While still thinking about sacred spaces, I am reminded that so much work toward changing what is around us begins with what is inside of us. If I truly want to answer the question, "How can I create sacred space around me?" then my first question must be, "How can I create sacred space inside of me?"
My spiritual director, likely unknowingly, asked me to address the question through meditation. I am terrible at meditation. For me, focus on one thing seems impossible unless I am filtering out alternative inputs. I am challenged to find stillness in my life anyway - not only is life busy with church and family, but I live in the same world you live in - with radio in my car, TVs playing at the gas station or grocery line (during the rare occasions that it is me and not my husband doing the shopping), email and even games available on my phone, and constant tailored-for-me input on my computer. In the midst of so much activity and invitation, I have a hard time turning off, tuning out, and focusing on anything. By the time I get everything turned off and I tune out, I have difficulty staying awake!
So while prayer is a natural part of my day-to-day life, my prayer life fits well into my busy lifestyle. God listens while I drive; I listen while music plays; God listens while I do laundry; I listen while I read the Bible and prepare a sermon; God listens while I nurse my infant; I listen while I shower... and on and on and on. Certainly, I would be blessed by more contemplative prayer time (an offering of our midweek Lenten services at St. James this year), but I still experience my prayer life as vibrant. Meditation, though, is different. Meditation is an invitation to stop, to invite quiet, stillness, peace. It is an invitation to focus on one thing (in this case) or even no thing. Meditation invites me to
STOP.
And in the outside quiet, I discover inner discord. Anxiety about what else I "should be" or "could be" doing in this moment. Anxiety over whether I am doing right by my congregation. Anxiety about my call and my relationship to God and my next steps. Anxiety about who I am and how I am. I find I am spending quite a long time noticing these anxieties and trying to let them go -- asking God to hear them, heal them, take them -- before I can ever move on to the task on which my spiritual director set me.
"Walk with Jesus," she said to me "this Lent. Walk with him to the cross. Hold his hand, if you can. See what happens. You have as much comfort to offer him as he has to offer you." Envision this. Meditate on this. Take this journey, together.
It was a completely new thought to me that I might have something to offer Jesus in the walk toward the cross. There is profound insight there, and no doubt an important journey. But I cannot even begin this journey until I can find a place of stillness, a place where anxieties can be laid aside, a place where I can be embraced fully as the whole person I am - foibles and all - within myself.
And so, I am working to discipline my soul. Through contemplative prayer during my Lenten services, through a meditative journey with Jesus. I am working to find safe, sacred space within myself. And each moment where I find safety, I seek to expand it. Each day that God successfully wrests from me my anxieties long enough to find Jesus, I take a step forward.
I am committed to making this sacred space a living, embodied reality. Within. Without. For me. And for others.
And, again, I believe that every child of God, every person in this world, needs and deserves to find this sacred space.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Sacred Spaces -- A next step
I believe that every child of God, every person in this world, needs and deserves to find sacred space.
I believe that churches should be sacred spaces. I believe that God intends for church to be safe space, sacred space in the way I have described. And, I believe that few churches meet this intention, or even think about it.
This, I believe, is tragic. It is sinful. Fundamentally, it is wrong.
Throughout history, churches have tried to set themselves apart from society as places to meet God. They have done this through gathering together, massive and beautiful buildings, careful planning and preparation, Biblical reading and preaching. Too often, though, the sense of being "set apart" leads away from the sacred instead of into it. Rather than finding safety, one experiences judgement. Rather than invitation, threat. Instead of a grace-filled journey toward wholeness, a piece-meal collaboration of cliques and rules and unspoken demands that engender confusion, fear, and isolation. Churches so often invite people toward wholeness in name only, and invite them into illusory lives through the living, being, and teaching of the church.
Sometimes, even now, one finds God in church. Certainly, God makes her presence known in sacrament (bapitsm and communion, in the Lutheran tradition), in worship, through community. God makes her presence known through good ministry to "the least of these" and care for her children. But far too often, God becomes known in spite of pastors, congregations, and churches instead of because of them. Far too often, God's presence in these places becomes something seldom noticed or sought; a nice idea that becomes taken for granted because church is supposed to be a holy place, and therefore it must be, right?
