I first learned the term in seminary, I believe. In conversations with classmates, we would speak of “C & E’s” with disdain. The term is shorthand for “Christmas and Easters,” meaning those church members who only show up on those two holidays. In discussions with classmates, we laid the problems of the church solidly at the feet of the C & E’s. After all, if “those people” only attended more regularly and gave more generously, then we would have no attendance or budgetary problems at our churches. Their lack of faithfulness was not only harming themselves, but it was mortally wounding all of Christianity.
I am glad to say that the years have brought me new perspectives in many areas, including this one. After all, we all know that families are complicated. At the holidays, there are those who love every minute of the family gatherings, who revel in the chance to be with their kinfolks. And there are others at the same gathering who are counting the seconds until they get to retreat to the blissful silence of their own homes.
Why, then, should I be judgmental of those whose faith life does not mirror mine exactly? For all I know, the person who is in church only twice a year works at a Sunday job and has had to take precious time off to make it to church that often. Someone else might have been so wounded by the church years ago that it has taken a huge act of faith to step into the door even once a year. Another person might feel so busy or burdened with everyday life that adding regular worship into the mix would be the straw that would break the camel’s back. I cannot know the situation of every person who walks into the door, and so I certainly will not waste my time judging that which I cannot know.
Instead, I can’t wait to welcome anyone who comes through our doors on Christmas Eve! Depending on weather, we are expecting somewhere around 1500 people. Our worship leaders, musicians, ushers, and many others have been working on making sure that there is room for everyone, and that all of our guests feel welcome. Our greatest hope and prayer is that someone out there might hear the Good News in a way that will give them a glimpse of hope, and maybe even change their lives. All we can do is put out the welcome mat as much as possible, and trust that God will do the rest. We’re all in this life together, and I pray that there are people out there who will find their way home on Friday night.
You see, I don’t call them “C & E’s” anymore. I call them “family.”
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Pickets
The first email I got about it said, “Can you believe he has sunk even lower?” Actually, I think he’s already been as low as you can go, so I’m not sure that I would characterize his current plan as “lower.”
The email was about Fred Phelps and his tiny, family church, and their plan to picket Elizabeth Edwards’ funeral. Do I think that it is reprehensible? Of course. But the fact is that I am already too-well-acquainted with Mr. Phelps and his doctrine of hatred. About the only thing that he could do that would surprise me would be to march alongside Jesse Jackson in a civil rights parade.
My one claim to fame is that I have been picketed by the man three times. I was pastor of a church in midtown Kansas City that took some stances that made him mad. The first time that I received the advance-warning fax from him, in which he called me a “lying, sodomite whore,” I admit that I was shaken. What was he going to do? It turns out that what he did was stay home while he sent some family members, including some young children who may have been blessedly unable to read the signs which they carried. When the protesters started to sing “God hates America” while they walked all over a US flag, they attracted the attention of some neighbors and passerby. They left abruptly.
The next time, we were more prepared. We had volunteers flank the sidewalks where the protesters stood, to provide a line of protection as our worshippers walked from the parking lot. When they started singing “God hates America,” we had a guitar and a singing group on the front steps, singing “They Will Know We Are Christians by our Love.” All went well, relatively speaking, until . . . When I was in my robe and headed into the sanctuary for the worship service, I glanced out the door and saw a lone latecomer who was having to run the gauntlet alone. I stepped outside to accompany that person. When the protestors saw me in the robe and realized that I was the pastor- well, let’s just say that they reinforced the message that they had faxed earlier. Yikes.
The final time, they came to protest the Rev. and Congressman Emanuel Cleaver, who was speaking at a program at our church. The veteran of many Phelps protests himself, Rev. Cleaver simply waited until the protesters left before showing up. Without anyone to yell at, they packed up and went home.
It appears to me that Phelps’ “church” has done more to galvanize those who are opposed to his ideas than my preaching could ever do. After all, there are now groups of motorcycle-riding, flag-carrying, kind-of-tough guys who now drive countless miles to show up at funerals in order to quell anti-gay protests. That’s pretty amazing, when you think about it. And it is another reminder that, when it’s love versus hate, love will always have the last word.
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never put it out. Keep picketing if you must, Fred. You’ve already lost this one.
The email was about Fred Phelps and his tiny, family church, and their plan to picket Elizabeth Edwards’ funeral. Do I think that it is reprehensible? Of course. But the fact is that I am already too-well-acquainted with Mr. Phelps and his doctrine of hatred. About the only thing that he could do that would surprise me would be to march alongside Jesse Jackson in a civil rights parade.
