My therapist and I (but let's be honest, mostly my therapist) expend a great deal of time and energy cultivating "safe space" for us to occupy together. Interestingly, the confidentiality of our relationship makes up only a tiny part of what characterizes this safe space. In fact, confidentiality matters almost not at all -- I would trust her to share whatever she saw fit with whomever she saw fit, even without telling me about it -- so strong is the sense of safety that she has cultivated for me.
In my therapist's office, safe space becomes an embodied reality. First, she pays careful attention to the room itself. The room is comfortable with a door that locks and an understanding that only people and attitudes we invite are welcome. The occasional changes in the room, most times fluid though sometimes abrupt, mark the reality of life outside and around that space, and the movement invited within the space. The smell of a candle permeates the space and sets it apart, without overpowering it. It is just warm enough, just light enough, just big enough.
This space holds no judgement. Not that we accept anything or everything; that would not be safe. Rather, the space gently expands to hold conflict and tension in a way that does not diminish the space available for movement and understanding. In this space, we recognize and call out harmful and hurtful ideas and behaviors not through judgement but with grace. I sense that she cannot bear to allow harm because of her deep care and concern for me in my journey toward wholeness. And yet, all things can be named, shared, reflected upon without fear of retaliation, anger, or contempt. Mutual sharing, trust, and relationship characterize our space together, expanding the possibility for safety within ourselves and therefore with each other also.
This space is unique in my life, offering a safety seldom available in the rest of the world. It is space to be really and truly me, foibles and all -- and a space to live courageously (and sometimes uncharacteristically) into the beauty of the person God created me to be.
And so, I call this space sacred space, holy space. Space truly set aside as different. Space that embodies the presence of God. A place inviolate, protected, secure.
I believe that every child of God, every person in this world, deserves to discover sacred space like this.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Winter's Spring
Walking outside, I loosen my coat and scarf, take the extra blanket off the baby. The western wind buffets my face, and I breathe in the smell of spring. Wet ground, humid air, new grass. A smile spreads over my face as I breathe deeply and watch my child blink against the strength of the wind. And in a second, the smile is gone, replaced with concern.
It is January 31st in Chicago, Illinois. The wonderful 60 degree day began with bright sunshine, which has faded now. Even as I take joy in the warmth and the promise of spring, I am aware that this weather is wrong. A mild winter is one thing; snow one day and 60 degree weather a few days later is another. I'm not a scientist. It has been explained to me that global climate change isn't about "warming," exactly, but about greater energy in the atmosphere that results in greater temperature extremes. So while I praise God for the quick, gentle smile in my heart when reminded of spring, I also recognize that this reminder is coming too early this year, and it's likely that the weather will again become cold before spring comes again. The promise kept remains far off.
Today, I find that my concern about global climate change is different than the last time I thought about it. Instead of wanting to leave the earth "better for our children," some vague group of people I know little about, I find myself wanting to leave a legacy of hope for my child. I imagine her future in this world and wonder how her fair skin will fare under a hotter, seemingly brighter sun. I wonder what her lungs will breathe, and if her luck of being born into a middle-class, white, suburbanite family will significantly decrease her odds of getting asthma, or serious allergies, or environmental cancer. I wonder what I can do, should be doing, to protect this child in my care.
I've read that people often do nothing about environmental concerns because the task appears too large. Indeed, the task to leave a healthier, better planet looms large. Yet, small decisions make a difference too. I know that my baby will lift her head first, then push herself up on her arms, then crawl, then pull herself up on her feet, then take cautious steps, then run. Today, she's working on the crawling part -- frustrated that she goes nowhere, but I know she's building the muscles she needs to push up and move. Perhaps that is what God calls me to do today; not to run today, but to begin by lifting my head, looking around, noticing what small choices I can make that affect a healthier planet. Eat less meat (no, that's more like those first cautious steps -- I LOVE red meat). What about buying local? I can do this. I can buy organic. I can pray for strength and willingness to take the next steps, whatever they are. I gave up red meat for my child when I was pregnant, to ensure a healthy future for my baby. One day I'll cut back to give a healthy future to my adult child, I'm just not there yet. I'm not quite at the giving up my car part, yet, but I can be careful about how I drive. I'm not quite at pestering my elected officials about EPA rules and standards, but I will vote for people for whom climate change and a healthy environment are priorities. Tiny little muscle building exercises, so I can live into a better future for my child.
