November 28, 2010
Seattle Mennonite Church
First Sunday of Advent
Matthew 24.36-44
We know what to say about some scriptures. Love your neighbor, do justice, follow Jesus. There are words we write on our hearts. We are Anabaptists, after all, and we believe the Bible is an authority for our believing and our living. We believe it holds stories we can build our lives upon; it reveals a message that gives meaning to what it means to be human, a message that works into our bodies and souls that shows us the heart of life. Some passages in the Bible send us a message that stretches across time and space with obvious insight for our spiritual edification. And then there’s our gospel lesson for today.
“Then two will be in the field; one will be taken and one will be left. Two women will be grinding meal together; one will be taken and one will be left. Keep awake, therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.”
Perhaps as Mike and Weldon led us into the text you thought of the old Christian worship song from the 60s and 70s:
A man and wife asleep in bed, she hears a noise and turns her head, he’s gone
I wish we’d all been ready
Two men walking up a hill, one disappears and one’s left standing still
I wish we’d all been ready
There’s no time to change your mind, the Son has come and you’ve been left behind
Or maybe you thought of the popular Left Behind series, which first appeared in the mid-1990s and tells in dramatic fiction the story of the end of the world from a Christian dispensationalist point of view. If we want to get technical, we’d categorize this as pretribulation, premillennial apocalyptic eschatology. In fact, there’s a whole Christian sub-culture out there: music, books, churches, even institutions of higher education whose worldview is shaped by a very particular understanding of the second coming Jesus Christ.
We are living in the end times, they say. The wars, the nuclear threats, the global unrest have all been foreshadowed and God’s judgment is upon us. History is about to be transformed by cosmic, cataclysmic events so get ready because Jesus is coming.
Today is the first day of Advent, the first day of the liturgical year. We enter a season of waiting, hoping, preparing, praying for Jesus to come to us and for God’s kingdom to break into our lives. The sanctuary has been prepared. The first candle is lit. We are singing Advent hymns. Jesus is coming.
Our text today is all about Jesus coming but not in the way we might expect.
It’s an apocalyptic text, a style or genre that has to do with the ultimate destiny of the world, reminding us in clear and dualistic terms that good will come and triumph over the current reign of evil. Apocalyptic scriptures can be grandiose and unrestrained; they can hold cosmic, mysterious visions and often include the disputed cosmic figure, the Son of Man, who depending on the scripture, may or may not be Jesus. You’ll find similarities in all kinds of scripture: Daniel chapters 7-12, Joel, Revelation, lots of apocryphal and extrabiblical material.
Today’s specific apocalyptic gospel reading falls within what scholars call “The Judgment Discourse.” Matthew 23:1 to 25:46 is one long speech. Suddenly Jesus’ coming is with terrible woes and with judgment and wrath. It’s an uncomfortable picture, a far cry from the baby in a stable that most of us would rather hope for at Advent.
For the original community of Matthew, this would have been a wake up call. You see, they were urban, wealthy, comfortable. It had been more than forty years since Jesus’ death, and their initial fervor and faithful discipleship was waning. They had become complacent, lethargic, sleepy. And Matthew asks them to shape up, wake up, be alert. It may not feel urgent or immediate, but it is. Jesus is coming.
There’s a bumper sticker out there that says, “Warning, in case of rapture, the driver of this car will suddenly disappear.” Maybe you’ve seen it. And maybe you’ve seen the second generation of rapture bumper stickers: “When the rapture comes, can I have your car?” The one I like better though says, “Warning, in case of the rapture, the driver of this car will be pulled over rethinking his eschatology.” Let’s set aside the fact that rapture is not a word that even appears in the Bible. And let’s set aside the possible difference in our own eschatologies, in our own beliefs about the end times. Regardless of which bumper sticker would be on your car, we need to understand that the community that produced this text was vastly different from us.
Our post-Enlightenment worldview is pragmatic, informed by reason and the physical and social sciences. These days not many of us believe that a cosmic judge will suddenly appear from the heavens and separate the good from the evil. To put it plainly, we think about the world differently than Matthew’s community. So what are we to do when such a wild text confronts us?
But about the day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven nor the Son… Keep awake therefore for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming… Therefore you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour.
All the usual answers don’t quite fit. Do justice. Work for peace. Jesus loves me. The text doesn’t give us these kinds of instruction. Instead it says: no one knows. Keep awake. Be ready. Pay attention.
So how do we pay attention? How do we wake up?
As I was thinking about sleeping and waking, I thought of my partner Jamie who is a pastor at another church here in Seattle. Like her dad, Jamie struggles with falling asleep. She goes through occasional periods of insomnia, only getting two or three hours of sleep a night. Meanwhile, I average at least eight and a half hours. For Jamie, this can be frustrating. She’s tossing and turning or watching bad infomercials on television and I am resting peacefully.
Our scripture seems to encourage Jamie’s unfortunate pattern. If the owner of the house had known what part of the night the thief was coming, he would have stayed awake and not let his house be broken into. But because I live with someone who has trouble sleeping, I know that too many nights of watchfulness can make a person frustrated and very, very tired. One can only remain alert for a short period of time. Our attention spans are not infinite, after all. One person can only be awake through the night every so often.
Our friends and members who sleep on the streets or at camps outside know this best. There comes a point in time when we simply cannot see everything alone and we need someone else to help us keep watch.
To see Jesus coming, we need each other.
Those of us who have secure jobs and homes need those experiencing homelessness to remind us that Jesus was homeless. And perhaps then we’ll see Jesus coming not in this sanctuary but in that one, out there beyond the doors.
Those of you who are straight need those of us who are gay, lesbian, transgender and queer to remind you that Jesus journeyed with a family of choice and that he didn’t fit into the normal patterns of family around him. And then perhaps we’ll see Jesus coming in loving relationships that have overcome many obstacles to thrive in an unfriendly world.
Those of us who have academic degrees and can fit in with the educated aristocracy of this country, need those with different kinds of education to remind us that our systems of making money and measuring worth are upside down. And then perhaps we’ll see Jesus who was born in a barn coming today in a place and an hour unexpected.
One time I took a group from another church to serve at a Friday evening community meal over in the University District. We spent the evening dishing up soup and visiting with the folks who came through the line. One particular youth who was there was a handful that evening. “Are we done yet? Can we go now?” He asked over and over. By all medical measurements, Bradley had an attention problem. He took medication for it, to regulate his moods and his ability to focus, but that evening he wasn’t behaving in the way that I might have hoped for him.
Later that night we all sat down around a table together and I asked the group a reflection question: “Where did you see God?” The oldest person with us was quick to answer. A wisened senior citizen said, “Oh I didn’t see God. But I’m glad we could do this good thing to help people in need.”
I was disappointed in the old man’s answer. I had hoped he’d be more of an example for the youth who were with us. I had hoped he’d have something more thoughtful to say, and then much to my surprise, Bradley, who I thought wasn’t even paying attention, said with quick enthusiasm, “Oh I saw Jesus. I saw Jesus…” Maybe Bradley’s attention span doesn’t work so well when it comes to getting things done or being in control. Maybe he is surprising, or unexpected? He went on to describe one particular person through whom he had encountered the light of Christ breaking into the world.
Today maybe not in cosmic glory with judgment and wrath. Maybe around a table in the U-District some Friday evening.
This is Good News, my friends. Wake up. Advent is here. Pay attention. Jesus is coming.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Reflections on Ephesians 1.1-14
October 31, 2010
Seattle Mennonite Church
The writer Anne Lamott has said that she has two basic prayers in her simple Christianity. “Help, help, help” and “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” The scripture for our worship today, Ephesians 1.1-14 falls into the latter category. It is the scriptural expression of our worship theme, that God’s good gifts to us inspire our praise.
As with any text, there are dozens of sides and shapes that make up this scripture both in its time and in our time, but today I want us to learn and remember two things about these first fourteen verses of Ephesians.
First, written into this passage is a certain understanding of the universe, a cosmology. It has something to say about space and time. In the world of the first century, the earth was considered to be the center of the universe with sun, stars, and planets revolving around it and layers of different substances – of death and decay and also fire and air – surrounded the earth.
The writer of Ephesians works within this cosmology – notice how he talks about the heavenly places in verse 3 and also heaven and earth in verse 10. But the writer also transcends this cosmology. God chose us not in and through the world but before the foundation of the world. Before earth or heaven or the big bang or the creation of light and dark. And again in verse ten, God will gather all things into Godself in the fullness of time.
This is an expansive vision of the universe as God’s body. This is a comprehensive vision of God’s redemption and salvation, subverting the dualisms of the world into a greater wholeness. These early Christians in first-century Asia Minor were a minority, but here is a vision that embraces all things, the entire creation in the divine plan with Christians at the center because they belonged to the risen Lord.
And second, this passage is a eulogy. We most often think of eulogies in the context of a funeral, a tribute to somebody who has recently died. But a eulogy is also a speech or piece of writing that praises somebody or something very highly. This is a eulogy to God. Verse 3 – blessed be the God who has blessed us with spiritual blessings; verse 4 – God has chosen us; verse 5 – God has destined us as God’s children and so on… freely bestowing grace, offering forgiveness, lavishing upon us riches.
In the original Greek, verses 3-14 are one sentence in poetic style. This is not dogma or instruction that explains exactly what to think or feel. This is not the time or place where we figure out exactly what forgiveness and redemption and salvation mean. Instead, this is the time and place where we rejoice that we are indeed forgiven, redeemed, and saved. God is worthy of such high praise for all that God has done for us, embracing us in a divine cosmology. These words give us images and themes that suggest God’s intimate and ongoing involvement in our world. We are God’s own people.
And our response is, and appropriately so, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Seattle Mennonite Church
The writer Anne Lamott has said that she has two basic prayers in her simple Christianity. “Help, help, help” and “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” The scripture for our worship today, Ephesians 1.1-14 falls into the latter category. It is the scriptural expression of our worship theme, that God’s good gifts to us inspire our praise.
As with any text, there are dozens of sides and shapes that make up this scripture both in its time and in our time, but today I want us to learn and remember two things about these first fourteen verses of Ephesians.
First, written into this passage is a certain understanding of the universe, a cosmology. It has something to say about space and time. In the world of the first century, the earth was considered to be the center of the universe with sun, stars, and planets revolving around it and layers of different substances – of death and decay and also fire and air – surrounded the earth.
The writer of Ephesians works within this cosmology – notice how he talks about the heavenly places in verse 3 and also heaven and earth in verse 10. But the writer also transcends this cosmology. God chose us not in and through the world but before the foundation of the world. Before earth or heaven or the big bang or the creation of light and dark. And again in verse ten, God will gather all things into Godself in the fullness of time.
This is an expansive vision of the universe as God’s body. This is a comprehensive vision of God’s redemption and salvation, subverting the dualisms of the world into a greater wholeness. These early Christians in first-century Asia Minor were a minority, but here is a vision that embraces all things, the entire creation in the divine plan with Christians at the center because they belonged to the risen Lord.
And second, this passage is a eulogy. We most often think of eulogies in the context of a funeral, a tribute to somebody who has recently died. But a eulogy is also a speech or piece of writing that praises somebody or something very highly. This is a eulogy to God. Verse 3 – blessed be the God who has blessed us with spiritual blessings; verse 4 – God has chosen us; verse 5 – God has destined us as God’s children and so on… freely bestowing grace, offering forgiveness, lavishing upon us riches.
In the original Greek, verses 3-14 are one sentence in poetic style. This is not dogma or instruction that explains exactly what to think or feel. This is not the time or place where we figure out exactly what forgiveness and redemption and salvation mean. Instead, this is the time and place where we rejoice that we are indeed forgiven, redeemed, and saved. God is worthy of such high praise for all that God has done for us, embracing us in a divine cosmology. These words give us images and themes that suggest God’s intimate and ongoing involvement in our world. We are God’s own people.
And our response is, and appropriately so, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Pouring
October 17, 2010
Seattle Mennonite Church
Joel 2.23-32
Have you ever been caught in a downpour?
I don’t mean the drizzle that passes for rain here in Seattle, those dry rains for which the natives don’t even pull out their umbrellas. I mean downpour – stop the car on the highway because you can’t see through the sheets of water rain. Soaked to the bone in two seconds flat rain. Thunderstorms sweeping over the Rocky Mountains and out onto the wide open plains rain. Knock you out of your normal, maybe there’s a reason humans talk so much about the weather rain. Restore the land in one afternoon after months of drought rain? Last summer there was one weekend in July when the rains came to my dad’s farm in south central Kansas. Three days it rained, and it saved the corn. A $50,000 rain, he said.
