Hearing it another way

As some of you may know, I am a longtime fan of the Irish rock group U2. I have appreciated their music ever since I was in the later years of elementary school, and became a devoted fan in college. One of the reasons why their music has always appealed to me is because of the many religious themes present in their lyrics. Three of the four band members are professing Christians, and many people may not know that the band almost broke up in its very early years when a couple of them felt they could not reconcile rock music with the fundamentalist Christian beliefs that they were espousing at the time. In any case, Ireland has been mired in religious/political conflict for quite some time and the members have felt surprisingly at ease working Christian overtones into their music.

What I like particularly about this aspect of their music is that the themes and overtones are not always very blatant. In fact, they are often so subtle that I'm not always sure that they're really there and that I'm reading too much into the songs. In that sense, they are a true "say it another way" subject: they find very covert and creative ways of expressing biblical and theological concepts. "Until the End of the World" on the "Achtung, Baby" (1991) album, for example, is clearly composed of the thoughts of Judas Iscariot as he reflects on the Last Supper, but many listeners are not always aware of this. "Yahweh" on "How to Dismantle and Atomic Bomb" (2004) could very well appear in a hymnbook, containing selections of Paul's letter to the Romans.

Their latest album release, "No Line on the Horizon," is no exception. Although I have not had the chance to give every track a thorough listen, the second song struck me at the outset as a possible redaction of Mary's song in Luke 1, or at least Bono's version of the back-story to the Magnificat. I can imagine the words playing in the background during a video-montage of Mary's life, almost like she's singing to Jesus, her Son.

The refrain seems particularly theological to me, drawing to my mind the redemptive love of the scars on Jesus' hands:
"Only love, only love can leave such a mark/
But only love, only love can heal such a scar"

The nails of the cross "leave the mark" of Jesus' love for God's creation, but the Father's love for his Son can heal the scar that shows the sign of that Passion.

The song continues, as if Mary reflects on her role, remembering her response in faith when she sang her response to Gabriel's announcement:

"I was born to sing for you/
I didn't have a choice but to lift you up/
and sing whatever song you wanted me to."

The song ends with an acclamation grounded in faith--dare I say even in Lutheran language, echoing themes from an earlier U2 release, "Pride (in the name of love)":

"Justified till we die/you and I will magnify the Magnificent."

There is nothing other than the title that made me relate this song to the Magnificat. Upon closer listening, there is nothing that suggests it cannot also be our song, our response to a love that can heal and sustain, a love that we have known in Christ who is magnificent. The concept of our lowly souls magnifying God certainly reaches its height in Mary's song, yet it is a quality of faith that may be brought to bear in any sinner's heart. We are justified, and in that justification our lives may magnify that about God which makes God truly great: that he loves us and chooses us and loves to hear the praise we give.

Candlemas thoughts

On February 2 I find myself thinking about the elderly in our communities, and particularly those in our congregations. Simeon and Anna are the root of these contemplations: on our Lord's presentation in the temple, forty days after his birth, they are overcome with joy at the sight of their long-awaited Savior. Frail voice is loosed and prophecy is sung! The aged Simeon bounces the newborn baby in his arms. How blessed the meeting between those near the end of their earthly journey and Him who will now open life beyond the grave.

The grave may be near to anyone at anytime, but I imagine the topic is more immediate to the elderly. Any visit to the doctor's office could bring worrisome news. Any family gathering may be their last. Any simple fall could break a hip and rob them of mobility. The rigors of old age surely cause the aged to think on death, almost as if they wait for it. Do younger people wait for death the same way? I know I certainly don't. For what do I wait? For what are any of us waiting?

Yet Simeon and Anna do not appear to be waiting for death as much as they await hope. To be sure, Simeon sings, "Now, Lord, let your servant depart in peace," but it is clear that his life has been more focused on the arrival of the Messiah, the light to the Gentiles, the salvation of Israel. He spends day and night in the temple with the promise he can wait on Christ and have that awaiting consummated. Many others would have probably labelled Simeon dimented or delusional (as we often do with our elderly). But, as it turns out, he is waiting on the one thing that will not disappoint. That for which he waits causes his whole life to point toward hope, and that hope eventually finds itself cradled in his arms.

February 2nd is not a day we usually think of the elderly anymore, though Candlemas, thanks to Anna and Simeon, was traditionally the time for awareness of our aged. Now we think of groundhogs. We fantasize about the groundhog and his shadow, waiting all winter in darkness to see that sign which would indicate the presence of constant sun. Maybe, however, there is a connection: how might we live in a way that shows, in the midst of all the things we typically await, our salvation has been accomplished, that an eternal Son does indeed shine? How can we live in a way that shows we have crawled out of our self-dug holes of despair and beheld the promise of the ages? Maybe our modern-day Simeons and Annas can help us out. So often the New Testament uses children as an example of faith, and for good reason. We need to remember the importance of childlike trust in the life of discipleship. Yet maybe we can also see wonderful examples of faith in those who are nearing the end of their earthly journey, in those who have learned that waiting for God's salvation is a worthwhile endeavor---yea! the one, true endeavor that allows a servant not just to depart, but to depart in peace.

