Late Meanderings

Christmas Letter 2011

2011-12-22T07:59:00.000-08:00

Every year, inserted in some of the Christmas greetings our family receives from friends and relatives are letters enumerating the senders’ activities, accomplishments, illnesses, and other significant vicissitudes of the preceding year. While I enjoy the chance to catch-up with what’s happening in the lives of these companions, I have never felt the need to reciprocate with such letters myself. Until now. (Microsoft Word is trying to tell me that the preceding sentence is not a sentence—yes, you confounded machine I know it’s a fragment, but I’m not going to change it, so there!) Where was I? Oh, yeah. Somehow there is an urge this year to let others know “how goes it,” and at the same time send Christmas greetings.

The most recent change for our family and many others in our region is the departure of one of the most exceptional pastors we have known. Josh Patty was for the last four years pastor of the church Polly and I attended, and his intellect, passion and faithfulness to the Gospel are rare commodities among clergy these days. I can make that claim because for most of my 46 years in pastoral ministry, a major chunk of my time was spent working with candidates for Ordained Ministry. Suffice it to say that (in my view) the trend toward dumbing-down is epidemic in Christian ministry and, unfortunately, it seems that most congregations prefer “nice” pastors who settle-in with the preferences and prejudices of the congregants (or as psychologists might say, pastors who are co-dependent), rather than pastors who are competent and capable to provide fruitful leadership.

Now, how is such a stinging observation appropriate for a “Christmas Letter”? Most of these letters simply report the preceding year’s happenings and conclude with Christmas blessings for the readers. Why include opinions about events, coloring them not in seasonal reds and greens, but in more of a wintry grey?

A colleague and friend who is a professor at a very prestigious university school of theology hints at a clue. Often, she has spoken of how the odious facts of life can be “altared” (misspelling deliberate) into realities more akin to divine purposes. A peasant baby is born in a filthy barn, which could be a metaphor for the smelly stench and barn-like character of life in the world. But this peasant baby becomes the One who restores creation and humanity to God’s graceful acceptance and attributes. That is “altaring,” or lifting life’s circumstances to God’s altar of transformation for good.

Pastor Josh has accepted a call to a congregation in the Midwest that already seems to realize the unique gifts and strengths he brings to ministry. Surely as time progresses, the congregants will grow in their appreciation of his leadership. While we feel the pain of his separation from Fairmont, we can rejoice that he is where others will benefit from his keen analytical abilities and commitment, as he, no doubt, will benefit from his new congregation’s capabilities to foster his own continued growth. “Altaring” is how the light continues to shine through the wintry darkness.

The past year included two separate struggles with kidney stones requiring five trips to the ER and three surgeries for yours truly. These were extremely painful and unpleasant times. But even here there were glimpses of light in the darkness: a loving wife’s never-failing care, concern expressed by other friends and family, and a primary care physician who, along with his staff, pulled out all the stops to make prompt medical expertise available. One time, when the misery was too intense for words, I went to see the dear, good Dr. Ang, and while examining me, he placed his hand on my shoulder and said softly, “You are really having a rough time, aren’t you!” Having such recognition of one’s struggle is “altaring.” It lifts the darkness and lets healing light shine through.

Polly continues as the HR Director of a social service agency with nearly 300 employees. It is a sometimes chaotic position, and often she can be heard to say that she walks a fine line between loyalty and stupidity (she is past retirement age). She will return home from the office today having had to deal with a serious personnel issue on top of other unending details, and she’ll be showing the tell-tale signs of the stress that accompanies her profession. My hope is that something about our life together and our home is “altaring” for her, and that amid the soft glow of Christmas tree and window lights there is peace.

Polly’s mom is staying with us now due to advancing forgetfulness and other lapses related to advancing aging. “Grandma” or “Gwam” as Trevor and I most often refer to her, has made the transplantation fairly well. (Her dog, “Sadie,” came along, and while she is willing to get along with our cat “Molly,” the cat has decided to go into attack mode, growling, hissing and chasing the dog whenever it dares to get too close.) Sometimes Grandma realizes she needs to be in a setting where she is helped to remember to eat, take her medicine, etc., and other times she’s just visiting and will be returning to her home soon. It’s sad when a woman who has always been a highly responsible, take-charge individual reaches such a time of dependency. She who has taken care of so many others, both as a nurse and a good neighbor, is now having to be cared-for, and that’s disconcerting, to say the least. Perhaps that there are those around who can do for her as she has done for others is helping to “altar” the situation into something that more nearly incarnates God’s care. If so, then it would be the same kind of “altaring” care I received from Gwam and Pop during teenage years when dating and marrying their daughter—care that in significant ways made them more my parents than my biological parents. That Gwam continues to delight in beauty, recall significant events from the distant past, play with Sadie, and even laugh at herself may be indicators of “altaring” grace.

Good friend—actually more brother than friend, Dr. William L. Roberts—is waging a mighty battle with what has been diagnosed as terminal cancer. Amazingly, the breaks in between the chemo treatments still find Bill and lawyer, Tom Patrick, designing what promises to be a breakthrough approach in adapting coin of the realm mediation principles and practice for churches, work that unfortunately is sorely needed these days. Not only so, but Bill continues to work with selected individuals as they struggle toward more wholeness and less woundedness (yes, Microsoft Word, I know that’s not a word—get over it). Once again, the darkness continues to be “altared” through the following of one’s sense of call, one’s commitment to do good, one’s faithful passion.

Son Trevor is still living with us out of economic necessity. As some of you are aware, he developed seizure disorder as a freshman in college and that along with other complications sent him into a tailspin that took years to straighten out. His seizure disorder is controlled with medication, and this past year he completed with distinction an educational program in the medical technology field. He currently works with mentally challenged individuals assisting them in learning ways to live up to reasonable expectations in daily life. We have learned from people outside our home of Trevor’s helpfulness to others in critical situations. Here too, perhaps, are signs of life being “altared,” being made holy through God’s working in another’s helpful influence.

Well, those seem to be the more significant things roused up by reflection over the past year since Christmas last. Obviously, there are many of life’s daily little happenings that “altar” what otherwise would be dismal, drab, dull days: telephone calls with friends, breakfast with clergy at McAteer’s or lunch and outings with other friends, reading new books (and sometimes rereading good old books), serious conversations with persons about personal or global issues that matter, occasional sessions at the piano or reed organ demonstrating just how rusty I have become, and adapting to my role as house husband since my retirement, to mention a few.

Tomorrow, Friday, Dec. 23, Polly’s brother, Fred, and his wife, Sue, along with their two daughters and their husbands and grandchild, Gavin, will be visiting for our Christmas get-together, and we are excited they are coming. Could it be that once again the day will bring an awareness of how life can be “altared”? It seems to happen most for me in times of being with the significant persons in my life. I wonder if that is true for others. Whether or not that is so, we hope that whatever your circumstances in this holy season, there may come glimpses of life “altared” with the joy, hope, love and peace that is of God.

Thoughts on Why Praise Songs are NOT Christian

2011-07-19T20:50:00.000-07:00

First, these thoughts are meant to apply only to the praise music that I have heard sung in a few churches. It may very well be that there are representative songs in this genre that my preferences would deem fit to be called Christian, but my limited exposure just hasn’t had the privilege of hearing or singing them yet. Perhaps this post will prompt some such examples from a few readers, but as the readership of this blog is, indeed, sparse, it’s doubtful.

So, why aren’t the songs having received the imprimatur of a few churches in my ken Christian? Perhaps some lines from these songs will provide a clue to an answer:

“Lord, I lift Your name on high,” “Lord, I love to sing Your praises,” “I’m so glad You’re in my life,” “You came…my debt to pay,” “I will not forget your love to me,” “Hold me to Your side and I will love You to the end,” “I will bless the Lord forever,” “I will not be moved,” “Draw me in,” “You have made me glad,” “And I’ll say of the Lord…,” “Thank You, Lord, for bearing all my sin and shame,” “Now I know your embrace,” “You are my everything and I will adore you,” “I sing praises to the King of kings,” “Jesus, I’m so in love with You,” etc., etc., etc.

Except for one of the songs in this category that I can recall singing, they are all about an unholy trinity of “Me, Myself and I.” It almost seems as if we imagine by singing such words that God is so pleased at the sound of our melodic flattery that the Divine Being surely must bless us with some sort of special or chosen status for our feel-good blather.

Some will argue that such personal, pietistic panegyrics have always found their way into church music, but while, perhaps, true, it seems to this observer that the rise of the Jesus movement in the 1970s (following the fading of the anti-war and civil rights protest movements) brought with it flourishing new industries in Christian country music, Christian pop, Christian rock, Christian metal, Christian hardcore, Christian punk, Christian alternative rock and Christian hip hop, all of which have proven lucrative for their proponents. Whereas in former times first-person singular language in church music may have been an expression of one’s deep, personal commitment, today such commitment, genuine or not, just happens to coincide with earthly gain and popularity. One wonders if contemporary Christian music composition/performance would be as attractive, were it not accompanied by such corporal incentives?

One aspiring Christian music star reported in his Facebook page some months back about driving past a beautiful mansion in a panoramic country setting and wondering if he would “make it” and, thereby, have his own house like that. It’s natural for young people starting their careers to be centered in concern about “making it” in their chosen field, but is possessing palatial property an authentic sign of what purports to be Christian devotion? Is there not some disparity between who Jesus was and what he did, and an industry that turns his life, teaching and even his death into a profitable business?

That’s where the rubber screeches against the pavement, isn’t it? The Christian story, Gospel, message is about a man whose life was literally given for others. His compassion was such that he poured out his life for the sake of others, especially the poor, outcasts, downtrodden, dejected, the weak, young, old, and broken. It was this same compassion that led to his blistering of the so-called “best” people about town, the well-to-do, the brokers of power, the prestigious. He never singled them out for attack as individuals, but as types of self-important hypocrites, he flayed them, calling them vipers and white-washed sepulchers. They sang God’s praises because their fortunate circumstances meant that God had blessed them above those less obviously favored. They pretended that God walked with them, and talked with them, and patted them on the head or rump. But Jesus’ pervasive sense of compassion for all life saw right through their pretentiousness, calling them out for their lack of humane care and treatment of others.

Perhaps if what passes for contemporary praise, instead of singing “Hey, God, look at me and bless me because I’m singing your praises,” would focus more on God’s care for all of creation (“He’s Got the whole world in His Hands”) or Jesus’ call to take up his cross and follow him into areas crying out for life’s basic needs—“to bring good news to the poor, proclaim release to the captives, and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free” [Luke 4:18-19]—(“Here I Am, Lord”), then the music we sing may resonate more accurately with our call as Christians.

An irony here has to do with how the few churches familiar to me that have turned large chunks of their worship services over to egocentric praise music are actually very much involved in improving the living conditions of the less fortunate and making a constructive difference for others. Relationally, these congregations possess genuine warmth that is accepting of all persons and they do remarkable work to improve the welfare of the larger community. It’s as if there’s a wrenching disconnect between the message in the music they sing and what they are actually doing. They are following the Jesus of our faith into life’s hard places.

So, why the preoccupation with self-promoting paeans of praise? When watching You-Tube clips of many of these praise songs being sung by the artists who have “made it,” the setting is usually a large arena filled with people, arms raised and bodies jumping and jiving to Jesus. It seems to parallel a scene in the Bible, in the Book of Revelation (Rev. 7), where a multitude too numerous to count, from all nationalities and cultures, surrounds God’s throne in praise. Could it be that what is happening now in arenas across the country is a projection, however subliminally, of biblical images of the end of time. If such is the case, then it is a perversion of the biblical message. Besides the obvious — history isn’t over yet — the people included in that great multitude around the throne in the biblical vision are those who have washed their clothing in the “blood of the Lamb,” those who have suffered hunger and thirst, the least prosperous, the poor and marginalized, succinctly, those who have sacrificed and/or been made bloody by following the way of Jesus. The so-called “best” people, the right people to be with if you want to get ahead, are not there. Or, as Jesus (according to Matthew) says, “Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father in heaven.”

Well, there they are: some thoughts about the latest fad in church worship. I close with a quote from an essay by the British mystery writer, Dorothy L. Sayers, entitled CREED OR CHAOS: “If all…are offended because of Christ, let them be offended; but where is the sense of their being offended at something that is not Christ and is nothing like him? We do Him singularly little honor by watering down his personality till it could not offend a fly.”

Good Friday Meditation 2011

2011-04-23T06:32:00.000-07:00

(EXPLANATION: Last night I was one of five laypersons and two clergy who offered reflections on the "Seven Words from the Cross," an annual service held at Central Christian Church in Fairmont, WV. My choice was the first word:)

A brief word of background is in order: we really don’t know what Jesus said as he hung on the cross. These sayings attributed to him were not written down until forty or fifty years after the crucifixion. This first word, “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do,” appears in five of the earliest manuscripts of Luke’s Gospel available to us, but it does not appear in six others, and many have wondered why the earliest copies of the New Testament are divided as to whether Jesus spoke this word or not. Some of what Jesus said and did was, no doubt, passed down untainted from the original witnesses, but other reports about Jesus may have emerged in the imaginations of the later Christian communities.