I breathe in the warm air, again, thankful for the reminder of spring. The promise of hope for the future, the promise of resurrection, of life. I hear God calling me into a future of hope and grace. I feel it on the wind. And, thankful for the reminder that I can do something. I must do something. The promise of hope, resurrection, life, grace remains unfulfilled. It is up to me, to us, to ensure that it comes to fruition. And all of this, only by God's grace.
It is January 31st in Chicago, Illinois. The wonderful 60 degree day began with bright sunshine, which has faded now. Even as I take joy in the warmth and the promise of spring, I am aware that this weather is wrong. A mild winter is one thing; snow one day and 60 degree weather a few days later is another. I'm not a scientist. It has been explained to me that global climate change isn't about "warming," exactly, but about greater energy in the atmosphere that results in greater temperature extremes. So while I praise God for the quick, gentle smile in my heart when reminded of spring, I also recognize that this reminder is coming too early this year, and it's likely that the weather will again become cold before spring comes again. The promise kept remains far off.
Today, I find that my concern about global climate change is different than the last time I thought about it. Instead of wanting to leave the earth "better for our children," some vague group of people I know little about, I find myself wanting to leave a legacy of hope for my child. I imagine her future in this world and wonder how her fair skin will fare under a hotter, seemingly brighter sun. I wonder what her lungs will breathe, and if her luck of being born into a middle-class, white, suburbanite family will significantly decrease her odds of getting asthma, or serious allergies, or environmental cancer. I wonder what I can do, should be doing, to protect this child in my care.
I've read that people often do nothing about environmental concerns because the task appears too large. Indeed, the task to leave a healthier, better planet looms large. Yet, small decisions make a difference too. I know that my baby will lift her head first, then push herself up on her arms, then crawl, then pull herself up on her feet, then take cautious steps, then run. Today, she's working on the crawling part -- frustrated that she goes nowhere, but I know she's building the muscles she needs to push up and move. Perhaps that is what God calls me to do today; not to run today, but to begin by lifting my head, looking around, noticing what small choices I can make that affect a healthier planet. Eat less meat (no, that's more like those first cautious steps -- I LOVE red meat). What about buying local? I can do this. I can buy organic. I can pray for strength and willingness to take the next steps, whatever they are. I gave up red meat for my child when I was pregnant, to ensure a healthy future for my baby. One day I'll cut back to give a healthy future to my adult child, I'm just not there yet. I'm not quite at the giving up my car part, yet, but I can be careful about how I drive. I'm not quite at pestering my elected officials about EPA rules and standards, but I will vote for people for whom climate change and a healthy environment are priorities. Tiny little muscle building exercises, so I can live into a better future for my child.
I breathe in the warm air, again, thankful for the reminder of spring. The promise of hope for the future, the promise of resurrection, of life. I hear God calling me into a future of hope and grace. I feel it on the wind. And, thankful for the reminder that I can do something. I must do something. The promise of hope, resurrection, life, grace remains unfulfilled. It is up to me, to us, to ensure that it comes to fruition. And all of this, only by God's grace.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Please tell me there is still some good in the world
Recently, at a wedding I attended, a friend of ours was sharing stories about his job. He is a teacher for children with severe behavioral disabilities. The stories he shared about what the kids were capable of doing, and the traumatic events in their lives that have led them to this place, astounded us. Someone turned to me and said, "Please tell me there is still some good in the world." I sat and stared at her, stunned. In a moment, all I was thinking was, "I should be able to do this. This is my job as a pastor. It is my job to reassure people of God's grace, in spite of everything. This is what I am called to do." In the moment pause that it took me to realize I didn't know what to say, she explained what she was asking. "I can't believe these stories. They break my heart. How can people do that to children? How can we be so evil to each other? The whole world is like this! Please tell me that there's hope."
Hope? I should be able to respond to that too. Grace, hope, good news... that's what I'm called to proclaim. I said, "There's still good in the world." And that's all I said. That's all she asked for. That was good enough for her, for that moment. The conversation moved elsewhere. But I was silenced. Shamed. I didn't have anything to say. I didn't have any proof, any examples, any ideas of where to find goodness, grace, and hope in a world so full of pain.
