The Most Wonderful Time of the Year- Pastor's Version

I love Christmas as a pastor, I really do. Much of what happens is entirely independent of my efforts or skill. Last night was an amazing case in point. It was our annual Music Fest, a programmatic brainchild of my predecessor. Rather than have all of our musical groups hold separate Christmas performances, they are gathered into one program for an great evening of music. Even better, soup (prepared by the UMW) and chili (prepared by the UMM) are served, with tables set up in the sanctuary. People could eat, mingle, and come and go as they listened to some great music. Besides the outstanding music, the best part of the evening from where I was sitting was that I was not necessary to the proceedings at all.

Much of the Advent season is like that. Carols are sung, parties are held, and good cheer is held by all, with or without the pastors. I remember one December over a dozen years ago when I had a sick child, hospitalized for all sorts of testing that revealed no answer to the mysterious symptoms. My attention was not focused on church that year, and that was okay. I knew that Christmas would arrive even without my daily input, and it did. It is the season of music and lights and lessons and carols.

Yes, I still can count 5 different sermons that I will preach (a total of 10 different times) between now and New Year’s Day. I have plenty of planning and writing yet to do, in addition to other pastoral duties. The gift of this time of year is that it reminds me that, ultimately, Christ comes regardless of my efforts or preparation. Christ comes, and it’s not up to me to do anything besides get out of the way and watch with wondering eyes and listen with open ears and heart. Christ comes, and sometimes all we need to do is stop our doing and pay attention.

Making It My Own

We put up our Christmas tree today, since my son will be returning to his Seattle home tomorrow. It’s a fresh tree, which will be decidedly un-fresh by the time Christmas Eve rolls around. No matter, I love the smell and feel of our tree and will enjoy it every day that it’s up.

There are many new-old additions to my tree. Last January, my sister and I divided up most of my parents’ ornaments after their move into an apartment. This year, it feels special to hang ornaments made my grandmother and my mother. There are some glass ornaments that are older than I am. A new layer of memories now hangs on my tree.

As soon as we were done decorating, I called my mother to tell her that her ornaments were now on my tree. “Oh,” she said, “but you need to make the tree your own.” One of the things I love most about my mother is her ongoing concern for me, even in the midst of her own concerns. I look at my tree again, with her comment in mind. There are first, tenth, and twentieth Christmas together ornaments, and baby’s first Christmas ornaments. I see ornaments made by my children at every age. We have ornaments from Andy’s childhood. There are even some questionable ornaments that we wonder about each year, where they came from and why they’re still on our tree.

My mom told me that I need to make the tree my own. As I look at it now with my mother’s ornaments, I feel confident. I see past, present, and maybe even some glimpses of future. It is indeed my own, my very own.

Bane or blessing

I’m sitting in the dealership, having brought my car in for their “Fall Service Special.” They opened at seven this morning, and I felt very virtuous about getting my car serviced in advance of the winter season. When the service person summoned me, I assumed it was for what my husband terms the “visiting the patient;” that part of the oil change where I am made to examine my dirty air filter and- if I care about my car and have any human decency- agree to pay for a new one.

“Your battery is dead,” the service guy informed me in low tones. I looked at him blankly. “When we tried to take it back to the service area, we had to jump it to get it back there, and now it tests at 0%.” Huh? “Are you sure you’re talking about my car? I haven’t had any battery problems.” I ended up going out to the service area and trying to start my car, simply to see for myself that it really was dead. To be fair, the battery is over 4 years old, and it had taken a little longer to crank a couple of times. I had never, though, wondered if it was going to get going. Now it is dead in the dealership, beyond any hope of life support. Or so they tell me.

As I sit here while my new battery is installed, I have a couple of choices. It could be that I have just had the wool pulled over my eyes, something I fear in general when getting my car serviced. (“You say that my floozefluffer is misaligned . . .uhhh, sure, better repair it, whatever the cost . . .”) If that is the situation, I could snarl out of here angry about the %^&* crooks at this dealership, which I would start naming all over cyberspace.

Or I could tell myself, “Wow. There are so many awful times and places to be stuck with a dead battery. How wonderful it is that it was actually sitting in the shop when it died.” That mindset transforms me from someone who was ripped off into someone who was blessed. I think I prefer to start my week off blessed.

So, today I am blessed. If my floozlefluffer goes out anytime soon, though, I may have to rethink this position . . . Nah, even then, I’ll still be blessed. It turns out that blessing- the real kind- has absolutely nothing to do with circumstance and everything to do with God. I am blessed.

Asking for Trouble

In worship this weekend, I encouraged people to be singleminded in loving God with all of their minds, and I urged them to read the Bible daily. In fact, I offered specific suggestions of online resources to assist them in the habit of daily Bible reading, including one which takes you through the entire Bible in the course of the year. (Bibleplan.org.)

In one of those God-chuckling moments, I opened my email yesterday to read the daily Scripture. I found myself enmeshed in one of those crazy, is-that-really-in-the-Bible stories. 1 Kings 13 tells of a prophet that follows God’s command to travels great distances and speak harsh words to an evil king. The prophet is successful in his efforts and, mission accomplished, heads home. After all of that work and travel, however, prophet is under a command of God to not eat, drink, or follow the same path home. A false prophet lies to him, “God told me to tell you to come back to my house for supper.” As a result of being lied to by this false prophet, the first prophet ends up killed by a lion on the road. The false prophet then, in mourning, collects the body to bury in a tomb that they will one day share. The end. Uh, the word of the Lord thanks be to God? I pondered what to make of this story. Clergy may work their hearts out and still get chewed up while on the journey? Watch out for colleagues who will mess you up? Someone suggested that the point of this story is as simple as it sounds- don’t get led astray. That might be, but I think it’ll take a better preacher than I to unravel it fully.

The thing of it is, anyone who took my sermon seriously and took action (and I hope there were some) had the same story delivered to their email inbox yesterday morning. Asking people to read the Bible all the way through is asking for trouble, because they will encounter messy stories that have teachings that are oblique at best. The Bible is neither as blandly spiritual nor as clearly logical as most of us have been led to believe. Encountering the entire thing is going to expose us to things that mystify and confuse and maybe even worry us. Which sounds like what life does to us each day.

Maybe it will be okay for people to see what all is contained in the Bible. It’s not a simple book to read, but, then again, life’s not always simple, either.

Miracles

In the morning paper today, I read about a miracle. A communion wafer fell on the floor in Sokolka, Poland, and when it was picked up, it had a black spot on it. The wafer is now housed in a reliquary for people to see. At the risk of sounding cynical, in my world I would consider that a sign of bad housekeeping more than a miracle of God. Don’t misunderstand me. I believe that God is at work in our world, both within and at times beyond the natural order of things.

If God were trying to speak to me through dropped communion elements, I would be out of luck. One of my favorite choir members uses an assistance dog, and I process in behind Ginger and her master weekly during the final service of the weekend. Ginger is a canine vacuum cleaner, and she pauses as we go up the steps into the chancel to clean up any stray bread crumbs. (I’ve always considered that a value-added service that she provides us.) If there were any miracles to be found in the pieces of crumbs, Ginger would scoop them up long before any crowds had a chance to gather.

And yet. A canine enables a human to do things that she would be unable to do otherwise. A miracle occurs before my eyes each week, if I’m not too blind to notice.