Have you ever been caught in a downpour?
The book of Joel is an overlooked part of our sacred scripture that offers a grand vision. Joel is a minor prophet, stuck between Hosea and Amos, one of those books that is hard to find when you’re looking for its three chapters within the 1,189 chapters of the Bible. But it’s an amazing book. In three short chapters Joel tells the human story of despair and repair, a story of desolation and restoration, a story we all know, one of drought and rain. By the end of chapter two, which we have heard from today, the people, the Israelites, had already been through drought, famine, and locust invasions. The country was in ruins. And in the midst of the struggle there was a clear call for repentance and prayer. And in the midst of the repentance and prayer there was a merciful response from God. Our scripture today tells of fertility restored to the ground, fruit trees bearing abundant fruit, threshing floors and wine vats filled once again, and abundant covenant blessings. And it doesn’t stop there, doesn’t stop with material restoration, for after the land is healed, so are the people. The text says:
I will pour out my spirit on all flesh.
Your sons and your daughters shall prophesy.
Your old men shall dream dreams.
And your young men shall see visions.
Even on the male and female slaves in those days I will pour out my spirit.
Ahh – it’s a grand vision, an Anabaptist vision – this is that the church can be.
The three-week worship series we begin today on empowering God’s people starts right here in Joel chapter 2 with the creative love of God generously giving gifts to all. God fills us, empowers us to follow Jesus in our words and deeds and to use our gifts in service to the church. This text from Joel, echoed later in the Pentecost story of Acts 2 is a timeless passage that captures a key message from the biblical tradition.
All flesh, all God’s people have a role. Everyone in the congregation is a leader in their own way – prophesying, dreaming dreams, seeing visions. No matter who you are or where you are on life’s journey, God calls you followers of Jesus to a vocation of faith, to a ministry in this world. By virtue of God’s spirit pouring over us, no matter our station in life, no matter our age, race, housing status, or sexual orientation, we are gifted to minister.
Oh it’s a grand vision.
And then there’s what we really are. We are busy. We are tired. We are weary. And our dreams are restless. And the visions do not come.
JENNIFER DELANTY: I am exhausted. I am so tired. I just want to sit down. I just need to rest. This past week was so stressful at work and now half the weekend is already behind me. Everything I pushed off ‘til the weekend to get done around the house still isn’t finished, and I’ve gotta go back to work tomorrow. All the bills, housework and laundry are piling up and it didn’t help that I had to spend a few hours in the office yesterday just to keep up with the dozens of files sitting on my desk. (phew!)
We barely got here to church on time this morning. Motivating the kids to leave their warm beds and get up as they have to do during the school week is a challenge. I try to let them sleep a little longer; no matter how early I get them up, we still scramble to get properly dressed and eat breakfast so we can early enough to allow 30 minutes to get to church. Usually we leave with only 15-20 minutes to spare, though, including today. Tamping down their grumpiness and disagreements sure zaps my limited energy. The dreary rain and overcast skies didn’t help, either; I wanted to stay in bed, too.
But here we are, and I’m glad we’re here. But I’m just so tired! Would anyone think less of me if I just sat here and did nothing but rest? Would anyone fault me for coming to church just so I can have one hour out of the week away from the demands of work, home, marriage and parenting? Is it OK to just be? Most of my life feels like I’m a human doing in lieu of a human being. I’m not trying to have a pity party, I’m just so exhausted and overwhelmed by all the demands!
Goodness, tears are falling out of my eyes. I am so glad I’m here. I need this place of quiet rest, near to the heart of God. Help me find Your center, dear Lord, blanket me with Your peace. Help me calm down and just be, here and now.
Have you ever been caught in a downpour? I don’t mean the irritation that comes with one bad day; I mean a downpour: the struggle of having too many things to do for the time you have; chronic unemployment and question of your own worth; mental health struggles that the world doesn’t understand; managing kids and a job and a family and church responsibilities all in the space of one life. How many of us have been there? How many of us are there? How many of us will be there again.
The great teacher and preacher Barbara Brown Taylor explains. “Affirming the ministry of every baptized Christian is not an idea that appeals to many… people these days. It sounds like more work, and most… have all the work they can do. It sounds like more responsibility, while most… are staggering under loads that are already too heavy.” She tells a short story: “I will never forget the woman who listened to my speech on the ministry of [all God’s people] and said, ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t want to be that important.’” (The Preaching Life)
Joel’s potent call to the ministry and leadership of all of God’s people can feel more like a burden than a blessing.
Unless, unless the calling is less being and doing than we realize.
One of my teenage summers, my family was on our regular vacation from Kansas to Beaver Lake in northwest Arkansas. We had been out on a boat in the water when the thunderclouds that had been forming in the west swept over that Ozarks lake and caught us in a downpour. We made our way as fast as we could to the dock, and my dad navigated us into the covered boat slip. We were safe from the downpour, sheltered under the symphony that rain makes on a tin roof. What happened next shocked my teenage self. Instead of taking off his life jacket and hurrying toward the cabin like the rest of us, my dad hopped out of the boat, took three running steps and leapt into the lake, downpour and all.
Barbara Brown Taylor continues: “Like many of those who sit beside her at church, she hears the invitation as an invitation to do more – to lead the every member canvass, or cook supper for the homeless, or teach vacation church school. Or she hears the invitation to ministry as an invitation to be more – to be more generous, more loving, more religious.” … “No one has ever introduced her to the idea that her ministry might involve being just who she already is and doing just what she already does, with one difference: namely, that she understands herself to be God’s person in and for [God’s] world.”
I will pour out my spirit on all flesh.
Your sons and your daughters shall prophesy.
Your old men shall dream dreams.
And your young men shall see visions.
Even on the male and female slaves in those days I will pour out my spirit.
This one verse, Joel 2.28, despite what our active, busy minds might hear most, is less about doing, less about being, and more about pouring. The phrase “I will pour out my spirit” bookends our call; twice God says, I will pour out my spirit onto you. The text invites us to stay a while in the creative, generous abundance of God, to not move too quickly to the prophesying and dreaming.
Just in being who you are, you are leaders, you are ministers, you are channels of the spirit of God. The call is not a call to do more. It is not a call to be more. It is a call to name and claim what you are already doing as God’s. To see God pouring her abundant gifts onto her people. To see that you, people of God, have been caught in a downpour.
So I invite you to stay a while in the pouring of the spirit. And I invite you to return to it over and over again. Let it fall upon you and drench you in two seconds flat. Let it repair and restore you. Take three steps from under your tin roof… See yourself, at least in your best moments, as God’s person and not your own.
Have you ever been caught in a downpour?
When a spare moment comes to you sitting at your desk, riding the bus, searching for a job, wrestling with addiction, sitting with your family, remember you are God’s person. And let the spirit pour.
Seattle Mennonite Church
Joel 2.23-32
Have you ever been caught in a downpour?
I don’t mean the drizzle that passes for rain here in Seattle, those dry rains for which the natives don’t even pull out their umbrellas. I mean downpour – stop the car on the highway because you can’t see through the sheets of water rain. Soaked to the bone in two seconds flat rain. Thunderstorms sweeping over the Rocky Mountains and out onto the wide open plains rain. Knock you out of your normal, maybe there’s a reason humans talk so much about the weather rain. Restore the land in one afternoon after months of drought rain? Last summer there was one weekend in July when the rains came to my dad’s farm in south central Kansas. Three days it rained, and it saved the corn. A $50,000 rain, he said.
Have you ever been caught in a downpour?
The book of Joel is an overlooked part of our sacred scripture that offers a grand vision. Joel is a minor prophet, stuck between Hosea and Amos, one of those books that is hard to find when you’re looking for its three chapters within the 1,189 chapters of the Bible. But it’s an amazing book. In three short chapters Joel tells the human story of despair and repair, a story of desolation and restoration, a story we all know, one of drought and rain. By the end of chapter two, which we have heard from today, the people, the Israelites, had already been through drought, famine, and locust invasions. The country was in ruins. And in the midst of the struggle there was a clear call for repentance and prayer. And in the midst of the repentance and prayer there was a merciful response from God. Our scripture today tells of fertility restored to the ground, fruit trees bearing abundant fruit, threshing floors and wine vats filled once again, and abundant covenant blessings. And it doesn’t stop there, doesn’t stop with material restoration, for after the land is healed, so are the people. The text says:
I will pour out my spirit on all flesh.
Your sons and your daughters shall prophesy.
Your old men shall dream dreams.
And your young men shall see visions.
Even on the male and female slaves in those days I will pour out my spirit.
Ahh – it’s a grand vision, an Anabaptist vision – this is that the church can be.
The three-week worship series we begin today on empowering God’s people starts right here in Joel chapter 2 with the creative love of God generously giving gifts to all. God fills us, empowers us to follow Jesus in our words and deeds and to use our gifts in service to the church. This text from Joel, echoed later in the Pentecost story of Acts 2 is a timeless passage that captures a key message from the biblical tradition.
All flesh, all God’s people have a role. Everyone in the congregation is a leader in their own way – prophesying, dreaming dreams, seeing visions. No matter who you are or where you are on life’s journey, God calls you followers of Jesus to a vocation of faith, to a ministry in this world. By virtue of God’s spirit pouring over us, no matter our station in life, no matter our age, race, housing status, or sexual orientation, we are gifted to minister.
Oh it’s a grand vision.
And then there’s what we really are. We are busy. We are tired. We are weary. And our dreams are restless. And the visions do not come.
JENNIFER DELANTY: I am exhausted. I am so tired. I just want to sit down. I just need to rest. This past week was so stressful at work and now half the weekend is already behind me. Everything I pushed off ‘til the weekend to get done around the house still isn’t finished, and I’ve gotta go back to work tomorrow. All the bills, housework and laundry are piling up and it didn’t help that I had to spend a few hours in the office yesterday just to keep up with the dozens of files sitting on my desk. (phew!)
We barely got here to church on time this morning. Motivating the kids to leave their warm beds and get up as they have to do during the school week is a challenge. I try to let them sleep a little longer; no matter how early I get them up, we still scramble to get properly dressed and eat breakfast so we can early enough to allow 30 minutes to get to church. Usually we leave with only 15-20 minutes to spare, though, including today. Tamping down their grumpiness and disagreements sure zaps my limited energy. The dreary rain and overcast skies didn’t help, either; I wanted to stay in bed, too.
But here we are, and I’m glad we’re here. But I’m just so tired! Would anyone think less of me if I just sat here and did nothing but rest? Would anyone fault me for coming to church just so I can have one hour out of the week away from the demands of work, home, marriage and parenting? Is it OK to just be? Most of my life feels like I’m a human doing in lieu of a human being. I’m not trying to have a pity party, I’m just so exhausted and overwhelmed by all the demands!
Goodness, tears are falling out of my eyes. I am so glad I’m here. I need this place of quiet rest, near to the heart of God. Help me find Your center, dear Lord, blanket me with Your peace. Help me calm down and just be, here and now.
Have you ever been caught in a downpour? I don’t mean the irritation that comes with one bad day; I mean a downpour: the struggle of having too many things to do for the time you have; chronic unemployment and question of your own worth; mental health struggles that the world doesn’t understand; managing kids and a job and a family and church responsibilities all in the space of one life. How many of us have been there? How many of us are there? How many of us will be there again.
The great teacher and preacher Barbara Brown Taylor explains. “Affirming the ministry of every baptized Christian is not an idea that appeals to many… people these days. It sounds like more work, and most… have all the work they can do. It sounds like more responsibility, while most… are staggering under loads that are already too heavy.” She tells a short story: “I will never forget the woman who listened to my speech on the ministry of [all God’s people] and said, ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t want to be that important.’” (The Preaching Life)
Joel’s potent call to the ministry and leadership of all of God’s people can feel more like a burden than a blessing.
Unless, unless the calling is less being and doing than we realize.
One of my teenage summers, my family was on our regular vacation from Kansas to Beaver Lake in northwest Arkansas. We had been out on a boat in the water when the thunderclouds that had been forming in the west swept over that Ozarks lake and caught us in a downpour. We made our way as fast as we could to the dock, and my dad navigated us into the covered boat slip. We were safe from the downpour, sheltered under the symphony that rain makes on a tin roof. What happened next shocked my teenage self. Instead of taking off his life jacket and hurrying toward the cabin like the rest of us, my dad hopped out of the boat, took three running steps and leapt into the lake, downpour and all.