Even so, what is truly significant is that all of these stories, biographical or imaginary, depict the same qualities of Jesus character: his absolute trust in God, his compassion and loving heart that went out to others, especially the outcasts and oppressed, the weak, young and broken; his straight-forwardness and courage in the face of opposition; as well as other life-affirming attributes.

Yet, in spite of that, I’m often painfully aware how the story of Jesus gets twisted to say what people want it to say. The history of the church is rife with doctrines and beliefs and practices that turn the Jesus story of amazing love and grace for all life into self-serving systems that count some as deserving of places of honor above others, even to the point sometimes of tragically justifying vicious abuse of others. How often have we all heard statements like: “Unless you believe and practice faith as we do, then you’re doomed?” Or as one church member said to me, “I know I’m going to heaven, but I’ll pray for you.”

Indeed, this twisting of the life and message of Jesus began almost as soon as he died, was buried, and arose from the dead. The first Christians were Jewish, and in no time at all disagreements between the Jewish Christians and the other Jewish denominations (Pharisees, Sadducees, Essenes, the Priests) became major conflagrations until the Christians finally separated from their Jewish forebears and even went so far as to accuse the Jews of killing Jesus. (By the way, I have some good news: it wasn’t the Jews. Jesus was put to death by the Roman occupation army—period! Jesus created a scene in the Temple that disrupted the Pax Romana, the Roman Peace, and the Roman authorities always moved swiftly to signs of civil unrest and potential rioting. Nothing personal, Jesus, but look and act like an insurgent and, if we can get our hands on you, the consequence will be immediate: crucify him.)

Right from the very start of this thing called Christianity, the example and teachings of Jesus were manipulated and contorted so as to show preference for some over others, to justify positions of power and privilege, so much so that it is easy to hear Jesus saying throughout these 2000 years as he may have said to the Roman soldiers at the foot of the cross, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

So what is forgiveness? Isn’t it to be able to “let go”? By no stretch of the imagination, is that easy. My 46 years of serving congregations are filled with memories of power struggles and deceptive ploys that made the ministry more difficult than I ever envisioned it would be at the start. To this day, I awake some mornings having dreamt about some of those episodes, obviously still not able to let them go, and in the process I still feel wounded because of my letting-go inability. You probably find that hard to understand.

Sometimes it’s an inability of letting go of the pain; sometimes it’s an inability of letting go of presumptive power and prestige. Thomas and Alexander Campbell, the father and son duo that founded this denomination, the Disciples of Christ, had as their grand vision and hope the reunification of all the scattered denominations into one body, bringing an end to Christian separatism and the supposed superiority that leads to disunity. That dream is one of your denomination’s notable contributions to church history. Yet, when in the 1970s the Disciples joined with eleven other Protestant churches to produce the same curriculum materials to be used in their various denominational Sunday Schools jointly (the project was called CE:SA—Christian Education: Shared Approaches), your denominational officials in submitting the materials to the Diciples’ publishing house, made an editorial change that was rather cute: every time mention was made of Jesus speaking to his disciples, the word “Disciple” was capitalized, unintentionally perhaps, but nevertheless suggesting that when Jesus speaks, it’s just to the (capital D) “Disciples,” not to Presbyterians or Episcopalians.

But not all claims to dominance are harmless. One of the most difficult congregations I served was during the late eighties. It is located in a Jerusalem-like capitol city, Charleston, WV. Capitols and their surroundings, even their churches, have a way of cultivating a certain air of superiority, even arrogance perhaps. My pastorate there lasted four years, years laden with conflict and confusion consisting of behind-the-scenes plotting, secret petitions for my removal, unkind anonymous letters, slashed tires, and on one occasion a telephone call in the middle of the night threatening my life. Now these were not bad people, rather they were people who were convinced that they knew the only right way to follow Christ. Consequently, their actions were reasonable because, after all, God was on their side and their righteous cause justified any means whatsoever to bring about God’s ends. The only time I have returned to that church was a year ago to attend a funeral service of one of its beloved members, John Charnock, the City Attorney when I was in Charleston and a genuinely good man.

One of the areas of conflict while there involved the choir director. He was particularly enamored of the then popular Sandy Patti, a contemporary country Christian music star, and his goal was to turn the worship services into look-alike Sandy Patti concerts. His vision of these productions was bound to clash with my highly-liturgical sensibilities, and despite attempts to mediate some common ground, he saw me as an obstructionist to God’s leading, and I saw him as a guy who was sure there was only one right way who wouldn’t listen to other views. I did not object to the use of new tunes and rhythms, nor to the use of other musical instruments. My problem was with the lyrics and what I considered to be “stinkin-thinkin” faith understandings. Perhaps if I had been more acquiescent, I would have decided that no one pays attention to the words anyway. But I couldn’t bring myself to really believe that. In time, the choir director moved on to another church. But I paid a heavy cost in terms of congregational support in that conflict, which then fused into other areas of disagreement. To this day I continue to harbor anger at all that happened in Charleston.

Jesus truly possessed a quality of compassion and understanding that could let-go, that could genuinely reach out to those who were inflicting the cruel torture of crucifixion and forgive them. Deeply desiring to be a disciple of this same Jesus, I wish I could let-go and forgive as he did!

An Interactive Sermon

2010-11-28T19:01:00.000-08:00

[EXPLANATORY NOTE: I was the guest preacher at Central Christian Church in Fairmont on the Sunday before Thanksgiving (11/21/10), and in thinking about what to do, I decided to try an approach I had once seen about ten years ago. It was during a worship workshop in Pittsburgh, which was opened by Dr. Douglas Adams, professor at Pacific School of Religion in Berkeley, CA (if memory serves), who delivered a lecture on St. Matthew's genealogy using cue cards prompting audience responses similar to the ones I employ in this sermon. Ever since witnessing Dr. Adams' creative presentation, I have wanted to "borrow" his idea. And I did, and except for my lack of coordination in handling the cue cards, the sermon seemed to make a point--maybe not the intended point, but it was fun doing something different.]

The Sermon

You know the difference between parents' stories and grandparents' stories, don't you? Perhaps an illustration will help. Say as a parent you just learned that your son or daughter got a "D" on an exam. Chances are, you not only will let your child know how upset you are at his or her performance, but you may find yourself saying something about how hard you had to work to get through school and how you not only had big assignments in ten different classes every night, but you also had at least two hours of chores to do at home as well, to say nothing about having to slog two miles through a foot of snow to get to school everyday. Now, that's a parent's story. Sometimes as parents we make it seem as if life was so much tougher in our day, and inadvertently leave our children with the impression that they will never be able to measure up to all we did when we were their age. Our parent stories tend to make it seem as if we were perfect growing up.

But suppose later on our child who made the "D" happens to be talking with grandmother, and informs her how upset we parents are about the poor grade? Ah, then our son or daughter might learn some very interesting things, like the time grandma was upset and worried because the so-called perfect dad flunked math in the fifth grade and had to take it over again in summer school, or the time perfect mom and some of her friends played hooky from school for a whole week in order to hang out in Palatine Park during the Three Rivers' Festival.

The difference between parents' stories and grandparents' stories is that grandparents tend to tell the whole story whereas parents are apt to let children see only the good parts of their stories. And if the only stories children get to hear are the perfect parent stories, then they will feel inferior and as if they will never measure up. Parents' stories leave daughters and sons feeling as if no one has made such mistakes as they have. But grandparents' stories help youngsters to understand that everyone messes up.

I want to let you in on a secret. The Bible is not a collection of parents' stories. Rather, it is a huge library of grandparents' stories. Humans are forever messing up in the stories of the Bible, but they are still valued and appreciated and considered worthy of God's love and acceptance. Look, for example at the genealogy in St. Matthew's gospel that no one ever reads because the names are too hard to pronounce (like Shadrach, Meshac, Abednego, and Nebuchadnezzar, huh Susan?). Besides that, it is all so boring. But Matthew's genealogy tells the whole story of the history of God's people all the way up to the time Jesus was born. I'm going to need your help reading this genealogy. I have some cue cards (applaud, cheer, boo, hiss, huh?) and as I go through the genealogy, I'll hold them up and you respond as requested.

"An account of the genealogy of Jesus the Messiah (applaud & cheer), the son of David (applaud & cheer), the son of Abraham." (applaud) Abraham who left his father's home and kindred for a land God would show him, and through whom God would bless the nations of the earth (applaud). Yes, Abraham who told his wife to pretend she was his sister when they were in Egypt so that Pharaoh, upon seeing her beauty, would think that she was an eligible receiver of his affection and wouldn't kill Abraham in order to have Abraham's beautiful wife to himself. (Boo)

"Abraham was the father of Isaac (applaud), and Isaac the father of Jacob." (applaud) Yes, Jacob who tricked his brother Esau out of his birthright and stole the father's blessing that rightfully belonged to Esau. (Boo) Jacob whose favored treatment of his younger son, Joseph, led the other brothers to jealous rage. (Boo/Hiss)

"Jacob the father of Judah and his brothers (Huh?) and Judah the father of Perez (Huh?) by Tamar, and Perez the father of Hezron (Huh?), and Hezron the father of Aram, and Aram the father of Aminadab (Huh?), and Aminadab the father of Hahshon" (Huh?) the leader of the tribe of Judah. (Applaud) "And Nahshon the father of Salmon (Applaud) and Salmon the father of Boaz (Applaud) by Rahab" who according to scripture was one of the four most beautiful women in the world (Applaud & Cheer). But Rahab was a prostitute (Hiss) who on one occasion provided shelter to two spies from Israel and helped them escape the Canaanite secret police (Applaud & Cheer).

Now Boaz, son of Salmon & Rahab, was the wealthy and virtuous man from Bethlehem who, when he realized that a foreign woman whose name was Ruth was gleaning in his fields, moved very quickly to protect her from the men who were sure to have their way with her. An unmarried, beautiful foreign woman living in Israel would be considered fair game for any and all. But Boaz showed deep appreciation for her noble character and saw to it that no harm came to her and he even married her (Applaud & Cheer).

"And Boaz the father of Obed by Ruth, and Obed the father of Jesse, and Jesse the father of King David." (Applaud & Cheer) Yes, David who defeated Goliath and the Philistines. (Applaud & Cheer) David, the king who established Jerusalem as the Capitol of Israel. (Applaud and Cheer) David, who seduced Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah the Hittite while Uriah was away fighting in David's army. And when Bathsheba became pregnant with David's baby, David, in order to avoid a public scandal, commanded his general to place Uriah in the front lines and then pull back the rest of the troops so that Uriah would be killed. And he was. Then David was free to marry Bathsheba. (Boo & Hiss)

"And David was the father of Solomon by the wife of Uriah." Solomon, the wise king of Israel (Applaud) who promised his half-brother Adonijah, who was the rightful heir to the throne, that no harm would come to him if he did not contest Solomon's kingship. (Applaud) Adonijah agreed, but Solomon executed him anyway. (Boo)

"And Solomon the father of Reheboam, a bad king (Boo), and Rehoboam the father of Abijah, (Huh?) and Abijah the father of Asaph, (Huh?) and Asaph the father of Jehoshaphat" a good king who brought an end to the civil war between Israel and Judah. (Applaud)

"And Jehoshaphat the father of Joram," the king, who put his eight brothers to death when he became the king (Boo), and "Joram the father of Uzziah (Huh?), and Uzziah the father of Jotham, and Jotham the father of Ahaz," an evil king who is remembered for his idolatry, a man who even sacrificed his own sons by burning them to death in his pagan religious practices. (Boo & Hiss)

"And Ahaz the father of Hezekiah," who was an able and vigorous ruler and a pious king (Applaud), and Hezekiah the father of Manasseh," another evil king who restored Baal worship and the practice of sacrificing humans. (Boo & Hiss) "And Manasseh the father of Amos (Huh?), and Amos the father of Josiah." Now Josiah was the king who rid the land of Baal worship and the practice of human sacrifice once and for all, and restored the religious practices of Judaism. He is known as one of Israel's greatest kings. (Applaud & Cheer) "And Josiah the father of Jechoniah and his brothers (Huh?) at the time of the deportation to Babylon. After the deportation to Babylon: Jechoniah was the father of Salathiel (Huh?) and Salathiel the father of Zerubbabel." Zerubbabel was the king who resumed the building of the Temple in Jerusalem after the Exiles returned from Babylon. (Applaud)

"And Zerubbabel the father of Abiud and Abiud the father of Eliakim and Eliakim the father of Azor and Azor the father of Zadok and Zadok the father of Achim and Achim the father of Eliud and Eliud the father of Eleazar and Eleazar the father of Matthan and Matthan the father of Jacob (Huh?) and Jacob the father of Joseph (Applaud) the husband of Mary (Applaud) of whom Jesus was born, who is called the Messiah." (Applaud & Cheer)

That's the whole story as grandparents would tell it. Both positive and negative details are included. If these persons, despite their foibles and flaws found favor in the eyes of God, then maybe there's hope for the rest of us.