9/11/11

The tenth anniversary of Sept. 11th fell on a Sunday, and the question that faced me was the same question that faced every pastor- how to best deal with 9/11/11 in worship. Knowing that there would be ample civic and media remembrances, I did not feel a need to dedicate the entire service to the anniversary. Instead, I decided on a beautiful prayer litany written by the National Council of Churches and a sermon that focused on how God’s call to us to continue to live the best hopes and dreams that have grown out of that day. The rest of the service would be normal, I decided.

As each of the four services unfolded with the contributions of our musicians and visual artists, it became apparent that the focus was clearly on the anniversary. We sang about our pain, God’s comfort, and our prayer for peace. The visual imagery on the screen continued these themes. We prayed, we lit candles, we cried, we even smiled. By the end of each service, I pray that we left more hopeful than when we had entered. It was much more than I had planned, and it was much better than I had planned. As is often the case.

After worship, the day settled into a blessed Sunday afternoon normalcy. Lunch out, then home for nap and a little yardwork. Since I brought home a lot of fresh heirloom tomatoes from church, I tried out a new recipe, “Moroccan-Style Tomato Soup with Chickpeas” that is simmering on the stove at home as I type. I’m not sure what I think of the blend of ginger, cinnamon, cumin, onion, and tomatoes in the soup, but I know that Andy will eat bravely whatever is put in front of him. As I said, it has been a blessedly normal Sunday afternoon.

This evening, I will teach the first session of our confirmation class. These young people know about 9/11 only from what they read in history books and glean from anniversaries such as these. As I said in worship, these young people grew up knowing that you can’t carry drinks onto airplanes, and that firefighters and police are the ones who run into buildings when everyone else is running out. These things define “normal” for them.

As far as difficult anniversaries go, this one has been good. May we remember once again what a gift a normal September 11 is, even if "normal" does not mean the same thing that it meant 10 years and a day ago.

The Phone Call

I was meeting with a couple about joining the church and baptizing their baby when my cell phone rang. Not just once, but it rang again a few minutes later, each time registering a fresh voicemail message. Few people beyond my family have that number, so I glanced at it. My parents’ number. “Excuse me for a moment, I need to check this message.” As I listened to the message, an unfamiliar voice began with the words that every adult child dreads hearing, “This is a nurse, calling from your parents’ apartment.”

The crisis was not as bad as was feared and has mostly passed. And there have been blessings out of last night’s phone call: wonderful understanding from the couple whose meeting with me was cut short, an unexpected day with my parents, and an increase in outside care that will help them both maintain their health.

Aging. No matter our age, we are all doing it. Every age and stage brings its own challenges, its own aches and pains, its own joys. Sometimes the pains we bear are our own, sometimes they are the pains of those we love. Sometimes we are the ones who serve, sometimes we are the ones who are served. Often, it seems, we are all of those things at once.

Inlaws and Outlaws

This coming Labor Day, Andy and I will be doing one of those first-time-ever things: we will be meeting our future son-in-law’s parents. We like The Boy a whole lot. Given our firm belief that no one will ever be good enough for our children, he comes awfully close. Best of all (as observed by one of our children) isn’t just how he is when he is around us, but how our daughter is when she is around him. She is herself, but more so, in kind of a glow-y happy way. We are thrilled that he is with our daughter, and I am practicing already being the type of mother-in-law that I want to be.

I am just now coming to understand, though, that he does not come to us in isolation. He brings a family of his own, and we will be meeting them in a few days. In my church, I have one of these extended families. The now-married children met in our church as youth, and both sets of parents are part of this congregation. There are now young grandchildren in the mix, and it’s always fun to watch the grandparent/grandchildren reunions that occur weekly in the sanctuary. The grandparents laughingly refer to their relationship to each other, not as in-laws, but as outlaws.

I am getting a little nervous about our pending meeting, to my surprise. This new relationship will be important, and I wonder what it will be like. I know some things about them already. I know their professions and some of their interests. They live in a town about 5 hours away. I know some other, more important things about them. They are kind to my daughter and have welcomed her into their home. They raised a son who graduated college with honors, and who cares about those who are less fortunate than himself. And he loves my daughter, treats her well, and brings out the best in her.

Inlaws or outlaws, it doesn’t really matter to me. I know what to call them already: “family.”

Almost

I almost died last week, I think. I was at a meeting in Nashville and had gone out for a morning walk. Needing to cross a very busy downtown street, I pushed the button to wait for the walk signal. I kept waiting as the cars whizzed by on the narrow street, their wheels nudging the curb. As I waited for what seemed like an interminably long light, I had time to be amazed at how fast Nashville drivers went on such a crowded street.

Finally, I saw the pedestrian across the street from me begin to cross. And thereby was my near-fatal mistake. I looked at him walking across the street and assumed that the light had changed. My foot swung into the street, into the path of oncoming traffic. At the last nanosecond before my weight shifted and I was committed to following that foot into the street, I realized that the cars were still coming at top speed. I fell backwards as a car barely grazed my shin. The light had not changed, but the man across the street had decided to duck between the cars. He looked at me oddly as I staggered, trying to regain my balance and my breath. And then he kept walking on his way.

How could I be so careless? My problem was that, only for a moment, I looked at the actions of the person across from me, rather than the light itself. Seems like that’s probably not the first time someone has gotten into trouble for that exact same reason. . .

Laryngitis

Andy and I seem to have picked up a bug on our flights home. (My office staff has helpfully said I have “kennel cough,” from the flying kennels in the sky.) This morning, my throat was sore and my voice was gone.

Tuesday is usually my day for meetings, and being voiceless gave me a different perspective on the day. During a morning conference call, I listened as the conversation swirled around me. A member of my staff did an excellent job running the weekly staff meetings, while I added only a few whispered comments. By drinking lots of hot tea and using a restaurant-soft voice, I was able to converse across a table at lunch with a colleague. That conversation was enjoyable but perhaps a mistake, as my voice has skittered away once more. And so I am sitting here nursing my throat and consigned once again to listening more than speaking.

The racking coughs are annoying, as is having to wave wildly to catch someone’s attention. I can’t ask the dog if he wants to go out or ask a child to bring me a glass of water. (Nor can I interrupt an ongoing conversation, which is probably the most annoying thing of all.) There is a gathering tonight that I really wanted to attend, but I realize that I shouldn’t expose some of my favorite people to whatever gluck I have. Therefore, I’ll sit at home tonight, gesticulating wildly to the dog, the children, the husband, and probably even the television by the time the night is over.

On the plus side, I’ll get to practice the art of listening. My son has made me fresh vegetable soup, a blessed gift from him before he moves to Seattle next week. I will have an unexpected night at home, which is always a luxury. There are worse things than being a voiceless preacher . . . for a little while.

Unplugged

The gift of vacation is always a wonderful thing. Now that our children are beginning to go their separate ways, our time all together is even more precious. This year, as always, was a wonderful mix of reacquainting ourselves with old memories even as we created new memories.

Part of what makes this time “vacation” for me is leaving my computer at home. For almost three weeks, I did not access email, voicemail, Facebook, or Google. I was unplugged. When I put away the computer before leaving town, I had a brief moment of panic. What if something monumental happened, and I missed it? What about all of the everyday connections that occur through these mediums? How would I access needed information without Google?

Here’s is what happened: nothing. My almost-three-weeks of internet unconnectedness did not harm my life in any way. True, there was a time when we were all watching television together and wondered whatever happened to one of the stars. Without immediate access to the answer, we wondered a little longer than we would have otherwise, but we survived.

