BEWARE! This may offend some of you. "Betty Butterfield" is looking for a church home, and "she" has visited ours... There's some not-so-churchy language here, too. But it's a hilarious look at how we Methodists just might be seen by others... We need to laugh at ourselves sometimes. At least I do.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
The Sound of Silence
11 days. That's how long it's been since I posted anything.
I can't stand it when I check other people's blogs faithfully because I really want to hear what they have to say, and they don't post for a long time. So, I apologize to you if you're like me.
I could blame the long absence on simple busy-ness, and that would not be untrue. It wouldn't be the real reason, though. The real reason has more to do with what I've given as the title of this post.
I don't know about you, but sometimes my mind, heart, and life get so full that I no longer know what to think, much less what to say. I hear so many voices that I can scarcely hear the voice of God speaking TO me, much less THROUGH me. I feel so much that I don't know what to feel, and I sort of go numb. And in those moments, all I hear is silence. I do and think and say and feel what I have to do and think and say and feel at any given moment. And that's all I can do or think or say or feel. And then when I don't have to be feeling, or thinking, or saying, or doing anything, I shut down. That's where I've been, I guess, for these past 11 days.
It's not that I haven't sensed God's presence or felt intense emotions or glimpsed the holy during these days. Quite the opposite. It's hard not to feel profound grief and the gentle touch of the Holy Spirit while praying with family members whose son/grandson/brother just died in his sleep at age 19. It's hard not to feel profound joy and the embrace of Christ while baptizing a new child of God. It's impossible not to feel God's peace while surrounded by beloved family and abundance of food at Thankgiving, offering praise to the Father. I have certainly laughed and felt tremendous gratitude to the Creator when my son has said some of the funniest things I've ever heard. (The other day, when on his Bob the Builder DVD one of the characters said "So let's drink a toast to..."[yes this is a toddler's video], my child [almost 3] said: "That's silly what Wendy said. We don't drink toast!")
Perhaps it's the intensity of each moment that has gotten me. Perhaps it is the busy-ness. Perhaps its the long list of things I have to get done at some point, but clearly not today. Perhaps it is the "going through the motions". I don't know. Whatever the reason, I've not been able to think of much to say; I haven't had much clarity.
But maybe that's the very best way there is to enter the season of Advent. Waiting for clarity. Waiting to hear God speak. Waiting to understand. Waiting for everything to come together. Waiting on the Savior. Waiting...while knowing that God is faithful. Waiting...while knowing that God will come. Waiting...in silence.
I can't stand it when I check other people's blogs faithfully because I really want to hear what they have to say, and they don't post for a long time. So, I apologize to you if you're like me.
I could blame the long absence on simple busy-ness, and that would not be untrue. It wouldn't be the real reason, though. The real reason has more to do with what I've given as the title of this post.
I don't know about you, but sometimes my mind, heart, and life get so full that I no longer know what to think, much less what to say. I hear so many voices that I can scarcely hear the voice of God speaking TO me, much less THROUGH me. I feel so much that I don't know what to feel, and I sort of go numb. And in those moments, all I hear is silence. I do and think and say and feel what I have to do and think and say and feel at any given moment. And that's all I can do or think or say or feel. And then when I don't have to be feeling, or thinking, or saying, or doing anything, I shut down. That's where I've been, I guess, for these past 11 days.
It's not that I haven't sensed God's presence or felt intense emotions or glimpsed the holy during these days. Quite the opposite. It's hard not to feel profound grief and the gentle touch of the Holy Spirit while praying with family members whose son/grandson/brother just died in his sleep at age 19. It's hard not to feel profound joy and the embrace of Christ while baptizing a new child of God. It's impossible not to feel God's peace while surrounded by beloved family and abundance of food at Thankgiving, offering praise to the Father. I have certainly laughed and felt tremendous gratitude to the Creator when my son has said some of the funniest things I've ever heard. (The other day, when on his Bob the Builder DVD one of the characters said "So let's drink a toast to..."[yes this is a toddler's video], my child [almost 3] said: "That's silly what Wendy said. We don't drink toast!")