I do not mean to indict any particular person or tradition, but simply to name a reality in which I live and of which I am often guilty myself. What would it mean for church to be truly sacred space? Can we envision a church where there is not judgement but a grace that holds us accountable and calls us out when our actions or attitudes bring hurt and harm? Does the possibility exist that we could create an embodied presence of God through safety, respect, and relationship? Might there be a whole congregation in which people feel embraced for who they are, foibles and all -- and also called to live courageously into the people God is calling them to be?
I believe this must be possible. Perhaps, I believe this because it is my vocation -- my calling from God -- to be a pastor in the church. God has tied me to Church in a way that I cannot (and, if I'm honest, dare not) escape. I believe all people deserve sacred space. I believe all people need sacred space. I believe God calls us as Church to be sacred space. And so I believe that God calls me also to take part in creating sacred space, in my congregation and in the larger church.
And this is where I falter. Why me, O God? What does this mean, O God? How are you moving, O God? What are you calling me to do (or worse?), who are you calling me to be, O God?
For now, today, I have received no answers. Only questions. God often works this way, I think... calling us to ask important questions long before providing insight. Inviting us into reflection first, and action later. I prefer the action step. But for today, I will live in the tension... and I will pray that my colleagues and friends, my congregation and God's church, will live in the tension too. May we be seeking God's presence, God's sacred space, in our lives and in the church. And may we follow the path God is creating for us, even now, to create that space among us, too.
Today, I live in the tension... with courage and with trepidation, too.
I believe that churches should be sacred spaces. I believe that God intends for church to be safe space, sacred space in the way I have described. And, I believe that few churches meet this intention, or even think about it.
This, I believe, is tragic. It is sinful. Fundamentally, it is wrong.
Throughout history, churches have tried to set themselves apart from society as places to meet God. They have done this through gathering together, massive and beautiful buildings, careful planning and preparation, Biblical reading and preaching. Too often, though, the sense of being "set apart" leads away from the sacred instead of into it. Rather than finding safety, one experiences judgement. Rather than invitation, threat. Instead of a grace-filled journey toward wholeness, a piece-meal collaboration of cliques and rules and unspoken demands that engender confusion, fear, and isolation. Churches so often invite people toward wholeness in name only, and invite them into illusory lives through the living, being, and teaching of the church.
Sometimes, even now, one finds God in church. Certainly, God makes her presence known in sacrament (bapitsm and communion, in the Lutheran tradition), in worship, through community. God makes her presence known through good ministry to "the least of these" and care for her children. But far too often, God becomes known in spite of pastors, congregations, and churches instead of because of them. Far too often, God's presence in these places becomes something seldom noticed or sought; a nice idea that becomes taken for granted because church is supposed to be a holy place, and therefore it must be, right?
I do not mean to indict any particular person or tradition, but simply to name a reality in which I live and of which I am often guilty myself. What would it mean for church to be truly sacred space? Can we envision a church where there is not judgement but a grace that holds us accountable and calls us out when our actions or attitudes bring hurt and harm? Does the possibility exist that we could create an embodied presence of God through safety, respect, and relationship? Might there be a whole congregation in which people feel embraced for who they are, foibles and all -- and also called to live courageously into the people God is calling them to be?
I believe this must be possible. Perhaps, I believe this because it is my vocation -- my calling from God -- to be a pastor in the church. God has tied me to Church in a way that I cannot (and, if I'm honest, dare not) escape. I believe all people deserve sacred space. I believe all people need sacred space. I believe God calls us as Church to be sacred space. And so I believe that God calls me also to take part in creating sacred space, in my congregation and in the larger church.
And this is where I falter. Why me, O God? What does this mean, O God? How are you moving, O God? What are you calling me to do (or worse?), who are you calling me to be, O God?
For now, today, I have received no answers. Only questions. God often works this way, I think... calling us to ask important questions long before providing insight. Inviting us into reflection first, and action later. I prefer the action step. But for today, I will live in the tension... and I will pray that my colleagues and friends, my congregation and God's church, will live in the tension too. May we be seeking God's presence, God's sacred space, in our lives and in the church. And may we follow the path God is creating for us, even now, to create that space among us, too.