Here is something else that happened: I got bored. There was no internet to surf idly, no word games to play, no news stories to read besides the morning paper. It has been a long time since I was truly bored, and I discovered that I liked it. I started conversations with real humans. I picked up books and sat still long enough to read them. I went walking. I watched the clouds shift in the sky. I thought thoughts that had nothing to do with much of anything. Being bored occasionally is a good thing, I remembered. If we don’t create empty spaces every now and then, how will new things find their way into our lives?

I’m back now, and re-plugged. It’s good to be reconnecting with my world, my work, and my friends. I am thankful for the many important relationships that I have, and I am thankful for new ways that this era gives us to connect with one another. I am thankful, also, for the chance to drop off the grid every now and then.

Washing Sheets and Towels

This summer, I’ve been washing lots of sheets and towels. (Wait . . . I promise, this blog is not about my personal hygiene.) With our children all in college and beyond, our house is less their “home” and more their “home base.” Between family and friends, this summer we have had an additional 8 people sleeping in various beds at various times. This flux of people in and out of our house has been fun, and it has also meant that I’ve been washing sheets and towels with great frequency. Along the way, I have learned something: It is much easier to put clean sheets on a bed right after a guest leaves than to wait until a new guest is arriving. Being prepared for a guest at all times means that it is okay when I wake up in the morning and find an extra body in a bed that wasn’t there the night before.

One of the most important things a church can do is be prepared for guests at all times. I received an email this morning that broke my heart. A first-time visitor took the time to write me an email, describing why her first visit to our church would be her last visit. She did NOT mention the greeters, the coffee and donuts, the worship service, or the sermon. The thing that will keep her from coming back is the behavior of those persons sitting near her. They talked to each other (apparently, a whole lot) and not to her. It was not only that their conversation disrupted her ability to worship, but that she felt ignored after a polite comment to them. There is not a sermon in the world that is powerful enough to overcome that type of personal hurt.

The most dangerous thing that a church can be is “The Friendliest Church in the World . . . to Each Other.” I understand the temptation. I love church people, and I love seeing my church friends. It is definitely my preference to talk to people I know and like and haven’t seen for a week. Strangers can be, well, strange. And yet . . . I serve an institution that has a peculiar mission. We don’t exist for our members, but we exist for the people who do not know who we are. We exist for the people who walk in our doors and don’t know a soul. We exist for the people who drive past our building daily and aren’t sure why they’re feeling a glimpse of hope. We exist for the people who think that they wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this.

I feel confident that the author of this email will be fine. If she feels invested enough in her search for a church home that she took the time to seek out my email address and compose a thoughtful message to me about her experience, she will persevere until she finds the right church for her. I am saddened, though, that we as a church failed to be ready for company. Our mission, while peculiar, is too important to ignore.

Spirit

Last week was one of the most challenging sermons of the year. It was Pentecost, the day which we celebrate the coming of the Holy Spirit. The challenge, of course, is to speak aloud about the still, small voice that works within; to name the nudges; and to try to describe that part of God which is, by definition, indescribable. I spoke as best as I could about those things which are beyond words.

This week, I saw the power of the Holy Spirit in action. A member of my church had been working on a mission project last year and became aware of a need. Someone else was more gifted to fulfill that need, and so he thought nothing more about it. Until the nudges started. He sensed that the Holy Spirit was asking him to fulfill that need himself, to create something that he was completely untrained to create. After talking to his spouse and praying some more, he set out to do this task. He went to one place to get advice and supplies. The response: “There is no way you can do this without taking many of our classes over a long period of time.” He prayed some more and went somewhere else. This time, he heard, “Sure, you can do this.”

Yesterday, I stood in front of the completed project. It is incredible, by any standard of expertise. I have no doubt that it will change lives. I have a hunch it changed mine, just to be reminded of what the Holy Spirit can do when we pay attention. And say yes.

Some sermons are spoken with words. Often, the most powerful sermons are seen with actions.

Leaders

Last night was an “oops” moment for me. (I hate those.) It was time for us to elect our church leaders for the 2011-2012 church year, a task that must be accomplished by a formal “Charge Conference.” I had been duly authorized by the DS to preside at this piece of official Methodism, and our agenda was limited –by church law, no less- to only the 1 item that had been announced. The Nominating Committee had done their work well, and we have a great set of incoming officers. My goal was to call the meeting to order, vote, and adjourn the meeting, so that we could resume the “normal programming” of our regular Church Council meeting. Which I did, in less than 5 minutes- my type of Charge Conference!

Except- that a handful of people went home after the Charge Conference. I had not thought about the fact that there were people who would show up for this part of the meeting alone. I had assumed that everyone else would share my own discomfort with officialdom. I was planning to thank the outgoing officers and welcome the incoming leaders at the end of the Church Council meeting, and so this faithful handful of people didn’t get to a chance to be a part of this well-deserved thanks. That oversight was my mistake, as thanks should always be extended as far and as wide as possible.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be a leader in the church. The average church member doesn’t care what color we paint the walls, who will repair the a/c, who does the hiring, or who signs the checks. Nor should they have to. They DO care that these things be done correctly, and in line with our vision and values. But they don’t want to come to worship on Sunday mornings and be engaged in a congregational discussion of paint color. A “leader” in the church is the person who chooses to give of themselves and their time to care about these things on behalf of the congregation. Leaders choose to get together on weeknights to talk about which bank offers the best interest rates and what to do when Christmas falls on a Sunday and what to do about the siding on the building. It’s not particularly glamorous, nor does it always feel “spiritual.” And yet I am so deeply grateful to all of those who choose to give of themselves in this way.

Being a leader in church also means representing the church to all of the many places that a pastor cannot be. When a group of people is talking after worship or choir or Bible study about a question or a concern, a leader is the one who says, “Let me tell you how that decision was made,” or “You’re raising a good question, let me be the one to find out the answer and get back to you.” To be a church leader means that you forfeit the right to engage in gossip or bickering, because you have committed to be part of the solution to whatever challenges arise. You have chosen to focus on the future and to seek God’s guidance along with the rest of us.

Experts will tell you that there are many types of leaders. Often, the most important leaders do not hold elected office. They are the ones to whom all the eyes in the room turn when a new initiative is announced or a difficult decision needs to be made. FUMC is blessed with leaders of this type whose wonderful hearts ensure that we continue to move forward.

FUMC is blessed also with a strong group of leaders who have agreed to oversee the administrative affairs of the church. Next week, we are getting together at my house for 4 hours. My goal is to build community and trust, in addition to doing some training and study together. We have a great year ahead of us, and FUMC will be a better place because of these leaders. For which I am thankful. And I intend to say so at every opportunity I can!

Fahoo fores, dahoo dores

“Fahoo fores, dahoo dores . . .” Those words were echoing through my head this weekend at Annual Conference. Quick, before you read further, do you recognize what song begins with those lyrics? It’s from “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas,” the “Welcome Christmas” song that the Whos sing even after the Grinch has stolen the stuff of their Christmas.

I kept singing that song to myself as I watched the election results come in for General Conference. Four years ago, I had been part of the delegation, and I had been hoping to go again. As the ballots started coming in, it became clear that I would not be elected this year. Political processes can be messy and feel hurtful, and so I had prepared myself as best as I could to remember my own values and priorities and joys. I am blessed with an amazing family to love and an incredible church to serve, and election results could do nothing to change that. “Fahoo fores, dahoo dores.”