Earth Day musings

Today is the 39th Earth Day. Earth Day is an observance that was thought up back in the late '60s by movers and shakers in the modern environmental movement to draw the public's attention to issues affecting the planet's health as an organism...issues like air and water quality, preservation of biodiversity, recycling, and global warming. I didn't see too much evidence of people making a big deal of it this year, but perhaps that's because I live in Pennsylvania and the huge presidential primary here today kind of overshadowed everything. Otherwise, I have noticed that Earth Day is steadily growing in popularity. Each year I hear more and more about Earth Day rallies and other events. Last year all rostered leaders in my church, the ELCA, received a fancy, formal letter (through email) from our presiding bishop calling attention to Earth Day nd encouraging us to recognize it in some way.

To be completely honest, I was (and still am) a little perturbed that I received an email about Earth Day from my presiding bishop. I have nothing against Earth Day, per se, but Earth Day is not a church observance. I can't figure out why my highest church authority would urge me to celebrate or observe this occasion since it does not purport to venerate a Being higher than the earth, not to mention that it doesn't proclaim Christ at all. I would assume that some Christians celebrate Earth Day wholeheartedly, "baptizing" its message in some way by saying that God urges us to be good stewards of creation. The concept of Earth Day certainly seems to create space enough to do that, although the tone of most Earth Day observances come close to the line of creation spirituality, making an idol of the planet and equating being a good person with being appropriately environmentally-minded.

My problem, though, is that Christians already have/had a type of Earth Day observance that is much more theologically grounded and spiritually robust. Have we completely forgotten them? They are the Rogation Days, which also fall at this time of the year. The Rogation Days fall each year on the four days preceding Ascension. Ascension always falls in spring, and traditionally the Church chose this time of the year to pray for the year's crops. Rogation Days get their name from the Latin word "Rogare," which means "to ask," a phrase which appears in the gospel text on the preceding Sunday (which happens to be this coming Sunday). During the Rogation days, the Church asks God to bless and renew the face of the earth, specifically in the ways in which humans typically use the earth--farming, logging, herding, harvesting. I have heard of some rural Lutheran congregations in this country that bring seeds to church on Rogation Sunday and pray over them just before they are planted. In Anglican tradition, the priest and members of the parish would actually form a procession outside and "beat the bounds," walking around the perimeter of the parish and praying for its protection in the upcoming year.

We may look on these medieval traditions as arcane and outdated, but, really, how different are they from attending an Earth Day parade or highlighting the benefits of recycling on the nightly news? In fact, I think these church traditions actually put us more directly in contact with the earth that God has given for us to use and care for. Imagine an urban congregation going outside on Sunday and playing in the dirt! I think that might make us more aware of the environment right around our building and how we're impacting it.

It's such a good idea! Why, I might have actually thought of it last year had my bishop sent me a letter reminding me to mine our own Great Tradition for ways to remember the needs of creation.

assorted thoughts during the octave of Easter

Traditionally, as far as the church calendar goes, this week is actually a day. To denote the profound change that Christ's resurrection has wrought in our lives, the first week after Easter Sunday comprises one metaphorical day. Time itself is altered by this news. In the early Church, those baptized on Easter wore their baptismal robes in public this whole week to signify this. They didn't take off this sign of their new life until the second Sunday of Easter--Quasimodo Sunday, or White Sunday--when the "day" had come to an end. The setting for the gospel text for the second Sunday of Easter (John 20) underscores this passage of time. All of this, of course, is not law. One must not follow it to celebrate the resurrection (and I know of blessed few congregations who still do); it shows that over the years, however, church tradition has thought of creative ways of showing how significant this change from death to life is. It shows how the Church has invented thoughtful methods for indicating that the life of faith is altogether different from the life without it.

And I can't help but think of these rich traditions that have gone by the wayside in light of our own congregation's struggles, for example, to keep lightbulbs changed in the sanctuary and a full roster of committed Sunday school teachers. For a long time I've thought that, in order to function fairly well, a congregation needed a substantial number of its members to make it a priority in their life, ranked above sports and making money, to name a couple of competitors. Church needed to be the Primary Community. Rather than being another organization to "belong to," the congregation needed to be the main gathering place, the chief social group.

Now I'm amending that approach just a little. In order for a congregation take up God's mission and embody his incarnate love robustly and most faithfully, I believe its members really need to think of the Church as their way of life. If that sounds drastic, it's because it is. In a sense, it is cultic (in that it is something that must be cultivated). I'm not suggesting that we re-institute, for example, celebrating the octave of Easter with baptizands' wearing of their white robes in public, but perhaps we should challenge our people to think of church as a way of life, rather than a hobby or a membership. The church constantly needs to remind itself that it is a Way, it is a way of living that permeates all other aspects of one's life. Church is not merely a way we should spend our every Sunday morning (although, at the very least, it should be this), but it is where an individual's life is rooted. The Church is new clothing, in a sense: we receive Christ's robe of grace and love and thanksgiving and we are bid to wear it all the time.