And perhaps that is a word that can add meaning to our annual Thanksgiving observance this coming Thursday. Is Thanksgiving possible if there are places in our lives where we feel that we have failed others or they have failed us, if we harbor feelings of hurt, ill-will, resentment, disapproval, disappointment or negativity toward others or ourselves? How can we be truly thankful if we do not see how all of life is a gift to be received and appreciated?

Mary Corita Kent, in her book Footnotes and Headlines says something very interesting in this regard. In her words,

"It seems that perhaps there is nothing unholy, nothing unrelated. And that, as we fit things together, synthesize rather than analyze, we might be coming closer to God's view, from which all must somehow fit together. And we must be more careful about stamping out evil, or hating anything, because we know that in the past and in the present, many people and things have become tragically destroyed in the name of good....Evil maybe not seeing well enough....so perhaps to become less evil, we need only to see more, see what we didn't see before. And here everybody is in the game. Things look different to different people, depending on where they stand. And if we can share views, we would get a larger vision. No single group can do it alone--the job is too big, and we can only make it if we work it out together."

How distressing it has been in our recent political climate to watch our leaders accusing opponents of horrendous evil, shouting boo and hissing a lot, and stubbornly refusing to "work it out together." How sad it is in any arena, including the church, when differences lead to misunderstandings causing us to see one side as all good and the other side as all evil. "Evil may be not seeing well enough!"

Thanksgiving includes an awareness of how all of life's experiences, even those that seem to deny life's goodness, are a part of a larger, all-inclusive panorama, a much broader vista. Thanksgiving is the recognition that grandparents' stories are truly the ones we need to hear. They are the stories that help us understand that even though we all mess up, we are still a part of God's never-failing love that covers it all. Jesus, according to St. Matthew's genealogy, is the culmination of generations of human fumbling and fault. This is the same Jesus who offers us still as his disciples the gift and power of a love that accepts us all, left, right, in the middle, Jew Christian, Muslim, atheist, African-American, Latino, Asian, Gay, Straight, rich, poor, young or old.

Remember, the first disciples, like typical teenagers--no, forgive me, teenagers: like typical human beings--quickly found ways to abuse Jesus' love that covers it all. Judas betrayed Jesus into the hands of the authorities--but Jesus never spoke a word against Judas or ever declared null and void his love for Judas. Peter denied Jesus, repeating three times, "I don't even know him!" That must have hurt Jesus deeply--yet Jesus ignored this attempt to throw off his love and loved Peter still. The remaining disciples ran and hid during and after the crucifixion. They didn't want to be seen with Jesus or vaguely associated with him--yet Jesus' amazing love sought them out and covered them with the reassurance of resurrection. Thank God for the grandparents' method of telling the whole story.

A Church Worthy

2010-11-14T11:50:00.000-08:00

Last Thursday's minor surgical procedure did meet with one irksome complication, which to describe might cause contorted facial expressions among those who read this, especially if I were to include an account of the remedy. So suffice it to say that "everything came out" okay and all is well.

Despite the extended period of discomfort, there was a delightful upside to the time spent in and around Shadyside UPMC hospital in Pittsburgh. Polly and I stayed in the hospital's Family House across Centre Avenue from the medical center, a six-floor apartment building that provides beautiful, spacious and comfortable accommodations for patients and/or their families. As helpful as having living quarters close by was, the truly enjoyable aspect of our six-day sojourn into Steeler territory came on Sunday.

Just two doors down from the Family House is a church, First United Methodist Church to be precise, an imposing gigantic structure that probably ranks as one of our country's finest examples of Romanesque church architecture dating from the late 1800s. Because of limited mobility, the decision to attend church two doors down was a "no-brainer." Though some misgivings did surface when I noticed a huge banner on the lawn advertising Wednesday evening "Worship Jams." "Ugh!" I thought, "Are we in for another one of those hip-hop jiving to Jesus jamborees?" Quickly, I decided that before entering the sanctuary I would skim the worship bulletin and, if my suspicions were confirmed, inconspicuously slip back out of the church.

What greeted me, however, when entering the building, was harmonious choral music emanating from the sanctuary. The choir was warming up and practicing the anthem for the day. "All right!" I thought, "This sounds promising," as, indeed, it was.

Being early, there were only a few others scattered throughout the nave, an African-American couple nearby, he dressed in a beige suit, she in a stylish dress.. A few others had taken seats too far away to see clearly. As with most "respectable" Methodists, I chose a seat nearer the rear of the sanctuary and allowed the practicing choir to assist my quieting of mind and spirit in preparation for worship. The choir soon finished rehearsing, and rather than rushing off to don robes, there in the sanctuary stillness the choristers, one by one, offered individual prayers; the words were inaudible to one seated in the rear; nonetheless, a gentle hum formed by the many voices seemed more than the sum of the individual parts.

The choir then exited the sanctuary and a flurry of activity began: the pastor checking his notes in the pulpit (which is elevated about four feet above human contradiction); acolytes not yet garbed in their acolyte apparel, fetching their candle-lighters in jeans and Nikes; the music director placing a pair of conga drums in the chancel; and, worshippers filtering into the pews.

What an array of humanity gathered in that sanctuary! African-Americans, Latinos, Asians, Caucasians, Gays, Straights, children, parents, students, professors, senior citizens, some fashionably outfitted, others casually or plainly attired--a microcosm of the globe! A man appearing to be in his fifties was seated in the front row, his disability somewhat more obvious than ours are, and yet, congregant after congregant went out of his or her way to carry on friendly conversations with this lone occupant of the front row. A young woman rose from her seat, walked up the center aisle toward the rear doors, her tight slacks sporting worn places, holes even, that would have raised disapproving glares from the typical churchgoers I have known over the years. Three rows directly ahead of me was a couple probably in their mid-twenties who held each other in warm embraces throughout the service, both women taking turns resting each other's arm around the other and their heads on each other's shoulders.

A beautiful Latino family consisting of mom, dad, and two sons, one about three years old, the other an infant asleep in his carrier, sat in the pew in front of me. Occasionally, dad would reach across his two children and place his arm affectionately on his wife's shoulder, or rub his older son's head. When we stood to sing the first hymn ("Let All Things Now Living"), something about my voice (hopefully not too earsplitting) caught the little boy's attention. He turned around and looked up at me; I in return smiled back at him. He quickly turned away. That began a ritual of his looking at me and my smiling back and then his turning away, a sort of variation of "peek-a-boo." Shortly before the end of the hymn, I smiled and waved, and this time the little boy smiled and waved back. Our game ended when the hymn did. What a sign of health and wholeness it is when children in the midst of an overwhelming space, yet in their parents' presence, feel trusting enough to venture out into the surrounding environment.

When it was "Family Time" (the spot in the service for the children to gather on the steps of the chancel, some accompanied by parents), the Latino dad and son walked hand-in-hand to join the more than thirty other children and a few other parents for the children's message. Afterwards, dad took his son to another part of the building where supervised activities are held for young children, and then rejoined his wife and infant son in the sanctuary. Intermittently, this beautiful young couple held hands or extended arms around shoulders during the rest of the service.

The worship service included Holy Communion. (Unlike some traditions that observe the sacrament every week, United Methodists have struggled to follow their founder's [John Wesley] insistence on "frequent communion," but the common practice today in many Methodist congregations of holding communion on the first Sunday of each month is actually closer to Wesley's instruction than at any other time in American Methodism.) Since "communion Sundays" mean that the service will take longer, most UM pastors plan shorter sermons/meditations to help keep the service from being too long. That was so at this service. Pastor Bob Wilson's message was brief, but very masterful in unpacking the day's scripture lesson, helping us to understand that the early church's emphasis on koinonia, which is most often translated "fellowship," is a far richer concept than mere friendliness. He argued convincingly and correctly that koinonia encompasses the kind of compassionate family connection that accepts and strives together in the midst of both suffering and joy, conflicts and consensus, in times of chaos and times of contentment. "Pastor Bob" went on to describe the history of how in Shadyside First Church that deepened sense of family has manifested itself through the years, and how the same quality continues to be lived-out, not only within the walls of the church building, but in the surrounding community as well. Witnessing the wide acceptance of people from all walks of life actually happening in what was turning out to be a truly enriching time of worship coupled with Pastor Bob's words pointing to the same reality, I found myself in one of those rare instances when word and actions coalesce to drive home the point. What an awesome time of worship visiting at Shadyside First was turning out to be.

Of course, given my musical propensities, the icing on the cake came with the great choral and congregational singing, including singing contemporary versions of the traditional communion responses (Sanctus, Memorial Acclamation, and Great Amen). The song that concluded the service, which I had never heard before, was a kind of calypso rendering with only the Conga drums accompanying:

I believe that peace will come.

I believe that hope will rise.

I believe that love will thrive.

Shadyside's Mission Statement is succinct:

First United Methodist Church of Pittsburgh affirms that God's grace is available to all.
We prayerfully seek to openly welcome all of God's children regardless of Christian perspective, education, economic condition, race, gender, national origin, physical and mental abilities, sexual orientation, age, or marital status.
We commit ourselves to be in ministry for and with all persons, independent of society's regard.
God blesses us all so that together we can be God's instruments of blessing to the world.

I can't say, because no one really knows what the church to come will be, but I so fervently want to believe that the Christian communities that survive will look and act like this amazing congregation.

Paradise Today

2010-04-03T05:57:00.000-07:00

(Explanation: A practice begun by our current pastor, Josh Patty, at Central Christian Church involves mostly laypersons presenting meditations on each of the Seven Words From the Cross on Good Friday evening. The service this year was particularly moving and the meditations were genuinely reflective of each presenter's current faith understanding. Five laypersons prepared and delivered meditations, and Josh and I did the remaining two. Mine was based on the Second Word: "Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise." [St. Luke 23:39-43] It appears below.)

Jesus isn't the only person executed this day. According to the gospels, he is crucified among common criminals. Jesus, having spent his entire ministry associating with the wrong kind of people, outcasts and the like, now dies keeping the same questionable company. Luke's gospel specifies that there were only two criminals crucified with Jesus, one on his right, the other on his left. One of the malefactors, no doubt in anguish with no hope left, does what probably he has always done: he unleashes all the self-loathing of his years on someone else, this time joining the spectators and soldiers at the cross in hurling taunts and poking fun at Jesus. But the other criminal interrupts his partner in crime, rebukes him and points out the stark contrast between the two of them and Jesus. They deserve what is happening to them; Jesus is innocent. This second man then, looking to Jesus, pleads for mercy, and Jesus replies: "Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise."

There are several directions we could take in applying this story to our lives. We could focus on the first criminal's pervasive bitterness and hostility, exploring ways to keep our lives from ending up like that. Certainly, we wouldn't lack for information and advice, what with the self-help books in print or the gurus on TV and the Internet that are as innumerable as the stars. Or, we could look more closely at the second criminal, the one who was penitent and who came to Jesus' defense. Many speakers have taken that tack, usually concluding with a kind of morality lesson that insists one has to ask for forgiveness before he or she can be admitted into heaven. Or we might zoom our lens more tightly on the crowd, seeing in them how easily public assemblies can turn into vicious mobs bent on violence. Such a focus would certainly resonate with much that is happening today. Or, there's still another course, that of looking at the main character himself: Jesus. Surely there would be much room for speculation on how, in the midst of unimaginably severe and sadistic suffering, anyone could still reach out to others with such deep compassion. But that kind of wondrous love really is beyond our ability to comprehend, and only silence and awe can approach the mystery of such amazing grace.

None of those possible directions for reflection, however, has seized my imagination tonight. Instead, my attention is being captivated not by any of the characters involved in the plot, but by a place, the one that is named: "Paradise." That word appears only three times in the Hebrew Scriptures and three times in the Christian Scriptures. Even so, it's where the spotlight will be directed in these thoughts.

But first we need a clearer understanding of how people in Jesus' day viewed the world in which they lived, their perception of the cosmos, their cosmology, if you will. We know that to them the world was flat, and it was a rather limited area surrounded by waters that none dared to venture out into very far. Sometimes we call their world view the "triple-decker universe." There was the deck on which they lived, and another underneath, which at the time of Jesus was beginning to be regarded as the space where those who lived less than righteous lives would go when they died. And then, above them was the third deck where God and the heavenly hosts resided. It was from that lofty height that God could observe all the goings-on below and be ready to respond with either retaliation or restoration. God also attended to the administration of the daily operations of the heavenly realm: making sure that celestial beings responsible for pushing the greater light by day, and the lesser light by night across the sky, and those in charge of lowering the lighted lanterns, which were especially helpful to travelers in finding their way in the dark, that all of these heavenly beings were carrying out their respective responsibilities.