Any election becomes, to some extent, an “us versus them” affair. We have many good and faithful Methodists in Missouri who have strong convictions about issues that will be coming before our General Conference next May. Loving people sitting next to each other were voting fervently for the opposite people from each other, out of a shared deep desire to shape what is best for our denomination. I have to admit that it can be uncomfortable to have one’s own name become an “us” for someone else’s “them.” Especially when the “thems” carry the day. . . “Fahoo fores, dahoo dores.”

The Whos remember what is important, and so the loss of the stuff of Christmas is a mere detail. I love the image of their focus and strength, but I also think back to the Grinch himself. As you recall, it is as the Grinch sees the Whos standing in a circle holding hands and singing that he understands the real meaning of Christmas. I remain convinced that our best witness as people of faith isn’t who wins when we fight with each other, but how well we remain connected even as we acknowledge our differences. Our delegates have difficult and important work ahead of them, and they need all of our prayers. The idealistic and simplistic side of me would love to see General Conference be the type of body that holds hands, united around what is most important. As long as we have different views of what is most important, however, we will have divisions among us. In these months leading up to General Conference, the drumbeat of our differences will continue to beat louder. To a world that is weary with infighting, may we present a different image to the world. Perhaps an image that goes something like this: (all together now)

“Christmas Day will always be, just as long as we have we. Fahoo fores, dahoo dores .. .Welcome Christmas as we stand, heart to heart and hand in hand. Fahoo fores, dahoo dores.”

Lost and Found

We moved into our Blue Springs house in August. Ever since then, we have been unable to find an important family picture, a framed succession of school pictures of one of our children. I love being able to see how my children have grown up year-by-year, and I missed this picture deeply. On Memorial Day, Andy insisted on cleaning out our garage over my protests. (I had to be at church for most of that day, and so I wanted to relax beforehand.) He handed me only one box to sort through, a box that I walk past every time I come into the house. Lo and behold, there was the picture! I am thrilled to be able to once again see all three of my children’s school pictures on the wall!

On the same day, the Early Response Team from FUMC was in Joplin, MO. Having been trained in chainsaw and other important skills, they had been invited down in the early days of the tornado recovery. One of their tasks was to try to locate someone on the “missing” list. As they drove to the location of where that person’s house had been, I’m sure they must have been wondering what they might find. What they found was that person driving into their driveway at the same time as them, probably unaware that people were searching for them. Lo and behold, the lost was found! Today’s headline announces that the list of missing persons stands now at 0. “A huge weight of uncertainty has been lifted from the shoulders of this community,” said the governor. Great rejoicing!

And Jesus tells the story of the woman who lost a coin and kept searching until she found it, then threw a party because she was so happy. And the shepherd who left 99 sheep behind to find the one. Those stories sound one way when you’re sitting in church, wondering how long until lunch. They sound entirely different when you’ve lost something- or someone- or been lost yourself.

Storms

Yesterday was my first time ever to be in Iowa, Nebraska, and, now, South Dakota. The sky is huge up here. We watched a storm to our west, hoping to get to our hotel before it got to us. We did. We felt mildly proud about outracing the storm as we checked into our Sioux Falls hotel.

And then the news began to pour in. While we were merrily outrunning one storm, an entire community lay in the path of a terribly huge storm. We got to our hotel safely; Joplin is “a city in ruins,” with fatalities still uncounted.

Any crisis is a crisis for all, but Joplin seems much closer. My son drove through there the day before, and we had been through there the week before. There are a lot of good people down there, some of whom I happen to know. Even though I’m on the road, I’m sticking a little closer to Facebook than usual. I want to stay in touch.

Many prayers for Joplin and those persons who were unable to outrun a storm. May God surround you with tender care during these days.

May 21

The milk in my fridge has an expiration date of May 29, yet I bought it anyway. I have hotel reservations for my quick trip to Mt. Rushmore next week, and reservations for Annual Conference in Springfield, MO the following week. I paid my credit card bills before their coming due dates. I went to Costco today and stocked up on some needed supplies. In other words, I am not acting as if I am convinced that the rapture will occur on May 21.

Or am I?

If we knew without a doubt that Jesus was coming back this week- or the next, or the next- would it change the way we live? After all, we are called already to live life abundantly. We are called already to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God. We are called already to love the rest of the world as much as we love ourselves, and to love God most of all. We aren’t supposed simply to cram for a final exam, but we are to live and love that way right now.

And so I will be spending the days leading up to May 21 (and, I presume, on May 22 and beyond) doing what I usually do. My heart is with a family who is waiting with their loved one as his battle with cancer comes to an end. As a church, we continue to reflect on the amazing things that happened last Sunday for our churchwide “Change the World” day, and we will look for ways to continue some of the ministries that began that day. We have 5 baptisms in the next two weeks! I am working on the remarks I will make at preschool graduation tonight and tomorrow night, on sermons for the next couple of weeks, and even for a speaking engagement I will have in September. If Jesus shows up, unannounced or announced, the only way I know to be ready is to keep being faithful to the title “Christian.” And, for the many times that I fail to live up to that name, all I know to do is trust in the same forgiveness that I claim every day.

May 21 may begin and end like every other day, or it might not. That is not my responsibility to know. My only responsibility is to be faithful as best as I can, and trust God for the rest.

Urgency and Hope

Saturday night, I was at a charity gala. My date (who is also my husband) looked darling in his tux, and I enjoyed being dressed to the nines myself. There was an auction at which people were bidding in the tens of thousands of dollars for exotic trips and desirable concert tickets. It was a fun evening, with lots of laughter and high spirits. Until. After the bidding was completed, they showed a video. It was about how a father felt when he discovered that his daughter had type 1 diabetes. As he described his heartbreak on her behalf, the mood in the room changed. There were many tears, especially from those of us with children with this incurable autoimmune disease. As the video came to an end, there was silence in the room. The auctioneer took the stage with nothing in his hand to auction off. Instead, it was time to “Fund the Cure.” Auction-style, he took pledges from people in the room who wanted to give money to help cure this disease. He started at $50,000 and worked his way down incrementally. The man at the table next to me raised his bid card at $50,000. And again at $25,000. $10,000. Every category of pledge, the man raised his card. I’m sure his total must have been near $100,000 when he was done. When it was over, I couldn’t help it. I leaned over and, still teary-eyed from the video, said, “Thank you. We have a daughter with juvenile diabetes.” We all left the event with a renewed sense of urgency about curing this deadly disease. And hope.

Tonight, two nights later, I am at a gathering of pastors of large UM churches in Missouri. We’ve been listening to various speakers and, best of all, talking to each other about what works in our churches. We’re aware that, if things don’t change, the United Methodist Church is on a trajectory of decline. We want our churches to be sources of growth, not decline. However, we realize that it is no longer a given that large churches will continue to grow, and we realize also that the things that were effective thirty years ago no longer are useful. There is a sense of urgency here. And hope.

A life-threatening disease. Churches facing life-threatening challenges. Urgency. And hope. All mixed together.

There’s a funny thing about hope. It does not simply occur in a vacuum, but it can require a lot of hard work and sacrifice. Hope requires hard work, yet it pulls us into the future. And so we keep working and hoping.

What is a "Christian" response to bin Laden's death?