Barbara Brown Taylor continues: “Like many of those who sit beside her at church, she hears the invitation as an invitation to do more – to lead the every member canvass, or cook supper for the homeless, or teach vacation church school. Or she hears the invitation to ministry as an invitation to be more – to be more generous, more loving, more religious.” … “No one has ever introduced her to the idea that her ministry might involve being just who she already is and doing just what she already does, with one difference: namely, that she understands herself to be God’s person in and for [God’s] world.”
I will pour out my spirit on all flesh.
Your sons and your daughters shall prophesy.
Your old men shall dream dreams.
And your young men shall see visions.
Even on the male and female slaves in those days I will pour out my spirit.
This one verse, Joel 2.28, despite what our active, busy minds might hear most, is less about doing, less about being, and more about pouring. The phrase “I will pour out my spirit” bookends our call; twice God says, I will pour out my spirit onto you. The text invites us to stay a while in the creative, generous abundance of God, to not move too quickly to the prophesying and dreaming.
Just in being who you are, you are leaders, you are ministers, you are channels of the spirit of God. The call is not a call to do more. It is not a call to be more. It is a call to name and claim what you are already doing as God’s. To see God pouring her abundant gifts onto her people. To see that you, people of God, have been caught in a downpour.
So I invite you to stay a while in the pouring of the spirit. And I invite you to return to it over and over again. Let it fall upon you and drench you in two seconds flat. Let it repair and restore you. Take three steps from under your tin roof… See yourself, at least in your best moments, as God’s person and not your own.
Have you ever been caught in a downpour?
When a spare moment comes to you sitting at your desk, riding the bus, searching for a job, wrestling with addiction, sitting with your family, remember you are God’s person. And let the spirit pour.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
What Do You See?
Thursday night I hopped on my bike to ride the approximately six miles home from Lake City to Crown Hill, from northeast to northwest Seattle. It was about 10 p.m. and the Pastoral Care Team meeting at Seattle Mennonite Church had ended in time for me to finish up Sunday's worship order, send out an announcement for the "communicator" and gather up my sermon materials for writing and editing the next day. I've come to appreciate these night rides, when the traffic is light and the city is peaceful.
I pulled out of the courtyard onto 125th, and while I was waiting at the light to turn left onto Lake City Way, I noticed three teenage boys standing around a middle-age woman off of the corner between the bus stop and the ATM. I looked again and realized I had met the woman before, either at the drop-in or on the street. I looked again and realized, as the three boys walked away, that a transaction had just happened.
There's a man who I've come to know over the last few years of being around the church. He's a big man, sometimes loud and intimidating, sometimes overbearing and in my bubble space, sometimes charismatic and generally friendly. In our conversations, "Dan" will occasionally mention that he saw me the other day. Then he'll add, "But you didn't see me." He's right. I didn't see him. And because I didn't see him, I couldn't see him. Occasionally he'll go on to say, "We're everywhere. Do you see us?"
So much depends on where we look and how we look.
Outside the Greenwood library the other day there were two people, a man and a woman smoking. I passed by them and smelled alcohol from about ten feet away. My instinct, my gut reaction was to look away, to pretend like I didn't see, to go on with my business, and to forget they were there. To walk past the lingering smell into fresh, pure air and to forget about their second hand clothes. To cycle comfortably on into my own privilege, my small and heated apartment, my meaningful work. To never be changed and formed, to never be disrupted.
I'm six and a half weeks into my year as a Mennonite pastor. Each week I see something new. Of course there are the worship experiences, the meetings, the joyous time with our youth, the visioning and listening and accompanying tasks of the pastor. But my true formation as a person of God is wrapped somehow into the transaction Thursday night off the corner of 125th and Lake City Way. I'm not sure what that means yet, but the question persists: what do you see?
I pulled out of the courtyard onto 125th, and while I was waiting at the light to turn left onto Lake City Way, I noticed three teenage boys standing around a middle-age woman off of the corner between the bus stop and the ATM. I looked again and realized I had met the woman before, either at the drop-in or on the street. I looked again and realized, as the three boys walked away, that a transaction had just happened.
There's a man who I've come to know over the last few years of being around the church. He's a big man, sometimes loud and intimidating, sometimes overbearing and in my bubble space, sometimes charismatic and generally friendly. In our conversations, "Dan" will occasionally mention that he saw me the other day. Then he'll add, "But you didn't see me." He's right. I didn't see him. And because I didn't see him, I couldn't see him. Occasionally he'll go on to say, "We're everywhere. Do you see us?"
So much depends on where we look and how we look.
Outside the Greenwood library the other day there were two people, a man and a woman smoking. I passed by them and smelled alcohol from about ten feet away. My instinct, my gut reaction was to look away, to pretend like I didn't see, to go on with my business, and to forget they were there. To walk past the lingering smell into fresh, pure air and to forget about their second hand clothes. To cycle comfortably on into my own privilege, my small and heated apartment, my meaningful work. To never be changed and formed, to never be disrupted.
I'm six and a half weeks into my year as a Mennonite pastor. Each week I see something new. Of course there are the worship experiences, the meetings, the joyous time with our youth, the visioning and listening and accompanying tasks of the pastor. But my true formation as a person of God is wrapped somehow into the transaction Thursday night off the corner of 125th and Lake City Way. I'm not sure what that means yet, but the question persists: what do you see?
Sunday, September 19, 2010
The Word becomes
Seattle Mennonite Church
September 19, 2010
We turn our attention to the convictions that connect us as a global Mennonite community, beyond the Pacific Northwest Conference and beyond Mennonite Church USA to include the worldwide communion of those who practice the Mennonite faith.
As Melanie has reminded us, today is the second Sunday in our series “Believing Together.” We continue to turn our attention to the convictions that connect us as a global Mennonite community, beyond the Pacific Northwest Conference and beyond Mennonite Church USA to include the worldwide communion of those who practice the Mennonite faith.
Last week our worship celebrated the triune expression of God as creator, Christ, and spirit. Weldon began the sermon time by posing this question to us: “If someone asked, ‘Do you believe in one God or three gods?’ how would you answer?” Someone very witty and clever sitting in my vicinity simply answered, “Yes.” I, on the other hand, was stumped and quickly bumbled through a long series of questions in my head, which of course remain unresolved. Ah the mysteries of our faith.
This week in believing together we turn to our sacred text, the Bible as authority for faith and life. So I want to begin by saying right from the get-go – the scripture as authority for our obedience – no less a mystery, no less the object of confusion, no less deserving of bumbling responses. And so with that, Lord please bless the speaking and hearing of this word.
Today as a congregation we affirmed the authority of scripture in this place and beyond. Consider for example some of today’s bumper sticker theology:
In many ways this reverence for scripture was the trademark of the Protestant Reformation that began in the first half of the sixteenth century, nearly 500 years ago. Religious reformers began to pull away from the comprehensive authority of the Roman Catholic Church, insisting that scripture alone was the authority for faith. Anyone could read scripture; anyone could meet God in the Bible; anyone could interpret the mysteries of the faith.
The early Anabaptists were the most radical of the breakaway groups, insisting even more stringently on the literal authority of scripture for faith and life. One of the early leaders, Menno Simons, for whom we Mennonites are named wrote in 1539-40, “No one of a rational mind will be so foolish as to deny that the whole Scriptures, both the Old and New Testament, were written for our instruction, admonition, and correction, and that they are the true scepter and rule by which the Lord’s kingdom, house, church, and congregation must be ruled and governed.” He goes on to say, “Everything contrary to Scripture, therefore, whether it be doctrines, beliefs, sacraments, worship, or life, should be measured by this infallible rule.” (from Foundation of Christian Doctrine) The Word becomes infallible rule.
Menno Simons understood his life, his personhood, his experiences in the world through the framework of scripture. And other Anabaptists did as well, literally immersing their lives in the biblical texts. As the stories go, untrained lay brethren easily matched wits with trained doctors of theology who questioned them about scripture. Some folks made it their goal to memorize one hundred chapters of the New Testament, which is equivalent to Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Philippians, Colossians, and 2 Timothy. Really – can you imagine? Indeed profound affirmations of the authority of scripture are writ large on our history as a people.
But a recent article in our denomination’s monthly periodical describes a vastly different Mennonite biblical landscape. Mennonite professors lament decreasing biblical literacy among their incoming college students, students who don’t know the story, how the pieces of our sacred scripture fit together. Young people, or maybe all people are not receiving the comprehensive biblical formation needed to carry on the Biblicism, the reverence for scripture of those who have come before. Some would say it’s the end of our faith as we know it.
And no wonder, for the Bible looks different than it used to. Thanks to a couple of centuries of biblical scholarship, we know that the Bible was composed over many years by many authors from many different places. We know that none of the original manuscripts exist today and that many of the first manuscripts were the second or third version of oral histories, each account tweaked or adapted in some way. We know that different, even contradictory perspectives are captured in these texts. not to mention the books that didn’t make it into the Bible, not to mention the fact that the canon, our 66 books of scripture, was not set until the year 367, nearly three hundred years after the latest book was written. And besides all these textual and canonical and historical inconsistencies and puzzles, there are the theological ones:
Our sacred scripture, our beloved Bible, our rule for faith and life has decisively patriarchal narratives, stories of colonialism and domination, religious exclusivism and persecution of those who think or believe differently. It is at times homophobic, racist, xenophobic, and exceedingly violent. At other times it is baffling, and that at worst – at absolute worst, it seems irrelevant, with nothing to say for our time and this place. The Word becomes oppressive, the Word becomes dangerous, the Word becomes disconnected from our experiences as human beings.
There are certainly biblical scholars, theologians, and otherwise devoted people some in our midst today, who dig into the text with profound wisdom, who sort through these difficulties for the keys to our faith. But for many of us, when we look at the formation of our sacred scriptures, and when we hold up our biggest questions to them, these sacred Words of God don’t seem so sacred. They don’t seem inspired. They don’t even seem like they matter. In fact, our anxious response is often to disengage, to shut down and stop asking the questions, to leave the Bible to the experts and to turn to something that seems more immediate and more important for our lives.
Do we give up on the Bible? Do we look for a better book? Do we cut out the disturbing parts? Do we simply hang on to our favorite themes and discard the rest? Is it the end of our biblical faith as we once knew it? What’s a modern Mennonite to do?
This morning may I suggest that we start again at the beginning.
John chapter one: In the beginning there was the Word; the Word was in God’s presence, and the Word was God. The Word was present to God from the beginning. Through the Word all things came into being… Through the Word was life and the Word took on flesh.
From the very beginning, words were important. In the first creation account, Genesis chapter 1, in the beginning God created by speaking words: “And God said, ‘Let the be light..’ And there was light.” Words, these words of ours are important.
John chapter one again – In the beginning there was the Word. Through the Word was life and the Word took on flesh. You know what happens when Words take on flesh. When the eternal is thrust into the temporal, when ideas and dreams fall into reality and the text comes off the page. You know that flesh covers bones and muscles, which break and scrape and tear. Flesh is something you feel with your own hands and see with your own eyes. Word become flesh doubts and cries and bleeds and later is crucified.
We are people of the Word. Without the Word, we are not a people. Our scripture is not sacred and authoritative because each letter and verse is true or because it was dictated by the holy spirit or because it is a decree for how we should live. The Bible is not a flesh free of scars or sins, and yes it is filled with contradictions. Yet it is authoritative because from the beginning we came to it, and today to the Word we return, seeking a fresh interpretation.
Each time we open this sacred book the Word becomes again, for each time we open it our own flesh has changed, hearts that carry a new scar or souls that sing a new joy. It is not what the Word becomes. It is that it becomes again and again. And each time we come, we are welcomed to come again, to pose a new question and let the spirit uncover a new possibility for interpretation.
The Word of God is more dynamic than we ever thought possible and more inclusive than we’ve been taught before. The horizon of the text stretches from the 1st century to today and beyond. And the Word still acts upon us as we look to Jesus as a model for discipleship, for thinking and acting in the world. As we find comfort in the words of the Psalms or advice or instruction in one of Paul’s epistle or a story of justice in the prophets of old. The Word still acts upon us we ask of it our most difficult questions and ask them again and again. There’s some inspiration in this, something life-affirming here, something that encourages wholeness and brings us closer to our best forms of being together.