Perhaps it's the intensity of each moment that has gotten me. Perhaps it is the busy-ness. Perhaps its the long list of things I have to get done at some point, but clearly not today. Perhaps it is the "going through the motions". I don't know. Whatever the reason, I've not been able to think of much to say; I haven't had much clarity.
But maybe that's the very best way there is to enter the season of Advent. Waiting for clarity. Waiting to hear God speak. Waiting to understand. Waiting for everything to come together. Waiting on the Savior. Waiting...while knowing that God is faithful. Waiting...while knowing that God will come. Waiting...in silence.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
On Baptism
Everything comes in waves, it can seem. In small, stable or slowly-growing churches, baptisms can be that way. There have been entire years that passed at one of my churches without a baptism. Sad, huh?
But then I'll have several at one time. At the end of September, I performed two baptisms in two weeks in one of my churches. And now at the end of November, I'll be doing it again--two baptisms in two weeks, one for each church this time. There have been no baptisms at all in the intervening weeks. Waves.
Waves are something I think a lot about whenever I baptize. One of the reasons for this is that I always use a seashell in the service. I then give that shell to the newly-Baptized as a keepsake. The shell, an ancient symbol of Baptism, to me serves as a reminder of not just the water of baptism and of life, but also of the beauty and uniqueness of each child of God.
I also think of waves when I baptize because I think of the waves of God's grace and love that overflow for us and flood us with mercy, power, and newness of life when we are brought into Christ's family the Church through the Sacrament of Baptism.
There is so much symbolism and depth to Baptism. It bothers me when it gets cheapened or simplified. That's one of the reasons I love being Methodist. We allow all the symbolism to be preserved in our choice of modes of baptism. As of this Sunday's first service, I will have baptized using all three.
I did my first baptism by immersion (or, as the teenagers called it, "dunking") this past July. I had to get tutored in the mechanics by a Baptist colleague first, but it was a powerful experience to hold someone as she fell into the watery depths and died with Christ, then to be raised up to new life and a new family, dripping wet and crying. Every time I "sprinkle a baby," I think of their little hearts and lives being "sprinkled clean" by the blood of Christ and the presence of the Holy Spirit. And I look forward to my first "pouring" baptism for an 11-year-old this Sunday, in that same fellowship hall where I want to have all my Services of Word and Table now.
The different sort of worship space demanded a different sort of Baptism. And so Sunday, I will pour out the water from my beautiful pottery pitcher, the same one used each Communion to pour out Christ's blood in the juice. I will pour out that water over the head of the young lady who will just have made her profession of faith. As I do, I pray that she and everyone else in the room feels the Holy Spirit poured out into her heart and life, to drown our sinfulness and to pour grace, mercy, and power to live as God's children into us.
What a beautiful thing to preserve all the modes of baptism. In doing so, we preserve the depth of meaning the Sacrament has, and perhaps, too, some of its mystery. God does a lot through the water and the Spirit, more than any of us could ever fully understand. Who wants to minimize that?
But then I'll have several at one time. At the end of September, I performed two baptisms in two weeks in one of my churches. And now at the end of November, I'll be doing it again--two baptisms in two weeks, one for each church this time. There have been no baptisms at all in the intervening weeks. Waves.
Waves are something I think a lot about whenever I baptize. One of the reasons for this is that I always use a seashell in the service. I then give that shell to the newly-Baptized as a keepsake. The shell, an ancient symbol of Baptism, to me serves as a reminder of not just the water of baptism and of life, but also of the beauty and uniqueness of each child of God.
I also think of waves when I baptize because I think of the waves of God's grace and love that overflow for us and flood us with mercy, power, and newness of life when we are brought into Christ's family the Church through the Sacrament of Baptism.
There is so much symbolism and depth to Baptism. It bothers me when it gets cheapened or simplified. That's one of the reasons I love being Methodist. We allow all the symbolism to be preserved in our choice of modes of baptism. As of this Sunday's first service, I will have baptized using all three.