While the divine dwelling was just beyond human reach, it was really rather close. Indeed, one biblical story tells of an attempt to build a tower tall enough to reach it.

I don't need to point out how woefully inadequate that view of the cosmos is today, do I? Space exploration, the Hubble Telescope, unmanned satellites launched into deep interstellar regions have drastically altered our world view. We can no longer entertain fairytale fantasies of being able to reach the upper deck if, like Jack, we have the magic beans that will yield a plant tall enough to get us there. So how do we conceive of Paradise, or heaven, or the Kingdom of God, or whatever we wish to call it in our kind of world today?

Curiously, glimmerings of answers to that question are coming not from scriptural or theological speculation, but from scientific inquiry, particularly Quantum Physics. Thanks to the influence of a colleague who is, more importantly, a friend, my reading of late has found me slogging through the enormously complicated "field" (those of you familiar with Quantum Theory will catch the double entendre of the word "field")...this field of which I understand very little, but at least enough to get some inkling of how life may continue.

Now this is where this reflection is going to take a weird turn, and if as a result of my having issued that warning, there is a mass exodus out of here (or on second thought, given the size of this Good Friday gathering, it couldn't be anything more than a dwindling departure--but if that happens), I'll certainly be sorry for alerting you ahead of time.

We've often been told that light travels at a speed of 186,282.4 miles per second. Actually that's not always the case, but for now it's close enough. The basic particles that combine to make up light waves are called photons. Physicists with the use of lasers have been able to conduct experiments showing how photons seem to behave strangely. Indeed, sometimes it seems as if the photons know they are being observed, and that, in turn, appears to influence different outcomes, contrary to scientific expectations. Not only so, but pairs of twin or "entangled" photons, even though they are seemingly separated and sent to opposite ends of space, behave as if they are still connected, as if there is no space between them, and if one of the twins is manipulated by scientists, the other seems to know and duplicates the action. This is a phenomenon that Einstein relegated to the realm of mystery, calling it "Spooky action at a distance."

Okay, this is getting too heady. What's the point?

Our bodies will die. We know that. But what if there are parts of who we are, particles of our lives that never die? What if the energy that is who each of us really is, what if the energy fields that comprise each of our loved ones who have died, what if the penitent thief on the cross, and what if Jesus himself still surrounded us and flowed through us and we through them? What if they are not far away but as close to us as photons are to each other even though they appear to us to be eons apart? How often I have heard people comment that in particularly trying times they have felt the abiding nearness of their loved ones upholding them and giving them strength. Might it be that Jesus really is present right now and at all times urging us on toward the same compassionate purposes he exemplified, even on the cross? We are still tied down to the earth and, therefore, our perceptions of what is possible are confined. But it may be that who each of us really is will continue.

Emerson, soon after the death of his son, wrote, "Our life is not so much threatened as our perceptions. I grieve that grief that can teach me nothing, nor carry me one step into real nature." Perhaps we are more closely related to all of creation in all times than we can possibly imagine. Maybe heaven is closer than when people saw the cosmos as a triple-decker structure, and maybe we are already in Paradise today. St. Paul affirmed as much when he said that there is nothing in life or death that will ever be able to separate us from the realm of God's love.

so-SO

2010-02-24T21:37:00.000-08:00

[NOTE: This blog entry was begun right after Thanksgiving, 2009, but aborted until this morning when I decided to revisit it.]

It happens every Thanksgiving: the airways fill-up with reruns of sappy Christmas movies, especially on the Hallmark channel. Oh sure, there are always the network offerings whose appeal leans more toward horrific tales of life so disgustingly repugnant that they leave us viewers fearing that the only viable option is one of curling up into a fetal position in the corner of the closet, hoping the macabre doesn’t find us—you know. FOX, CNN, CNBC, MSNBC.

Talk about opposite ends of the spectrum! One end presents a picture of life in which, despite sometimes seemingly overwhelming obstacles, truth, justice and the (never mind) always come out on top and the indomitable spirit is always triumphant. The other dumps us into a morass of powerlessness and oppression. Some choice!

So, why am I such a sap for those pleasant Christmas phantasms depicting life as a never-ending rose garden with only an occasional thorn in the flesh? Yeah, I know, it’s probably not considered manly to admit to being hooked by such romantic drivel, particularly when it appears on the 12-inch set in the kitchen while baking cookies for a church reception. But that’s what happened the other night when the TV surfing settled upon a movie about a father and son and a semi-trailer sized Christmas tree, all three caught in relationships on the brink of destruction, dangling over the edge. Predictably and happily, the tree was rescued from fire and chainsaw, and at the same time, father and son and even the President of the U. S., all, ended up in relationships of peace, harmony and love.

Good grief! Everyone knows that’s not the way life is! Christmas approaches, and inevitably with it come tragic memories of Christmases past where life was anything but peaceful and harmonious: memories such as officiating at an afternoon funeral of a three-year-old who was to have been our “littlest angel” in the Christmas Eve pageant that same evening, or the way-too-many accidental deaths of teenagers, or the young woman who was murdered by her policeman husband. Jesus! If such recollections invade my Advent year after year, what must those who have really unbearable burdens to bear suffer at a time when the public façade is one of festivity? Is this, in some small measure, what its like to suffer from PTSD?

So, maybe the allure of oodles of sweet smelling stories this time of year has something to do with a desperate need to offset the “so-SO” experiences of life. Individuals, families, societies and nations know all to well the reality of being “so Shut Out.” Disease, disaster, divorce, disability, destruction due to disagreements between persons and whole societies are ever prevalent, bringing with them the gruesome “SO” phenomenon.

BLOG ABORTED

It was here that I stopped cooking this “so-SO” blog entry last November, and now it is some three months later and I am returning it to the stove. Why? No doubt, many ingredients are bubbling in the pot, some of which were added so long ago that they are lost to memory, even though their pungent aroma and acerbic flavor still infuse the air. What they are might be recalled in future posts.

But quite unexpectedly when I wasn’t paying attention, someone threw another substance into the boiling caldron. The remnant of this new ingredient is on my desk in front of me and it looks as if it could make for a very delightful dish. But you know what they say about appearances.

Actually, this new ingredient is an invitation. A former congregation has sent Polly and me a notice bidding us to attend their second three-day church homecoming reunion, an event held every decade. You’d think I would get all fuzzy inside at the prospect of a three-day festival that will include “food, fun, music, and the opportunity to experience the changes to our church.” Sounds like quite a recipe.

But this is one “dish” that will prove far too foul for me to even consider trying. It’s sort of like my wife’s aversion to greasy spoon restaurants; if she’s along, no matter how starving we may be, we keep on trucking until we find a familiar, franchised establishment.

So what do I find so tasteless about this particular fare? Oh, how shall I count the ways? Hmmmm, let’s see.

1. This was the “diner” that when I first arrived deluged me with the recipes of my predecessor, reminding me in one way or another that if I was to be of any use as the new “chef,” I would have to be as zealous for the ways they convinced him to serve up faith as he was after their inducements. As one of the dear saints there told my wife, “We’re going to turn your husband into an evangelist the way we did (predecessor’s name), to which my wife aptly responded, “Lots of luck with that.” This fervor on their part was aided by my predecessor who had moved to the next county, but who didn’t have enough to keep him busy in his new “kitchen,” because he kept coming back to the patrons of my employ and, on one occasion dropped in on me after having made his rounds in my neighborhood, to let me know how I should be doing my job. When one is god-like, one is entitled to tell other people what to do, even if that leads to “so-SO” experiences.

2. This was the “eatery” where the volunteer assistant chef (retired) continued to dine, but was not permitted to perform professional duties as he had before. I knew that because the personnel committee strictly forbade me from allowing him any access to doing things he did prior to my arrival. It didn’t help that the committee hadn’t informed the former assistant, and so, feeling “so-SO,” he blamed me for blocking his continued professional functioning. His anger at having been locked-out of the kitchen erupted in the form of anonymous letters to leaders of the diners’ association and sowing seeds of dissension in other ways. The Chairman of the Diners’ Association felt particularly aggrieved by this perceived assault on the poor old, dear assistant. So, again, both of us ended up “so-SO.”

3. This was the “dinner club” that encountered numerous problems with vandalism and drug-related trafficking in and around the property after hours. As head chef, I had been instructed by the property managers (Trustees) to solicit the aid of the police, making sure they knew we were serious about signing warrants to arrest violators who were caught. This became a rather unpleasant job responsibility in that the perpetrators were all from the very wealthy and influential families of the neighborhood. One night when I had been called out by the police around one a.m. to swear out warrants on four young adults, ages 17-21, I and the police were regaled with, “You can’t arrest us; don’t you know who our parents are!” (They were arrested.) And always after such actions were taken, I would receive calls from parents faulting our establishment, which was supposed to be “forgiving,” and in other ways blaming us for being so heartless. It was difficult to understand how these parents could be “so-SO” castigating, especially since they were able in every instance to get their precious children off without so much as a slap on the wrist. One wonders if these were the same exemplars of virtue that slashed my tires in the parking lot when I was working late one night, or called my home around one in the morning on Sunday with a string of epithets about my character and a very graphic threat on my life, a threat that was followed-up on Monday evening when a hearse arrived at my house to pick up my remains. Talk about being “so-SO.”

4. Yeah, I’m stretching the allegory of dining beyond the breaking point, and while many other illustrations abound about a “so-SO” time of life, I’ll conclude with one more. The dear saints, who didn’t succeed in convincing me that their recipes were the only ones that tasted the only way cuisine is supposed to taste, circulated a petition to have me terminated. In the chain of restaurants for which I worked at the time, that was an illegal procedure. (The UMC rules are very strict about that.) But pressure was brought to bear on the personnel committee, and in October the committee informed me that they would recommend to the chain headquarters that I be replaced when it was time for such changes in June. The remaining eight months were spent in protecting the patrons from the behind-the-scenes maneuverings so that those who were pleased with my fare would not decide to patronize other establishments. Then at the appropriate time, I would announce my decision to seek a position elsewhere, and that would be followed by a fine farewell party, and the restaurant could go on unhindered by confusion among the clientele. It was the only time I knew the “so-SO” experience of being fired.

Obviously, this is a one-sided reporting of events that were as complicated as it gets. And, in spite of the aforementioned details, many deep and lasting friendships originated in this “so-SO” period. Those friendships, however, are too significant to be based on whether or not I attend some supercilious silliness. Indeed, those friendships are of the quality that would protect me from face-to-face encounters with people and places of pain. Even Jesus knew the wisdom of pounding the dust from off your feet and moving on. And, as it turned out, the place to which I was sent became a delightful departure from the preceding four years, one in which being wounded was replaced more and more by being whole. You might say it was like being kicked upstairs.

Actually, the next place to which I went helped to restore my belief that “so-SO” experiences are not what life is meant to be. Perhaps those seemingly inane Christmas specials have a point. We are right to resist those forces that would have us reduce life to “so-SO” specters that stalk our days and nights. Our instincts are right that tell us that the ways of harmony, peace and love are what life is meant to be. So be it!

Prayer for City Council

2010-02-24T21:33:00.000-08:00

Prayer for City Council
Fairmont, WV
2/23/10

Eternal Giver of Life, Spirit that pervades all that is,
You care for all life, and Your care extends to each of us for good.
By Your grace we create communities in which
we may cooperate for the mutual benefit of everyone.

Grant in this gathering of government this evening,
That we may be aware of your ongoing presence and guidance.

We love our city set on a mount called “Fair.”
We recall the ways life is more “Fair” because we live here:

We are grateful for first responders—the police, firefighters,
EMS personnel, those who operate snow-removal
equipment or who rush to repair broken waterlines
and severed power cables.

We are grateful for the many behind-the-scenes supervisors,
clerical workers, and other individuals who field the
innumerable telephone calls and manage limited
resources so that help can get to where it is most needed.

We are grateful for all in our “Fair” city whose service is
marked by genuine care for quality of life in this place.

May those who lead in our city’s council and committees,
those who sound the sirens when there is trouble,
those who ensure legitimate and wise use of financial resources,
those who do business here or provide needed services,
and, indeed, all without whom our city would not be as “Fair,”
be guided by a vision that is “Fair,”
a vision calling forth the kind of courage
that thinks not of selfish benefit
but of those attributes that make life whole and healthy.

And help us all, as citizens of this fair city,
to do our best to support those who lead us and work for us
as they do their best to serve our common good.

A Sermon

2009-12-28T10:45:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

I was the guest preacher this past Sunday at Central Christian Church here in Fairmont. The focus of my sermon was St. John 1:1-14. The process of preparing, researching and ruminating led me to an interesting on-line paraphrase of the scripture lesson and, rather than read a version from one of the more traditional Bibles, I opted for this paraphrase. It is reprinted below.