I know I'm not saying anything new here, but as a pastor, I constantly feel guilty for asking members to contribute their time and resources to church, whether or not I do it directly (by asking them outright) or just by providing them myriad opportunities to "get involved." This sense of guilt comes from my own deep-seated belief that Church is still an "extra" for so many people. I fear they will be turned off by this strange modern-day affliction known as "burnout." How can church leaders effectively convey to the congregations they serve that church shouldn't just be a priority, but a complete way of life---and do it in a loving, graceful manner? To be sure, holding onto the traditions is one way, because I think they evoke emotions and communicate the nature of faith in ways that mere words often can't. But in what ways can we reclaim this sense of church as way of life?

(image: Russian icon of the resurrection of Christ, 16th cent.)

all creation groans for its redemption...and I mean all of it

Yesterday during worship as people were taking communion and returning to their seats, some of them encountered the acolyte coming back into church through the side door, in his robe and everything. The acolyte is supposed to stand "at attention" at the head of the aisle in the nave in order to make sure that everyone gets a communion glass for communion. Why was he coming in from the outside in the middle of worship?

Once we had concluded the service and he could be questioned about this peculiar activity, it was discovered that he was outside because he had found a large spider in the rack of communion glasses and wanted to get rid of it by releasing it in the yard. So as not to disturb anyone by his discovery, he stuck it in his pocket--without squishing it, I assume--and snuck outside. Upon arriving there, he determined that it was too cold and snowy to release a spider into a natural environment, so he placed the spider back in his pocket and brought it back inside. Unwilling to deposit the friendly intruder where other people might see it, he then released the spider up at the altar after communion was over. It was there, I suppose he figured, that the spider could live in reconciliation with its surroundings.

I'm fairly certain that the acolyte did not choose the altar on purpose (rather, it just happened to be a convenient, less-traveled area), but the symbolism of his gesture of freedom and release is still potent. We speak of the resurrected Jesus as the consummations of God's new creation. We speak of the foretaste of his feast as the time toward which we look when all of creation will be gathered, reconciled, and released in the freedom of the Spirit so that we may be that which we were fashioned to be. Sometimes, I fear, Holy Communion becomes "just another part of worship," so it's nice to have concrete reminders of what we are proclaiming at the meal every Sunday at this meal, even if they comes from an unlikely arachnid.

Names and Images

I have to admit that I'm partially blogging today just so I can blog on Leap Day. We get this opportunity only every four years.

In any case, last night as I was going to bed I was reading through a name book, considering names for our soon-to-be-born second child. Melinda and I are rather undecided on names at this point, but we still have three more months (we hope). As I was looking through the list of names, I realized something I'd never noticed before. Mohammed is the most common given name in the world. I knew that. At least half of the Muslim Egyptians I met when I lived in Cairo were named Mohammed, which is the name of their prophet. Apparently, a way to honor the prophet is to name a son after him. Yet, images of Mohammed are nowhere to be found. In fact, forming any kind of image of Mohammed at all is strictly verboten. No stained glass, no icons, no paintings, even. We can remember the flap that a few cartoons of Mohammed created a few years ago. The issue wasn't so much that the prophet was depicted in a negative way; it was that he was depicted visually at all.

Yet, I realized last night that Christianity is almost the complete reverse. We have no problem at all with images of Christ. We draw and depict him any way we want to, the more, the merrier. I've even seen images of Christ in China that make Jesus look Asian. My mother gave me a Peruvian nativity scene that feature Jesus as a Qera papoose. He abounds in things from church art to children's books. Yet, we would almost never consider naming a child Jesus. I know that in certain cultures it happens, but, by and large, it is a no-no. When you look at the grand scope of Christian history, there are relatively few people named Jesus. Its popularity is nowhere near that of Mohammed for the Muslims.

Is this contrast on purpose? I know that Muslims forbade images of Mohammed in part as a way to distinguish their faith from the icon-venerating Christians (which also explains why the icon-loving Christians more firmly held their ground in the East during the icon controversies in the early centuries of Christianity). I'd like to know more, like when did the name Mohammed rise in popularity? Immediately after his lifetime? What is the incidence of the name "Jesus" among Christians in the East (meaning the middle east)?

Safe to say, we will not be choosing either name if we have a boy, but these are the thoughts that ran through my head as I fell asleep on the night before Leap Day.

"...and immediately, something like scales fell from his eyes." (Acts 9:18)

Today is the church's commemoration of the conversion of St. Paul, one of the more peculiar commemorations, if you ask me. This is not the day we set aside to remember the life of St. Paul (that occasion falls on June 29, along with St. Peter); today we mark specifically his conversion experience. It makes sense, I suppose, since one could argue, given the amount of the New Testament that comes from his pen or one imitating it, that Paul's was the most famous conversion of all time. It has become more than a turning event in world history. It is held up as the model conversion. When people talk about a "Damascus Road" experience, they are borrowing a metaphor from this event. When people say they've "seen the light," they are making reference to Paul's blinding vision of Christ, when, ironically, everything began to become clear to him. I've even heard people use the image of "scales falling from their eyes" to explain suddenly understanding something for the first time. Again, thanks to Paul.