We are co-creators in this Word as with each interpretation it becomes flesh again. No question is to great, no struggle too small – all that is required is that we come again to be the people of the Word.
September 19, 2010
We turn our attention to the convictions that connect us as a global Mennonite community, beyond the Pacific Northwest Conference and beyond Mennonite Church USA to include the worldwide communion of those who practice the Mennonite faith.
As Melanie has reminded us, today is the second Sunday in our series “Believing Together.” We continue to turn our attention to the convictions that connect us as a global Mennonite community, beyond the Pacific Northwest Conference and beyond Mennonite Church USA to include the worldwide communion of those who practice the Mennonite faith.
Last week our worship celebrated the triune expression of God as creator, Christ, and spirit. Weldon began the sermon time by posing this question to us: “If someone asked, ‘Do you believe in one God or three gods?’ how would you answer?” Someone very witty and clever sitting in my vicinity simply answered, “Yes.” I, on the other hand, was stumped and quickly bumbled through a long series of questions in my head, which of course remain unresolved. Ah the mysteries of our faith.
This week in believing together we turn to our sacred text, the Bible as authority for faith and life. So I want to begin by saying right from the get-go – the scripture as authority for our obedience – no less a mystery, no less the object of confusion, no less deserving of bumbling responses. And so with that, Lord please bless the speaking and hearing of this word.
Today as a congregation we affirmed the authority of scripture in this place and beyond. Consider for example some of today’s bumper sticker theology:
- BIBLE: Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth
- Or how about this one: “If your Bible is falling apart, chances are that your life is staying together.”
- Oh, and there’s the church sign that says, “Get off Facebook and get into my book. – God”
In many ways this reverence for scripture was the trademark of the Protestant Reformation that began in the first half of the sixteenth century, nearly 500 years ago. Religious reformers began to pull away from the comprehensive authority of the Roman Catholic Church, insisting that scripture alone was the authority for faith. Anyone could read scripture; anyone could meet God in the Bible; anyone could interpret the mysteries of the faith.
The early Anabaptists were the most radical of the breakaway groups, insisting even more stringently on the literal authority of scripture for faith and life. One of the early leaders, Menno Simons, for whom we Mennonites are named wrote in 1539-40, “No one of a rational mind will be so foolish as to deny that the whole Scriptures, both the Old and New Testament, were written for our instruction, admonition, and correction, and that they are the true scepter and rule by which the Lord’s kingdom, house, church, and congregation must be ruled and governed.” He goes on to say, “Everything contrary to Scripture, therefore, whether it be doctrines, beliefs, sacraments, worship, or life, should be measured by this infallible rule.” (from Foundation of Christian Doctrine) The Word becomes infallible rule.
Menno Simons understood his life, his personhood, his experiences in the world through the framework of scripture. And other Anabaptists did as well, literally immersing their lives in the biblical texts. As the stories go, untrained lay brethren easily matched wits with trained doctors of theology who questioned them about scripture. Some folks made it their goal to memorize one hundred chapters of the New Testament, which is equivalent to Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Philippians, Colossians, and 2 Timothy. Really – can you imagine? Indeed profound affirmations of the authority of scripture are writ large on our history as a people.
But a recent article in our denomination’s monthly periodical describes a vastly different Mennonite biblical landscape. Mennonite professors lament decreasing biblical literacy among their incoming college students, students who don’t know the story, how the pieces of our sacred scripture fit together. Young people, or maybe all people are not receiving the comprehensive biblical formation needed to carry on the Biblicism, the reverence for scripture of those who have come before. Some would say it’s the end of our faith as we know it.
And no wonder, for the Bible looks different than it used to. Thanks to a couple of centuries of biblical scholarship, we know that the Bible was composed over many years by many authors from many different places. We know that none of the original manuscripts exist today and that many of the first manuscripts were the second or third version of oral histories, each account tweaked or adapted in some way. We know that different, even contradictory perspectives are captured in these texts. not to mention the books that didn’t make it into the Bible, not to mention the fact that the canon, our 66 books of scripture, was not set until the year 367, nearly three hundred years after the latest book was written. And besides all these textual and canonical and historical inconsistencies and puzzles, there are the theological ones:
Our sacred scripture, our beloved Bible, our rule for faith and life has decisively patriarchal narratives, stories of colonialism and domination, religious exclusivism and persecution of those who think or believe differently. It is at times homophobic, racist, xenophobic, and exceedingly violent. At other times it is baffling, and that at worst – at absolute worst, it seems irrelevant, with nothing to say for our time and this place. The Word becomes oppressive, the Word becomes dangerous, the Word becomes disconnected from our experiences as human beings.
There are certainly biblical scholars, theologians, and otherwise devoted people some in our midst today, who dig into the text with profound wisdom, who sort through these difficulties for the keys to our faith. But for many of us, when we look at the formation of our sacred scriptures, and when we hold up our biggest questions to them, these sacred Words of God don’t seem so sacred. They don’t seem inspired. They don’t even seem like they matter. In fact, our anxious response is often to disengage, to shut down and stop asking the questions, to leave the Bible to the experts and to turn to something that seems more immediate and more important for our lives.
Do we give up on the Bible? Do we look for a better book? Do we cut out the disturbing parts? Do we simply hang on to our favorite themes and discard the rest? Is it the end of our biblical faith as we once knew it? What’s a modern Mennonite to do?
This morning may I suggest that we start again at the beginning.
John chapter one: In the beginning there was the Word; the Word was in God’s presence, and the Word was God. The Word was present to God from the beginning. Through the Word all things came into being… Through the Word was life and the Word took on flesh.
From the very beginning, words were important. In the first creation account, Genesis chapter 1, in the beginning God created by speaking words: “And God said, ‘Let the be light..’ And there was light.” Words, these words of ours are important.
John chapter one again – In the beginning there was the Word. Through the Word was life and the Word took on flesh. You know what happens when Words take on flesh. When the eternal is thrust into the temporal, when ideas and dreams fall into reality and the text comes off the page. You know that flesh covers bones and muscles, which break and scrape and tear. Flesh is something you feel with your own hands and see with your own eyes. Word become flesh doubts and cries and bleeds and later is crucified.
We are people of the Word. Without the Word, we are not a people. Our scripture is not sacred and authoritative because each letter and verse is true or because it was dictated by the holy spirit or because it is a decree for how we should live. The Bible is not a flesh free of scars or sins, and yes it is filled with contradictions. Yet it is authoritative because from the beginning we came to it, and today to the Word we return, seeking a fresh interpretation.
Each time we open this sacred book the Word becomes again, for each time we open it our own flesh has changed, hearts that carry a new scar or souls that sing a new joy. It is not what the Word becomes. It is that it becomes again and again. And each time we come, we are welcomed to come again, to pose a new question and let the spirit uncover a new possibility for interpretation.
The Word of God is more dynamic than we ever thought possible and more inclusive than we’ve been taught before. The horizon of the text stretches from the 1st century to today and beyond. And the Word still acts upon us as we look to Jesus as a model for discipleship, for thinking and acting in the world. As we find comfort in the words of the Psalms or advice or instruction in one of Paul’s epistle or a story of justice in the prophets of old. The Word still acts upon us we ask of it our most difficult questions and ask them again and again. There’s some inspiration in this, something life-affirming here, something that encourages wholeness and brings us closer to our best forms of being together.
We are co-creators in this Word as with each interpretation it becomes flesh again. No question is to great, no struggle too small – all that is required is that we come again to be the people of the Word.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
A little update...
It's been a wild few weeks.
The senior minister at the church where I work is taking a family leave of absence, which has vaulted me into worship and pastoral care roles at church. Here are some of the fruits of my labor:
"Our Determined Hope"
(June 17, 2010)
"Harvest Time"
(July 4, 2010)
You can listen to the sermons by clicking on the link on the left side of the page.
We've also started chicken- and house-sitting for Rob and Lee while they are cavorting around the country on their Great American Road Trip. It is a joy to mow the lawn and do the watering. I'm not being facetious. I really enjoy doing these things.
AND, Megan and Brad spent an adventure-filled week with us that included things like...
... axing crabs on a chopping block. This was after we went out on the Puget Sound in Kevin and Nancy's boat, the Frankie R. (namesake: Francis Regier/Horan, our great aunt and Grandma Donna's sister). We pulled up the pots Kevin had set early that morning, coincidentally the opening day of crabbing season, Dungeness in case you're wondering. Then we selected the biggest ones, took them home, killed and cleaned them, grilled them, and feasted on the succulent white meat.
... visiting the cloud enshrouded Mount St. Helens. It's prime Bigfoot country out there, and we think we may have seen traces of the elusive Sasquatch. We never did see the top of the mountain, though.
... a trip to the majestic and freezing cold Pacific Ocean. It was Brad's first ever glimpse of salt water, and we experienced childhood once again, collecting pretty rocks and sand dollars on the beach.
The trip also included obligatory trips into the kitschy tourist shops in Westport and the traditional purchase of saltwater taffy.
... and finally we had the pleasure of seeing the Kansas City Royals beat the lowly Seattle Mariners. It was fun to be in Seattle and see Kansas fan gear, including a few folks in Jayhawks t-shirts.
All photo credits to Megan, who no doubt will be adding some of her own blog updates about the Kohlman's adventure to the wild Pacific Northwest.
In other news, it appears that summer sun is here to stay in Seattle. Finally. One squash is growing in my container garden, and the tomato plant is poised for summer abundance. I have two containers filled with fallow land after the carrots and lettuce have been eaten and the vegetable waste plowed under to return some nutrients to the soil, maybe. We're accepting all suggestions for summer grilling that doesn't involve meat (Jamie's a vegetarian), because it's simply not healthy to be using the oven or stove in this hot weather, living without air conditioning above a garage and all.
Tomorrow we have more relatives coming out for a visit and in a week and a half, people will begin to converge here to celebrate Jamie's ordination as minister in the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ). Then I'll be taking 16 youth on a mission trip to the Yakama Christian Mission, and THEN we'll be headed to Kansas and Arkansas for summer vacation the first week in August. Good times.
The senior minister at the church where I work is taking a family leave of absence, which has vaulted me into worship and pastoral care roles at church. Here are some of the fruits of my labor:
"Our Determined Hope"
(June 17, 2010)
"Harvest Time"
(July 4, 2010)
You can listen to the sermons by clicking on the link on the left side of the page.
We've also started chicken- and house-sitting for Rob and Lee while they are cavorting around the country on their Great American Road Trip. It is a joy to mow the lawn and do the watering. I'm not being facetious. I really enjoy doing these things.
AND, Megan and Brad spent an adventure-filled week with us that included things like...
... and finally we had the pleasure of seeing the Kansas City Royals beat the lowly Seattle Mariners. It was fun to be in Seattle and see Kansas fan gear, including a few folks in Jayhawks t-shirts.
All photo credits to Megan, who no doubt will be adding some of her own blog updates about the Kohlman's adventure to the wild Pacific Northwest.
In other news, it appears that summer sun is here to stay in Seattle. Finally. One squash is growing in my container garden, and the tomato plant is poised for summer abundance. I have two containers filled with fallow land after the carrots and lettuce have been eaten and the vegetable waste plowed under to return some nutrients to the soil, maybe. We're accepting all suggestions for summer grilling that doesn't involve meat (Jamie's a vegetarian), because it's simply not healthy to be using the oven or stove in this hot weather, living without air conditioning above a garage and all.
Tomorrow we have more relatives coming out for a visit and in a week and a half, people will begin to converge here to celebrate Jamie's ordination as minister in the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ). Then I'll be taking 16 youth on a mission trip to the Yakama Christian Mission, and THEN we'll be headed to Kansas and Arkansas for summer vacation the first week in August. Good times.
Monday, June 7, 2010
The Sacred Pilgrimage
My favorite day of the week is Monday.
Monday is the day in which I take my sacred pilgrimage to acquire food for the week. I dream some day of balancing my consumption with production, of some day taking my sacred pilgrimage out to a large garden or down to a pantry stocked with foods grown by God and picked, prepared, and dried or canned by my own two hands. For now I get to choose between Safeway, QFC, Lenny's Produce, and the new Grocery Outlet.
