(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.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
so-SO
[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!
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
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.
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.
Monday, December 28, 2009
A Sermon
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
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
Monday, October 19, 2009
Ida Lou
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!
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!
Friday, October 16, 2009
My Previous Post
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.
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
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
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
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