This conversation has troubled me ever since. It is indeed my vocation to proclaim good news in a world of pain. God has called me to preach grace and the promise of a coming kindom into a world that can't hear it and will reject my message and probably me, too. Where is this hope and goodness that God is calling me to preach?
In asking her own questions of faith, this woman did not know she was questioning mine as well. But I struggle, sometimes (maybe even often), to see God's work in the world. I am convinced beyond belief that God is working and present and working through us. I know without a doubt that when we try, we can find experiences of God's kindom already come and in the process of coming all around us. But how often do I try? And how often do I step out of the world as-it-is to experience the world as-it-will-be?
This Sunday, at St. James, we will celebrate a baptism. In the baptism service, we pray that God will remind us of God's grace. We renounce the powers of the world and the forces of evil, and we turn ourselves from this world as-it-is to look firmly into the world as-it-will-be, to step into an alternative reality, the reality of God's kindom. We celebrate God's claiming of one more child into the Christian communion, celebrate God's grace as evident in that child's life and present in that child's heart. We also promise to help that child live into that new, alternative reality. Which means we'll have to live into that same reality, the world as-it-will-be. And we do that, almost immediately. We sit down at a meal together, at God's table, where every person regardless of everything is welcomed and fed. We are no longer Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, 'black' nor white, rich nor poor, child nor adult. We are one communion, one holy family - with all the saints of every time and place. We are, in that moment, the kindom come.
That baptismal service, complete with the Eucharistic meal, is an important reminder of God's work in the world, and God's work in us. A wise pastor once reminded me: At baptism, God claims us as her own. God puts her spirit deep within us. So no matter what happens, no matter what evil enters us or enters the world, we are always claimed as God's own. We can never be fundamentally shameful or evil, because that choice has already been made for us. Whatever evil, traumatic, horrific things might happen in our lives, God was there first. Even before baptism, God knit us in our mother's womb. We can't change that. Nothing can change that. No matter what happens, baptism comes first. God claims us, and she doesn't let go.
This Sunday, we'll pray over the water and trust that God's spirit is placed deep within the baby's soul. And we'll pray: "...Praise to you for the water of baptism and for your Word that saves us in this water. Breathe your Spirit into all who are gathered here and into all creation. Illumine our days. Enliven our bones. Dry our tears. Wash away the sin within us, and drown the evil around us..."
May it be so. And may the hope and goodness of God be present and evident in our lives today, in ways we can see, feel, touch, taste, and know. And may we have the grace to accept God in our lives and in our world. To live not in the world as-it-is but in the world as-it-will-be. Amen.
Hope? I should be able to respond to that too. Grace, hope, good news... that's what I'm called to proclaim. I said, "There's still good in the world." And that's all I said. That's all she asked for. That was good enough for her, for that moment. The conversation moved elsewhere. But I was silenced. Shamed. I didn't have anything to say. I didn't have any proof, any examples, any ideas of where to find goodness, grace, and hope in a world so full of pain.
This conversation has troubled me ever since. It is indeed my vocation to proclaim good news in a world of pain. God has called me to preach grace and the promise of a coming kindom into a world that can't hear it and will reject my message and probably me, too. Where is this hope and goodness that God is calling me to preach?
In asking her own questions of faith, this woman did not know she was questioning mine as well. But I struggle, sometimes (maybe even often), to see God's work in the world. I am convinced beyond belief that God is working and present and working through us. I know without a doubt that when we try, we can find experiences of God's kindom already come and in the process of coming all around us. But how often do I try? And how often do I step out of the world as-it-is to experience the world as-it-will-be?
This Sunday, at St. James, we will celebrate a baptism. In the baptism service, we pray that God will remind us of God's grace. We renounce the powers of the world and the forces of evil, and we turn ourselves from this world as-it-is to look firmly into the world as-it-will-be, to step into an alternative reality, the reality of God's kindom. We celebrate God's claiming of one more child into the Christian communion, celebrate God's grace as evident in that child's life and present in that child's heart. We also promise to help that child live into that new, alternative reality. Which means we'll have to live into that same reality, the world as-it-will-be. And we do that, almost immediately. We sit down at a meal together, at God's table, where every person regardless of everything is welcomed and fed. We are no longer Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, 'black' nor white, rich nor poor, child nor adult. We are one communion, one holy family - with all the saints of every time and place. We are, in that moment, the kindom come.