My one claim to fame is that I have been picketed by the man three times. I was pastor of a church in midtown Kansas City that took some stances that made him mad. The first time that I received the advance-warning fax from him, in which he called me a “lying, sodomite whore,” I admit that I was shaken. What was he going to do? It turns out that what he did was stay home while he sent some family members, including some young children who may have been blessedly unable to read the signs which they carried. When the protesters started to sing “God hates America” while they walked all over a US flag, they attracted the attention of some neighbors and passerby. They left abruptly.
The next time, we were more prepared. We had volunteers flank the sidewalks where the protesters stood, to provide a line of protection as our worshippers walked from the parking lot. When they started singing “God hates America,” we had a guitar and a singing group on the front steps, singing “They Will Know We Are Christians by our Love.” All went well, relatively speaking, until . . . When I was in my robe and headed into the sanctuary for the worship service, I glanced out the door and saw a lone latecomer who was having to run the gauntlet alone. I stepped outside to accompany that person. When the protestors saw me in the robe and realized that I was the pastor- well, let’s just say that they reinforced the message that they had faxed earlier. Yikes.
The final time, they came to protest the Rev. and Congressman Emanuel Cleaver, who was speaking at a program at our church. The veteran of many Phelps protests himself, Rev. Cleaver simply waited until the protesters left before showing up. Without anyone to yell at, they packed up and went home.
It appears to me that Phelps’ “church” has done more to galvanize those who are opposed to his ideas than my preaching could ever do. After all, there are now groups of motorcycle-riding, flag-carrying, kind-of-tough guys who now drive countless miles to show up at funerals in order to quell anti-gay protests. That’s pretty amazing, when you think about it. And it is another reminder that, when it’s love versus hate, love will always have the last word.
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never put it out. Keep picketing if you must, Fred. You’ve already lost this one.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Graced
As I was making the 10-minute drive to church this morning, an amazingly gorgeous dawn was at its peak. A couple of cardinals flew in front of my car. As my eyes followed them, they flew past an owl sitting in a tree by the road. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a real, live owl hanging out in nature before! I drove a little farther, and a deer on my right paused before disappearing in a flash of white tail. As the road meandered between two lakes, I saw the sunrise in all of its glory. I pulled into a parking lot overlooking one of the lakes, to be able to spend a few moments looking fully at the sky and water. Before I had even arrived at church, my soul had been touched by the beauty of God’s world.
At church, the choir presented their Christmas cantata at two of the services. The music and readings were powerful, and I loved sitting back and allowing the music to convey the message of good news. At the contemporary service, the band did a great job in playing both familiar and new Christmas songs. “Witness,” a women’s musical group, sang songs with incredibly tight harmonies and sweet voices.
So often, weekend worship feels like something for me to make happen. Whether or not people experience God in a new way seems up to the worship service I plan or the words I speak. Today, I was reminded that God moves in times and places that might have little or nothing to do with my own effort. Wildlife, a sunrise, music. All of these things have opened my heart to God today, and there was nothing I did to earn it. There’s a church-y word for these types of things: Grace. And for that, I am thankful.
At church, the choir presented their Christmas cantata at two of the services. The music and readings were powerful, and I loved sitting back and allowing the music to convey the message of good news. At the contemporary service, the band did a great job in playing both familiar and new Christmas songs. “Witness,” a women’s musical group, sang songs with incredibly tight harmonies and sweet voices.
So often, weekend worship feels like something for me to make happen. Whether or not people experience God in a new way seems up to the worship service I plan or the words I speak. Today, I was reminded that God moves in times and places that might have little or nothing to do with my own effort. Wildlife, a sunrise, music. All of these things have opened my heart to God today, and there was nothing I did to earn it. There’s a church-y word for these types of things: Grace. And for that, I am thankful.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Missouri Safety Inspections
Today, I am thankful for Missouri’s requirement of safety inspections for motor vehicles. Like the rest of you, I have had my share of “why do I need to mess with this?” moments in the past. I have wondered if I would be ripped off by a mechanic who could hold me hostage by decreeing my car unsafe for licensing. I even admit that I enjoyed the years of living in Kansas, where we didn’t have to mess with it.
All of that changed last night. Winston had accepted a ride to and from college with one of his friends, rather than drive himself in his own car. It is a six-hour trip, and it made sense to have company. I asked the obligatory parental question, “Is she a safe driver?” I didn’t think to ask, “How are the tires on her car?”