I was headed towards bed last night when I heard the news. Like many of you, I experienced a rush of feelings: relief (that he was gone), thankfulness (that he wouldn’t be around to bring more terror), hope (that we might be one step closer to peace). I also felt some other things that surprised me: pride (that our nation had made it happen), revenge (that he finally got what was coming to him), and, did I even detect a smidgen of . . . joy . . . at his death? It was those final three emotions that have been troubling me. After all, some of them show up on lists of sins, deadly or otherwise.

What is a “Christian” response to the death of Osama bin Laden? It is clear that Christians are responding to this news in every possible way. Some are joining the cheers that began outside the White House last night. Some are thanking the Navy Seals. Some are remembering the lives lost on Sept. 11, 2001. Some are mourning the use of deadly force. Some are wondering and worrying if retaliation will follow. In other words, Christians are responding in the same spectrum of ways as every other American.

Is that right? Should our response as people of faith be on some higher, different level? If so, what should it be?

One of the most meaningful Scripture passages that I found this morning was posted by someone else on Facebook. (Thanks, Susan Sneed!) “Do you think I take any pleasure in the death of wicked men and women? Isn't it my pleasure that they turn around, no longer living wrong but living right - really living?,” Ezekiel 18:23.

Perhaps our touchstone lies there. As those who seek to follow and emulate Christ, our response to this news is tempered. Yes, we are thankful that evil will no longer come from this man. We continue to pray for all of those who have been affected by this man’s actions, from Sept. 11 victims to soldiers deployed currently in the war on terror. There is deep appreciation for the skill and resolve of the people who risked their lives last night to bring an end to this chapter of terror. However. We do not find pleasure in this death. We do not claim it as revenge for what he did to us. We realize that his death will not bring any of his victims back to life, although it might bring another measure of peace to the survivors. We count this death as yet another price of living and dying by the sword.

Paul’s words to the people at Rome, living at a time of increasing persecution, ring in my ears this morning. I note the words, “If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all.” It is not always possible, but it continues to be a dream that we live and hope towards.

“Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them. Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep. Live in harmony with one another; do not be haughty, but associate with the lowly; do not claim to be wiser than you are. Do not repay anyone evil for evil, but take thought for what is noble in the sight of all. If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all. Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave room for the wrath of God; for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.’ No, ‘if your enemies are hungry, feed them; if they are thirsty, give them something to drink; for by doing this you will heap burning coals on their heads.’ Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” Romans 12:14-21

Yes, I am thankful that bin Laden’s particular brand of evil is no longer with us. I pray that we will continue to overcome evil with good as we live in the new world that today has brought us all.

Ready!

The first Easter with a congregation is a special, precious time. It’s like the first time you see the one you love all dressed up. For some, that moment may come on a special date night, or as they walk down the aisle. There is a special tingle and a sense that, “Oh, this whole thing really is a great idea, isn’t it?” This first Easter in Blue Springs feels something like that.

The sanctuary is currently in its Maundy Thursday mode, barren of any brass and draped in black. In awhile, we’ll tell the story of Christ’s death in ever-increasing darkness. The service, as solemn as it is, has its own beauty, and I look forward to experiencing it in our sanctuary.

The Good Friday Blues service is something unique that Andy and I bring to this congregation. I think it’s a gift they’ll enjoy- I hope so.

I walked down to the outdoor chapel by the pond just a little while ago, which is prepared for the Easter sunrise service. Some wonderful people have lined the long path through the field with tiki torches, and they have mowed and trimmed. The rugged wooden cross had been wrapped in chicken wire, ready to receive our Easter morning flowers.

I’ve been told how glorious the sanctuary will look on Easter morning, and that our baptismal area will be transformed into a springtime garden with dozens of potted springtime flowers. There will be brass and timpani and choirs at our traditional services. Our contemporary service will have at least one additional musician, and it will feature some outstanding music to praise the risen Christ. It will be fabulous to see our sanctuary Easter-full with people!

All told, there are seven worship experiences here between now and noon Easter. I will be preaching at five of them, which involves three separate sermons. In addition, there have been many details to plan for each service. (I am surrounded by an extraordinary staff and volunteers, who have been working really hard.) All of this planning and preaching has been a source of some anxiety on my part, as you may expect.

And now, on Thursday afternoon, I have a sense of satisfaction. I have planned and prayed and hoped as much as I can. The worship services, with the appropriate sermons, are neatly clipped together in a pile on my desk. Beginning tonight, I simply need to take whatever is on top into the next service. There are a few other details that are prepared also, like directional signs for the sunrise service (including a dreaded “Due to weather, we will hold sunrise in the sanctuary” sign. I don’t want to use it, but I am prepared if I must.) Yes, I am ready for the resurrection, and it feels good.

Funny thing, though. The resurrection isn’t actually dependent on what I do or don’t do. Even if I had frittered away the past weeks and walked into worship empty handed, the resurrection would still be real. When it comes down to it, it doesn’t depend on me. It depends on God. And for that, I am deeply, deeply grateful. Christ is risen! Thanks be to God . . .

Credit Card Fraud

As I looked at my credit card statement, I could see how it began innocuously enough. A 95 cent charge from a company that I didn’t recognize was on my bill, but the name sounded like a video rental place. A few days later, there was a $3.99 fee on my bill from the same company, and another identical charge a few days after that. The thing was, I knew that I didn’t rent videos in that manner. (The name, by the way, is ReelHD.com., and there are many internet reports of phishing and scamming from that company.)

Here’s how it works: Scammers send through a tiny trial charge, such as the 95 cents that was charged to my account. When it goes through and they realize they have a valid card number, they simply keep submitting innocent-looking charges. The person paying the bill may assume that someone in the family is renting movies and pay it unquestioningly. Before long, a sizeable number of charges have accrued, but always in small, difficult-to-notice increments. Their success lies in making lots of small charges, rather than one big, attention-grabbing charge.

As Lent draws to a close, the past 40 days have given us a way to examine our lives closely. If we don’t take time periodically to really examine our lives, we might miss something. Sin sneaks in subtly, usually in small, inconsequential ways. For most of us, the issue of sin isn’t about the big things, like whether we should rob a bank on our way into work. Instead, it’s the small things that are only a smidge away from the right things. Here’s one clue, if you find yourself saying the following: “It’s not a big deal if I (fill in the blank). No one will notice, and it won’t make any difference anyway.” Before long, well, we’ve racked up a whole bunch of charges without noticing. And it all begins so simply.

In my situation, the only way to stop Reelhd from continuing to make charges to my account is to cancel the card. I have reported it to my card company, and they have said that they will refund my money “after they have completed their investigation.” While it took me 30 seconds of Googling to complete my particular investigation, I assume it will take much longer before I see my refund.

The author of Hebrews urged us to make that same type of drastic change if needed: “. . Let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us. . .” Sin starts subtly and clings closely, and all we can do is run the race ahead of us. But how?

The promise of Easter brings us confidence. No matter how much we are burdened, the risen Christ reminds us that, ultimately, sin and fraud and anything else that weighs us down are running out of time. The race has already been won.

Blocked by Facebook?

I wrote a blog about the Global Leadership Summit, and Facebook blocked it as having "abusive or spammy" content. Hmmm . . . I have no idea where that has come from, so I'm appealing it to the Facebook Powers That Be. Have I been hacked?