Because John’s Gospel, more so than the other gospels, seems more symbolic than historical, more like poetry aspiring to point to the truth (even if it didn’t happen exactly as reported), a challenge in preparing this sermon involved maintaining as much as possible the same “form” as employed by the gospel writer. Symbolic language can be rather nebulous, however, and whether such an attempt communicates in this day and age is a question that is left to the judgment of the hearer/reader.

Paraphrase of St. John 1:1-14

At the very start, there was one who s called the Word.
…….The word was with God,
……….and the Word was God.
…….From day one, God and the Word were inseparable.

It was through the Word that everything was created.
…….There is absolutely nothing that doesn’t owe its existence to him.

In the Word was life.
…….He is the source of the life
……….that turns on the lights for everyone.
…….The light of his life breaks open the darkness,
……….and the darkness could not snuff it out.

Once there was a man on a mission from God;
…….his name was John.
John gave first-hand report about the light,
…….spelling it out so that everyone could believe.
He wasn’t the light, himself,
…….but he made it his job to draw3 everyone’s attention to the light.

The real light was on his way into the world;
…….the light that lights up inside everyone.

He was in the world
…….but the world didn’t even notice him
……….even though it owed its existence to him.

Some people accepted him, though,
…….and put their trust in who he said he was
……….and what he said he was all about.
He gave to those people all they needed
…….to become children of God.
Becoming God’s children had nothing to do
…….with sperm and egg,
……….or three-stage labour;
…..they became God’s children
……….when they were born of God.

The Word, though, was born flesh and blood like everyone else.
…….He cast in his lot with us
……….and rolled out his swag in our midst.
We have seen him in all his glory,
…….like father, like son;
warm and generous to a fault,
…….solid and true to the core.[1]

The Sermon

Is that it? Is it all over? Those who haven’t yet gone with those “perfectly” shaped artificial trees are probably noticing that the branches of their “real” trees are drooping a little now, sometimes low enough to cause an occasional ornament to drop to the floor, along with the pine needles. The stockings hung by the chimney with care on Christmas Eve are limp and unnoticed now. No doubt, the sanitation engineers making their rounds tomorrow morning will appreciate the numerous trash bags stuffed with much lighter weighing wrappings and ribbons. The remaining ham has been transformed into ham loaves, and the last of the turkey has been picked from the carcass. The sanctuary’s poinsettias still radiate remembrance of Christmas Eve’s glory, but even here time’s passing is obvious as more and more petals gently tumble down to the floor.

Another celebration of the holy joy has become a memory. Is Christmas no more than that? Something to be returned to the basement? A display of things to be shown to friends and relatives who stop by for some holiday cheer? Do we now simply move on from the festivity to, say, forgetfulness? Or might it be possible to find some way wherein the glory of Christmas lives long after the last carol has been hummed, long after the last candle in the Advent wreath has burned low, long after the last piece of fruitcake has been consumed?

“And the word became flesh and lived among us,” says St. John’s Gospel. Another way of saying that is, God put on the shoes of humankind, and walked the hills and valleys and plains that you and I each day must walk. It means that at the heart of the universe is One who was tempted and hungry, who wept when his friends died, who endured pain and death, whose heart was broken and whose comrades deserted him in his hour of need and whose years like ours were a mixture of sorrow and joy. It means that everything in life that he touched has been touched with the fingers of God.

What a strange story! From realms far beyond any our senses can perceive, from dimensions that Einstein called “mystery,” from the source and beginning and fountain of all that has been and is and will be, from outside knowing and feeling has come a Baby who seeks a manger in our hearts. As Paul Sherer expressed it, “God has descended the staircase of heaven with an Infant in his arms.” What an incredible affirmation! The Eternal has come to share our humanity, to sleep and dream, to laugh and love, to breathe and die. “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”

Soon we will put away the symbols of the celebration. The final “Merry Christmas” will have sounded. A final glance through the cards and we will do with them what we did with them last year. But we cannot so easily dispose of God. Having come to earth, God is alive in whatever is. The Source of all that is, the Holy Mystery that pervades all time and space urging life to its true fulfillment is alive in you and me. Call it the Divine Spark, the Everlasting Presence, Ground of Being, Creator, Great Spirit, Allah, Brahman, Vishnu, or God, this ultimate goodness is alive in you and me, and we need only make our hearts as mangers for God’s dwelling.

True, there is much on this earth to which God came that tries our faith. This is no paradise, to be sure. It is a world of cancer and divorce and death, a world of manipulation and competition and domination, a world of frustration and anger and depression. There is no way we can pretend that our existence on this planet is one vast Disneyworld.

But, stopping to think about it, there’s a way in which our world is exactly the same as the world to which God came when the Word became flesh. While people were reveling in the bawdy barroom of the inn, God was being born amid the stench of the barn, where a mother cried in labor’s pains and a husband stood helplessly by, willing to take upon himself the pain if only he could. Maybe, sweet-voiced angels sang, and smelly, gruff shepherds drew gently near to gaze, cattle lowed as though in chorus, and stars moved in concert with the earth, but it was a hard and cold world to which God’s Child came: no room and indifference and pain.

Still, “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” And when the Word was given voice, it did not tell of the awfulness and the affliction. No, the voice told of flowers and love and hope, of second chances and new discoveries, of triumph over all that is ugly and evil and negative.

Too many of us do what we do to celebrate Christmas as if it were something that happened a long time ago. Our pastor, Josh, has admitted that he doesn’t care much for the season of Advent, that time in which we prepare for the good news of Christmas. He wonders why we need to prepare for something that has already happened, and I think he would say, is happening everyday. Why do we need to prepare for an event in the past? Wouldn’t it be more to the point to consider how God is in the world even now, this very moment, waiting for us, to walk with us the paths of our days, to take us by the hand when we stumble or fail, to meet us in each moment and each thing of beauty, and to stand by us when the torments of life assault us. We expected Christmas on Friday last. But do we expect Christmas today and tomorrow? God does not stay in the mangers on our mantles. God is in the world to find a home in matter and in flesh.

Though we are always touched by the awesome mystery of that holy night long ago, far more wondrous is God’s dwelling-place in the world in which we live. God is here in the light that shines in the eyes of children and old people and in you and me. God is here in the quiet of the day’s close, as we consider how our day was spent. God is here in all things that grow and cheer us with their boughs and colors and sounds. God is here in the strains of the mighty organ under the spell of a master’s touch as well as in the shouting cacophony of a college bowl football game. God is here in the hospital and the broken home and the funeral procession. God is here in the willingness of two to try again after an argument or much worse. God is here in every touch of flesh upon flesh, in all words of love and gratitude, in every effort to understand and forgive, in each attempt to alleviate the suffering of hurting and hungry people everywhere.

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” We do not have to get ready for God. God is already here and is our companion in life. We have only to reach out for God in whatever is and lives.

Wayne Dyer, a best-selling author of inspirational books and articles, and frequently featured in public television broadcasting, tells of a time in October, 2000, when he performed a feat of strength that should not have been possible.

(Quoting from an article that reported this story) "Dyer was leading a tour group though a castle in San Damiano, Italy, that once had been home to a convent set up by St. Francis of Assisi. In Dyer’s group was a young man with muscular dystrophy who could walk only with the help of leg braces. A few steps up a narrow three-flight staircase, this young man realized that his leg braces made it impossible for him to climb any farther. He could not turn back either, because a long line behind him blocked his way.

"Dyer offered to carry the man, forgetting for the moment about his own physical condition. Dyer was then 60 years old and suffered from significant knee and leg problems. The man he had offered to carry up three very steep flights of stairs weighed nearly 200 pounds.

"After only a few steps, Dyer could feel his knees crumble under him. At that moment, he experienced a vision of St. Francis and felt a surge of energy like he never had before. Dyer virtually ran up the remaining two-and-a-half flights and was not even winded when he reached the top."[2]

To Dyer, the incident confirmed that there is a “supreme, benevolent intelligence” and presence that is in and around and underneath and above everything that is.

Someone once said that Christmas is not an event in time; it is a timeless event.

[1] www.laughingbird.net/Lection Texts/09.html
[2] “Magic Happens…Real Life stories to Amaze and Inspire You,” Bottom Line Secrets.Com, 12/24/09

Ida Lou

2009-10-19T12:27:00.000-07:00

The comment to my last post by Debbie K. was deeply moving. She is an exceptional professional who serves in the formidable front line trench of a local congregation, sometimes known as the Church Office. She is, in other words, a congregation’s Office Manager, Secretary, Receptionist, Scheduler, HR Director, Building Supervisor, IT Guru and Computer Programmer, and the person whom people first encounter when they contact the Congregational Complaint Department (that is if they haven’t caught the pastor coming out of Rax’s and proceed to lambaste him there in front of God and the public). She is a Christian minister of the highest order! Church office personnel – usually just one person in most churches – are a rare breed. Their unique qualities include, but are not limited to, being aware of the inner workings of congregational politics, often discovering the dark, deceptive side of some “Christians,” and yet, not allowing such odiousness to overwhelm their spirit. Debbie, in addition to her proficiency in business and clerical administration, is a master of maintaining confidences and treating “all” those with whom she comes into contact through her work with dignity, respect and hospitality. What a privilege it is to have had a colleague in ministry with such gifts and graces, and with the added blessing of a terrific sense of humor! Debbie, I salute you!

Debbie’s comment also led me to recall others of her ilk I have known, and as with any group, some stand out because of the high commitment and skill they bring to their service, and others less so. Indeed, rather than helping to stave off ill winds that threaten to fan the flames of congregational confusion, some church office personnel I have known have exacerbated the confusion with driving destructive gales of their own. Other than simply alluding to that reality, however, I’ll not waste my time or yours by dwelling on it. No doubt, such individuals have their unique stories also, and if we understood their stories better, we would better understand them and their motivations.

One former Church Secretary who came to mind did so with deep gratitude and even deeper regret on my part. She was a gracious woman and long-suffering. I know that because she lived for years with an alcoholic, abusive husband, having been a stay-at-home mom whose uppermost devotion was to raising her two sons and providing as much as possible a “Jane Wyatt” atmosphere in which to grow and become credibly human. The fact that her two sons thrived and are doing well with families of their own attests to Ida Lou’s character and influence in their lives. (Unlike Billy Gray, aka Bud Anderson, teen-age son of “Father Knows Best” fame, who, if memory serves, fell into drug misuse, despite his “act” in the idyllic, sappy content of a television series of an unbelievably perfect home.)

After her boys were grown and on their own, Ida Lou finally threw in the towel in her seemingly unending boxing match of a marriage. Because her home had been a part of her birth family’s property prior to her marriage, she was able to keep it following the divorce. But (provided my recollection is accurate), that’s all she got in the divorce decree. She was cut out of her husband’s employee medical benefits as well as needed income to be able to continue to live in her home. That’s when she began to work as the Church Secretary of the congregation I was serving at the time. She brought with her considerable skill from her high school commercial education, and in no time at all, had acquired enough modern office machine technology to perform the day-to-day administrative operations. Moreover, her gentle spirit of cooperation and kindness provided exactly the kind of atmosphere that is a boon to any office setting.

But, she had no health insurance. She had been treated while under her husband’s health coverage for coronary problems, and I believe she even underwent surgery for the same. But after the divorce she could not afford follow-up treatment, and her only hope was to be able to make it to 65 when she would be eligible for Medicare. (I think she had one or two years to go.) The congregation I was serving at the time did make some inquiries into the possibility of providing Ida Lou with health coverage, but the cost was prohibitive, and as happens so often, the issue was tabled and forgotten.

Then one Sunday morning after Sunday School and before Worship, I met Ida Lou sitting outside her office and complaining how exhausted she felt. I made some stupid comment about being sorry to hear that, and then ran off to get robed and check in with the other worship leadership before lining up for the grand processional that marks the beginning of the worship service. After the worship service, Ida Lou joined three of her friends for lunch at a local restaurant, and then went home and laid down for a nap. That evening I received a call from one of her sons who, because his several attempts to reach his mom by phone went unanswered, went to the house and discovered that she had died.

Thus, Ida Lou became one of those 45,000 persons in the U. S. who die every year for lack of medical services. If only I had advocated more aggressively to find some way to help her get health insurance; if only I had pleaded with medical practitioners known to me on Ida Lou’s behalf, if only I had listened more carefully to Ida Lou’s complaint about being so tired (especially since she was a person who never complained, at least to me), then maybe the medical attention she needed might have been provided. I continue to regret my obtuseness in failing to advocate more strenuously for Ida Lou’s medical needs. All that can be done now is to ask for forgiveness from Ida Lou’s sons and their families, her friends, the members of the congregation, and the Source of forgiving love, for not doing more.

