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.
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