Global Leadership Summit: Part 1

Yesterday, I participated in a “Global Leadership Summit.” There were about 40 of us gathered at the Conference office, and we were connected via the internet to over 1000 other groups such as our around the world. Our task was to discuss the “Call to Action,” a massive proposed restructuring of the UMC. While many of these ideas have been tossed around for years, the global economic crisis has brought a new urgency to this conversation. One might think, cynically, “Restructuring . . . blah blah blah . . . forget that, let’s pay attention to the important stuff.” I think that how we structure our lives does affect how we do the important stuff of our lives.

During the question/answer portion, the moderator announced, “We have a question from the Congo: What is the mission of the UMC?” Behind me, one of my colleagues said by rote, “Making disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world.” Thankfully, Bishop Wenner from Germany, one of the other moderators, recited the same words. Bishop Palmer expanded on that definition for a few moments, speaking about ways that the world can be transformed, such as ending hunger and poverty. In that exchange, there was no mention of UM structures or polity. There was a strong affirmation that they will know we are Christians by our love, not our form of church government.

But- our governance creates the mechanisms by which we show our love, transform the world, and proclaim the gospel. How we organize ourselves affects how we serve. It is like that the old adage says, “Your checkbook shows what is most important to you.” How we choose to focus our attention and resources reflects what we value, and it will drive the how we live out our stated mission.

As I looked around the room, though, I had to wonder. Those of us gathered there are the ones who have been part of the existing system. We have lived within its boundaries. Can those of us who are invested in the system as it exists currently be successful in turning it on its head? Or, as this proposal continues to work its way through the church, will stakeholders begin to protect their respective turfs? Will the final proposal be watered-down and incremental? The biggest challenge is that those persons who will vote on this proposal- General Conference delegates- are, by definition, those who have been most successful within the current system. Can the General Conference bring itself to change itself?

Making disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world. It is a worthy and high mission, one that I strive to fulfill. What happens at General Conference doesn’t stay at General Conference, it works its way into our churches and our lives.

Measurable Outcomes

I was at lunch today with a group, and one person leaned over to speak to me. “I was a banker, and if I didn’t show a 10% increase each year, I would lose my job. Preachers need that same accountability.” I agreed, “Yep, only working 4 hours each week is a cushy job that I have.” We both smiled, no offense taken on either side.

I then went on to describe to him, briefly, some of the changes we are seeing in the United Methodist Church. In Missouri, we report our attendance, baptisms and professions of faith weekly. The Northern Alabama Conference takes this report a step further, posting a Conference-wide “dashboard” that shows those numbers for every church. (You can see it at http://www.northalabamaumc.org/weeklyreport.asp) On this site, they list the top five and bottom five churches each week in terms of growth or decline. Frankly, I take issue with posting the bottom five churches in this manner. I can imagine pastors and churches that are doing the hard work of adaptive change, or perhaps helping to plant a new church. Often, there is a short-term but expected decline in numbers at these times. Showing up on the bottom five list could undermine the vision of the church leadership in some of these situations.

Having said that, I realize that even those of us in the God business need to be held accountable. Until we get to that final accounting, we are stuck with human measures. Worship attendance, professions of faith, baptisms, financial giving to the church are some of the indicators that have been identified as useful. All of that information has always been available, and if making it more accessible helps us to focus on the task at hand, then I am all for it. The challenge, of course, is how to measure that which is largely unmeasurable. “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and you shall love your neighbor as yourself.” How do you quantify Jesus’ Great Commandment?

As I think about “measurable outcomes,” I can’t help but think about that pastor in Florida. He threatened to burn the Koran. He was warned, by no less than the President of the United States, that a likely outcome of such an action would be loss of life overseas. The pastor burned the Koran. Twelve UN workers were killed in retaliation. An expected and measurable outcome of that action. I in no way want to condone the horrible actions of those persons who murdered the UN workers. However, I cannot understand that pastor’s choice. Why choose to act in a manner that will have such results?

My actions matter. How I practice my ministry matters. I have a blessed opportunity through ministry to change the world for good. If I- and the rest of the leadership and membership of First Church- are doing things well, then more people will have a chance to know God. And the numbers just might reflect that. Creating measurable expectations can help us do our work better. After all, what I am glibly calling “numbers” are real, flesh-and-blood humans, humans who can use some Good News. And if I practice ministry poorly, or worse, then real humans will suffer.

Like everyone else who bears the name “Christian,” I am about the business of loving God and neighbor, the way Jesus commanded us. It is a calling that I take much too seriously to avoid talking about measurable outcomes, yet it is also a calling that I take much too seriously to be limited by those same outcomes.

The Big Easy

This week has been the first time that I’ve been to this part of the nation since coming for Hurricane Katrina disaster relief. Rather than coming to clean out flood-ravaged homes, this time I’m here with other United Methodist clergywomen from the South Central Jurisdiction. (Roughly, the SCJ encompasses Missouri and Kansas and all states immediately below them down to the Gulf of Mexico- plus a quick grab for Nebraska up above.) We have worshiped together, prayed together, heard some great keynote speakers, and begun to talk about possibilities for our next female bishop(s). In other words, we have done some good and important work together.

I was asked to be part of a panel. “I Am Woman, I Am Clergy, I Am Tired.” I enjoyed the opportunity to think back on the years of having three young children in the home, while trying to serve a church to the best of my ability. I remembered a book that Andy and I saw back in the ’80’s: Having It All. . Just Not All at Once. Sometimes, something as minute as the title of a book can have a huge impact on lives, and those words became a guiding principle for us. We both made career choices in line with our priority for our family. For me, getting to work less than full time for 11 years was a wonderful gift. I remember still how tiring those days with young children were, even working part time.

In the spirit of rest and renewal, I’ve been able to find some time and space for play while down here. I’ve enjoyed exploring many shops and restaurants in New Orleans with some dear friends. Street musicians have kept a swing in my step as I walk. A statue that turned out to be a living person made me jump. Sitting by the side of the Mississippi by day and on the outside balcony of a restaurant at night has offered great opportunities for thinking and sightseeing.

One of our speakers reported that a man on the airplane mocked her for coming to a gathering of clergywomen. It clearly was some sort of boondoggle, he told her. Boondoggle? I had to look up that word to remind myself of its definition: “An unnecessary or wasteful project or activity.” Hmmm . . . getting to hear someone preach besides me . . . reflecting back on some important years of my life and perhaps offering some insight to others coming along . . . walking in the sunshine and fresh air, with a spring in my step . . . being with others who understand the unique joys and challenges of this preaching life . . . I don’t think the words “unnecessary” or “wasteful” describe the experience of this week. But “blessing” surely does.

My Locked Room Mystery

I am a fan of mysteries, including the “locked room mystery.” The basic premise: a room is locked from the inside, and something (usually a murder) happens within the locked doors- how? I have my own version of a locked room mystery.

Yesterday, I was at a local hospital, visiting a church member. My preference is to take stairs instead of elevators whenever possible, but I had not been able to locate the stairway in this new-ish hospital. When I was leaving the room I was visiting, I saw a downstairs stairwell, so I took it. I opened the door onto the first floor, and I found myself in a passageway between the hospital and the doctor’s building. I tried the door to the hospital. Locked. I tried the door to the doctor’s building. Locked. I tried the door back into the stairwell. Locked. I was trapped. The only object in that locked hallway was a phone to security. I called security, and they promised to send someone to set me free.