That, and to do what is humanly possible to help sway our national policy toward a single-payer Medicare-like medical coverage system for ALL!

My Previous Post

2009-10-16T21:40:00.000-07:00

As you may have noticed, it’s been sometime since I’ve posted anything. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to; rather, it’s been more a personal questioning about the rationale for doing so. My original statement of purpose for this blog was something about being as honest about the past as I know how. But doing so necessarily means including the negative as well as the positive. And who do I think I am to assume that my few readers lead such boring lives that they can’t find anything better to do than read my silly little perceptions about the past (especially the negative stuff).

And that’s part of what was behind my writer’s block. The blog that precedes this one has been bubbling beneath the surface ever since beginning this new adventure. And when, in the dim recesses of consciousness, other ideas for reflection appeared, somehow I suspected that readers would respond to the particular blog submitted earlier this evening with “So what!” And that, in turn, led to doubts about saying anything of interest to others. So, why bother?

Well, the realization finally came that if I am going to continue what may be an insane journey, I’m going to have to get the long-neglected ideas bubbling in my brain about BUMS out and in print. Now, maybe I can let them go wherever they will, and who knows, maybe some new insights will take their place. I solicit and will greatly appreciate your help and comments toward that end.

BUMS: Bishops United Methodist Style

2009-10-16T20:29:00.000-07:00

Three strikingly similar episodes within the space of a week conspired to prime the well for these reflections. Two involve United Methodist Ordained Pastors (Elders) who took early retirement; the third has to do with an exceptionally gifted pastor of a “tall-steepled” congregation who in his fifties is considering retiring early. The latter in a brief conversation said, “If the ineptness of our current Conference leadership doesn’t begin to show signs of understanding the realities of serving congregations today, I’m through with The United Methodist Church!” The other two conveyed feelings of delight to be out from under what in their perception is an oppressive system and discovering a new lease on life, renewed energy and zest, and in the words of both, “a freedom to be and do” that they had long ago forgotten was possible. Having also retired early, I am finding myself resonating with the aforementioned colleagues, even though some pathos is implicit in having reached this breakthrough so late in life.

Just as congregants are apt to hold pastors responsible for everything they perceive is wrong in the local church, from declining attendance to the correct liturgical color of the choir stoles, and the refrigerator on its last leg in the church kitchen, it may be that a major flaw of these reflections will end up smacking of the same kind of projection onto Bishops. Indeed, it seems that modern day Methodism might be described in triangular terms, with each of the three points of an equilateral triangle representing congregants, pastors and bishops respectively. When two points of the triangle act together, the third is often the target of the machinations of the other two. Pastors have been known to side with parishioners against an “unreasonable Bishop” or the “Conference” in order to win congregational approval. Congregants, likewise, have sought out bishops, usually through their District Superintendents, to apply pressure on pastors to fall in line. Not too long ago, I sat in a gathering where a bishop was, in effect, blaming pastors for everything from how their lack of exercise and proper diet is causing severe deficits in hospitalization insurance funding to how their pastoral ineffectiveness and laziness accounts for the failure of congregations “to grow.” The number of lay persons present at that same assembly who responded to the bishop’s thrashing of the pastors with sardonic glee was legion. (Perhaps that helps to explain the finding that five years after seminary graduation and ordination 50% of pastors leave parish ministry to pursue other vocations.) There was a time when Bishops and pastors would stand together to call into question wayward congregations, but such instances seem rare these days. Given my own admittedly biased perspective, these reflections may deteriorate into the same process of harsh triangulation that too often has typified both civil and church discourse. Allowing that my opinions may fail to measure up to some standard of objectivity, I will leave it to the reader to determine how much of what is claimed here carries implications for the future of the episcopacy in The United Methodist Church.

Something needs to be said about the origin of the episcopal (from the Greek episkopas, meaning overseer or bishop) office. Scant references to bishops in the Christian Scriptures suggest that those so designated were regarded as sufficiently trustworthy to “oversee” certain administrative functions, especially the collection of monetary gifts to be distributed to widows and other impoverished persons within the early church communities. Unlike today, the offering in early church worship was not money donated by the affluent for the welfare of the less fortunate; rather the offering was the gathering of the gifts of bread and wine made by the loving hands of congregants, gifts that would become Christ’s body and blood in the community’s celebration of the Eucharist. No great fanfare attached to the money donations of those able to contribute, no singing of a Doxology drawing attention to those who were parting themselves from some of their wealth in a show of largess. Rather, monetary gifts were inconspicuously “slipped” into the bishop’s hands or purse either before or after the Eucharistic gathering. No wonder these first century CFOs had to be above reproach. There were no counting committees or finance officers or auditing firms to ensure accountability. No wonder the first bishops, entrusted with such unquestioned authority, very quickly rose in the estimate of the early Christians as deserving of the wider administrative responsibility of CEOs.

Consequently, as the early church became more “institutionalized,” gaining greater recognition and status, the “earned” authority that originally qualified those selected to serve as bishops quickly became “ascribed” authority. As those in military service today are enjoined to respect the office even if they do not respect the officer, so a similar ascribed quirky quality quickly became attached to the “office of the bishop.” As early as circa 117 CE, a bishop by the name of Ignatius insisted that “we should regard the bishop as the Lord himself.”[i] Such is the tendency of movements as they gain strength and take on the characteristics of institutionalization. Consequently, what began as a needed function to be carried out by those who earned the right to the responsibility has become through the years a frequently fought-over prize with all the trappings of ascribed status, power and wealth, at least as it is practiced in the Methodist tradition.

The use of the phrase “fought-over” is deliberate. Even though I have never attended a Jurisdictional Conference, at which bishops are elected, I along with many others have heard from those who not only attended but were a part of the delegations of these electoral conclaves. Their reports about the behind-the-scenes maneuvering, political intrigue, and formation of strange bedfellow coalitions seem on a par with underhanded tactics that often typify political processes elsewhere. Ken Follett’s novel World Without End, a compelling story about the descent into depravity that occurred in a Medieval English church when power-mongering and its consequent sleaze seized control, hints that such infamy in the world is without end, even in the church. The Apostles, sometimes regarded as the predecessors of bishops, may have had it right when they prayed for God’s leading and then “cast lots” to determine who should be elected.[ii] Whether or not such a procedure provided more space for the leading of God’s spirit, it at least aborted the machinations of those motivated by greed for power and its consequent accoutrements.

A couple years ago Dr. Tex Sample made an outlandish proposal. He suggested a radical revision of the office of the episcopacy. Consideration of his views might lead to an honest appraisal of the merits of this office as it is now practiced. Dr. Sample brought to the forefront the kinds of impressions that I believe many within our connection have found intriguing.

A quick call to INFOSERV yielded the information that the salary of each U. S. bishop last year was $120,942.00, not including the travel, housing, separate pension and hospitalization plans, renewal leave, office expense and other allowances they receive. Three subsequent calls to INFOSERV over a year ago requesting information about the total of these other costs, and eliciting promises that the information would be forthcoming, have, as yet, gone unanswered. Given that there are 50 bishops in this country alone, the total last year, excluding bishops outside the U. S. and the other expenses and benefits of the office, amounts to over six million dollars in 2008.

According to Dr. Sample’s proposal, each district (smaller geographical regions within an Annual Conference) would have a bishop, providing greater local leadership and, at the same time, a much larger pool of bishops to help administer the world mission of the UMC. The bishops would be elected by their respective Annual Conferences, that is, by those who know them best, those whose collective wisdom would recognize the candidates particularly gifted and graced for this office. The bishops would receive roughly the same compensation that District Superintendents now receive, and they would take up residence in the present district parsonages. Such a bold move would eliminate the enormous expense of maintaining our present College of Bishops, its separate pension and hospitalization programs, the cost of episcopal residences, as well as the need for Jurisdictional Conferences. And it would make bishops more accessible and accountable.

Since suggesting his proposal (which was largely ignored and probably will continue to receive benign but massive disregard), I have found myself reflecting more and more about the eight bishops with whom I have had encounters (close or otherwise) over the course of my 47 years in ministry. Even though tempted to relate all of the experiences of those years, the import of which would lend credibility to Dr. Sample’s idea, I realize that doing so would run the risk of leading the reader to discount these reflections as overly anecdotal or motivated by some hidden agenda. That, in turn, would defeat the reason for my writing this: to question whether or not our present episcopal structure makes for effective leadership. So, I will confine my recall to two episodes that occurred just prior to my retirement; the third happened shortly thereafter. All three point to the possibility that our episcopal leaders are too overburdened to handle the responsibilities of their office.The first evolved when a local congregation was planning to relocate within a stone’s throw of another UMC congregation. The dream as presented by the would-be transplanted congregation was to become a regional mega-church that would in no way undermine the already exceptional programs and ministry of the congregation situated in that neighborhood. Twice I wrote to our bishop then about the complexities of such a proposal. There was no response to either of my letters. The congregation did succeed in purchasing a 15 acre tract of undeveloped land at a price of one million dollars (circumventing, by the way, the mandated channel for such acquisition through the District Committee on Location and Building), and then later had to abandon the entire proposal because only two acres of the tract could be developed. The downtown struggling church still owes $700,000 on land they will not be able to use, nor can they find anyone else gullible enough to take it off their hands. To add insult to injury, I learned later from a friend and colleague that the bishop to whom I had written indicated that he had received my letters and said (according to this third party), “I think Jim Norton is probably right.” Had the bishop intervened in some way, or at least, asked some pertinent questions, this mess might have been averted.

Another attempt to correspond with a bishop had to do with a recent change in our Annual Conference’s self-insured hospitalization program. Certainly medical costs are creating stress and strain throughout the Church, to say nothing about our country, but the action of the Annual Conference overturned a precedent that had been established in the Sixties. And there is some question as to the procedure that was followed. Four weeks passed since I wrote my letter with no response. Since the District Superintendent received a copy of the letter, I called him to be sure that he had received it. He had, so I expressed consternation about not receiving a response from anyone to whom the letter had been sent (the Bishop, Conference Treasurer, and District Superintendent). The explanation offered in terms of no response from the Bishop was that he had been to Africa University for the prior two weeks. A few days later I did receive the Bishop’s reply which seemed to misunderstand the point of my inquiry.

The third episode made me aware of how much my trust in the episcopal system has waned. I traveled to the campus of a Presbyterian seminary in a nearby state to hear three lectures from one of our newer UM bishops, elected at the 2004 round of Jurisdictional Conferences. Prior to that he held a prestigious position on a university campus. The Bishop devoted his three lectures to misrepresenting and derisively tearing down theological and biblical scholarship contrary to his own Barthian leanings. As an academician he certainly is entitled to do that, and I have heard him in other settings do precisely that. But is that a legitimate role of an active Bishop? He probably received a generous stipend to do that lecture series, and perhaps had his travel and other expenses paid by the host seminary. Since he was visiting a seminary where there are some United Methodist students, did he also receive travel reimbursement from GCFA, thereby double-dipping? Following Dr. Sample’s suggestion, if this particular bishop were the bishop in my district, I could directly inquire of him or her about the appropriateness of taking time to go on lecture jaunts and the financing that was involved. But given the inordinate power and aloofness of bishops in today’s UMC ecclesiology, to do so would be to invite heavy-handed reprisals.

These are three examples seeming to substantiate Dr. Sample’s assertion that bishops are running hither and yon with very little time to attend to the ordering or “shepherding” of their respective pastures. In one sense, it’s good to be retired and out from under a system where selected individuals have been elevated so as to make it impossible for their feet to touch the ground. In another sense, I regret deeply that the “Church” which has been in very significant ways my “Mother” (sic) has come to such a state of pomposity.

I have come to the opinion that highly hierarchical ecclesia comes at a heavy cost, and I don’t mean just financially. Dr. Sample’s evocative suggestions seem to me to be exactly what is needed if the unique message and contribution of Methodism is to survive. Such a church might then be able to rise above the ways of political cleverness and maneuvering that seem to characterize our present selection process, often mirroring so much of what goes on around us in the world everyday. Perhaps John Wesley’s outrage when he learned that Francis Asbury had allowed himself to be elected as a bishop at the first Methodist General Conference in the U. S. in 1784 was not without reason.

[i] Petry, Ray C. A History of Christianity: Readings in the History of the Early and Medieval Church, Duke University, Durham, NC, Copyright © 1962, p. 9.
[ii] Acts 1:26

An Early Impression (from a late meanderer)

2009-08-29T10:58:00.000-07:00

Senator Kennedy’s funeral mass just concluded, a few tears still descending, compels me to voice one of many impressions inundating my being. Teddy, Jr., Patrick and President Obama, all three, deserve enormous gratitude for eulogies that, rather than glossing over the good Senator’s flaws, openly acknowledged their reality. Such openness did not overshadow the overwhelming spirit of appreciation emanating throughout the service, giving due homage to a man who, aware of his imperfections, nevertheless continued to forge ahead to do what he earnestly believed contributed to the common welfare as well as the wellbeing of his family.