After my sophomore year of college I moved out of the dorms with their convenient cafeteria fare and into my first apartment at 949 S. Kickapoo in Springfield, Missouri. Those were the old days when Buzz and I rented a two bedroom apartment for $375 a month. Those were also the days when I began to love shopping for groceries. The options were fewer there, and I went up the road to the Dillons on National Avenue just a mile or so north of the university. I'd start with the staples: cheese, yogurt, bread and then wind my way around the store in orderly fashion.
But come to think of it, perhaps I began loving the grocery store longer ago. My brave mother used to take the four of us kids along with her into town. We'd stock up, literally a grocery cart piled to the brim. A family of six goes through a lot of food in a week, and from the farm we couldn't just walk over to get some more margarine like Jamie and I often do today. Mom would deploy us on little missions through the store, the ever-moving cart being the home base. Sometimes it was scary to go to the next aisle over. I much preferred jumping over the tan tiles on the Dillons floor, staying within sight of mom.
I didn't realize it back then, but getting to know a grocery store is like getting to know a person. It happens over time, and there are many layers, high and low, front to back. I've learned to reach behind the front row of milk to the fresher stuff because there's no way I can drink half a gallon in just three or four days. I've learned there were some things I just have to ask about, though often that has involved my shy self calling mom or one of my grandmas before talking to a store employee. In fact, I still remember Grandma Lu directing me to the hominy that was to later star in that week's white chicken chili.
Getting to know a grocery store is like getting to know a place too. You weave in and out of the aisles, tying yourself to the shelves and the walls and the tiles on the floor. A store has a certain smell and plays a certain kind of generic music, even when the music is completely ill-fitted to the culture of the neighborhood. Some stores, usually in lower income neighborhoods, have bruised produce that you have to sort through and that remind you of your participation in systems of domination and oppression.
It's disorienting to be in a new grocery store, but after a while you get to know the place. You learn to buy things on sale. You learn when the store brand is just fine and when you need to pay the fifty cents extra for the name brand. You learn the people who work there, for sure by face and if you're not shy, perhaps by name and other things. They recognize you too, at least if you're like me and wear the same pair of sweats and baseball cap every Monday morning.
A new favorite singer/songwriter of mine is Carrie Newcomer. She's a Midwestern folksinger, a Quaker with deep spiritual roots, a strong sense of place, and a gift for expressing the profound. She has a song called "Holy As A Day is Spent." It doesn't mention buying food, but it might as well for the sacredness it finds in our pilgrimages through the ordinary.
Monday is the day in which I take my sacred pilgrimage to acquire food for the week. I dream some day of balancing my consumption with production, of some day taking my sacred pilgrimage out to a large garden or down to a pantry stocked with foods grown by God and picked, prepared, and dried or canned by my own two hands. For now I get to choose between Safeway, QFC, Lenny's Produce, and the new Grocery Outlet.
After my sophomore year of college I moved out of the dorms with their convenient cafeteria fare and into my first apartment at 949 S. Kickapoo in Springfield, Missouri. Those were the old days when Buzz and I rented a two bedroom apartment for $375 a month. Those were also the days when I began to love shopping for groceries. The options were fewer there, and I went up the road to the Dillons on National Avenue just a mile or so north of the university. I'd start with the staples: cheese, yogurt, bread and then wind my way around the store in orderly fashion.
But come to think of it, perhaps I began loving the grocery store longer ago. My brave mother used to take the four of us kids along with her into town. We'd stock up, literally a grocery cart piled to the brim. A family of six goes through a lot of food in a week, and from the farm we couldn't just walk over to get some more margarine like Jamie and I often do today. Mom would deploy us on little missions through the store, the ever-moving cart being the home base. Sometimes it was scary to go to the next aisle over. I much preferred jumping over the tan tiles on the Dillons floor, staying within sight of mom.
I didn't realize it back then, but getting to know a grocery store is like getting to know a person. It happens over time, and there are many layers, high and low, front to back. I've learned to reach behind the front row of milk to the fresher stuff because there's no way I can drink half a gallon in just three or four days. I've learned there were some things I just have to ask about, though often that has involved my shy self calling mom or one of my grandmas before talking to a store employee. In fact, I still remember Grandma Lu directing me to the hominy that was to later star in that week's white chicken chili.
Getting to know a grocery store is like getting to know a place too. You weave in and out of the aisles, tying yourself to the shelves and the walls and the tiles on the floor. A store has a certain smell and plays a certain kind of generic music, even when the music is completely ill-fitted to the culture of the neighborhood. Some stores, usually in lower income neighborhoods, have bruised produce that you have to sort through and that remind you of your participation in systems of domination and oppression.
It's disorienting to be in a new grocery store, but after a while you get to know the place. You learn to buy things on sale. You learn when the store brand is just fine and when you need to pay the fifty cents extra for the name brand. You learn the people who work there, for sure by face and if you're not shy, perhaps by name and other things. They recognize you too, at least if you're like me and wear the same pair of sweats and baseball cap every Monday morning.
A new favorite singer/songwriter of mine is Carrie Newcomer. She's a Midwestern folksinger, a Quaker with deep spiritual roots, a strong sense of place, and a gift for expressing the profound. She has a song called "Holy As A Day is Spent." It doesn't mention buying food, but it might as well for the sacredness it finds in our pilgrimages through the ordinary.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Another Sewing Project
Memorial Day weekend has dawned in Seattle and as can be expected, the skies are gray, the temperature is in the 50s, and it's been raining/drizzling off and on all day. Lately I've had to face the fact that I am a fair weather outdoors person. This means today was an indoor day, despite the mild and manageable weather and despite the many things happening around the city.
So I sewed Jamie a skirt. This project turned out much better than my last sewing project, the ill-fated shirt. It took only 4-5 hours and would take much less time if I were ever to try the pattern again, seeing as how this is the first time I've installed a zipper since the old grade school 4-H days (thank you Harvey County East Lakers).
There are only two shaky parts of the project - my poor tailoring skills that led to cutting out the completely wrong size and having to adjust mid-project and the hem, which should not be examined closely though the fullness of the skirt hides my shoddy work-womanship. The length may be a little awkward too, depending on who you ask. Nevertheless, I think there's a good chance Jamie might even wear the product as a casual skirt. Sewing success!
Here's a little look, the eye, hook and zipper and Jamie graciously modeling:
So I sewed Jamie a skirt. This project turned out much better than my last sewing project, the ill-fated shirt. It took only 4-5 hours and would take much less time if I were ever to try the pattern again, seeing as how this is the first time I've installed a zipper since the old grade school 4-H days (thank you Harvey County East Lakers).
There are only two shaky parts of the project - my poor tailoring skills that led to cutting out the completely wrong size and having to adjust mid-project and the hem, which should not be examined closely though the fullness of the skirt hides my shoddy work-womanship. The length may be a little awkward too, depending on who you ask. Nevertheless, I think there's a good chance Jamie might even wear the product as a casual skirt. Sewing success!
Here's a little look, the eye, hook and zipper and Jamie graciously modeling:
Monday, May 10, 2010
Nashville Flood
Last week Middle Tennessee flooded. The city of Nashville shut down. Vanderbilt postponed its final exams. It was bad deal. It is a bad, bad deal. Jamie's been out in Tennessee the last few days on a trip that was planned a long time ago. She's seen first hand some of the damage and spent an afternoon of her vacation working. Today she's in Clarksville and says its bad there too as we've heard it is around the entire region.
In case you haven't been to Nashville, here's the lay of the land. The Cumberland River flows right through the city, separating East Nashville from downtown and the west side. It runs right by L.P. Field where the Tennessee Titans play football and downtown basically sits in the river valley. Last Monday, the river crested at 51 odd feet, 12 feet above flood stage. The surrounding creeks and rivers also overflowed their banks after the region received 13-17 inches of rain in two days. The damage is widespread. Entire neighborhoods were soaked including the West Nashville neighborhood where Jamie and I lived last year. The house we rented will have to be gutted and restored in order to be livable again. Our church, Hobson United Methodist, was also hit and is having their first big work effort this Thursday through Sunday.
The waters have receded this week, but clean-up will take a long, long time and a lot of money and effort.
The national news is providing some coverage, though I can't help but wonder why Middle Tennessee has been virtually absent from the Seattle Times this past week. The Tennessean is a better place to look for info, including non-professional coverage and some remarkable stories about the cooperation and camaraderie that Nashvillians have shown throughout the disaster. Volunteers are already pouring forth as well; it is the Volunteer State, after all.
Here's a music video complete with pictures. It's heartbreaking, especially for those of us who lived there but can't be there now. If you want to help, check out what the Disciples of Christ's Week of Compassion is doing there. Tennessee is well populated with Disciples, and this is an organization that is an excellent steward of its resources and money. Mennonite Disaster Service is exploring the area to see what kind of response it will provide.
In case you haven't been to Nashville, here's the lay of the land. The Cumberland River flows right through the city, separating East Nashville from downtown and the west side. It runs right by L.P. Field where the Tennessee Titans play football and downtown basically sits in the river valley. Last Monday, the river crested at 51 odd feet, 12 feet above flood stage. The surrounding creeks and rivers also overflowed their banks after the region received 13-17 inches of rain in two days. The damage is widespread. Entire neighborhoods were soaked including the West Nashville neighborhood where Jamie and I lived last year. The house we rented will have to be gutted and restored in order to be livable again. Our church, Hobson United Methodist, was also hit and is having their first big work effort this Thursday through Sunday.
The waters have receded this week, but clean-up will take a long, long time and a lot of money and effort.
The national news is providing some coverage, though I can't help but wonder why Middle Tennessee has been virtually absent from the Seattle Times this past week. The Tennessean is a better place to look for info, including non-professional coverage and some remarkable stories about the cooperation and camaraderie that Nashvillians have shown throughout the disaster. Volunteers are already pouring forth as well; it is the Volunteer State, after all.
Here's a music video complete with pictures. It's heartbreaking, especially for those of us who lived there but can't be there now. If you want to help, check out what the Disciples of Christ's Week of Compassion is doing there. Tennessee is well populated with Disciples, and this is an organization that is an excellent steward of its resources and money. Mennonite Disaster Service is exploring the area to see what kind of response it will provide.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Writing Retreat
Last week I spent two days over on the "east side" as Washingtonians call the other side of the Cascade Mountains. I had signed up for a writing retreat after receiving a serendipitous invitation from Dave Bell who is one of the pastors at the mission where the Richmond Beach UCC youth are going this summer. Dave is a Disciples of Christ pastor, and runs, along with his wife Belinda, a 40 acre farm where they hosted the retreat.
My time there fit seamlessly with my new dedication to Wendell Berry, with the loss I feel in this lush, green, mountainous landscape, and with my rural upbringing. Out there near White Swan, in the Yakima Valley, fields are everywhere: fruit trees, vineyards, hops, alfalfa, hay. The protected hills are barren of trees, and only the extensive system of irrigation ditches allows the valley to be as fruitful as it is. During the retreat itself, we considered some of these themes, in conversations and in our intentional writing on "place." I felt entirely home with the few other pastor-types who were there, who also had stories of displacement and love of rural places, who know that this city may never be truly home. Here is the most cohesive piece I wrote while retreating to the farm:
Thinking of place reminds me of home, which reminds me of the sky.
What day was it that God made the sky? I can never remember these things - something about a dome, something poetic and holy. Something worthy of our praise, and I can see why God made it after all, and who else could pull off something like this?
Growing up the sky was our source for all things. The sky brought our weather, the rain that nourished the winter wheat and quenched the spring corn, giving it enough moisture to make it through the three weeks of consecutive triple digit days in July. The sky withheld the rain too, in the drought of 2002 and others every few years since before my time or anyone else's. The sky giveth and the sky taketh away. Blessed be the name.
In 1990, the sky brought its usual green to compliment the bright vibrant blue. The year was particularly one for tornadoes, especially the Kansas part of tornado alley, and the same wind storm that knocked down branches in Whitewater produced a funnel cloud that knocked down one barn and several grain bins on the Klaassen farm. It blew out the screened-in porch, Dad's study, and a whole bunch of glass right before taking a couple of cows for a wild and fatal ride.
By the time the county sheriff showed up that evening, the sky was gray and innocent, and by the time the church folk arrived later that week to pick up dime-sized fragments of glass the sky was back to its vibrant blue self. The rubble from a tornado is nasty - twisted and shredded and splintered into thousands of pieces, any of which could carry tetanus or other infections. Clean-up takes many hands and many hours. Praise God that the sky provides a dome to work under.