As I was waiting in my locked room, a doctor in full scrubs appeared. “Can I help you out of here?” “Yes,” I said gratefully. “Sally?” he said. I looked more carefully under his puffy surgical cap and realized that I knew him from some years ago. He was on his way into surgery. In the thirty seconds that it took for him to use his key card to escort me back to the main hospital hallway, we reconnected. His life had taken some turns, and he was looking for a church. I knew which of our services would resonate most with his musical preferences and suggested it. He said he would come to worship this week. And then we parted ways.

With my apologies to Bogey in Casablanca, of all the locked hospital hallways in the world that he could have walked into, he walked into mine. Really, what are the odds of my getting lost in a surgical hallway in a hospital and running into a surgeon that I know personally, one who happens to be looking for a church? This is my locked-room mystery, and the question is the same: how? The answer is, thankfully, an easy and obvious one. I may not know the details, but the answer is the same as for any of the mysteries of life that I face: It’s a God thing. Who else could take a locked room and turn it into an avenue for possibility?

Copyright Infringement

Really, the Supreme Court decision was inevitable. When they upheld Fred Phelps’ right to picket at military funerals, they got it right. One of the best things about this country is the gift of free speech. We only have to look at the uprisings other parts of the world to be reminded of how privileged we are to be able to say whatever we want, even if our government may not like it. We have discovered the rub in all of this free speech, though. People are free to say whatever they like, even if we don’t like it. A lawsuit that questioned the same freedoms that soldiers fought and died for was not the way to win.

Yes, his signs are terrible and offensive. Worst of all for me is that he has somehow claimed the name “church.” That’s a brand name that I bear, too. Fifteen members of a family who live together in some strange compound are able to call themselves a church and spew hatred. That’s like a place selling rancid meat and rotten potatoes and calling themselves “McDonald’s.” The lawyers for McDonald’s would shut that place down in a heartbeat. Maybe that’s the way to go . . . Let’s not assail our constitutional gift of free speech. Let’s go after him for copyright infringement.

To do so would mean that we would need to define what exactly “church” means. Ideally, it means a group of people called together by Christ, who are living out the Gospel of love in a hurting world. We could summon the image of the earliest church, where people lived together and shared all of their possessions with any who needed anything. We could claim Martin Luther King’s vision of the “beloved community,” or use Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s description in his wonderful book Life Together. These images of a group of people formed lovingly around a higher calling of love and service to the world would be a great way to define the parameters of the copyright of the brand name “church.”

However, our churches are full of people who come with these highest ideals, and also those who come for all of the wrong reasons. They may be hurting, or mad, or seeking public approval, or bored, or coming out of habit. They may harbor some of the same prejudices as Mr. Phelps, or they may come with other prejudices of their very own. They may share freely with others, or they may be looking to take as much as they can get. There are saints and sinners, hypocrites, scoundrels and the like. In other words, our churches are like any other segment of human society. Frankly, that is why I love being part of the church. There is room for everybody, including me. If we decide that “church” is only for those people who are perfect, then there probably wouldn’t be too many franchises out there.

Along with his right to free speech, I guess he has the right to call himself “church.” His family church just one more group of sinners. And so are we.

Interviews

I am spending the bulk of this week in Columbia, MO, in Board of Ordained Ministry meetings. I’ve been on both sides of the interview table for ordination. Twenty five years ago, the only question I remember being asked- repeatedly- was how I could be both married and an itinerant minister. (I’m pretty sure they didn’t ask the guys that question.) My interview team was made up of three people, and it was the only team that had a woman on it. I am certain that they must have asked me questions about theology and the like, but I don’t recall them. Remembering how nervously incoherent that I was at the time, I am amazed that anyone thought it worth their while to ordain me.

Fast forward twenty-five years. I’ve been sitting on the interviewer side of the table for over a dozen years. There are a lot of nervous people that come to sit in front of my team. I understand, I really do. I try to smile and joke and do whatever I can to help them give their best interview possible. I remember what it is like to be scared when it feels like so much is on the line, like career and God and stuff. Sometimes the interviews are fun and easy, akin to colleagues sitting around and talking good theology. We plumb the depths of some issues together, and we all walk away a little more enlightened than when we began. I’ve got an interesting real-life church situation that relates to my assigned interview topic of sacramental theology that I’ve been sharing with some of the candidates. It helps tease out some of their beliefs about baptism, while I’m also getting some good insights about what to do about my own situation.

Not every interview is a walk in the park. Sometimes the advance written work is lacking, and sometimes the conversation takes an unfortunate turn. When that happens, it is painful for all of us in the room. There is never any joy in an answer that is “no” or “not yet,” even when it is the right thing to do. We all know how much time and money and work and prayer it takes to get to these interviews in the first place. We know what is on the line, since we have been there ourselves. Thankfully, those hard moments are the exception, but they do exist.

So, I’m spending much of this week in interviews. Like everyone else, I have other demands on my time. In fact, I’ll need to leave early for a funeral. Although I have other places I could be, it feels important to be here this week. I’ll smile at the candidates, try to ease their nerves, ask tough questions when needed- but, I will never ever ask a candidate if they believe that they can be both happily married and in itinerant ministry. I don’t have to ask, because I know the answer for that myself.

Parking

Some of us at church have been having a discussion lately on one of those good-to-have problems. Participation in our choirs, band, and bell choirs is such that the small parking lot by the choir room and office is getting filled up on Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings. At times, some of our disabled folks are having trouble finding a place to park.

The other day, in an effort to encourage others to (as my associate pastor says) “Park far and sit close,” I announced that the pastors will park in the farthest-away spots on Sunday mornings. I’m inviting the choir and band members to join me. I’ll be past the recycling bins beyond the gymnasium. It will be an inconvenient hike to my office, but I don’t want to ask others to do something that I’m not willing to do myself.

And then I began to feel a little sorry for myself. After all, I’m often lugging a briefcase and computer, along with various other Sunday morning items. And it truly is a hike from where my car will be to where my office is; several miles and uphill both ways, the more I thought about it. The other day, I was walking into the hospital for some visits and wondering to myself how long I would have to keep up this self-imposed parking exile.

Grace happened in one of those getting-your-attention-moments. I discovered that both of the people whom I was visiting were going to be discharged from the hospital soon; discharged into hospice care. Their earthly life is coming to an end, and they will be receiving palliative comfort care in these final days. Both of them are beautiful people who have had long lives, and so these moments are tinged with both joy and sorrow.

As I walked (walked!) out of the hospital that day, my perspective had changed dramatically. What a blessing it is to be able to hike across a parking lot and through a building. How small of me to be thinking about my own inconvenience. I know it sounds cheesy and preacher-y, but what I heard in my head that day was this: If Christ could die for me so that I could face life and death with hope, then the least that I can do is walk across the parking lot for someone else.

So, this Sunday and the next and for all of the ones after that, I’ll be getting to church first on Sundays so that I can snag the farthest away spot. It’s the least I can do . . .

Running

I am not a runner. I used to be one. In high school, I was on the track team. I enjoyed the exercise, and it got me out of the agony of high school p.e. class. Granted, most of my high school track meet memories are of a tinny voice over the loudspeaker announcing, “There are still a few runners finishing the race, so please stay off the track.” Fast, I was not. But I was a runner back then.

I have a cousin who is a runner, even though she is a smidge older than me. She is a runner and a breast cancer survivor, and I admire her greatly for both of those things.

I am not a runner. However, Andy and I joined a gym awhile back. It felt like a guilty pleasure, yet another advantage of the empty nest. Instead of going to evening school programs, we now have time to take care of ourselves. At the gym, I have gotten into the habit of using the treadmill while watching television. A few weeks ago, I decided to try running for a few of minutes here and there during my workout. And then one night, I decided to try to do something I haven’t done for 35 years. I ran a mile nonstop. I’ve even done it a few times since, and I feel oddly proud of myself. But, I am still not a runner.