So often as a pastor working with families in similar circumstances, it has seemed that the throes of grief produced an unspoken pressure to think of and say only those parts of a person’s life that are complimentary, a hidden expectation that, if followed, leaves an uneasy feeling of artificiality. It also seems to mute families’ ability to provide much help in shaping the funeral service for their loved one.

I, hereby, grant permission to any who happen to be a part of whatever service is held at my passing to be honest about their perceptions of what are surely my weaknesses, and humbly request that such openness will be expressed with understanding and mercy.

Now back to redoing a room in our house recently damaged from ground water that seeped, no gushed, in after heavy rains. From the beatific to the banal...

so, back to forging ahead.

America's Oldest Religion

2009-08-18T09:05:00.000-07:00

My apologies for the difficulty in reading this as originally posted a couple weeks ago. I copied and pasted it from the original sermon manuscript, and that led to a new discovery: the blog doesn't communicate well with double-spaced documents. If you went to the bother to read the earlier blog, thank you; if not, this version may be easier to decipher. Perhaps?

Prior to my retirement, many of you received manuscripts of my sermons in your e-mail inboxes, maybe because you requested them, but maybe not in some instances. One advantage of blogging is that such material can be launched into cyberspace without worrying about whether or not it is solicited. It's just out there, as if one is sealing a message in a bottle and casting it into the sea. Occassionally I am called out of retirement to preach, as happened this past Sunday, but now I don't have to be concerned about cluttering your inboxes; those who want to go to the bother can simply check my blog.

America’s Oldest Religion
Acts 17:22-28
A Guest Sermon
Central Christian Church, Fairmont, WV
August 2, 2009

A couple of factors have primed the well for this morning’s sermonic spurts. A goal for preaching that I never got around to prior to my retirement involved doing a series of sermons on different world religions as well as the various Christian traditions, the purpose of the series being to explore possible threads that may exist between these multiple faith expressions, in effect, tying them together. Having failed to achieve that goal but reluctant to let it go, I realized recently that since I am called on occasionally to pinch hit for other preachers, I could still work toward that goal, though doing so would entail a much more prolonged process—a process that, in all probability, would never be completed. But that doesn’t mean it can’t be begun.

Another factor was the trip that our Vacation Bible School scholars along with twice as many of us adults went on last Sunday, the visit to the wonderful Pittsburgh Zoo. It was a terrific way to conclude our month of Sundays focusing on the story of Noah and the Ark. Getting to spend time in such an immense array of the world’s many different species, both zoological and botanical, led to my wondering which of the religions seems to comprehend most clearly the unity of all life, the sense that life is meant to live in the kind of harmony in which the welfare of all creates the welfare of each, and the welfare of each contributes to the welfare of all. Because of the earlier portions of this morning’s service, you have already guessed the world religion that readily came to mind, the one that may very well be the first religion practiced in the Americas—Native American religion. Even though there were natural boundaries at the zoo to keep the tigers and lions out of the fields where the deer and antelope, the zebras and giraffes were grazing, there was something about seeing all of those signs of life together in one place that overawed me with the awareness of life’s relativity, life’s oneness.

St. Paul points to that oneness in this morning’s scripture reading. He was questioned by the Athenians about his God and he reassured them that the “unknown God” out of the pantheon of gods to whom they prayed was, in fact, the God of all creation, the one God of all life. This is the One who cannot be separated from the creation because this God is the Creator who is still creating. This God is all around us, this God is never far from us at anytime. “We live and move and have our being” in this God, says St. Paul.

Moreover, says Paul, this is the One who created all lands and their inhabitants, and from “one ancestor” all the nations and races of the earth. Amazingly this is one of the few places where the Bible and modern science agree! The most widely accepted scientific view today, stemming from recent archeological and genetic research, is that our species, Homo sapiens—human beings, originated in one geographical locality of Africa some 200,000 years ago, and that about 75, 000 years ago our ancestors began migrating “Out of Africa” and spreading across the globe. About 25,000 years ago the first Native Americans, having migrated to Asia began to cross the Tundra in what we now know as Russia or Southern Siberia and from there they traveled across what was, in effect, a land bridge that once connected Russia to Alaska. From Alaska they migrated throughout the American hemispheres. (Gosh! Had Sarah Palin been living then she not only could have seen Russia from her back yard, she could have walked the 600 or so miles to get there. Yeah, I know, don't give up my day job!)

So our more distant brothers and sisters made it to these shores about 24,000 years ahead of our more recent ancestors who came here by way of the Atlantic. And these earliest settlers developed wondrously rich heritages, cultures, and religions thousands of years before our particular Jewish/Christian understandings began to take shape. So, it may be productive to see if there are some similarities between the various faith understandings that they and we hold.

Census information indicates that there are 500 tribes in the United States and about 1.3 million Native Americans. These persons are as plural and diverse as those who comprise any other group. There’s nothing unusual or wrong with that. Being different is a good thing. What if we were all exactly alike? What if we all believed and felt the same way about things: “The only appropriate color for neckties is blue.” “Yes, everyone agrees.” “Women should never wear pants suits to church.” “Oh, that’s so true that everyone says so.” “Rush Limbagh should be our next president.” “Indeed, all people in the country know that.” How deadly and devastating life would be if we all agreed all the time, not to mention BORING! The differences are what make life exciting, full of zest and tang, causing both agreements and disagreements, times of delight and times of exasperation, times of closeness and times of distance. That’s the way life is.

So as all people have differences, the same is true of Native Americans. They have separate languages, customs, dances and ways of living their daily lives that are different. And that’s the reason no Native American individual, even within his or her own family, speaks for another individual. No tribe presumes to speak for another tribe. To do so is to act discourteously, if not indecently.

Even so, there are some interesting ways in which Native American stories are very similar to the stories we find in the Bible. The stories of the vision quest for the Native Americans, in which one goes out into the wilderness to be alone and clear one’s head and to seek the wisdom of the Great Spirit and get prepared for life, are similar to Jesus’ experience in the wilderness, where, he too, searched for insight through fasting and solitude until enlightenment was gained through God’s Holy and Great Spirit.

The Native American stories of visions of holy ones are no different than Moses’ encounter with God on the mountain or the narratives of Jesus’ birth. What we gather in such stories is the sense of the mysterious presence of the Creator.

A Lakota, a word meaning friend or ally, by the name of Black Elk, once had a vision of a sacred hoop (or circle) of his people which was only one of many hoops, all joined together to make one great circle, the great hoop of all peoples. In the center of the great hoop stood a powerful, sheltering, flowering tree, and gathered under it all the children of all nations. (It sort of recalls that image in the words attributed to Jesus in John’s Gospel: “In my father’s house there are many (hoops) dwelling places.”)

As you may have surmised, the circle for Native Americans is very significant. The sun is a circle; the drum is a circle; the ripples of the water are ever-widening circles. The circle means everything returns to the center of all life, to the Creator. The Great Spirit makes everything in the form of a circle. Mother Earth is a very large, powerful circle. The circle proves that life doesn’t end. It is part of the great eternal circle.

The sun dance, which Christian missionaries mistakenly took to represent pagan worship of the sun, was actually giving thanks to God for making the sun, for the sun produces life and without it, we would not exist. The dance was performed in a circle to represent the wholeness of creation.

The circle represents harmony and when it is broken or uncompleted, there is disharmony. Even today Native American understanding realizes that the circle of harmony has been broken by prejudice, contemptuousness, maliciousness, injustice and cruelty done by humans to one another. What is needed today, and what as Christians we believe Jesus comes into our lives to do, is to make the circle complete again—to close the circle in a way that includes all that is.

Spending the past week taking a closer look at Native American history, I learned some things that if taught when I was in public school, then I must have been sleeping when they were being taught. For example, did you know that the Constitution of the United States is based, in part, on the Tribal government principles of the Native Americans? Or, are you aware that our present-day emphasis on ecology, on earth days or green days or whatever it is we are calling it, has always been a part of Native American belief, a belief that the earth is a living place to be respected and cared for and nurtured and nourished.

My review of Native American heritage also made me aware of how the Hollywood image of Native Americans has been a cruel caricature of who these people really are—with one possible exception, the film some years back, Dances with Wolves. And I had a good laugh when I came across the meaning of the phrase of “Kemo Sabe.” How many of you remember the phrase? Ah, all of us above a certain age. That was the name Tonto gave to the Lone Ranger, and I’ve always believed that it meant “faithful friend.” (Heads nodding) But according to Fred Shaw, the official story teller for the Shawnee nation, that’s not what it means. It really means, “Soggy Shrub” or “He who does nothing.” Way to go, Tonto!

Native Americans see all races as brothers and sisters and have been taught by their ancestors that there are four nations on the earth—the black nation, the red nation, the yellow nation, and the white nation. According to Ed McGaa, a Dakota Native American, there are four commandments from the Great Spirit of the Indian tradition: (1) respect for Mother Earth; (2) respect for the Great Spirit; (3) respect for all humankind, and (4) respect for individual freedom (provided it doesn’t threaten the tribe or the people of Mother Earth).

You may have guessed that the sacred number for Native Americans is four. There are the four seasons and the four directions on the earth. The sacred color of the west is black to represent the setting of the sun; of the north, white, to represent the snow; of the east, red, to represent the rising sun; of the south, yellow, to represent the growing of wheat and other grains. And these sacred colors are the reasons we cannot be prejudiced—all people are related by the seasons and directions, and all have the same mother, Mother Earth.

Today we are invited by our Native American sisters and brothers to realize that if we are to survive, that will mean working together to close the circle again until it encompasses the center of all life in the heart of God.

Response to Fowarded Nonsense

2009-07-28T07:58:00.000-07:00

This morning a forwarded piece showed up in my inbox, and my impulsive nature refused to be curtailed. My reply to the piece has already been sent to the sender and recipients. I am copying it here with identities protected simply as another post to my blog page.

Dear friend _____,

The e-mail below, purported to have been forwarded by you, is determined by Snopes.com to be false. The piece, attributed to Andy Rooney, first appeared in 2003, but he did not say these things; in fact, the Snopes' article includes comments by Rooney indicating his disgust and offense at the statements made in his name. (Found on Snopes under the title "Andy Rooney's Political Views")

Honestly, I was surprised that you forwarded it and am wondering if some Trojan worm has infected your computer and committed this deed under your imprimatur. Knowing you as I do, I have decided that is the case.
Even so, I am caving into the impulse to respond to several of the points contained in the piece, and would be interested in any responses you or any of the other recipients may have.

The problem with the Internet is that it allows for unsubstantiated legends to emerge in much the same way that the Bible evolved. Because the Bible was written in a pre-scientific age, people tended to believe any of the yarns that were woven around the campfires while the sheep were dozing or grazing in the field. It was a time when people believed stuff simply because someone told it--and what may have been intended as metaphorical took on literalistic overtones in later generations. It seems the Internet has returned us to a similar time--if it appears on the Net, then it must be true. Sounds like biblical literalism to me, but as Judge Judy says over and over again, "If it doesn't make sense, then it isn't true." Immediately upon reading the piece it didn't make sense that Andy Rooney would say such things, and a quick look at Snopes.com revealed that, indeed, he didn't.

Obviously whoever the author is, s/he is motivated by racist/sexist/ethnic/homophobic leanings. Rooney in his response makes the same point, and goes so far as to say that he is offended that anyone would believe that he would make such statements. He is a more sophisticated thinker than the author of the piece makes him out to be.

Then there's the bit about legal or illegal residents in America learning to speak English. Having just returned from a very hot and humid trip in Florida, and witnessing migrant workers tending the orange groves and other agricultural pursuits from sun up to sun down, doing back-breaking work for sub-standard pay, and if news reports are to be believed, sending most of their meager compensation back to Mexico to support their families (all made possible because no American citizen would agree to do such work under such conditions for such a pittance), I find it just a tad unreasonable to require English as a pre-condition to do work that we Americans won't do. Not only so, but some futurist studies are indicating that if persons are not bi-lingual in the coming generations, they will be regarded as disadvantaged. Maybe rather than expecting everyone to be just like us, we might do well to develop fluency in other languages and cultures, if, for no other reason than that we wish to avoid intensive labor in oppressively hot and humid orange groves.

As you know, I am a child of parents whose communication was bi-lingual: written English and Sign Language, which is not English (though there are attempts to turn it into English) but is classified as a foreign language. Because my parents were deaf, they could not hear the names they were called by peers at work or buddies at the Moose Club or neighbors in the street, but my sister and I could: dummies, crazy, weird, stupid, to say nothing of the mocking gestures behind their backs (some of which included that infamously flipping middle finger). While I cannot know what it is like to be a part of a racial or ethnic minority in an intolerant society, perhaps I do possess some kinship with those who are, and I am deeply offended and hurt when a kind of narrative as this one lands in my inbox.