The first flat tire occurred south of Joplin. A passing car stopped to help, and they were on their way before too long. When the second tire shredded similarly thirty miles down the road, they were stuck on the shoulder of a highway exit ramp. Not having a second spare tire, of course, they had to wait for a tow truck. Their flashing lights were on, and they had even placed an orange cone behind the car. In spite of these precautions, a speeding car sideswiped them. The mirror and front bumper were torn off the car, and the side of the car was smushed. The driver never even hit the brakes as he/she sped off.
It could have been so much worse. They were both wearing their seatbelts, and neither one of them was hurt. They were towed to a Walmart that, amazingly, was open and changing tires on the Sunday night of Thanksgiving weekend. The car, while damaged, was driveable. They were able to limp the last 3 hours back to college.
It could have been so much worse. The tire guy said that it was not that they had driven over anything that damaged the tires. The tires shredded because they were literally worn out. If it had been raining, those bald tires could have taken them off the road. When the tires finally gave up the ghost and fell apart, they could have spun out at highway speeds. The car that hit them could have hit them at a different, more dangerous angle. It could have been so much worse.
I’m trying not to dwell on the what-could-haves or the why-didn’t-theys. (Not easy for me so soon after the accident.) Instead, I am choosing to see the Missouri safety inspection requirement in a whole new light. Those tires didn’t go bald overnight, and they were on a car licensed in a state that has no vehicle inspections. While we can’t prevent every bad thing from happening, there are some things that can be averted. So, the next time I am grumbling about having to drag my car somewhere to get it inspected before licensing, I will remember last night. And I will try to tell the mechanic “thank you” for being part of keeping my family safe.
All of that changed last night. Winston had accepted a ride to and from college with one of his friends, rather than drive himself in his own car. It is a six-hour trip, and it made sense to have company. I asked the obligatory parental question, “Is she a safe driver?” I didn’t think to ask, “How are the tires on her car?”
The first flat tire occurred south of Joplin. A passing car stopped to help, and they were on their way before too long. When the second tire shredded similarly thirty miles down the road, they were stuck on the shoulder of a highway exit ramp. Not having a second spare tire, of course, they had to wait for a tow truck. Their flashing lights were on, and they had even placed an orange cone behind the car. In spite of these precautions, a speeding car sideswiped them. The mirror and front bumper were torn off the car, and the side of the car was smushed. The driver never even hit the brakes as he/she sped off.
It could have been so much worse. They were both wearing their seatbelts, and neither one of them was hurt. They were towed to a Walmart that, amazingly, was open and changing tires on the Sunday night of Thanksgiving weekend. The car, while damaged, was driveable. They were able to limp the last 3 hours back to college.
It could have been so much worse. The tire guy said that it was not that they had driven over anything that damaged the tires. The tires shredded because they were literally worn out. If it had been raining, those bald tires could have taken them off the road. When the tires finally gave up the ghost and fell apart, they could have spun out at highway speeds. The car that hit them could have hit them at a different, more dangerous angle. It could have been so much worse.
I’m trying not to dwell on the what-could-haves or the why-didn’t-theys. (Not easy for me so soon after the accident.) Instead, I am choosing to see the Missouri safety inspection requirement in a whole new light. Those tires didn’t go bald overnight, and they were on a car licensed in a state that has no vehicle inspections. While we can’t prevent every bad thing from happening, there are some things that can be averted. So, the next time I am grumbling about having to drag my car somewhere to get it inspected before licensing, I will remember last night. And I will try to tell the mechanic “thank you” for being part of keeping my family safe.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
The Tinkling Christmas Tree
No, I didn’t mean “twinkling” Christmas tree. I meant what I wrote.
Living in a home with a multiply-allergic husband, we have an annual debate about the Christmas tree. He maintains that real Christmas trees bring out his allergies. I counter that artificial trees harbor dust and other allergens, and that it isn’t Christmas without the smell of a fresh tree in the house. Over the years, we have worked out a compromise: we get a real Christmas tree. As you can tell, marriages don’t last 26 years without that type of mutual respect for each others’ needs.
We try to do everything we can to minimize the potential allergens in a real tree. This year, for instance, I bathed the trunk in bleach water, to kill any molds lurking on the trunk. He hosed off the entire tree, to wash off any pollens. The most important thing we try to do, however, is get the freshest tree possible. We found a tree lot in Blue Springs that had Fraser fir trees with lovely soft needles. After picking out the most beautiful tree on the lot, we brought it home. And the tinkling has begun.
The lovely, soft, seemingly fresh needles tinkle to the ground whenever we touch the tree. We pulled out sentimental ornaments one by one as we decorated the tree. Each popsicle-stick children’s ornament or glittery glass ball was met by happy memories- and a cascade of falling needles- as it was placed on the tree. By the time we had gotten the tree decorated, the floor was covered in a carpet of green needles. Adding water to the stand results in a needle-green hairdo. I told the kids to enjoy the green tree before they returned to school, since the tree will certainly be bare brown branches by the time that they come home in mid-December.