That baptismal service, complete with the Eucharistic meal, is an important reminder of God's work in the world, and God's work in us. A wise pastor once reminded me: At baptism, God claims us as her own. God puts her spirit deep within us. So no matter what happens, no matter what evil enters us or enters the world, we are always claimed as God's own. We can never be fundamentally shameful or evil, because that choice has already been made for us. Whatever evil, traumatic, horrific things might happen in our lives, God was there first. Even before baptism, God knit us in our mother's womb. We can't change that. Nothing can change that. No matter what happens, baptism comes first. God claims us, and she doesn't let go.
This Sunday, we'll pray over the water and trust that God's spirit is placed deep within the baby's soul. And we'll pray: "...Praise to you for the water of baptism and for your Word that saves us in this water. Breathe your Spirit into all who are gathered here and into all creation. Illumine our days. Enliven our bones. Dry our tears. Wash away the sin within us, and drown the evil around us..."
May it be so. And may the hope and goodness of God be present and evident in our lives today, in ways we can see, feel, touch, taste, and know. And may we have the grace to accept God in our lives and in our world. To live not in the world as-it-is but in the world as-it-will-be. Amen.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Church's mission
Matthew 25:31-40
31 "When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on the throne of his glory. 32 All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, 33 and he will put the sheep at his right hand and the goats at the left. 34 Then the king will say to those at his right hand, "Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; 35 for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, 36 I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.' 37 Then the righteous will answer him, "Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? 38 And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? 39 And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?' 40 And the king will answer them, "Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.'
God calls the church to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and shelter the homeless...
I can't say just why this happens, but it tends to be that in the late summer (and around Christmastime) that people who live on the edge tend to need the most help. Perhaps it's because of the heat, or higher electricity bills, or higher gas prices... or any other of a myriad of reasons. Still, almost no one had stopped by the church to request assistance for months. And suddenly, it seems that every day someone is walking into the church, hoping for a prayer and a little help. At St. James, our policy is to invite these folks in and I listen to their stories. Mostly, we have small gift cards that we give out, along with a prayer for God's grace, goodness, and presence in that person's life. Occasionally there will be enough money in to help with a utility bill or bus/train fare. These gifts are always met with grateful smiles and handshakes, and we send them on their way. But their names remain on our prayer list, as we continue to pray for God's presence and grace in their lives.
It didn't occur to me until just today that these requests are precisely the kinds of requests Jesus is talking about in Matthew 25. For pastors, people seeking assistance can be one of the most difficult parts of our jobs. It is not that pastoral care with such folks is particularly difficult - though it can be, if the person happens to be using drugs or alcohol, or mentally ill, or a number of other difficulties that present in peoples' lives. Rather, we feel the need to be good stewards of the limited resources our congregations have to give to people. We make church policies to combat feeling used or taken advantage of. We use our guts and our prayers in the hope of making good, life-giving decisions rather than supporting life-damaging habits. However, when making such decisions, it can be so easy to fall into judgment. In a fast-paced world of meetings and appointments and ever-necessary sermon preparation time, taking time to talk with folks can begin to feel like a burden, one more thing on the agenda to make us late to the next thing.
Still, these people come, and we are called to sit with them, listen to them, pray with them, help them. And, I have discovered that when I take time to be fully present with these people, they often have deep lessons to teach me. Their faith, hope, joy, and love -- in spite of or even because of their life circumstances -- is inspiring. I have learned to say out loud that what we give at St. James is a gift to that person, no strings attached. We hope that people will use what little we have to give in life-giving ways. We hope that God's grace might shine in a little corner of that person's life. We hope that our prayers buoy those people when they most need it. But it is a gift, and we can't require that it be used in any certain way; we can't add expectations and rules. We give gifts because of our desire to give, not because of the other person's desire to receive or intent to use. We give gifts as one response to God's grace to us. And, we give gifts because in doing so we meet Jesus: hungry, thirsty, homeless, naked, sick, imprisoned.