Today, I live in the tension... with courage and with trepidation, too.
Sacred Spaces -- Part 2
I have a love-hate relationship with flying. For one thing, I truly believe flying to be safe in the logical part of my brain (I've certainly flown often enough without incident). On the other hand, my brain and my heart feel disconnected as I sit in a jet, expecting that nearly a million pounds of metal, luggage and human beings will somehow not only get into the air but stay there until the pilot wants to come down again. My pulse always quickens on take-off and landing and in turbulence ("Keep us safe, O God!"), but it quickens in the same way when I ride a roller-coaster ("This is fun! ...I think"). Plus, I'm a solid X on the introvert-extrovert Myers-Briggs scale. So I never know whether to talk to the people I'm sitting next to or leave them alone, and I'm never quite sure if I'd rather have them talk to me or be left alone, either.
There was a time that I flew through Detroit often enough that I knew the location of every Starbucks in the airport, and knew immediately, based on the gate we were flying into, which one I'd be stopping at on my way to my next gate. Think what you will about Detroit, but that airport is one of the nicer airports I've flown through. (Though I'll admit that probably had something to do with the Starbucks-to-gate ratio at the time.) So, it was not an airport I particularly minded sitting in, alone, sipping my latte and reading a book while I waited for my next flight. However, on this particular day, I could not focus on what I was supposed to be reading -- and "supposed to be" was true, because I was missing classes for this flight. I was flying "home" to a congregation I had served as an intern, to participate in the funeral of one of the most beloved women in the church, and one of my most beloved mentors. I had only returned to school 6 weeks before, and before I left, Donna had looked just fine. She had just been diagnosed with breast cancer, but our conversation still held great hope for her future -- there are incredible treatments for breast cancer these days, and she was still young enough and healthy enough to fight it. But somehow, her body had failed her. She had not taken well to chemotherapy, and took ill with a case of pneumonia that she could not fight. Her vibrant life faded over the course of just a couple of weeks, and she passed blessedly quickly but almost without warning. The congregation, already grieving the loss of a pastor and then my return to school, was thrown into a roiling grief again... a third loss, another hit for which they felt totally unprepared. In fact, the congregation had paid for my expensive short-notice plane ticket so that I could be with them for the funeral. They needed me there with them as much as I needed to be with them. Yet, in my own private grief, I wondered how I would ever be able to minister to my grieving friends and mentors.
And so, sitting alone in the Detroit airport, I grieved.
And then, suddenly the woman sitting next to me pulled out her carry on bag. Throwing me a shy, guilty smile, she pulled out a little white mop of a dog and sat him on her lap. "I'm really not supposed to do this," she explained, "but he's been all cooped up in there for so long; I thought he should stretch his legs." He hardly had any legs to stretch, but he was perfectly happy to lick at my hand and allow me to pet his head. Making small talk, I asked the woman where she was going and why. After she shared her story with me, she asked the same of me. I explained that I was headed to a funeral in Charlotte, Michigan, a small town outside of Lansing. Just then the woman sitting behind me turned around. "I couldn't help but overhear that you're headed to a funeral in Charlotte. You wouldn't be going to Donna X's funeral, would you?" As it turned out, this woman had been Donna's best friend since kindergarten, and she was flying in from Florida. For the next 15 minutes, while we waited for the plane to board, we talked with each other about Donna, her love of life, her stubborn character, her love of God. We dawdled when our boarding numbers were called, so glad were we to have each other to share our grief with. Finally, we boarded our plane. And, we discovered, our seats were located across the aisle from each other.
And so, for the next hour, a woman whose name I cannot remember and I shared our private grief with each other, across the aisle of an airplane. We shared our stories and our memories and the reasons why Donna had been so important to us. As the plane landed and we said our goodbyes, I discovered a strength within myself that I hadn't known before. Still, I grieved. But my heart hurt just a little less, the laughter and shared tears having lightened my burden. Getting into a church member's car for the ride home from the airport, I felt ready for the conversation about grief and shock and death that awaited me. I felt strengthened to be present with the congregation, vulnerable and grieving and yet strong.