And, I'm sorry, but it absolutely does take a village to raise a child. Had there not been other significant, credible adults in my life growing up in a government housing project with parents who were looked down on because of their disability, I'd probably be in prison now. It was because of caring youth advisers at church, the few good teachers at school, and humane neighbors and friends that I was able to see broader horizons and have hope that something more was possible. Whoever wrote this piece sounds like a man very much like my father: abusive and troubled in a way that led to severe acting out. Thank God for the other gentler people in my life.

The fact that this piece is resurfacing now after having originated six years ago is curious. Let's see: we have an African American as President, there's a woman who is Secretary of State, there's that imbroglio about Professor Gates and racial profiling, there's the hullabaloo about gays in the military, etc. Hmmmm, is this coincidence?

The author of this diatribe invokes God, as if somehow the opinions he expresses are sanctioned by God. I remember saying the Pledge of Allegiance before the phrase "under God" was included, and I remember how at first it was difficult to say it the "new" way. But if saying "under God" means that we are saying that God relates only to English speaking, non-alien, intolerant, prejudiced, homophobic, pure-lily-white folk, then I'll have to omit the phrase when asked to say the pledge. I understand the Australians also have the same phrase in their pledge, but their parliament made it legal for people to choose to include it or not. And we say we believe in the separation of church and state.

Speaking now as an Ordained Christian (though retired) pastor, I must object to any understanding about God that does not profess that the Divine relates to all creation and to all peoples--English speaking or not--Muslim, Buddhist, Atheist--even the bigot who wrote this article and sought to give it credence by attributing it to a well-known journalist--urging all of life toward less hurtful wounding and more healing wholeness.

Once again, _____, I am choosing to believe the forward of this article is some kind of cybernetic fluke. You have never come across to me as someone who would support the kind of sentiments reflected in this article. I am presently reading James Bamford's THE SHADOW FACTORY, a cumbersome, yet convincingly detailed expose of the capabilities that Big Brother has acquired in cybernetic technology. Who knows where such urban legends as this originate or who is responsible for passing them on?

Polly and I are looking forward to being with you and ____ at the beach in September.

Peace,

Jim N.

Swim Clubs and the Like

2009-07-18T16:07:00.000-07:00

The news coverage a few weeks ago of the Huntingdon Valley Swim Club reneging on its contract to permit children from a Northeast Philadelphia day camp to swim one day a week in its pool sparked memories of similar instances in both personal and vocational encounters over the years.

The first thing our family noticed when we moved into a parsonage located in a neighborhood that was considered the most “up-scale” place to live in the state was a swimming pool a stone’s throw down the hill from our residence. That was in June, 1986. As our son was 14 years old at the time, we immediately imagined that he would be able to go to the pool and maybe even make some friends before school began in the fall. That was faulty assuming, and you know what they say about those who assume.

On further investigation, we discovered that it was a private swim club, and that to become a member cost $300 plus an annual maintenance assessment, the amount of which was variable according to the expenses incurred. We couldn’t afford to join. Later we learned that the family living in the parsonage before us had convinced the church to pay for a blanket club membership for any family occupying the parsonage, but that idea was soundly rejected by the swim club association because “there was no way of knowing ‘who’ might move into the parsonage.”

As I said above, this neighborhood was considered the crème de la crème of places to live. Once when standing in a lunch line with friends at a meeting being held at the other end of the state, a stranger standing in front of me heard me say something about where I lived and, turning around she exclaimed, “You live in _____ _____, oooooohhhhhh how wonderful for you! I was not complimented. It’s a wonder the neighborhood wasn’t “gated,” because that seems to be the trend for residential areas where the inhabitants are corporate executives, lawyers, doctors, politicians, educators as well as the few families, like ours, that manage to worm their way in.

Another episode while living there may help to make the point. The elementary school in the neighborhood was overcrowded. Portable classrooms were placed on the school’s small campus to provide additional instructional space, nearly using up all the available land. The Board of Education, wisely, they assumed, (remember what they say about assuming) devised a plan where some of the children from this neighborhood would be bussed to the fairly new school building just down the hill in the valley below.

Problem: Even though that modern building was built to accommodate 90 students and was being under used, it had the unfortunate malady of being located in the community where the “creekers” lived, the name given to the less obviously advantaged families living along the creek. When the “up-scale” families on top of the hill caught wind of what the BOE was devising, those movers and shakers did what they know how to do best, and the plan to alleviate the over-crowded conditions were scuttled. Not only so, but the BOE, for economic reasons, was forced to close the new facility in the valley, cram more portable classrooms onto the already overcrowded campus, and bus the few children from the valley to the prestigious school on top of the hill.

By the way, the hilltop school proudly claimed at the time that 93% of its students were “gifted.” I knew some of those children, and if they were gifted, then when I was their age, I was the equivalent of an Einstein. (Believe me, I was not!) Perhaps their giftedness was more an indication of the political pressure their parents could bring to bear on such decisions.

So egregious was the reversal of the BOE’s plan that yours truly couldn’t resist speaking to the issue from the pulpit. That along with other perceived judgmental attitudes and failures on my part may have helped to lead to my being “fired” from that assignment, the only time I have ever received such distinction in my years as a pastor.

Please don’t think that I am saying the people on the hilltop were bad or vicious or conniving or mean-spirited. While I may have harbored such suspicions at one time, I have long ago let such thoughts go. In fact, most of that congregation was comprised of very intelligent, skilled and compassionate individuals, some of whom I continue to hold in deep respect and appreciation, with a fondness that brings delight when remembering them.

So how do I understand the kinds of prejudicial behavior that seemed to manifest itself during those years in that place? My thinking now is that these eruptions were more the result of values coming up against one another. If ethics or morality is inherent in the universe’s creation, then it seems that humanity is at its best when it aligns itself with whatever the ethical principles are. As Christians, we profess that the highest ethical value is found in the love of God, neighbor and self, which suggests a kind of mutual behavior toward all of life (including oneself) in constructive ways, ways that build up and help all of life become what, by God, it is meant to be.

But reality often presents conflicts between what is best for one part of life over another. The good parents of the exclusive neighborhood decided, rightly or wrongly, that the good of their own children was preferable to any consideration given to possible benefits for all children. That is understandable; we all want what we perceive is best for our own children.

Yet, as one who grew up in a government housing project (a “creeker” of sorts), and at the same time, as one who grew up in a very prestigious downtown church, I’m led to the conclusion that the aforementioned hilltop community where I served for a short while was honestly mistaken. My growing up in a congregation of movers and shakers, being friends with children of all economic strata, being invited to the homes of the very affluent and included in their family activities, being treated as worthy along with the children of the “pikers,” (the wealthier people who lived “out the pike”) has made a dramatic difference in my own life. When did it happen that the more affluent lost sight of how their abundance placed upon them greater responsibility for the community’s well-being? What led to their building fences and gates around their neighborhoods rather than reaching down into the valleys to lift others up? As Jesus is purported to have put it: “From everyone to whom much has been given, much will be required; and from the one to whom much has been entrusted, even more will be demanded.” (St. Luke 12:48 NRSV)

Pastoral Identity

2009-07-02T18:09:00.000-07:00

Pastor Josh (Joshua Patty of Central Christian Church, Fairmont) revealed a clue to his identity as a preacher in his sermon this past Sunday. He said something about standing in the tradition of preachers who were biblical scholars. That is certainly true! Josh has a thorough grasp of biblical languages as well as an excellent grasp of the history and culture of biblical times. Moreover, he possesses the kind of sensitivity and creativity that is able to translate complex historical realities in ways that make them come alive today. What a thrill it is every week to hear good preaching!

Interestingly, no sooner did the phrase “biblical scholars” leave Josh’s lips than another preacher came to mind, actually the preacher who resides as the “first preacher” in my memory: Dr. William Knox. He was pastor at the UM church where I grew up, having served there from the time I was eight to twelve. While any kid of elementary age could not be expected to have precise memories of the content of a preacher’s words, let alone his character, for some reason he immediately came to mind at the mention of “biblical scholars.” Born in England in 1888, Dr. Knox was educated there, and began serving congregations there as well. Then he immigrated to the U.S. and spent the rest of his years as a pastor and District Superintendent in West Virginia Methodism.

So why was he the first to surface at the suggestion of biblical competence? Was it because of memories of his working with us as children, helping us to construct such things as magazine racks as a part of our summer Vacation Bible School experience? Perhaps. Was it because when as a college student years later, I received a complete set of the Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible, which had just come off the presses, a gift out of the blue from Dr. Knox who somehow learned that I was preparing to enter the ministry? Perhaps. Was it because of that time I bumped into him at the book display at Annual Conference (back in the Sixties when Conference sessions actually were the legislative sessions they are supposed to be, where honest and lively debate for the good of church and community was allowed), and he pointed me to the writings of Paul Tillich, strongly urging me in the direction of Tillich’s bridge-building understandings? Perhaps.

Most of all, however, Dr. Knox readily emerged from memory because he was looked up to and respected as a biblical scholar. This memory of childhood may be more anecdotal than objective, but it does seem that preachers of that time who possessed skill and care had an easier time earning the admiration of both congregants and the larger community.

A related memory, this time from high school days, involves the time the principal invited another of the pastors of the church in which I was raised to deliver a talk that same pastor had given to the Rotary Club the week before. So impressed was the principal with the speech, which revolved around an Easter theme, that he cancelled classes for a school-wide assembly, just so the school’s faculty and students would get to hear it. No principal in his right mind would have the slightest inclination to host such an event today.

Indeed, things are different today. Two days before this past Christmas, another retired UM pastor and I bumped into each other at a local mall, coincidentally doing the same thing: waiting for our wives to emerge from one of the stores in those last minutes of Christmas craziness. The other pastor is highly recognized for his stellar record, both in pastoral and “superintending” roles. His service includes appointment to some of West Virginia’s most prestigious churches as well as election to both state and national high offices. The longer the two of us stood there talking, the more our “shop-talk” focused on the frustration we both admitted to over the way things seem to be going in the church today. He commented that he shutters to think what the church will be like in 20 years and was happy that he wouldn’t be around to see it. I concurred. I offered that the ministry would not be among my choices if I had to decide on a vocation today. He concurred.

Our dismay seemed to revolve around lower standards for preachers and perceived congregational (consumerist) pressure to never ruffle feathers, but to advocate always a Gospel message that is pleasingly positive and entertaining to everyone. Yeah, right! Pastors who attempt to meet such unreal expectations usually go around all the time wearing shitty grins. What’s worse, the Christian Gospel becomes something that is not Christ, nor anything like him!

One more story to underline the point: Getting ready to move from a congregation I was serving to accept new responsibilities elsewhere, I learned from a member of the PPRC (basically, the new pastor search committee) that the group instructed the District Superintendent as to what they were looking for in their new pastor. Their stated preferences were for a pastor who would be “less intellectual, less experienced, and cheaper.” How different that is from the time when congregations worked to attract the most skilled and caring ministers for their pulpits and parishes.

Forging ahead…..

Statement of Purpose

2009-06-30T10:36:00.000-07:00

Well, being dragged kicking and screaming into the cybernetic age is taking another turn. Now I’m a blogger. Yikes! Some who go to the bother to view this page used to receive manuscripts every week of sermons I preached in their e-mail inboxes, and now that I am retired, they no longer have to be bothered by such unsolicited spam. So if they find themselves viewing this page, they have only themselves to blame. One advantage of this method is that it adapts more readily to feedback, dialog, two-way communication, should the reader wish to reciprocate. Another advantage is that such conversation promises to keep the brain’s synaptic functions stimulated, perhaps promoting mental health in the “mature” years.

Drawbacks to this method of communicating, it seems, are the possibility that it is more impersonal, a distasteful prospect from my perspective, and the impossibility posed by information overload. If everyone blogged, no one could possibly keep up with all the quadrillions of tidbits of chatter available in pages like this.

So, it seems a statement of purpose is in order: one discovery in retirement has to do with how memories, both good and bad, continuously return. Often seemingly out of the blue, there comes to mind the memory of particular individuals or events, sometimes long forgotten, and then I find myself asking such things as “Why is that episode resurfacing?” or “Why did I do that?” or “What is the source of such hostility?” or “How is that different from today?” Had I been more attentive in Pastoral Psychology classes when we were studying Erik Erickson’s “Stages of the Life Cycle,” I would not have been as surprised by this sorting-out process in the ending period of life. Now the issues have to do with being grateful for accomplishments as well as the contributions of others, and coming to terms with the residual sense of failure and reasons for guilt, embarrassment and roads not taken. So my attempt in these offerings is to be as honest as I know how about the past, and at the same time to explore (with you, I hope) possible implications for today and tomorrow.

My next blog may provide an example of the purported statement of purpose.

Forging on….

Jim N.