I did my first baptism by immersion (or, as the teenagers called it, "dunking") this past July. I had to get tutored in the mechanics by a Baptist colleague first, but it was a powerful experience to hold someone as she fell into the watery depths and died with Christ, then to be raised up to new life and a new family, dripping wet and crying. Every time I "sprinkle a baby," I think of their little hearts and lives being "sprinkled clean" by the blood of Christ and the presence of the Holy Spirit. And I look forward to my first "pouring" baptism for an 11-year-old this Sunday, in that same fellowship hall where I want to have all my Services of Word and Table now.
The different sort of worship space demanded a different sort of Baptism. And so Sunday, I will pour out the water from my beautiful pottery pitcher, the same one used each Communion to pour out Christ's blood in the juice. I will pour out that water over the head of the young lady who will just have made her profession of faith. As I do, I pray that she and everyone else in the room feels the Holy Spirit poured out into her heart and life, to drown our sinfulness and to pour grace, mercy, and power to live as God's children into us.
What a beautiful thing to preserve all the modes of baptism. In doing so, we preserve the depth of meaning the Sacrament has, and perhaps, too, some of its mystery. God does a lot through the water and the Spirit, more than any of us could ever fully understand. Who wants to minimize that?
Monday, November 12, 2007
I Joined Facebook Today
One of my fellow clergypersons, a good friend, invited me in. I'm amazed at who I found there! I'm amazed at how many people choose to share and to connect this way. And it got me thinking.
I guess we're all always looking for convenient ways to connect. The key word there is "convenient." I wonder if we, in our fast-paced world, are looking for mock-community. I wonder if that's because we don't know how to live in true community. We want community, but we don't know how to have it. We think autonomy and independence and privacy are the highest virtues. Don't get me wrong; I as much as anyone think e-communication has its place, and can be a very good thing (why else would I be blogging?) Still, hear me out...
As a pastor, I keep secrets from my parishioners all the time. All clergymen and women do. I'm not speaking of my own secrets necessarily, though I do keep my private life as private as possible (why?). The secrets of which I speak now, though, are the ones whispered to me across my desk through tears, when no one else can hear. They are the secrets church-people don't want anyone else they worship with to know.
How sad. How sad it must make the Lord that his followers can't be real with one another. How sad it is that we refuse to share our darkest secrets with our brothers and sisters in Christ, to invite them to pray with us through our trials and help us to conquer whatever would destroy us. How sad that we just can't discuss certain things, for fear of judgment or retribution or exclusion. How sad that we prize the convenience, autonomy, and privacy of virtual-relationships and over the work and reward, and maybe even saving power, of authentic, one-to-one, flesh-touching-flesh, voice-speaking-to-heart, truth-in-the-open, share-everything, forgive-and-walk-beside relationships.
I don't believe it will be so in the kingdom of God. So I have a "modest proposal" (as a fellow United Methodist Pastor writes in our conference's newspaper). What if we in the church tried to find more and more ways each day for people to really connect in authentic and deep ways? What if we invited ourselves and others to share truly, from the heart? What if we invited each other into our home lives, our family relationships, our checkbooks, our secret worlds? Could we then maybe help each other be more fully alive to God and to each other? Could we maybe then move toward the day when all are in full communion with the Lord and each other? What would our church look like then? What gift might we have to give the world? I don't know. It's just a thought.
I guess we're all always looking for convenient ways to connect. The key word there is "convenient." I wonder if we, in our fast-paced world, are looking for mock-community. I wonder if that's because we don't know how to live in true community. We want community, but we don't know how to have it. We think autonomy and independence and privacy are the highest virtues. Don't get me wrong; I as much as anyone think e-communication has its place, and can be a very good thing (why else would I be blogging?) Still, hear me out...
As a pastor, I keep secrets from my parishioners all the time. All clergymen and women do. I'm not speaking of my own secrets necessarily, though I do keep my private life as private as possible (why?). The secrets of which I speak now, though, are the ones whispered to me across my desk through tears, when no one else can hear. They are the secrets church-people don't want anyone else they worship with to know.