When I was twenty-three, not so long ago really, I took a trip to a pastor's cluster meeting out in Western Kansas. The two pastors who invited me out were full of good humor, but the thing I'll always remember from that trip was an off-handed comment with serious connotations for my future. We'd stopped near a wind farm to check out the roadside informational marker there on U.S. Highway 50. When we stepped out of the car and looked around, Lou Gomez said this: "The sky is bigger in Dodge." Dodge City, Kansas, along the path of many Old Western cattle drives and current home of slaughterhouses. The sky is bigger in Dodge, 180 degrees in fact, horizon to horizon, uninterrupted by hills or mountains.
Some people say it makes them dizzy or that it frightens them or makes them anxious. For me it just feels like home, opening the spirit and body and abruptly placing back into perspective the stresses of those places that are not so broad nor so immanent nor so imminent as the sky.
Now I live in Seattle and the sky still gives life. It makes things green - everything green, it seems like. They sky gives and gives in consistent but small portions. No downpours and none of that tense, life-giving violence from thunder and lightning. In the summers it is vibrant blue and in the summers it is settled and gray but almost nothing in between. I miss the contrast of the cloud shadows scattered across the land. Here the sky takes from me something more than my house or a few cattle. It takes my freedom and my openness. It shoves me into the ground, cowering in that ever smaller place between mountain and clouds.
I wish I could see it differently, but then again I don't, because for me so far, there's only one home.
My time there fit seamlessly with my new dedication to Wendell Berry, with the loss I feel in this lush, green, mountainous landscape, and with my rural upbringing. Out there near White Swan, in the Yakima Valley, fields are everywhere: fruit trees, vineyards, hops, alfalfa, hay. The protected hills are barren of trees, and only the extensive system of irrigation ditches allows the valley to be as fruitful as it is. During the retreat itself, we considered some of these themes, in conversations and in our intentional writing on "place." I felt entirely home with the few other pastor-types who were there, who also had stories of displacement and love of rural places, who know that this city may never be truly home. Here is the most cohesive piece I wrote while retreating to the farm:
Thinking of place reminds me of home, which reminds me of the sky.
What day was it that God made the sky? I can never remember these things - something about a dome, something poetic and holy. Something worthy of our praise, and I can see why God made it after all, and who else could pull off something like this?
Growing up the sky was our source for all things. The sky brought our weather, the rain that nourished the winter wheat and quenched the spring corn, giving it enough moisture to make it through the three weeks of consecutive triple digit days in July. The sky withheld the rain too, in the drought of 2002 and others every few years since before my time or anyone else's. The sky giveth and the sky taketh away. Blessed be the name.
In 1990, the sky brought its usual green to compliment the bright vibrant blue. The year was particularly one for tornadoes, especially the Kansas part of tornado alley, and the same wind storm that knocked down branches in Whitewater produced a funnel cloud that knocked down one barn and several grain bins on the Klaassen farm. It blew out the screened-in porch, Dad's study, and a whole bunch of glass right before taking a couple of cows for a wild and fatal ride.
By the time the county sheriff showed up that evening, the sky was gray and innocent, and by the time the church folk arrived later that week to pick up dime-sized fragments of glass the sky was back to its vibrant blue self. The rubble from a tornado is nasty - twisted and shredded and splintered into thousands of pieces, any of which could carry tetanus or other infections. Clean-up takes many hands and many hours. Praise God that the sky provides a dome to work under.
When I was twenty-three, not so long ago really, I took a trip to a pastor's cluster meeting out in Western Kansas. The two pastors who invited me out were full of good humor, but the thing I'll always remember from that trip was an off-handed comment with serious connotations for my future. We'd stopped near a wind farm to check out the roadside informational marker there on U.S. Highway 50. When we stepped out of the car and looked around, Lou Gomez said this: "The sky is bigger in Dodge." Dodge City, Kansas, along the path of many Old Western cattle drives and current home of slaughterhouses. The sky is bigger in Dodge, 180 degrees in fact, horizon to horizon, uninterrupted by hills or mountains.
Some people say it makes them dizzy or that it frightens them or makes them anxious. For me it just feels like home, opening the spirit and body and abruptly placing back into perspective the stresses of those places that are not so broad nor so immanent nor so imminent as the sky.
Now I live in Seattle and the sky still gives life. It makes things green - everything green, it seems like. They sky gives and gives in consistent but small portions. No downpours and none of that tense, life-giving violence from thunder and lightning. In the summers it is vibrant blue and in the summers it is settled and gray but almost nothing in between. I miss the contrast of the cloud shadows scattered across the land. Here the sky takes from me something more than my house or a few cattle. It takes my freedom and my openness. It shoves me into the ground, cowering in that ever smaller place between mountain and clouds.
I wish I could see it differently, but then again I don't, because for me so far, there's only one home.
Just Living Farm
White Swan, WA
Monday, April 19, 2010
Chicago
Anyhow, the point being that I spent last week back in the central time zone with my twin sister, Hannah. Among ten of the top highlights for the week:
1. Lake Michigan - ahh, the wide open view it affords and the big sky that goes along with it.
2. Oak Park -home of a lesbian Mennonite to UCC couple who shared their home and son and their steak and potatoes meal with us, along with authentic conversation and deep sharing of stories.
3. Chicago Theological Seminary - Hannah's systematic theology class is taught from a liberation perspective, a radical thing in theological education, when most classes teach "systematic theology" and then throw in liberation, feminism, womanist, or queer ideas. Talk about subverting the dominant paradigm.
4. Alice Hunt - the esteemed Reverend Doctor, who happened to facilitate my field ed small group at Vanderbilt, who took time to share a table with me at community lunch, who leads the seminary (as the current President) with courage and conviction and the kind of vision that makes me want to send anyone interested in theological education straight to CTS.
5. Lunch with Megan Ramer - Hannah's pastor at Chicago Community Mennonite Church, and a gifted young leader in Mennonite Church USA as well as a former Seattle Mennonite Church member and attender of a non-Mennonite seminary, Iliff, in Denver.
6. The Navy Pier Ferris Wheel (see picture above) - It was a spontaneous trip to the Navy Pier in search of a t-shirt to bring back to Jamie. It was an even more spontaneous purchase of tickets for the Ferris Wheel. We had just sat down for our seven minute ride when we remembered our shared fear of heights. I believe Hannah actually closed her eyes for part of the circular journey.
7. Hyde Park Produce - Pink Lady apples for 99 cents a pound. Need I say more?
8. Chicago Public Transportation - I found the buses and the L to be easily navigable, clean, and on time.
9. Racial/ethnic diversity - obvious and apparent wherever we went. I love hearing the many languages and accents and seeing the many colors and cultures, which varied by neighborhood. Also of note: segregation by neighborhood, closely tied to race and economics. The amount of broken glass on the sidewalks increases exponentially as one crosses the road that separates Hyde Park from Woodlawn.
10. Lindsey - we spent a long and wonderful evening with my old friend from Vanderbilt and Hannah's new friend in Chicago. For me, this was an evening to know and be known in ways that happen with friendships that last across both time and space.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Good Things Happen...?
I love basketball. I just can't help it - those fifteen years of playing around the clock, around the year got down deep in my bones. Today I recall fondly my multiple stages of sports fanaticism - reading Sports Illustrated cover to cover; shooting baskets for hours in the hot, stuffy hayloft; brooding over losses and dreaming about wins; beginning friendships that still exist today.
Yet as some of you know, I've had my share of wrestling with the game, or more, wrestling with what the game is about. Beginning about my junior year in college, or actually the second semester of my sophomore year, right when I was getting into Religious Studies, things started to look different. Maybe it was that I'd reached a new level of brain development or, after twelve years, I was getting burned out. More likely, I was waking up to a new world that went far beyond winning and losing and rendered such basketball-like paradigms quite troubling.
Oh, there are the usual responses to my objections. It's a game; it's supposed to be fun. It teaches values like hard work and teamwork. Sports bring communities together. It helps cheer people and/or society up, providing relief and enjoyment in a serious and/or boring and/or stressful world. Or for the more theological, we live in a fallen world and therefore must participate in institutions that are broken, even as we recognize their brokenness. Yes, I've thought of and even tried to believe most of them.
Thus, the struggle rages inside of me. Basketball has shaped my very being, but so has faith and critical engagement with the systems we participate in every day. This year, I gave in to the young and innocent, sports-loving me. I have watched basketball more in the last two and a half weeks than my last two years combined. It's been lovely, really lovely, almost a return to self.
Underneath, though, the skeptic reigns, and these darn coaches and players don't help much. In a t.v. interview after their victory over Kentucky for a trip to the Final Four, Oklahoma coach Sherri Coale said this, "It's like (one of my players) said the other day: Good things happen to good people." Really?
This is asinine in light of homelessness, poverty, racism, heterosexism... Read a little Cornell West, Wendell Berry, or bell hooks, why don't ya, and then get back to me. And yet it's one of the myths that props up our cultural fascination with competitive athletics. Does it really take a good person to win a championship? Really?
Sports would be better off if words like "deserving" were eliminated from athletic discourse.
I wrote a paper last year about basketball. It was for a theological ethics class, and I still consider it one of my last and greatest masterpieces. I wrote how language affects our realities, how the words we use influence what we see and think. For example from a theological perspective, to use words like battle and fight to describe an athletic contest frames competition into a harsh, oppositional worldview. Is that really what we want from our sports? Do we really want to be celebrating at the expense of another team or community? One of my best friends from college recalled this notion after a particularly upsetting loss by saying, "Well, at least the other team is happy." Think about that, next time you're upset when your team loses a game.
I believe strongly that our sports could use a little more empathy. That, and new metaphors to help us see new possibilities and new ways of being together on the basketball court. What if, instead of battling, we were dancing? Think about it: to win, you need someone else, a partner. To score on a defense, you need that defense. To be able to celebrate a victory, you, by definition, need the team that lost. In basketball, we are ever indebted to those on the other team. It's kind of like Paul's notion of indebted love, which is what I argued in my paper. Think about that, next time you win a championship.
Yet as some of you know, I've had my share of wrestling with the game, or more, wrestling with what the game is about. Beginning about my junior year in college, or actually the second semester of my sophomore year, right when I was getting into Religious Studies, things started to look different. Maybe it was that I'd reached a new level of brain development or, after twelve years, I was getting burned out. More likely, I was waking up to a new world that went far beyond winning and losing and rendered such basketball-like paradigms quite troubling.
Oh, there are the usual responses to my objections. It's a game; it's supposed to be fun. It teaches values like hard work and teamwork. Sports bring communities together. It helps cheer people and/or society up, providing relief and enjoyment in a serious and/or boring and/or stressful world. Or for the more theological, we live in a fallen world and therefore must participate in institutions that are broken, even as we recognize their brokenness. Yes, I've thought of and even tried to believe most of them.
Thus, the struggle rages inside of me. Basketball has shaped my very being, but so has faith and critical engagement with the systems we participate in every day. This year, I gave in to the young and innocent, sports-loving me. I have watched basketball more in the last two and a half weeks than my last two years combined. It's been lovely, really lovely, almost a return to self.
Underneath, though, the skeptic reigns, and these darn coaches and players don't help much. In a t.v. interview after their victory over Kentucky for a trip to the Final Four, Oklahoma coach Sherri Coale said this, "It's like (one of my players) said the other day: Good things happen to good people." Really?
This is asinine in light of homelessness, poverty, racism, heterosexism... Read a little Cornell West, Wendell Berry, or bell hooks, why don't ya, and then get back to me. And yet it's one of the myths that props up our cultural fascination with competitive athletics. Does it really take a good person to win a championship? Really?
Sports would be better off if words like "deserving" were eliminated from athletic discourse.
I wrote a paper last year about basketball. It was for a theological ethics class, and I still consider it one of my last and greatest masterpieces. I wrote how language affects our realities, how the words we use influence what we see and think. For example from a theological perspective, to use words like battle and fight to describe an athletic contest frames competition into a harsh, oppositional worldview. Is that really what we want from our sports? Do we really want to be celebrating at the expense of another team or community? One of my best friends from college recalled this notion after a particularly upsetting loss by saying, "Well, at least the other team is happy." Think about that, next time you're upset when your team loses a game.