Conversions are usually thought of in terms of changing directions, changing beliefs. Old Saul was a fierce persecutor of the church; after his conversion, he is Paul, its biggest champion. Churches and missionary outposts have typically measured their growth by number of converts: people who have left off with an old belief system and grabbed hold of the gospel. This can often make conversion sound like something we do, as if converting is a point we reach when we have considered all the facts or have beaten our heads against the wall too many times. Conversion sounds like a moment of strength, of purpose, of power: "I figured it out. I changed. I finally made the jump."

Wasn't Paul's conversion, however, a moment of intense weakness, powerlessness? Didn't he fall to the ground in a heap of fear, not wrestle his way to a new point of view? Afterwards he spent many days convalescing at the home of Ananias. It wasn't until this encounter with a relative nobody that Paul came back to his senses and started regaining his strength. Think on this: we're commemorating not simply Paul's glorious turnaround. We're mainly commemorating his crouching in fear! We're commemorating his moment of humiliation, the point at when God's grace makes his power look ridiculously small and stupid.

So, here on this commemoration of Paul's conversion, I'd like to suggest we think about our own weaknesses, our own moments of despair and frustration that, like Paul's stop on the Damascus Road, seem like dead ends. I'd like to suggest that we give thanks not only our own renewed purpose upon these encounters with God, but primarily for God's ability to do something with our weaknesses in the first place. Because that is what will help the scales fall from our prideful eyes time and time again. We really can do nothing to thwart God's love for creation in Jesus. At the same time, even when we feel most impotent, God sees infinite ways to work through us.

(image: "The Conversion on the Way to Damascus" by Carravagio)

So shrill the cry

Advent always presents a paradox for me. Even though I participate in the annual Advent humbug, criticizing the consumerist and materialistic impulses of our culture at this time of year, I also admit I get tired of those voices who want to claim they know that the real meaning of the season contradicts with our usual Christmas preparations. It almost seems that each year these voices grow a little louder. It has gone past the whole giving vs. receiving debate. They call for a simpler holiday altogether; they want less focus on spending and greater emphasis on building relationships with loved ones--or at least a renewed commitment to justice issues, like buying toys for needy children or donating a pig to a slum in Haiti.

To some degree those of us in that anti-consumer Christmas crowd are like the Pharisees and Saduccees who come to the Jordan riverbank seeking John's baptism. We are drawn there not so much because we whole-heartedly want to change our society's self-centered ways, but because we sense, deep down inside, that there might be something to his message. Something about the shrill sounds of John's frustration with the status quo reverberates within us and we think, for a second, there might just be a way to change it. Amidst all the shopping and decorating and grimacing about it all, we wonder if John might be onto something when he tells us that repenting is worthwhile. Something about the possibility of real change--within ourselves, within the world--causes us to stop and listen, if only for a few minutes.

A lot of people say "Jesus is the reason for the season," but I ask: What would Christmas be without John the Baptist? What would the celebration of God's grace in Jesus be without an iconoclast to shake us up a little beforehand, to shake us out of our yearly rituals and annual efforts to "do good"? We brood of vipers! We need this fiery, unpleasant dimension to the holiday in order to remind us that, left to our own devices, we will seek out and create our meanings for life, just as we always find our own "truer" meanings for the yuletide hoopla.

John's message was one of repentance. Repentance, very simply put, means to change direction, to turn around. Perhaps, on our part, the greater act of Christmas has nothing to do with giving or receiving, of looking past all the tinsel and toys to uncover some kernel of altruistic love. The more significant action is to repent. To be sure, God does give to us graciously, and we are urged to be givers, as well. However, repentance is where that must begin, and turning around, hearing the still shrill voice of change, is the ultimate life-giving Christmas activity. We can only figure out the "reason for the season" once we have first learned to open our inward-looking eyes and see what John the Baptist sees. He sees a world in desperate need of humility. He sees a world crying for a better system of peace and justice. He sees a creation that is broken more than it realizes and far more than it wants to admit. Yet he also sees its healing. John sees and foretells creation's promised healing, and he bids us to lay down our pretensiousness and turn around and receive it with him.

Savior of the nations, come; show the glory of the Son!
Every people stand in awe; praise the perfect Son of God.

God the Father is his source, back to God he runs his course;
Down to earth and hell descends, God's high throne he re-ascends.

Shining stable in the night, breathing vict'ry with your light;
Darkness cannot hide your flame, shining bright as Jesus' name.

(Ambrose of Milan)

(image above: "John the Baptist," African Mafa)

the last days of this autumn

The rain of these last two days is surely bringing down the remaining seasoned leaves of the fall, and I'll be sad. It is my wife's favorite season, but autumn always arouses bittersweet feelings in me. I associate it with the end of summer (fun, vacation, no school) and the beginning of another year of work. However, I find the colors of the leaves as they change and die to be so brilliant--even to my colorblind eyes--that it makes me marvel at creation and contemplate my own place in it in a way that few other aspects of nature do. I think Annie Dillard was onto something when she wrote about the complete unnecessary extravagance of it. I've almost driven off the road several times just trying to take in the views because I know they're so fleeting. One day of gusty wind and we'll be left with nothing but gray twigs against the sky. Just a few weeks ago, however, they were ordinary green trees. I wonder if other drivers are equally as taken aback with it as I am. But then I think: they're just leaves! What's my problem? They'll probably be more dazzling next year, as long as there's not another drought. Changing color like this is what deciduous leaves are supposed to do. Why get caught up in it? It's the extravagance, I think. There is no reason for this beauty. And the temporary nature of it is a large part of what makes it beautiful. Thank you, God. But why is part of me disappointed?