If I were a runner, I would feel committed to putting in ever-increasing mileage. As it is, inertia (or common sense) might kick in any day, and I will be back to walking my treadmill workout. That will be fine. As long as I’m not a runner, I can stop at any time, with no harm and no foul. No, I am not a runner, but I am someone who’s running right now.

I think that is why it is so important for me to bear the name “Christian.” It infers a state of my being, not something that I can stop doing if I get bored. Inertia or preoccupation might mean that there are times when I’m not acting like much of a Christian, but it still is who I am in spite of myself. Bearing that name keeps me striving to behave like one. Spending my life training and working to get better at being a Christian sounds exactly like what I want to do. It’s not all about my action, of course. When the day comes that I’m not able to hold up my faith, my faith will hold me. Until then, I want to keep working at it.

No, I’m no runner. But I am doing my darnedest to be something much better.

Perfectly homemade

I decided to make cookies this morning. Fancy, lovely, Valentine’s Day cookies. For these fancy cookies, I started with a chocolately dough for rolled cookies. I used ruffled-edge heart cookie cutters to make a sandwich-style cookie. The top layer had a heart cut-out, with a dollop of raspberry jam nestled within. The chocolate-raspberry heart cookies were finished with a sprinkling of pink and red sugar. I planned to give these cookies my children at college, my parents, and perhaps my office staff. I envisioned being asked where I had purchased these amazing cookies, and I even practiced my modest reply, “Oh, well, I made these myself.”

The gulf between plans and reality once again loomed large. I followed the instructions to the letter. I rolled out the dough between wax paper, to avoid getting white flour on the deep chocolate cookies. I even baked the cookies on parchment paper- parchment paper! And yet the cookies squished and broke and did all of those things that my cookies tend to do. There were more sprinkles on the floor than on the cookies. After spending all morning on this affair, I ended up with exactly 18 cookies to show for my labor. And- they do not match the picture in my head or in the book. They are not perfect, but they are perfectly homemade. No one will doubt that I made them myself.

I heard a theologian speak last week. That person commented, “I almost wish that Jesus had never said that.” The quote being referred to was, “Be perfect, even as God in heaven is perfect.” The theologian went on to talk about how that insatiable quest for perfection can lead to countless problems. After all, if we will not accept anything less than perfection, then we will find much about ourselves or anyone else unacceptable. I am as prone to fall into that trap as anyone. None of us likes to be imperfect, and we especially don’t like for other people to know that we are imperfect. And yet . . .

Knowing that God made us and remembering that God loves us gives us great freedom within our imperfections. We don’t have to pretend to be something that we are not, because being God’s child is all we need to be. We keep trying, naturally, for the best. In the meantime, however, we celebrate that we are perfectly homemade- by God.

Is Facebook Making You Sad?

“Is Facebook Making Us Sad?” As someone who spends time on Facebook, my curiosity was piqued bythe title of this article (available at http://www.slate.com/id/2282620/). The premise is that people who use Facebook are more likely to overestimate how happy other people are, which, in turns, magnifies their own less-than-happy state. To quote the article, authored by Libby Copeland,

“Facebook is, after all, characterized by the very public curation of one's assets in the form of friends, photos, biographical data, accomplishments, pithy observations, even the books we say we like. Look, we have baked beautiful cookies. We are playing with a new puppy. We are smiling in pictures (or, if we are moody, we are artfully moody.) Blandness will not do, and with some exceptions, sad stuff doesn't make the cut, either. The site's very design—the presence of a "Like" button, without a corresponding "Hate" button—reinforces a kind of upbeat spin doctoring.”

Yes, Facebook does encourage us to share the happy things in our lives. If I have had a difficult meeting at church, or if I’m worried about something at home, or if I think the dog hasn’t pooped enough because the snow is too deep . . . I don’t mention it on Facebook. It doesn’t surprise me that we tend to emphasize the positive when we choose to share snippets of ourselves with the world.

What does surprise me is that other people’s happiness causes us unhappiness. The main point of the article, after all, is not that we tend to portray a spiffed-up version of ourselves. The point is that these upbeat self-portraits create sadness in others. I don’t think that we begrudge other people their trips to Disneyworld, or fun in the snow, or perfectly decorated cookies. I think it is that these happy posts can make us feel isolated. After all, who wants to feel like they are the only person in the world whose life isn’t perfect? Can it be that feeling alone is an even worse feeling than being unhappy?

The solution is not to emphasize the downside of life on Facebook. “Huge bills are due, my spouse is having an affair, and the dog is dying” is a cry for help, not a Facebook status. I think a better solution is to make sure that we have relationships that are deeper and more authentic than blurbs shared with the internet. We need people whose real lives we know, including the ups and downs. We need those who know us as we are, and who love us anyway. Those relationships might exist at church, or family, or work . . . it doesn’t matter where, as long as they exist.

I’m currently at a conference where we are talking about some of the new ethical issues for clergy created by the internet. The internet, including Facebook, is changing human interaction forever. And yet . . . regardless of the medium, authenticity in relationships is ultimately what we desire. Authenticity does happen on Facebook (I’ve seen it), but it is not guaranteed. Make sure you hold out for the real thing.

Words

I’ve learned the hard way to be aware of the words I say publicly, as much as possible. Words can do damage. Vulnerable people can be harmed by words I say. Sometimes, after a sermon, people will take issue with a point with which they disagree. I appreciate those who take the time to ask questions or share a different perspective. However, some people will simply melt away from the church, no longer able to find “home” because of something I said. They may have felt condemned, offended, or disrespected by words that came out of my mouth.

The first of Three Simple Rules,a wonderful book by Reuben Job, is “Do No Harm.” I take that rule seriously. The pulpit is a precious gift, an unparalleled opportunity to share good news. One verbal misstep, and quickly good news becomes bad news to a hurting soul.

I know that we are in the early days of shock and finger-pointing about the shooting in Arizona. Our need for an orderly universe compels us to identify why such a thing could happen. It appears that mental illness is involved. The other contributing factors that made this particular person choose these particular targets are still being debated. However . . .

When one creates a map with rifle crosshairs over an individual’s name, why would one be surprised when that person is shot? When the rhetoric of our time includes phrases like, “Don’t retreat, RELOAD” or “find Second Amendment solutions” to problematic politicians, then, when violence erupts, why do we try to pretend that our words don’t really matter after all?

I just read a blog entry by a member of my last church, Courtney Cole. She ran for the Missouri House this fall. She lost. On election day, she was at one of the polling sites when she encountered a candidate of the other party, who was running in a different race. Read his account of the incident in the police report that was filed: “According to him they argued and increased until she asked if he was going to hit her. His reply was, ‘No but can you outrun a nine millimeter?’” The county prosecutor, also a member of the opposing political party as Courtney Cole, declined to prosecute. “Can you outrun a nine millimeter???” When did it become okay for one politician to threaten to shoot another politician with a gun?

Our words have power. The gift of speech is a wonderful gift from God. And, like most of God’s gifts to us, we can use it for wonderful things or for hateful things. Our words can inspire, can show love, can give hope. Or, they can do the opposite. If one person was going to take the words you speak today seriously enough to act upon--- what would be the result?