So, I hope people keep coming. And I hope I keep learning. And I pray my church keeps giving... that we might indeed see the Son of Man coming in glory and recognize him from someone we happen to have met once before, on a hot summer day at the end of August, hoping for a prayer and a little bit of help.
31 "When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on the throne of his glory. 32 All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, 33 and he will put the sheep at his right hand and the goats at the left. 34 Then the king will say to those at his right hand, "Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; 35 for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, 36 I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.' 37 Then the righteous will answer him, "Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? 38 And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? 39 And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?' 40 And the king will answer them, "Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.'
God calls the church to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and shelter the homeless...
I can't say just why this happens, but it tends to be that in the late summer (and around Christmastime) that people who live on the edge tend to need the most help. Perhaps it's because of the heat, or higher electricity bills, or higher gas prices... or any other of a myriad of reasons. Still, almost no one had stopped by the church to request assistance for months. And suddenly, it seems that every day someone is walking into the church, hoping for a prayer and a little help. At St. James, our policy is to invite these folks in and I listen to their stories. Mostly, we have small gift cards that we give out, along with a prayer for God's grace, goodness, and presence in that person's life. Occasionally there will be enough money in to help with a utility bill or bus/train fare. These gifts are always met with grateful smiles and handshakes, and we send them on their way. But their names remain on our prayer list, as we continue to pray for God's presence and grace in their lives.
It didn't occur to me until just today that these requests are precisely the kinds of requests Jesus is talking about in Matthew 25. For pastors, people seeking assistance can be one of the most difficult parts of our jobs. It is not that pastoral care with such folks is particularly difficult - though it can be, if the person happens to be using drugs or alcohol, or mentally ill, or a number of other difficulties that present in peoples' lives. Rather, we feel the need to be good stewards of the limited resources our congregations have to give to people. We make church policies to combat feeling used or taken advantage of. We use our guts and our prayers in the hope of making good, life-giving decisions rather than supporting life-damaging habits. However, when making such decisions, it can be so easy to fall into judgment. In a fast-paced world of meetings and appointments and ever-necessary sermon preparation time, taking time to talk with folks can begin to feel like a burden, one more thing on the agenda to make us late to the next thing.
Still, these people come, and we are called to sit with them, listen to them, pray with them, help them. And, I have discovered that when I take time to be fully present with these people, they often have deep lessons to teach me. Their faith, hope, joy, and love -- in spite of or even because of their life circumstances -- is inspiring. I have learned to say out loud that what we give at St. James is a gift to that person, no strings attached. We hope that people will use what little we have to give in life-giving ways. We hope that God's grace might shine in a little corner of that person's life. We hope that our prayers buoy those people when they most need it. But it is a gift, and we can't require that it be used in any certain way; we can't add expectations and rules. We give gifts because of our desire to give, not because of the other person's desire to receive or intent to use. We give gifts as one response to God's grace to us. And, we give gifts because in doing so we meet Jesus: hungry, thirsty, homeless, naked, sick, imprisoned.
So, I hope people keep coming. And I hope I keep learning. And I pray my church keeps giving... that we might indeed see the Son of Man coming in glory and recognize him from someone we happen to have met once before, on a hot summer day at the end of August, hoping for a prayer and a little bit of help.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Why Do We Worship the Way We Have Always Worshiped When People Keep Changing?
I've been wondering about this myself lately. Why do we worship the way we do? Do we worship intentionally, or do we just show up at church hoping the cookies and conversation will be good afterward? Do we care to come into the presence of the Sacred on Sunday morning... or do we fulfill our obligation and then go home again, feeling better about ourselves? For me, some Sundays are celebrations of the joy of God's presence, active in the world and in my life... and some Sundays come closer to "work." One more day, one more sermon, one more service.
Then reality hits me: if this is what I'm called to do, if this is where I'm called to be, if this is where God's people are meeting to worship, then the Sacred is present here. I am in the presence of the Sacred, treading at the hem of the skirt of Heaven. And I'm missing it.