In the shared experience of grief and laughter, I found sacred space. In the middle of a busy airport, aboard a crowded airplane, I experienced the sacred. In the happenstance relationship, the mutual sharing, the invitation to be who I was and fully present in that moment without judgement, God opened safe space for me to grieve, and grow, and discover courage... the courage to be more fully who God was calling me to be. I can only imagine that the woman I was talking with found the same thing. In a moment that we needed it the most, we found sacred space.
I truly believe that every child of God, every person in this world, needs to find sacred space like this.
There was a time that I flew through Detroit often enough that I knew the location of every Starbucks in the airport, and knew immediately, based on the gate we were flying into, which one I'd be stopping at on my way to my next gate. Think what you will about Detroit, but that airport is one of the nicer airports I've flown through. (Though I'll admit that probably had something to do with the Starbucks-to-gate ratio at the time.) So, it was not an airport I particularly minded sitting in, alone, sipping my latte and reading a book while I waited for my next flight. However, on this particular day, I could not focus on what I was supposed to be reading -- and "supposed to be" was true, because I was missing classes for this flight. I was flying "home" to a congregation I had served as an intern, to participate in the funeral of one of the most beloved women in the church, and one of my most beloved mentors. I had only returned to school 6 weeks before, and before I left, Donna had looked just fine. She had just been diagnosed with breast cancer, but our conversation still held great hope for her future -- there are incredible treatments for breast cancer these days, and she was still young enough and healthy enough to fight it. But somehow, her body had failed her. She had not taken well to chemotherapy, and took ill with a case of pneumonia that she could not fight. Her vibrant life faded over the course of just a couple of weeks, and she passed blessedly quickly but almost without warning. The congregation, already grieving the loss of a pastor and then my return to school, was thrown into a roiling grief again... a third loss, another hit for which they felt totally unprepared. In fact, the congregation had paid for my expensive short-notice plane ticket so that I could be with them for the funeral. They needed me there with them as much as I needed to be with them. Yet, in my own private grief, I wondered how I would ever be able to minister to my grieving friends and mentors.
And so, sitting alone in the Detroit airport, I grieved.
And then, suddenly the woman sitting next to me pulled out her carry on bag. Throwing me a shy, guilty smile, she pulled out a little white mop of a dog and sat him on her lap. "I'm really not supposed to do this," she explained, "but he's been all cooped up in there for so long; I thought he should stretch his legs." He hardly had any legs to stretch, but he was perfectly happy to lick at my hand and allow me to pet his head. Making small talk, I asked the woman where she was going and why. After she shared her story with me, she asked the same of me. I explained that I was headed to a funeral in Charlotte, Michigan, a small town outside of Lansing. Just then the woman sitting behind me turned around. "I couldn't help but overhear that you're headed to a funeral in Charlotte. You wouldn't be going to Donna X's funeral, would you?" As it turned out, this woman had been Donna's best friend since kindergarten, and she was flying in from Florida. For the next 15 minutes, while we waited for the plane to board, we talked with each other about Donna, her love of life, her stubborn character, her love of God. We dawdled when our boarding numbers were called, so glad were we to have each other to share our grief with. Finally, we boarded our plane. And, we discovered, our seats were located across the aisle from each other.
And so, for the next hour, a woman whose name I cannot remember and I shared our private grief with each other, across the aisle of an airplane. We shared our stories and our memories and the reasons why Donna had been so important to us. As the plane landed and we said our goodbyes, I discovered a strength within myself that I hadn't known before. Still, I grieved. But my heart hurt just a little less, the laughter and shared tears having lightened my burden. Getting into a church member's car for the ride home from the airport, I felt ready for the conversation about grief and shock and death that awaited me. I felt strengthened to be present with the congregation, vulnerable and grieving and yet strong.
In the shared experience of grief and laughter, I found sacred space. In the middle of a busy airport, aboard a crowded airplane, I experienced the sacred. In the happenstance relationship, the mutual sharing, the invitation to be who I was and fully present in that moment without judgement, God opened safe space for me to grieve, and grow, and discover courage... the courage to be more fully who God was calling me to be. I can only imagine that the woman I was talking with found the same thing. In a moment that we needed it the most, we found sacred space.
I truly believe that every child of God, every person in this world, needs to find sacred space like this.
Sacred Spaces -- Part 1
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)