How sad. How sad it must make the Lord that his followers can't be real with one another. How sad it is that we refuse to share our darkest secrets with our brothers and sisters in Christ, to invite them to pray with us through our trials and help us to conquer whatever would destroy us. How sad that we just can't discuss certain things, for fear of judgment or retribution or exclusion. How sad that we prize the convenience, autonomy, and privacy of virtual-relationships and over the work and reward, and maybe even saving power, of authentic, one-to-one, flesh-touching-flesh, voice-speaking-to-heart, truth-in-the-open, share-everything, forgive-and-walk-beside relationships.
I don't believe it will be so in the kingdom of God. So I have a "modest proposal" (as a fellow United Methodist Pastor writes in our conference's newspaper). What if we in the church tried to find more and more ways each day for people to really connect in authentic and deep ways? What if we invited ourselves and others to share truly, from the heart? What if we invited each other into our home lives, our family relationships, our checkbooks, our secret worlds? Could we then maybe help each other be more fully alive to God and to each other? Could we maybe then move toward the day when all are in full communion with the Lord and each other? What would our church look like then? What gift might we have to give the world? I don't know. It's just a thought.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
True Communion
Until now, I have neglected to mention that one of my churches is worshiping in our relatively small, but very beautiful, fellowship hall. We are doing so with gratitude, and without complaint, while a construction company repairs our sanctuary building. The sanctuary, you see, was built in 1950 without enough structural support to keep in standing forever. So now it's having orthopedic surgery, I say. It's getting some steel implants, and then it will be as good as new.
So this past Sunday, All Saints Sunday, we had our first service of Holy Communion in the Fellowship Hall. The setting is already much more intimate than our sanctuary is, now add tears and sniffles as we remember the saints. Then throw in that we receive communion completely by intinction in that church. Add, too, the fact that in the intimate worship setting we're in this month, there is no altar rail, so in order to offer the body and blood of Christ into His peoples' cupped hands, I and the cup-bearer had to stand literally behind the Lord's Table and serve from there. Put it all together, and you get the most real, authentic, Holy Communion I've ever celebrated.
As people came forward, you see, they were brushing the knees of the choir and their friends in the front pews who had already received. They came with tears in their eyes; they came sensing the presence of the saints we had just named walking with them. And then they got to shake a hand or pat a knee. They got to smile and laugh and chat with their brothers and sisters in Christ, so close to them they could feel one another's breath, while they filed up to the Lord's Table to receive the good gifts, the holy food, offered there to all of us.
At first the extra noise bothered me. Didn't they know this was a holy moment, a kairos moment? Why were they talking to each other?
And then it hit me. This was the feast of remembrance AND the victory banquet. This was not my table, but God's. And at Christ's table in God's eternal kingdom, we bring our tears and our laughter. More importantly, we talk, and we touch. We listen and we receive. We are in relationship, intimately, with the Lord and with each other. There will be a lot of talking, I think, and a lot of touching, at God's eternal banquet table. This Communion was real. This Communion was like it always was meant to be. And now I want to move into the Fellowship Hall for every first Sunday of the month for Communion. Maybe Baptism will feel more full there, too. Who knows. At any rate, I thank God for the taste of intimacy and authenticity I was privileged to experience on All Saints Sunday. I pray that all of us may experience the same truth in some way each day.
So this past Sunday, All Saints Sunday, we had our first service of Holy Communion in the Fellowship Hall. The setting is already much more intimate than our sanctuary is, now add tears and sniffles as we remember the saints. Then throw in that we receive communion completely by intinction in that church. Add, too, the fact that in the intimate worship setting we're in this month, there is no altar rail, so in order to offer the body and blood of Christ into His peoples' cupped hands, I and the cup-bearer had to stand literally behind the Lord's Table and serve from there. Put it all together, and you get the most real, authentic, Holy Communion I've ever celebrated.