Oh well. The most important part of the tree is the ornaments, anyway. We have ornaments that mark different stages of our married life, and our children at different ages. Some ornaments were gifts from dear friends and family, others were acquired on trips, and others are there simply because we thought they were pretty. I will enjoy looking at the ornaments, even as they sit on the stubbly remnants of a Charlie Brown tree. Christmas traditions aren't about perfection, they are about memories and laughter and love, even in the midst of imperfection.
Silver bells may be the sound of Christmas for some people. In our household this year, Christmas will sound like the tinkle of falling needles. Fa-la-la-la-la.
Living in a home with a multiply-allergic husband, we have an annual debate about the Christmas tree. He maintains that real Christmas trees bring out his allergies. I counter that artificial trees harbor dust and other allergens, and that it isn’t Christmas without the smell of a fresh tree in the house. Over the years, we have worked out a compromise: we get a real Christmas tree. As you can tell, marriages don’t last 26 years without that type of mutual respect for each others’ needs.
We try to do everything we can to minimize the potential allergens in a real tree. This year, for instance, I bathed the trunk in bleach water, to kill any molds lurking on the trunk. He hosed off the entire tree, to wash off any pollens. The most important thing we try to do, however, is get the freshest tree possible. We found a tree lot in Blue Springs that had Fraser fir trees with lovely soft needles. After picking out the most beautiful tree on the lot, we brought it home. And the tinkling has begun.
The lovely, soft, seemingly fresh needles tinkle to the ground whenever we touch the tree. We pulled out sentimental ornaments one by one as we decorated the tree. Each popsicle-stick children’s ornament or glittery glass ball was met by happy memories- and a cascade of falling needles- as it was placed on the tree. By the time we had gotten the tree decorated, the floor was covered in a carpet of green needles. Adding water to the stand results in a needle-green hairdo. I told the kids to enjoy the green tree before they returned to school, since the tree will certainly be bare brown branches by the time that they come home in mid-December.
Oh well. The most important part of the tree is the ornaments, anyway. We have ornaments that mark different stages of our married life, and our children at different ages. Some ornaments were gifts from dear friends and family, others were acquired on trips, and others are there simply because we thought they were pretty. I will enjoy looking at the ornaments, even as they sit on the stubbly remnants of a Charlie Brown tree. Christmas traditions aren't about perfection, they are about memories and laughter and love, even in the midst of imperfection.
Silver bells may be the sound of Christmas for some people. In our household this year, Christmas will sound like the tinkle of falling needles. Fa-la-la-la-la.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
TSA
With all of the controversy surrounding the new body scan and invasive pat-downs at our airports, there is a contingent of people who have not been heard from. I have great compassion for the individuals who work for the TSA. These people are charged with ensuring our safety in the skies. To carry out that task, they are now required to look at revealing images and/or invade the personal space of countless airline passengers.
Think about the joylessness of that task. No one bounds out of bed in the morning, thinking “Hooray! Today at work, I might get to see a blurry x-ray of a 48-year old preacher!” No one goes to work hoping that, in the words of the current viral video, they will get to “touch the junk” of some crabby, sweaty passenger who has been lugging baggage around the airport.
If you have ever given birth in a hospital, you might be as blasé as I am about the new security procedures. After all, I remember a constant stream of people in and out of my hospital room, checking how far along I was. (I have a hazy recollection of the person pushing a broom checking me, but Andy assures me that memory was drug-induced.) The birth itself was attended by a cast of thousands. After all that, posing fully clothed for an airport x-ray just isn’t that intimidating.
True, I do not want to be exposed to unnecessary radiation. Nor do I, however, want my airplane to fall unnecessarily out of the sky. In fact, the not-falling-out-of-the-sky alternative is my preference 100% of the time. Having a bored security guard invade my personal space is a small price to pay for the gift of arriving alive.
It saddens me to live in such a time as this, where we have to protect ourselves from each other so aggressively. However, the TSA personnel are not the enemy. They are simply people trying to do a job, a job which has gotten significantly more challenging and unpleasant. During this busy Thanksgiving travel season, I am thankful that they are willing to be there for us.
Think about the joylessness of that task. No one bounds out of bed in the morning, thinking “Hooray! Today at work, I might get to see a blurry x-ray of a 48-year old preacher!” No one goes to work hoping that, in the words of the current viral video, they will get to “touch the junk” of some crabby, sweaty passenger who has been lugging baggage around the airport.
