messy, often ungrateful lives –
providing a way where there was no way. A way through to the other side.
Through.
The Hebrew people didn’t have a non-stop ticket to the Promised Land. They had some layovers. Forty years of layovers in the wilderness to be exact. But, that wilderness was the way to the Promise.
Through it.
Because sometimes the only way out, or on, or forward is through.
And as I’ve been thinking about this all week – finding a way through –
a song with motions came to mind. Are you surprised?
It’s the childhood song “We’re Going on a Bear Hunt.”
Do you know the song I’m talking about?
Did you learn it as a child in preschool or at camp around a campfire?
If not, it goes like this
(you can join me if you know it, it’s a repeat after me song)
We’re going on a bear hunt. We’re going on a bear hunt.
We’re going to catch a big one. We’re going to catch a big one.
Oh, oh! Grass. Oh, oh! Grass.
Long, wavy grass. Long, wavy grass.
Can’t go over it. Can’t go over it.
Can’t go under it. Can’t go under it.
Can’t go around it. Can’t go around it.
Gotta go through it. Gotta go through it.
Swishy, swashy, swishy, swashy.
We’re going on a bear hunt. We’re going on a bear hunt.
We’re going to catch a big one. We’re going to catch a big one.
Oh, oh! Mud. Oh, oh! Mud.
Thick, oozy mud. Thick, oozy mud.
Can’t go over it. Can’t go over it.
Can’t go under it. Can’t go under it.
Can’t go around it. Can’t go around it.
Gotta go through it. Gotta go through it.
Squelch, squelch, squelch, squelch.
And the song continues in the same manner,
as the bear hunters also travel through
a deep, cold river;
a big, dark forest;
and into a big, dark cave.
They travel through each of these physical barriers because there’s no other way forward – can’t go over it, can’t go under it, can’t go around it; the grass must swish at their legs, the mud must ooze between their toes, the river must rush over their feet. Because that’s the way to the bear. And so the bear hunters travel on and through.
And even though that’s just a silly childhood song
and we’re not going on a bear hunt through all sorts of terrain,
there's the simple message in it of having to travel through.
Because we also travel through:
Maybe not through thick, oozy mud or a deep, cold river,
But through the endless nights of worry;
Or through the lonely places of loss;
Or through the heavy days of grief and sorrow;
Straight into the depth of pain.
Through.
Through the illness, the changes, the divorce, the waiting, and the difficulties.
Through whatever it is that you may be facing this day.
We travel through this Lenten journey, also.
A journey that’s almost done.
Beginning in the wilderness and then on
through a parade of palms, a final meal with friends, a cross, and a tomb.
Through, but not alone.
For on the journey through whatever dry land
you or I have faced, or may currently face, or will face,
there is a gracious God with us:
a God who speaks and brings nourishment;
a God who acts and crafts a new future;
a God who creates something out of nothing,
a bright future out of a dismal present;
a God who is there.
For, in the desert and dry wilderness places of life, our hope is that God intrudes and walks with us on our way through. Water in the wilderness; a river in the desert. Our God does not abandon us in the wilderness or leave us to negotiate the difficult places alone. God is with us on the way through.
God was with my family on the way through – hearing our prayers, allowing our tears, enduring our questions, and carrying us through.
And God’s presence was not the only stream that provided some relief in the desert. There were also the prayers of family and friends, strangers and numerous congregations. Cards with prayers filled one whole wall of our kitchen. And the sight of that wall, that well of water in our parched land, helped us make our way through.
Through. It’s not the easy path. Over and around would certainly be better at times. Avoid the heartache and bypass the difficulties.
But that’s not the “proclamation of salvation,” that’s not the good news in the text this morning. The good news is that God provides a way through; makes a way where there is no way; opens our imagination to behold a new thing; and is our ever faithful companion on the journey.
For God cries out:
“Behold, I am doing a new thing! It’s bursting out! Don’t you see it?!”
There’s a way through.
Thanks be to God. Amen.
March 08, 2007
O yeah ... I'm in Florida ...
Yesterday we had our staff meeting/lunch for the month. (When the only people in the office are the administrative assistant, the pastor, and myself, you really don't need official meetings too often).
We were making sure that things were set for Easter. We finalized the number of lilies and mums to order for the sanctuary from the local nursery. Then I asked if we would be getting some palms for Palm Sunday. At this point the pastor said, "Well yeah, we just go outside and cut them off the trees."
O yeah ... I'm in Florida ...
We were making sure that things were set for Easter. We finalized the number of lilies and mums to order for the sanctuary from the local nursery. Then I asked if we would be getting some palms for Palm Sunday. At this point the pastor said, "Well yeah, we just go outside and cut them off the trees."
O yeah ... I'm in Florida ...
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