I ran across this poem by Luci Shaw and, although it's subject matter is nature of another season, it struck a chord:


"Windy"

The maple seeds have spent themselves;
their wings lie mute and brown and tattered
along the grass. The peonies
have let their bloodied white be scattered,
and all this windy afternoon
I've grieved as if it really mattered.

Dives must be rolling in his grave

It always catches me off guard when, in the course of the children's sermon delivery, the gospel is sniffed out by some young theologian before I've planned to reveal it.

Let me explain my children's sermon from Sunday: I found on-line and printed out photos of Bill Gates and Oprah Winfrey, two people I thought most people would instantly recognize as wealthy and influential. Even though I figured the kids at the children's sermon wouldn't know Bill Gates to look at him, I figured they may have at least heard of his name. Oprah, given that she's on T.V., might get a few more nods. I also printed out a photo of a random beggar that I located simply by googling "beggar." My plan was to contrast these pictures by explaining that everyone knows Bill Gates and Oprah Winfrey but no one knows who the beggar is. Whereas we know the names of famous rich people, we couldn't dare to guess the name of the poor. This is because, I suggested, a lot of people think people like Mr. Gates and Ms. Winfrey are important and worthy of emulation because of all their money and, in the cases of those two, how much good they choose to do with a lot of it. The beggar, on the other hand, has nothing and so no would think of him as important or noteworthy. He is, essentially, forgettable. Then I went on to explain how money and fame do not really matter to God; it is human need that makes someone "important" in God's eyes and therefore compels us to care for all, especially the needy.

I began by showing them the pictures. They always respond to pictures. As I had expected, no one recognized Bill Gates, but some had heard of his name. Then I showed the picture of Oprah Winfrey. Again, silence. So then I had to explain who she was, too. Some acknowledgement in a few faces. Then I showed the picture of the beggar, expecting (and wanting) more silence. A little second-grade boy shouted out, "That's Lazarus!!!" A little stunned, I said, "How do you know his name is Lazarus?" He said, "Because he's begging beside a gate." Alrighty, then. Children's sermon ruined? Of course not, but I did have to make some accomodations.

This child had not been in Sunday School that morning, nor does he attend church very often. His father was clueless as to how he knew. All I can figure is that when he came into church that morning he read and remembered the bulletin cover, which featured a similar photo of someone begging for money. Go figure. Apparently not quite everyone ignores Lazarus.

Coaches vs. Pastors: Sunday is Game Day

It is no surprise to say that our culture is sports-obssessed. It is not a new trend; "national pastimes" have referred to athletic endeavors for years and years. Athletes have always been heroes, not just in America, but in all human cultures, dating back to ancient Greece and Rome and even likely before that. I do think, however, that the amount of money and attention paid to athletics and sports have reached a new level, even in the past few decades. I can't document it, but I am certain that there are more sports groups who do their stuff on Sundays than even when I was a kid.

I notice this most often in my ministry as a parish pastor. I have discovered that the single largest competitor (to borrow a sports metaphor) to church activities, especially worship, is sports. This is true whether the sports activities are drawing people as participants or as spectators. I would venture to say that athletic activity draws people away from church participation even more than Sunday work schedules, which are also increasingly common. Youth, of course, have always had to choose from time to time between youth group involvement and participation on a sports team. Now, however, I find that it is getting more common to find that even the most faithful and committed church members will think nothing of sacrificing valuable church time--week after week after week--to be involved on a team or do something else sports-related. Adults, too, get so involved in their child's sports activities or in their own favorite team's season that they think nothing of foregoing church worship. And it is also true: no college to my knowledge is offering any scholarships for faith acumen. Sports hold sway in this day and age of conspicuous consumption in a way they never have before, in my estimation.

I would be a liar if I said this didn't trouble me. Don't get me wrong; I understand the value of sports and know that participation in them can teach important things such as teamwork, a sense of community, self-confidence, and stewardship of the body. I consider athletic activity--the recreation of physical exertion--to be, like many things, a gift from God. It is good to enjoy sports.

However, I do worry about the character formation that our youth (and adults) receive through sports. In short, what is the end (telos) of sports? If we're spending more of our time submitting to the guidance and authority of coaches and teammates than we do our sisters and brothers in Christ, our pastors, and in service to others, what kind of people will we become? If we spend more of our energies involved in inherently exclusive events like sports, cutting the weaker links from our teams and banishing to the sidelines those who aren't athletically inclined, then how do we ever learn to practice compassion and love for the outsider? If we spend more of our time listening to game strategies than we do to Scripture, how will we learn true humility? Can sports alone truly make us better people, the kind of people God has created and redeemed us to be? I am worried because I think we are more and more as a society answering that last question with an unqualified "yes." I know that a Sunday liturgy may not seem to be the most exciting pastime, but I also have faith that gathering with the faithful on a regular basis teaches us to place our treasure where moths do not consume and no rust destroys. It also forms us to be Christ to one another. We eat together at a table and share our many gifts, rather than play together on a court, lifting up only a narrow definition of "talent."