If you have ever given birth in a hospital, you might be as blasé as I am about the new security procedures. After all, I remember a constant stream of people in and out of my hospital room, checking how far along I was. (I have a hazy recollection of the person pushing a broom checking me, but Andy assures me that memory was drug-induced.) The birth itself was attended by a cast of thousands. After all that, posing fully clothed for an airport x-ray just isn’t that intimidating.
True, I do not want to be exposed to unnecessary radiation. Nor do I, however, want my airplane to fall unnecessarily out of the sky. In fact, the not-falling-out-of-the-sky alternative is my preference 100% of the time. Having a bored security guard invade my personal space is a small price to pay for the gift of arriving alive.
It saddens me to live in such a time as this, where we have to protect ourselves from each other so aggressively. However, the TSA personnel are not the enemy. They are simply people trying to do a job, a job which has gotten significantly more challenging and unpleasant. During this busy Thanksgiving travel season, I am thankful that they are willing to be there for us.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Family
My mother’s birthday is Tuesday, and all of her siblings are coming to celebrate. In many families, it is not unusual for families to gather regularly. Our family has never been one for big reunions. Relatives coming this week to Kansas City from California, North Carolina, and Florida are a Big Deal for us.
I got to spend some time last night with my sister and a California Cousin. Since they live so far away and we see them so rarely, they’ve always been “The California Cousins” to me. Although we’ve been together only a handful of times, I was amazed at how quickly and easily conversation flowed last night. We were laughing at family jokes and talking about the stuff of our lives as if we had seen each other days instead of years ago. What is it about simply being “family” that creates those connections?
The three of us do share similar looks and build. Those Radford genes run deep. We share more than looks, however. We speak the same language. We can talk about Who-Who, Aunt Taddy, Honey and Money with easy familiarity. (Southerners have always been creative at family names.) We know who is married to whom and which children belong to which branch of the family. Our mothers wore the same wedding dress, and all three of us wore it too. There are so many things that bind us together.
While we were talking, it came time to nibble on some cheese and crackers. I demurred. My mouth is healing from some recent gum surgery, and soft foods are still easiest for me. That was when I discovered that my cousin has had the same surgery to fix the same congenital condition as me. As I said, those Radford genes run deep.
What is it that creates “family?” Shared language, wedding dresses, and gum problems are certainly facets of being family. Having those things in common somehow opens the door for deeper relationship that is not affected by distance or frequency of visit.
What is it that creates a church family? Perhaps it is in our genes, since we claim the same spiritual heritage. By sharing in rituals and language, we do forge bonds. We connect as we sing carols by candlelight or go on mission trips together. We become family as we pray for one another, mourn the loss of loved ones, and celebrate resurrection hope together. There may be times when those connections fade, but something still holds us together. I cannot fully define what it is that holds us together, but I know some names of what it looks like: faith, hope, and love.
And happy birthday, Mom! It is great to be part of your family.
I got to spend some time last night with my sister and a California Cousin. Since they live so far away and we see them so rarely, they’ve always been “The California Cousins” to me. Although we’ve been together only a handful of times, I was amazed at how quickly and easily conversation flowed last night. We were laughing at family jokes and talking about the stuff of our lives as if we had seen each other days instead of years ago. What is it about simply being “family” that creates those connections?
The three of us do share similar looks and build. Those Radford genes run deep. We share more than looks, however. We speak the same language. We can talk about Who-Who, Aunt Taddy, Honey and Money with easy familiarity. (Southerners have always been creative at family names.) We know who is married to whom and which children belong to which branch of the family. Our mothers wore the same wedding dress, and all three of us wore it too. There are so many things that bind us together.
While we were talking, it came time to nibble on some cheese and crackers. I demurred. My mouth is healing from some recent gum surgery, and soft foods are still easiest for me. That was when I discovered that my cousin has had the same surgery to fix the same congenital condition as me. As I said, those Radford genes run deep.
What is it that creates “family?” Shared language, wedding dresses, and gum problems are certainly facets of being family. Having those things in common somehow opens the door for deeper relationship that is not affected by distance or frequency of visit.
What is it that creates a church family? Perhaps it is in our genes, since we claim the same spiritual heritage. By sharing in rituals and language, we do forge bonds. We connect as we sing carols by candlelight or go on mission trips together. We become family as we pray for one another, mourn the loss of loved ones, and celebrate resurrection hope together. There may be times when those connections fade, but something still holds us together. I cannot fully define what it is that holds us together, but I know some names of what it looks like: faith, hope, and love.
And happy birthday, Mom! It is great to be part of your family.
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