I believe strongly that our sports could use a little more empathy. That, and new metaphors to help us see new possibilities and new ways of being together on the basketball court. What if, instead of battling, we were dancing? Think about it: to win, you need someone else, a partner. To score on a defense, you need that defense. To be able to celebrate a victory, you, by definition, need the team that lost. In basketball, we are ever indebted to those on the other team. It's kind of like Paul's notion of indebted love, which is what I argued in my paper. Think about that, next time you win a championship.
Monday, March 29, 2010
To Accompany Shadows
I learned in divinity school that homiletics (def. the art of preaching) is much more than standing up to speak about a biblical text. It has to do with capturing your own voice and fitting it into oral language and a structure that moves in a particular way. For Anna Carter Florence, preaching is testimony; for Lenora Tubbs Tisdale it is local theology and folk art; for the great Fred Craddock, it's inductive and story-driven; for my teacher, John McClure (also great), the preacher often plays the role of host. Sermons are moments that happen in steps and moves that conform to the oral/aural nature of of the event and which aren't that difficult to understand but are difficult to execute well in both form and content. I don't share this to scare any lay folk away from preaching. I firmly believe anyone can preach and should preach, and that congregations are enriched by a variety of voices and perspectives (bless you, Seattle Mennonite, for the way you share the role). I write this, rather, to share a small glimpse into my training and into my expectations for my own preaching, which have the most need for improvement in form and structure. It is hopeful to think about how I might improve over a lifetime of sermon-giving, especially if the opportunities for preaching and pulpit (lectern) supply ever increase. That's one life path, anyway.
With that, here's my latest homiletic composition, written for the listener more than the reader.
"To Accompany Shadows"
March 28, 2010 (Palm Sunday), Seattle Mennonite Church.
With that, here's my latest homiletic composition, written for the listener more than the reader.
"To Accompany Shadows"
March 28, 2010 (Palm Sunday), Seattle Mennonite Church.
It is good to be with you today, for today we follow Jesus. There he is on the dusty road into Jerusalem while palm branches wave in celebration of his triumphal entry. Peering past the people all around we see him riding a colt, and we cannot help but sing out, “Jesus is coming, Hosanna. Jesus is coming, Hosanna.” Standing there, we are mesmerized by this man, this man who has freed the captives, carried good news to the poor, forgiven debts, and proclaimed the year of the Lord’s favor. There he is, a servant king, for the robes and garments he walks upon are not fine silks and linens. They are worn thin and dusty, like we who have gathered to cheer him on.
Later, we can almost taste the meal, for there he is, at the table, breaking bread just like us. We know instinctively that it will be his last meal. And we wonder, is that fear in his eyes? that shadow that we see flickering as he gives thanks for the food and drink and takes a bite.
We imagine touching him as we approach Jesus from a distance toward a garden on the Mount of Olives. We long to touch him, to reach out and offer comfort. He has been praying, we can see, from his fervent posture, and he stumbles as he stands up to greet his adversaries. His presence is soft and gentle, and holds a bottomless sorrow that follows him as he is marched to trial.
We can smell the fear that floats through the air, underneath the boasting of the men who strike him. It grows with each beating, with each insult. They didn’t need to blindfold him. They didn’t need to hit him so hard. It smells ugly, like decay.
The tension in the air builds unbearably, and we feel it as it elevates. First as Jesus is questioned. Then as he is handed over. And then as the cross is assembled. And then as Jesus breathes his last.
The silence in the air becomes so loud that we can hear it.
The story of Christ’s passion sometimes surprises us Sunday church people. There’s not always time to make it to a Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, or Holy Saturday service, and so it’s tempting to skip directly from the processionals of Palm Sunday to “Up From the Grave He Arose” and the empty tomb. We are Easter people, after all, and with the Resurrection so soon upon us, Jesus’ journey to the cross becomes a dim shadow of an afterthought, lost between the Easter basket, the pastel colored eggs, and honey baked ham waiting to be carved.
And yet, here it is today, the cross thrust into our consciousness. Today’s worship has ushered us from loud hosannas and enthusiastic praise to the breaking of bread to the shadows of betrayal, denial, temptation, and mockery. Here is where our holy scripture has brought us. Sitting here in the valley of the shadow of death. We have followed Jesus to this place; our feet too are dusty from this journey, and we wonder, what are we doing here?
The great American poet Robert Frost reminds us there is more than one road…
To where it bent in the undergrowth…
Robert Frost’s poem reminds us that there’s another road, a happier road, the one we might have taken had we not decided to walk into the story of Jesus Christ this morning. I suspect you can still get back to that other road if you wish. Turn left and wade through the bushes, and after a time you will see it.
By all accounts, it’s more familiar, paved with progress, paved with pursuits of life, liberty, and happiness. It’s so well lit that you see no shadows. The road signs say, American Dream, twelve miles. Along the way, the visitors centers provide us with self-help literature: how to be your best self now! Then ten habits of success! How to lost ten pounds in ten days! The cell phone signal is good here, which assures us that we can always be plugged in. We never actually have to present in the place where we are, because we can always send a text message or check our email or log in to facebook.
This road smells clean. It is regularly swept and dusted and sterilized. It feels comfortable, painless. As we travel this road, all of our needs are met, and no sacrifice is required.
Toward the beginning of Lent, I was visiting with some folks about the Lenten season. We discussed the tradition of sacrifice, the way many Christians intentionally give up something, fasting to make room for Christ, taking time for introspection and to deepen spiritual practices. A question was raised: “Why should we give something up? Why in the world should we deprive ourselves of what we’ve worked so hard to earn?”
The pursuit of happiness tells us to follow our own desires. The pursuit of happiness would have us march down the road of comfort, barely pausing to notice then injustices to our left and right. Always swerving to avoid conflict and confrontation. Obeying ourselves alone. When we see those shadows of betrayal and denial, those gray places of violence and abandonment, we turn away, back to the pursuit of happiness. This is how it often goes, isn’t it?
And yet, and yet if we tiptoe back to the other road, the dusty, shadowy one, we see a faint map, worn with creases, stained with tears. Philippians chapter two: “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, emptying, kenosis in Greek, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness, human likeness with its sadness, betrayal, injustice. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death – even death on a cross.”
The path to the cross is one of struggle. It is a difficult way in a culture of convenience. It doesn’t match the progressive spirit of our age. But ever so much more than the way of happiness, the journey of the cross shows us how to live. Pay attention to the world around you, and you will see it too.
This, my friends, is what it means to be human. To struggle. To lose your way. To wonder what you are doing here. To see ugliness. To doubt. To lose faith. To lose hope. This is the way of the cross. Self-emptying, obedience, the dusty shadows of human life.
Caleb was his name. He was an infant, the child of two young parents. He was a younger brother and a grandson, and the recipient of baby gifts. He was happy and alive and breathing one minute, and then he was not. She found him rolled over against the wall, without breath one January afternoon. They life-flighted him to the nearest children’s hospital and thought he was improving after a sleepless night and faint signs of brain activity. But by the next day he was gone, to be taken off life support as soon as the rest of the family arrived. In the family room on the fifth floor – neonatal intensive care – the three survivors grieved. The older brother played spider man. The mother moved in and out, up and down. And the father spoke between sobs, “I know he’s in a better place. I know he’s in heaven. I just have to let him go.” He sat helplessly, in the shadow of death.
You too have a story like this, a memory of the shadowy cross-like place between life and death. You could share it too, it’s just I who happen to be speaking today, giving my own testimony to what I’ve seen and heard. Perhaps you walk in that shadow place now, your journey in the footsteps of our emptied out Jesus Christ. Perhaps you, like me, have stories so fresh they are not yet fitting to tell. Yet we hold them anyway in life.
Perhaps you have forgotten this place or blocked it out, obscured by the pursuit of happiness. Truly I would not blame you, for it is a scary thing, to accompany shadows. That is why these stories are necessary.
Her name is Donna, but some call her Grandma. She is well into her eighties by now, her skin wrinkled with age and wisdom. Her hands the author of countless pies and at least one Raggedy Ann doll for each granddaughter. Two years ago, she was diagnosed with cancer and given three years to live. It’s harder to stand now, more difficult to get up out of bed or a chair. Now life is more about medicines and blood transfusions than baking and sewing. Even in her eighties, even with a life well lived, it’s scary to feel the cycles of life swirl around, there in the shadow of death.
Her name is Jenni, Jenni spelled with an “I” and not a “Y.” She is one of the strongest people I have ever known. Before I knew her, her dad died, and so when her mom was diagnosed with cancer when she was twenty, she knew how to handle it. She kept going to school, kept playing basketball, kept working and working and working at life, because life didn’t always come easy to her. Her mom died in the middle of the basketball season, December right around Christmas. We took a bus down to the funeral to see her weep with her head in her hands, an orphan at twenty-one. There, feeling alone, in the shadow of death. Why do I tell these stories? How else could one share of the cross, except through story? What else can I hope to do but show you whose road we follow, whose footsteps we walk in when we accompany shadows.
Jesus was his name. An itinerant preacher, a rule-breaker, a devout Jew, a prophet. His life is the stuff of legend and faith, and his death is no different. The powers that be could not stand the challenge he presented as he walked directly into the shadows of betrayal, denial, mockery, conflict, and violence. His life was lived in and out of these shadows, which he approached sometimes boldly and sometimes with hesitation. But he always approached them, following his purpose, following his God. Today we call him Christ and follow him as our Lord down dusty and sometimes uncertain paths. Then he stood in agony and submission, there in Jerusalem, in the shadow of death.
Friday, March 19, 2010
The Problem with BBQ
Jamie and I have made it a practice to eat out about once a week for the last couple of years. Sometimes we try a new place; sometimes we find a place we like enough to make a return trip. Some places are really uncomfortable to walk into for the first time (for us, pubs have this quality), and some places we fit right in. We've made some amazing discoveries - Hot Kabob's Middle Eastern/Persian in West Nashville was a spontaneous, serendipitous experience. Oh, and what I wouldn't give to be able to take Bobbie's Dairy Dip with me wherever I live for the rest of my life. If I weren't a pacifist, I'd kill for those shakes and sweet potato fries.
And on to the present Seattle, oh place of dining delights - Burrito Loco right by the Valero station on Crown Hill at the top of Holman Road is the best random, unassuming Mexican I've ever had. The Four Spoons Cafe on 85th is good enough that we're contemplating becoming regulars. LC's Kitchen over toward Lake City is a charming place to take visitors, and the cook has Anabaptist ties to boot. Then of course, we've found good Thai food, decent and cheap Chinese, and surprisingly enough, some seafood we actually enjoy. However, there is one major problem.
Tuesday was our day to dine out this week, and we decided to try for BAR-B-Q. I'd heard good things about a little place down in Ballard, Smokin' Pete's down on 65th. I'd been wanting to try it for a while and Tuesday was the day. We walked in with high, high hopes. There's nothing like a craving for good BBQ, even for vegetarian Jamie who just wants to eat baked beans and dip french fries in barbeque sauce. After some confusion about where and how to order/be seated (FYI, order first, sit later, whoops), we purchased pulled pork and vegetarian plates respectively.
Now pulled pork is kind of like chai tea for me. It's what I get to measure a place, and I've had some amazing pulled pork in my day, not the least of which is my family's special pit barbeque recipe: burn down some hedge poles, slap on the wet rub, bury it overnight in burlap bags... oh my! Then there's my most recent amazing pulled pork from a Florida-based Southern chain called Sonny's. Oh my! I expect a lot out of my pulled pork, and I should have known that Pete's wouldn't measure up. It was a bit dry, the flavor was weak, and the barbeque sauce options were lackluster - either too runny or the wrong kind of kick.
Then, there was the grunge-y music that was turned up a little loud. And, the lights were painted in yellow and black colors. Why? Also, they didn't have fries. Hush puppies, yes, but no fries. For another thing, the official name of the restaurant out on their canopy was Smokin' Pete's International something-or-other. Hmmm. And I just checked out their web site - advertising "traditional Southern BBQ." I think not. How can traditional Southern BBQ happen two thousand miles from the South? Turns out the owners have ties to Alabama, but they are Northwest natives. Maybe it's the air out here - not humid enough or not enough mosquitoes to turn out good BBQ. I don't know.
This all leads me to remember a conversation we had when we first got here. A woman we know who grew up in Oklahoma but had lived for years in Tennessee and Georgia told the story of how she and her husband kept looking for good BBQ in Seattle. They tried place after place and finally gave up. Good fish? Yes. Good ethnic food of all kinds? Absolutely. But leave the BBQ to the South. I mean, I don't go to Tennessee and expect good Dungeness crab, do I? No.