Perhaps this just sounds like a complaint from a tired, discouraged pastor who is ranting and raving about a new false idol. The last thing I want to do is ruin anyone's good time. But at what point do we need to stand up and say something? Things like Souper Bowl Day of Caring are a good examples of "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em," but still I think we slowly are losing our youth--and ourselves--to the allure of the sports gospel.

VBS 2007: Breaking the nets in deep water

Last night I completed two back-to-back weeks of Vacation Bible School, which, I've decided, is enough to wear anyone out. The first week we put on VBS ("The Great Bible Reef") for our own congregation and this week we took the show on the road, so to speak, to provide VBS for the children of Glade Run, the children's home that our synod maintains and supports just north of the city. Both experiences were wonderful, but very different. A total of 32 kids came to the VBS at Emanuel's and on our biggest night at Glade Run 52 kids showed up. I had a very dedicated corps of volunteers from the congregation to help with both sites. I think everyone would agree that both experiences were very exhausting, but also very rewarding. The kids at both sites clearly seemed to love everything we offered them. I always manage to find a few ways to critique VBS, but all in all I have to admit that it is overwhelmingly a worthwhile endeavor.

The children learn some great songs, and they love to sing them. They often make requests to sing certain songs over and over. My only regret is that we don't have the time or the energy to teach all of the songs the curriculum provides. (I do have to say, however, that while the songs are catchy, they don't seem to have quite the weight and depth of meaning that the VBS songs from my childhood had).

The curriculum usually highlights very good Bible stories that cover the breadth of Scripture. This year we had Moses in the basket, Naaman in the Jordan River, the miraculous draught of fishes, the healing of the man born blind, and Jesus' parable about the wise man building his house upon the rock. The volunteer who was in charge of Bible storytelling did a fantastic job. I was surprised that the children of Glade Run were more familiar with the stories than our own children were. They also seemed to do a better job of listening to the stories.

The crafts and games, I've decided, are mainly included to provide the kids the all-important opportunity to engage in constructive play, creative efforts, and conversation. All of the kids loved both activities, and both were very, very well-run. There was one game that stuck out. On Thursday, when the focus was on the man born blind who received his sight, one game required the kids to focus on Jesus while walking forward, navigating between two parallel lines of masking tape on the floor. The game's leader stood facing the kids on the other side of the room, holding above his head a big painting of Jesus' face. It was an interesting exercise because their temptation, obviously, was to look at their feet to see if they were stepping outside the lines. With concentration, however, they were able to look at Jesus and follow in the path safely at the same time. I thought it was a good metaphor for parish ministry.

Although I'm tired and need a break, I am very, very glad we went forward with both VBS programs this year, and hope that the volunteers will request that we do it again next year. I know the kids already have.

Pope Benedict XVI and ecumenism

The Vatican released a statement through the Congregation on the Doctrine of the Faith this week that reasserted a stance that Benedict XVI has made before regarding the primacy of the Roman Church. In what seems to be a clarification regarding Vatican II's position on ecumenism, the Pope is reiterating the necessity of a papacy for the church's structure and sufficiency. Would we expect him to do anything else? Would we expect a Pope to actually come out and say that churches without succesion to the papacy are just as legitimate in the Pope's eyes as those who have remained in full communion with the office since the time of Peter? That would be kind of like a vote of no-confidence in himself. A lot of Protestant church bodies have cried "foul" with this latest release, wondering whether Rome is genuinely engaged in ecumenical efforts. True, the document does sound a little harsh to non-Roman ears (no one likes to hear that their salvation is defective!), but perhaps Benedict is making this statement in order to clarify some issues and mete out some justice within his own house, so to speak. All in all, it is imperative that in these times of religious extremism we seek to point out our similarities and points of common ground rather than our differences. It would look good if our house could work together.

I can appreciate the Pope's need to address theological boundary issues on occasion. My own denomination is engaged in ongoing turmoil over matters of ajudication, authority, and protocol, especially when it comes to issues of sexuality. That being said, it would be nice for this Pope to also release some sort of document or make some overture in the near future that would somehow seek to amend the wounds that this recent one has apparently created. It just sets a bad tone, and it makes those in Protestant circles who lean toward Rome have to work all the harder to cast the Vatican's comments in a less harmful light.

A new bishop

A good deal of my prayer time these last few days has been concentrated on our synod's new bishop, the Reverend Kurt F. Kusserow, and the transition that will now occur in the synod office. Synod Assembly was an exciting, but also draining and emotional time. We had a surfeit of good candidates from which to choose for our next bishop. Their speeches and their responses to the questions were excellent. You could almost feel the Holy Spirit pressing down on us and moving amongs us as we discerned what our synod needed in a leader and in which direction we could go. It wore us out, but I imagine that the stress I felt was minuscule compared to that of the candidates who put themselves and their visions for leadership before the assembly so openly.