As people came forward, you see, they were brushing the knees of the choir and their friends in the front pews who had already received. They came with tears in their eyes; they came sensing the presence of the saints we had just named walking with them. And then they got to shake a hand or pat a knee. They got to smile and laugh and chat with their brothers and sisters in Christ, so close to them they could feel one another's breath, while they filed up to the Lord's Table to receive the good gifts, the holy food, offered there to all of us.
At first the extra noise bothered me. Didn't they know this was a holy moment, a kairos moment? Why were they talking to each other?
And then it hit me. This was the feast of remembrance AND the victory banquet. This was not my table, but God's. And at Christ's table in God's eternal kingdom, we bring our tears and our laughter. More importantly, we talk, and we touch. We listen and we receive. We are in relationship, intimately, with the Lord and with each other. There will be a lot of talking, I think, and a lot of touching, at God's eternal banquet table. This Communion was real. This Communion was like it always was meant to be. And now I want to move into the Fellowship Hall for every first Sunday of the month for Communion. Maybe Baptism will feel more full there, too. Who knows. At any rate, I thank God for the taste of intimacy and authenticity I was privileged to experience on All Saints Sunday. I pray that all of us may experience the same truth in some way each day.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Surrounded by Saints
First, read Tim McClendon's blog entry on All Saints Day.
The link to his blog is at the left, and his entry is "Great Cloud of Witnesses".
Now consider my All Saints Sunday. I began it by leading worship in a church that lost three saints, two very active members who were also well-known and loved in the community. As I preached, as we lit candles while naming these names, as we listened to the bells on the memory banner, I could sense the sadness. I could hear the tears. I watched three grieving families know that their loved ones are missed by not just their families, but by the whole family of Christ. Then I moved to lead worship in a church family that lost two of its saints, one much too young and one after a long battle with debilitating illness. Again, we gave thanks to God for their witness and love, and we grieved the loss we feel so deeply.
Then this afternoon (after some last-minute preparation), one of my churches hosted ten or so others in a "cluster" charge conference. We worshiped together in a packed sanctuary, we conducted business briefly in individual rooms, and we fellowshipped. The sanctuary was packed with people and bursting with Charles Wesley's hymns of praise. I wish that sanctuary looked and sounded that full each Sunday at 11:15!
In everything, in this All Saints week, I could sense the presence of the great "cloud of witnesses." They joined us at Christ's table. Their voices mingled with ours as we sang eternal praise to our Lord. They dried our tears. They cheered us on.
It is an amazing mystery, this communion of saints, this being surrounded by those who have preceded us in faith. They are at once with us and in Christ's nearer presence. They are at once present with us and gone from us. And we at once grieve our loss and rejoice in our hope and God's promise. Thanks be to God for All Saints' Day, and for all the saints who have shown us the way of faith, and who still cheer us on as we run the race of a faithful life. Thanks be to God for Hank, and Gene, and Bobby, and Vicki, and Ronnie. Thanks be to God for the gift of the Holy Spirit in each of us. Thanks be to God for the promise of eternal life, a life that begins now, and never ends. Thanks be to God. Amen.
The link to his blog is at the left, and his entry is "Great Cloud of Witnesses".
Now consider my All Saints Sunday. I began it by leading worship in a church that lost three saints, two very active members who were also well-known and loved in the community. As I preached, as we lit candles while naming these names, as we listened to the bells on the memory banner, I could sense the sadness. I could hear the tears. I watched three grieving families know that their loved ones are missed by not just their families, but by the whole family of Christ. Then I moved to lead worship in a church family that lost two of its saints, one much too young and one after a long battle with debilitating illness. Again, we gave thanks to God for their witness and love, and we grieved the loss we feel so deeply.
Then this afternoon (after some last-minute preparation), one of my churches hosted ten or so others in a "cluster" charge conference. We worshiped together in a packed sanctuary, we conducted business briefly in individual rooms, and we fellowshipped. The sanctuary was packed with people and bursting with Charles Wesley's hymns of praise. I wish that sanctuary looked and sounded that full each Sunday at 11:15!
In everything, in this All Saints week, I could sense the presence of the great "cloud of witnesses." They joined us at Christ's table. Their voices mingled with ours as we sang eternal praise to our Lord. They dried our tears. They cheered us on.