There's nothing wrong with the way we "do church" these days. For some people, myself included, we can indeed feel the thinness of space during Sunday morning worship -- the thinness that tells us that we're near God, or more correctly, God has come near us. There's a sense of being on the edge, in relationship with someone bigger, in the capable hands of a presence emanating Life, Healing, and Wholeness.
This space is Holy space. Inviting. Incomparable. Incommunicable. Indispensable.
So, then, why are there so many people who don't enter this space? So many who, upon entering a church building, still don't enter this space? How is it possible that people "do church" and fail to find "Holy Space," the presence of the Sacred?
This question bothers me because I believe that we all need Sacred Space in our lives. I believe that God calls us not simply to "be spiritual" but to "be in sacredness." God's presence can be known in ourselves and the quietness (or loudness!) of the world around us -- but God's presence is certainly known in the worshiping community, the space where we gather with one another to celebrate God's healing and relational presence in this world. When we "do church," we seek this awareness. When we "do church," we seek this presence. When we "do church," we seek this Sacred Space.
So why do we worship the way we have always worshiped? Part of the answer, I believe, is that we've liked it that way. Part of the answer is that we get lazy. Part of the answer is that we don't think about or know how to create spaces where people who worship differently than us can step into Sacred Space. But this, I believe, is where the church needs to be, or at least needs to be going. God is present in this world and in our lives in many places, many spaces, many gatherings. God's presence is known in Sunday morning stoic Lutheran services and joyful Pentecostal services. God's presence is known in Bible studies and prayer meetings taking place in homes, coffee shops, store fronts, and bars. God's presence is known on playgrounds and in family conversations in the car. If God's presence can be known in all of these gatherings (and countless gatherings I can't even imagine), why does the church only recognize some of them?
I wonder, what will church look like in 50 years? I don't know what it will look like, but I'm certain it won't look like it does today. In my imagination, church will be moving towards smaller gatherings: home churches, storefronts, gatherings at the local park. I imagine church will gather around community gardens, in monastic retreat centers, through community organizing. I imagine people will be looking to find Sacred Spaces in smaller places, through relationship and education and communal prayer and worship. I also imagine that the church, if it moves in this direction, will miss larger gatherings at times, and we'll see a revival of Revivals or retreats and other opportunities for many churches to gather together and worship, finding Sacred Space in the gathering of hundreds, or thousands, or even hundreds-of-thousands.
I don't know if my imagination is "right." But I do know that it's important. We need to imagine what church might look like in the future. It is through our imagination that we might create new Sacred Spaces, Holy Places, for people like and unlike us to step into the presence of the Holy. Let us keep open minds, open hearts, open imaginations, and live into the spaces that God is still creating for all of us. Keep open to the thinness of space in some places, many spaces, and tread gently on the hem of God's kindom come.
Then reality hits me: if this is what I'm called to do, if this is where I'm called to be, if this is where God's people are meeting to worship, then the Sacred is present here. I am in the presence of the Sacred, treading at the hem of the skirt of Heaven. And I'm missing it.
There's nothing wrong with the way we "do church" these days. For some people, myself included, we can indeed feel the thinness of space during Sunday morning worship -- the thinness that tells us that we're near God, or more correctly, God has come near us. There's a sense of being on the edge, in relationship with someone bigger, in the capable hands of a presence emanating Life, Healing, and Wholeness.
This space is Holy space. Inviting. Incomparable. Incommunicable. Indispensable.
So, then, why are there so many people who don't enter this space? So many who, upon entering a church building, still don't enter this space? How is it possible that people "do church" and fail to find "Holy Space," the presence of the Sacred?
This question bothers me because I believe that we all need Sacred Space in our lives. I believe that God calls us not simply to "be spiritual" but to "be in sacredness." God's presence can be known in ourselves and the quietness (or loudness!) of the world around us -- but God's presence is certainly known in the worshiping community, the space where we gather with one another to celebrate God's healing and relational presence in this world. When we "do church," we seek this awareness. When we "do church," we seek this presence. When we "do church," we seek this Sacred Space.