Bishop election

On Thursday and Friday of this week I will take part in our synod's yearly assembly. The chief order for business at this year's assembly will be to elect a new synodical bishop because our current bishop, who has served in this capacity for 20 years, is retiring. I am very excited about this event. I have never been a part of the election of a bishop, not to mention one this monumental. To be sure, the election of any bishop is an important event, but everyone in this synod knows that this election carries additional significance since it will mark the first time since the inception of our synod that its character and direction of leadership will change.

Because I am clergy I will be able to cast votes in this election along with the 500 or so other voting delegates, both lay and clergy. I can't wait to sit and listen to what the candidates will say and what kinds of questions and issues arise for them to address from the floor of the assembly. I have been praying and thinking for a year or two about what qualities I would look for in a bishop of the church. Issues like declining membership, worship renewal, ecumenical relations, and human sexuality have made these times very tense in our denomination. Here are some of the things I will be listening for in the candidates (who could be any Lutheran clergy at this point):

1) a person who is articulate and careful in their speech. Ambrose, Bishop of Milan, said that a bishop is primarily a teacher, and I think it is crucial that this new bishop can, like his or her predecessor, teach and preach clearly and accurately. By the same token, I would hope they'd know when to be silent and what topics don't need a lot of verbiage. Honesty and wariness of gossip goes along with this one. I suppose one can tell from the title and theme of this blog that I find this very important.
2) humility. Perhaps it is a personal distaste of mine, but I tend not to trust people who talk about themselves and their own accomplishments and connections too much. Naturally a bishop will need to be confident in leadership, and to a certain degree that will entail touting their abilities, but too much pomposity (and likewise, feigned obsequiousness) is dangerous. Admittedly, this is a more difficult quality to gauge, but I think it comes across in actions and body language as much as it does in speech. "The mind of Christ," a la Philippians 2, is kind of what I'm looking for.
3) someone who knows Scripture backwards and forwards. This goes without saying. It is critical that we have our foundation in God's Word, not in administrative acumen or some theological agenda.
4) demonstrated experience in parish ministry. Ideally, I would hope to have as a leader a pastor who has served in at least two different parishes and who has served in our area of Pennsylvania within the past fifteen years. I would like the next bishop to know from personal experience the challenges of ministry peculiar to this region.

There are many other qualities that I could name...good listener...inspiring speaker...good sense of humor...dedication to ecumenism...NC State fan...but I think that these first four will help me narrow down the pool of candidates to a few I can decide between.

It will be exciting to see how the Holy Spirit guides us over these next few days and, of course, once the bishop takes office and forms his/her staff in August. Go in peace!

Ordination anniversary

Today is the fourth anniversary of my ordination. The fourth year is not necessarily a special landmark or anything; it just happens that this is the first year that May 30th has arrived and I've noticed it. So I've reflected on it a bit today.

I have been a little discouraged with my productivity lately. Ministry happens in the interruptions is what they told us in seminary, and I try to remind myself of that as often as possible. Nevertheless, this particular vocation and this context involves so many little unrelated tasks that pull me in a million directions. Sometimes I feel like I'm not getting anything done well. Today I took the church garbage to the dumpster next door (navigating the piles of dog poop in the yard that the back-door neighbor's dog has left there), had an impromptu counseling session with someone who dropped by and needed to talk about some very serious family and medical issues, met with a group about the possibility of my entering prison ministry, purchased gift cards for our Sunday School teacher appreciation day, made and answered about a dozen phone calls, firmed up this Sunday's baccalaureate service with a colleague, proofed a bulletin, bought some VBS materials, communicated with the treasurer about some checks that must be cut before he heads out of town, read one of my confirmand's last-minute sermon summaries, and led a Bible study for which only two people showed up. I tried to get over to hospice to have a visit, but was unsuccessful. I don't really know what tomorrow will bring.

For reflection on this anniversary, here is Martin Luther (from Table Talk):

"A good preacher should have these properties and virtues:
first, to teach systematically;
secondly, he should have a ready wit;
thirdly, he should be eloquent;
fourthly, he should have a good voice;
fifthly, a good memory;
sixthly, he should know when to make an end;
seventhly, he should be sure of his doctrine;
eighthly, he should venture and engage body and blood,
wealth and honor, in the Word;
ninthly, he should suffer himself to be mocked and jeered of every one."

In all my pastoral comings and goings, I suppose I should never forget the danger of taking myself too seriously.

He is Ascended! Praise Him!

The infant room at my daughter's day care is run by this lady called Mrs. G. She is a middle-aged African American woman who is in total control of the often chaotic surroundings of her nursery. She has honed her skill in caring for "little ones" through her own life experience: she is a mother of three and has numerous grandchildren. Melinda and I have noticed that she is loving and efficient in her attention to all kinds of children. I have seen her simultaneously rocking one child in her lap, feeding another one a bottle, and using her foot to bounce a third child in a swing, a talent it would take me years to develop. No amount of screaming and fussing from the babies ever tips her over. She is good. We love Mrs. G.