It is an amazing mystery, this communion of saints, this being surrounded by those who have preceded us in faith. They are at once with us and in Christ's nearer presence. They are at once present with us and gone from us. And we at once grieve our loss and rejoice in our hope and God's promise. Thanks be to God for All Saints' Day, and for all the saints who have shown us the way of faith, and who still cheer us on as we run the race of a faithful life. Thanks be to God for Hank, and Gene, and Bobby, and Vicki, and Ronnie. Thanks be to God for the gift of the Holy Spirit in each of us. Thanks be to God for the promise of eternal life, a life that begins now, and never ends. Thanks be to God. Amen.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
The World Is A House
St. Paul taught us we're a household, a Temple. Jesus described his followers as brothers and sisters. We talk a lot about the "human family." And if you look at pictures taken from the moon, our earth looks so tiny, like one spherical house.
I spent this morning at a clergy orders gathering for our conference. The focus of our time together was the HIV/AIDS crisis we are facing in the world. As the speaker talked about individuals in sub-saharan Africa who are dying or orphaned because of the disease, as he told stories of men and women from the United States to Haiti to Thailand to Zimbabwe, I began to think about the world as one big house.
Think about it. God has really given us one big house, with lots of rooms in it. In my house, three people live. We have a kitchen where the food is, a bathroom with clean water to bath in, bedrooms with clothing and beds. One of our rooms does the duty of an office, a place to think and work. There's a medicine cabinet, too, where if I'm sick I can find something to help me heal. Everything we need to survive is somewhere in the house, and we all share it. Everything in the house belongs to all of us, though we all have our own space.
It's so simple, isn't it? God has given us everything we need as a human family to survive and thrive. In one room (part of the world), the land produces crops to feed us. In other rooms, there is plenty of fresh water to quench our thirst and keep us healthy. In other areas, we find offices full of people smart enough to figure out how to enable us as a family to share what's in one room with people whose bedroom is down the hall. All over the whole house, we find things we all need to share.
Perhaps I'm thinking too simply. Perhaps the earth and its people shouldn't be thought of as a home, a family. Maybe God didn't expect us to share, but rather to hoard our belongings like selfish brooding kids who just want their world to be their own bedroom, and never mind anyone else in the house. Maybe finding out how to get things from one room to another is too complicated, too.
Maybe. But then I wonder why the Scriptures talk the way they do, if I'm wrong. What do you think?
I spent this morning at a clergy orders gathering for our conference. The focus of our time together was the HIV/AIDS crisis we are facing in the world. As the speaker talked about individuals in sub-saharan Africa who are dying or orphaned because of the disease, as he told stories of men and women from the United States to Haiti to Thailand to Zimbabwe, I began to think about the world as one big house.
Think about it. God has really given us one big house, with lots of rooms in it. In my house, three people live. We have a kitchen where the food is, a bathroom with clean water to bath in, bedrooms with clothing and beds. One of our rooms does the duty of an office, a place to think and work. There's a medicine cabinet, too, where if I'm sick I can find something to help me heal. Everything we need to survive is somewhere in the house, and we all share it. Everything in the house belongs to all of us, though we all have our own space.
It's so simple, isn't it? God has given us everything we need as a human family to survive and thrive. In one room (part of the world), the land produces crops to feed us. In other rooms, there is plenty of fresh water to quench our thirst and keep us healthy. In other areas, we find offices full of people smart enough to figure out how to enable us as a family to share what's in one room with people whose bedroom is down the hall. All over the whole house, we find things we all need to share.
Perhaps I'm thinking too simply. Perhaps the earth and its people shouldn't be thought of as a home, a family. Maybe God didn't expect us to share, but rather to hoard our belongings like selfish brooding kids who just want their world to be their own bedroom, and never mind anyone else in the house. Maybe finding out how to get things from one room to another is too complicated, too.
Maybe. But then I wonder why the Scriptures talk the way they do, if I'm wrong. What do you think?
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