So why do we worship the way we have always worshiped? Part of the answer, I believe, is that we've liked it that way. Part of the answer is that we get lazy. Part of the answer is that we don't think about or know how to create spaces where people who worship differently than us can step into Sacred Space. But this, I believe, is where the church needs to be, or at least needs to be going. God is present in this world and in our lives in many places, many spaces, many gatherings. God's presence is known in Sunday morning stoic Lutheran services and joyful Pentecostal services. God's presence is known in Bible studies and prayer meetings taking place in homes, coffee shops, store fronts, and bars. God's presence is known on playgrounds and in family conversations in the car. If God's presence can be known in all of these gatherings (and countless gatherings I can't even imagine), why does the church only recognize some of them?
I wonder, what will church look like in 50 years? I don't know what it will look like, but I'm certain it won't look like it does today. In my imagination, church will be moving towards smaller gatherings: home churches, storefronts, gatherings at the local park. I imagine church will gather around community gardens, in monastic retreat centers, through community organizing. I imagine people will be looking to find Sacred Spaces in smaller places, through relationship and education and communal prayer and worship. I also imagine that the church, if it moves in this direction, will miss larger gatherings at times, and we'll see a revival of Revivals or retreats and other opportunities for many churches to gather together and worship, finding Sacred Space in the gathering of hundreds, or thousands, or even hundreds-of-thousands.
I don't know if my imagination is "right." But I do know that it's important. We need to imagine what church might look like in the future. It is through our imagination that we might create new Sacred Spaces, Holy Places, for people like and unlike us to step into the presence of the Holy. Let us keep open minds, open hearts, open imaginations, and live into the spaces that God is still creating for all of us. Keep open to the thinness of space in some places, many spaces, and tread gently on the hem of God's kindom come.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Romantic God?
Check out the latest essays in "Cafe: Stirring the Spirit Within." Especially look at the faith reflection by Pastor Sue Schneider. She points out that even in our creation myths, we have been taught that women are the completion of men... but much of the later Biblical witness reminds us that we are all children of God, heirs in our own right. Julie Stecker's article gives several examples of women living into their identities as single women, loved by God and loving their lives. Definitely worth perusing!
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Memorial Day Invocation
The invocation I gave at the Memorial Day ceremony in Western Springs this year:
We gather together this morning to celebrate.
We celebrate a country of promised freedom, and the continuing commitment to ensure that all people might call themselves free.
We celebrate the many men and women who have served in the military at our behest.
We celebrate the courage and commitment of thousands of service people who have given their all in service to their country.
We gather this morning to honor.
We honor all who have left behind family, friends, and community to serve in the military.
We honor those who have loved these United States enough to risk everything for her prosperity.
We honor men and women throughout the years who have dedicated their lives to our freedom and our rights.
We honor those who have loved these United States enough to risk everything for her prosperity.
We honor men and women throughout the years who have dedicated their lives to our freedom and our rights.
We gather this morning to lament.
We lament the state of a world where war seems the only or most expedient answer to our nation’s problems.
We lament the state of our nation which welcomes men and women back from war zones with silence and refusal to hear the stories of war.
We lament the state of our souls, ready to send others to do what we would dare not – and then refusing to recognize our own culpability in what they have done.
We lament the state of our nation which welcomes men and women back from war zones with silence and refusal to hear the stories of war.
We lament the state of our souls, ready to send others to do what we would dare not – and then refusing to recognize our own culpability in what they have done.
We gather this morning to mourn.
We mourn for all those who have given their lives in wars they believed in.
We mourn for all who have sacrificed their lives in wars they didn’t believe in.
We mourn for all who survived war zones, only to lose their lives in the fight against mental illness.
We mourn for all those who have given their lives in wars they believed in.
We mourn for all who have sacrificed their lives in wars they didn’t believe in.
We mourn for all who survived war zones, only to lose their lives in the fight against mental illness.
But most of all, we gather this morning to remember.
We remember the service personnel we have loved and lost.
We remember the sacrifices of so many in the service of their country.
And we remember our God, who redeems the unredeemable; forgives the unforgivable; and encourages that we love – both our neighbor and our enemy.
We remember the service personnel we have loved and lost.
We remember the sacrifices of so many in the service of their country.
And we remember our God, who redeems the unredeemable; forgives the unforgivable; and encourages that we love – both our neighbor and our enemy.
So, this morning let us celebrate, honor, lament, mourn and remember. And, as President Abraham Lincoln concluded his second inaugural address:
“With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.”
“With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)