Mrs. G is also a faithful Pentecostal and is very involved in her church. She occasionally likes to start up conversations with me about her church and her ministry when I come in to drop off Clare. Usually I just listen and make a comment or two in agreement, but I'm usually in too big of a hurry to engage her in a more involved manner. I'm also wary that, coming from such a different tradition than mine, we may venture into a topic on which we may disagree or that may need more discussion than casual parlance may allow. It's a silly hang-up, I know.

Today, however, I greeted Mrs. G by saying, "Our Lord is ascended!" She stopped for a minute, looking as if she was doing some counting in her head. "Is it already the 40th day?" she asked, shocked at how quickly time had passed. "Yes," I said. It's the celebration of the Ascension of our Lord." She responded, "Yes, our Lord left us and went up to heaven. But he promised to send his Spirit." Then, very matter-of-factly, she added, "And he had best do that, else we'd be in a heap o' trouble!"

Amen! Here was an ascension sermon straight from the mouth of a day-care worker who clearly knows what it means to depend on the "power from on high." It was a statement of faith straight from someone who knows her New Testament and how the divine economy works. Thank the Lord that Christ has ascended and has sent his promised Spirit. Let Mrs. G speak for the church today: we'd be in heaps of trouble if it weren't for Jesus' promises!

Did I mention we love Mrs. G?

(image: The Ascension of Christ, Hans Suess von Kulmbach b.1480)

"See, I am making all things new!" (Rev. 21:5)

Images like photographs certainly help communicate the gospel, and the picture above is what I'm using for my sermon tomorrow on the Fifth Sunday of Easter. I took this picture myself two summers ago when I was hiking with friends in Glacier National Park in Montana. We were rounding a ridge and descending into a valley when we came into this area which had been completely ravaged by a major forest fire two years earlier. The landscape in this section of the trail looked altogether different from the few miles we had already traveled. The stark contrast of the charred, dead tree trunks with the lush, flowering undergrowth enchanted us. Ever the nerdy pastors, we named it "Resurrection Valley."

Although we think of fires as destructive, we have actually learned that they are one of nature's ways of replenishing and renewing growth. This particular conflagration had consumed a high percentage of the park's lower elevation forest and there were worries that the bleak landscape would disappoint the park's thousands of summer visitors. Not so! We considered ourselves fortunate to view such fascinating scenery up-close, and I'm sure other hikers did, as well. It was beautiful. Almost other-worldly, but beautiful and hopeful. Out of the ashes of death, God raises up new life. From the old life of sin, Christ can and does calls us to lives of love and faithfulness. "And the one seated on the throne said, 'See, I am making all things new!'"

There are many ways to think of God's desire and true ability to make things new among us, but on this day I'd like to think of how agape fills that purpose. Jesus' commandment "to love one another" is new, but it is also renewing. It restores broken relationships. It brings about reconciliation. Agape has the power to transform otherwise hopeless scenarios. In the fire of baptismal grace, agape when it is seen and enacted helps give us a vision of what God's kingdom will be like when he comes to make his home among mortals in the new heaven and the new earth.

Octave of Easter

Once the vortex of Holy Week spits out a bedraggled me on Easter Monday, I find that it takes me a few days to catch up on energy and, to be quite frank, get my moorings on the normal passage of time. I have a hard time remembering how a typical week flows. I often don't know what day it is until Wednesday or Thursday. The Triduum, especially, has a centripetal force to it that causes me to lose track of time, in a way. It wears me out, but it's kind of cool at the same time.

It's cool because I realize, once Holy Week is over, that for about three or four days all I could really concentrate on was Jesus, his Passion, and how it speaks to the life of the community of faith I'm called to serve. The way my brain normally conceives of the passage of time, week by week, is, for the time being, interrupted, and I think less about how I'm using that time and more about what the meaning of it is. That is, it's almost like time is suspended (I even find the distinction between nighttime and daytime becomes blurred) and some manifestation of eternity creeps in. I quite like it. Actually, I imagine that this is a foretaste of how time after the Resurrection will be: an endless concentrating on the love the Father has for the Son in the Holy Spirit, and how we find ourselves bound up in this love...ever praising, ever rejoicing, having ever before our faces the earthly depth and heavenly breadth of this glorious love, no longer burdened by the vagaries of time.

novus mandatum

For the upcoming Maundy Thursday, a word from Maximus the Confessor (the especially good bits are in italics):

"Love is therefore a great good, and of goods the first and most excellent good, since through it God and man are drawn together in a single embrace, and the creator of humankind appears as human, through the undeviating likeness of the deified to God in the good so far as is possible to humankind. And the interpretation of love is: to love the Lord God with all the heart and soul and power, and the neighbor as oneself....Other than this there is nothing that can make the human being who loves God ascend any higher, for all other ways of true religion are subordinate to it. This we know as love and so we call it, not divisively assigning one form of love to God and another to human beings, for it is one and the same and universal: owed to God and attaching human beings to one another. For the activity and clear proof of perfect love towards God is a genuine disposition of voluntary goodwill toward one's neighbor."

from Letter 2, "On Love"