Out of this experience, Jamie and I have developed a few BBQ guidelines:
1. Never eat BBQ at a place that's not playing country, folk, or bluegrass music
2. Don't bother to try BBQ at a restaurant that includes "international" in its name
3. Don't eat Seattle BBQ... though we'd welcome your recommendations, because we are a long way from the South and every now and then, you just need good barbeque.
And on to the present Seattle, oh place of dining delights - Burrito Loco right by the Valero station on Crown Hill at the top of Holman Road is the best random, unassuming Mexican I've ever had. The Four Spoons Cafe on 85th is good enough that we're contemplating becoming regulars. LC's Kitchen over toward Lake City is a charming place to take visitors, and the cook has Anabaptist ties to boot. Then of course, we've found good Thai food, decent and cheap Chinese, and surprisingly enough, some seafood we actually enjoy. However, there is one major problem.
Tuesday was our day to dine out this week, and we decided to try for BAR-B-Q. I'd heard good things about a little place down in Ballard, Smokin' Pete's down on 65th. I'd been wanting to try it for a while and Tuesday was the day. We walked in with high, high hopes. There's nothing like a craving for good BBQ, even for vegetarian Jamie who just wants to eat baked beans and dip french fries in barbeque sauce. After some confusion about where and how to order/be seated (FYI, order first, sit later, whoops), we purchased pulled pork and vegetarian plates respectively.
Now pulled pork is kind of like chai tea for me. It's what I get to measure a place, and I've had some amazing pulled pork in my day, not the least of which is my family's special pit barbeque recipe: burn down some hedge poles, slap on the wet rub, bury it overnight in burlap bags... oh my! Then there's my most recent amazing pulled pork from a Florida-based Southern chain called Sonny's. Oh my! I expect a lot out of my pulled pork, and I should have known that Pete's wouldn't measure up. It was a bit dry, the flavor was weak, and the barbeque sauce options were lackluster - either too runny or the wrong kind of kick.
Then, there was the grunge-y music that was turned up a little loud. And, the lights were painted in yellow and black colors. Why? Also, they didn't have fries. Hush puppies, yes, but no fries. For another thing, the official name of the restaurant out on their canopy was Smokin' Pete's International something-or-other. Hmmm. And I just checked out their web site - advertising "traditional Southern BBQ." I think not. How can traditional Southern BBQ happen two thousand miles from the South? Turns out the owners have ties to Alabama, but they are Northwest natives. Maybe it's the air out here - not humid enough or not enough mosquitoes to turn out good BBQ. I don't know.
This all leads me to remember a conversation we had when we first got here. A woman we know who grew up in Oklahoma but had lived for years in Tennessee and Georgia told the story of how she and her husband kept looking for good BBQ in Seattle. They tried place after place and finally gave up. Good fish? Yes. Good ethnic food of all kinds? Absolutely. But leave the BBQ to the South. I mean, I don't go to Tennessee and expect good Dungeness crab, do I? No.
Out of this experience, Jamie and I have developed a few BBQ guidelines:
1. Never eat BBQ at a place that's not playing country, folk, or bluegrass music
2. Don't bother to try BBQ at a restaurant that includes "international" in its name
3. Don't eat Seattle BBQ... though we'd welcome your recommendations, because we are a long way from the South and every now and then, you just need good barbeque.
Monday, March 8, 2010
'Tis a gift to be simple
I hold a memory (be it a true or false one) of my parents' wedding, or hearing about it, that is. The wedding was in my maternal grandparents' backyard one evening in early August back in the 1970s. A beautiful picture floats around somewhere, complete with trees and sunsets. From what I see and intuit, it wasn't an elaborate affair at all - elaborate has never been our style, anyway. Rather, in keeping with the Shaker melody and its suiting words, it was "a gift to be simple."
Now I'm about to make an unlikely jump, so stay with me, dear reader. It has to do with cats. And primitive wall hangings. And leftover yarn. Do you see where I'm headed?
Our Seattle apartment is quite small, and comfortably furnished but humble. I, myself of the open spaces, can tend to feel a bit cramped, and I'm sure that our younger cat Wyatt takes after me in this regard (not to mention his athletic ability and somewhat erratic mood swings). He, however, has not followed me in regard to coping disorders. While mine tend toward despair and sadness, his tend toward more manic manifestations, including frantic laps around the apartment, leaping over the back of the couch, and attacking scratching post, carpet, our older cat Betsy, and furniture with equal measures of reckless enthusiasm. This is a problem. As a result, we have protected our couches with tape, keep a squirt bottle handy for discipline, have given up hope of getting any deposit money back, and regularly wonder if Wyatt will mellow with age.
But now, there is a solution. Or part of one. Enter, primitive wall hanging.
Grandma Lu will remember this piece constructed out of scraps at the cabin a couple of years ago. It's a little nine patch, and the main colors are light blue, navy, and what I think is known as mauve. On Saturday I finally got around to hanging it up. (Jamie likes it more than I do.) Of course the dowel rod from the hardware store was much too long for this little piece, which, in the absence of a saw, I pared down to size using a pocket knife and a scissors. The extra piece would have lived uselessly under the bed until our next move were it not for our trip to the pet store earlier that day.
Enter flamboyant, overpriced (elaborate?) cat toy. For those of you non-indoor domestic pet people (most of my readership, I believe) you can indeed buy toys for pets. These can be chasing toys, chewing toys, scratching toys, etc. The toy in question is a feather tied to a string tied to a stick. It runs about $7.99, less if you buy online (but then there are shipping costs).
Now do you see where I'm going? When you add leftover dowel rod to extra yarn to rambunctious cat and mix it with simplicity and practicality and add a dash of bad photography, here's what you get:
I honestly think this is not unrelated to my parents wedding. The legacy of the song lives on.
I have many more reflections on simple gifts: some more poetic, some more easily connected, but none, I think, more simple. Tis indeed a gift.
Now I'm about to make an unlikely jump, so stay with me, dear reader. It has to do with cats. And primitive wall hangings. And leftover yarn. Do you see where I'm headed?
Our Seattle apartment is quite small, and comfortably furnished but humble. I, myself of the open spaces, can tend to feel a bit cramped, and I'm sure that our younger cat Wyatt takes after me in this regard (not to mention his athletic ability and somewhat erratic mood swings). He, however, has not followed me in regard to coping disorders. While mine tend toward despair and sadness, his tend toward more manic manifestations, including frantic laps around the apartment, leaping over the back of the couch, and attacking scratching post, carpet, our older cat Betsy, and furniture with equal measures of reckless enthusiasm. This is a problem. As a result, we have protected our couches with tape, keep a squirt bottle handy for discipline, have given up hope of getting any deposit money back, and regularly wonder if Wyatt will mellow with age.
But now, there is a solution. Or part of one. Enter, primitive wall hanging.
Grandma Lu will remember this piece constructed out of scraps at the cabin a couple of years ago. It's a little nine patch, and the main colors are light blue, navy, and what I think is known as mauve. On Saturday I finally got around to hanging it up. (Jamie likes it more than I do.) Of course the dowel rod from the hardware store was much too long for this little piece, which, in the absence of a saw, I pared down to size using a pocket knife and a scissors. The extra piece would have lived uselessly under the bed until our next move were it not for our trip to the pet store earlier that day.
Enter flamboyant, overpriced (elaborate?) cat toy. For those of you non-indoor domestic pet people (most of my readership, I believe) you can indeed buy toys for pets. These can be chasing toys, chewing toys, scratching toys, etc. The toy in question is a feather tied to a string tied to a stick. It runs about $7.99, less if you buy online (but then there are shipping costs).
Now do you see where I'm going? When you add leftover dowel rod to extra yarn to rambunctious cat and mix it with simplicity and practicality and add a dash of bad photography, here's what you get:
I honestly think this is not unrelated to my parents wedding. The legacy of the song lives on.
I have many more reflections on simple gifts: some more poetic, some more easily connected, but none, I think, more simple. Tis indeed a gift.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Wo/andering in the Desert
I spent twenty years of my life intimately tuned to the liturgy of the academic calendar - the rhythm and rest of lengthy breaks interspersed between semesters that flowed from introductions and syllabus to final exam. Progress in academic liturgy is measured in assignments completed and grades assigned. The tools are books, pencils, words, and lately, computers. The art, or music, or poetry comes in originality and articulation. Often times I miss this rhythm, at least the graduate school version of beginning to end, unbearable intensity to crash. The parameters are clear, and the center is well-defined by either teacher or topic, regardless of the pedagogy. This liturgy is lush and abundant and measurable.
And then there is the liturgy of the church.
It comes to me in a new way this year. It's not woven in between academic priorities. This year Christmas had no affiliation with finals and relief and rest. This year Lent isn't leading to a three and a half day weekend with Maundy Thursday and Easter at its bookends, and ordinary time will be mostly ordinary, not mostly summer break.
I suppose it beats no liturgy at all, but the adjustment is difficult and the boundaries are unclear. Here, in the liturgical year, I don't know how to measure success. There are parishioners and parents to please but no professor to affirm my good work through the lens of expertise, and the job description hardly translates into an assignment. Instead, it requires much more flexibility, a much looser time line, and increasingly lowered (though I shouldn't call them that) expectations that flatten to encompass the astonishing breadth of the body.
There's part of me that has no use for this liturgy. I want to flee back to what is known and what comforts me. There, in that comfortable state of heightened anxiety due to exams, papers, challenging, elevating discourse, and the cerebral realm of infinite ideas. Part of me prefers that familiar pressure to the unfamiliar lack thereof.
Then last night I talked to my friend, a Disciples of Christ minister back in Tennessee. I told her some of these things and other things about my life - my great struggle with the UCC and with church; the desire to at least hold open the possibility of a career in pastoral ministry but the unwillingness to commit to here long enough to go through the two-plus year long ordination process required for such a thing; the way I miss the Mennonite church; the questions about home and place and how they will shape my lifetime. I spare the specifics, partly because this is such a public space, though these things come out freely in phone conversations and coffee dates.
Amy must have sensed something of the deep loss and lost-ness that I'm drenched in, and as we closed the conversation, she blessed me with a new sense of my new old liturgy. She somehow, with words and years long friendship all the way back to Missouri, invited me to attend to my desert.
Lent.
Forty days.
Jesus in the desert.
Israelites in the desert.
Wondering.
And wandering.
There it was, unveiled before me this season of life. It may not be good or filled with joy and purpose - wandering rarely is, but it is true and real, an older story than me, and it's good company I keep here. What more could I ask?
And then there is the liturgy of the church.
It comes to me in a new way this year. It's not woven in between academic priorities. This year Christmas had no affiliation with finals and relief and rest. This year Lent isn't leading to a three and a half day weekend with Maundy Thursday and Easter at its bookends, and ordinary time will be mostly ordinary, not mostly summer break.
I suppose it beats no liturgy at all, but the adjustment is difficult and the boundaries are unclear. Here, in the liturgical year, I don't know how to measure success. There are parishioners and parents to please but no professor to affirm my good work through the lens of expertise, and the job description hardly translates into an assignment. Instead, it requires much more flexibility, a much looser time line, and increasingly lowered (though I shouldn't call them that) expectations that flatten to encompass the astonishing breadth of the body.
There's part of me that has no use for this liturgy. I want to flee back to what is known and what comforts me. There, in that comfortable state of heightened anxiety due to exams, papers, challenging, elevating discourse, and the cerebral realm of infinite ideas. Part of me prefers that familiar pressure to the unfamiliar lack thereof.
Then last night I talked to my friend, a Disciples of Christ minister back in Tennessee. I told her some of these things and other things about my life - my great struggle with the UCC and with church; the desire to at least hold open the possibility of a career in pastoral ministry but the unwillingness to commit to here long enough to go through the two-plus year long ordination process required for such a thing; the way I miss the Mennonite church; the questions about home and place and how they will shape my lifetime. I spare the specifics, partly because this is such a public space, though these things come out freely in phone conversations and coffee dates.
Amy must have sensed something of the deep loss and lost-ness that I'm drenched in, and as we closed the conversation, she blessed me with a new sense of my new old liturgy. She somehow, with words and years long friendship all the way back to Missouri, invited me to attend to my desert.
Lent.
Forty days.
Jesus in the desert.
Israelites in the desert.
Wondering.
And wandering.
There it was, unveiled before me this season of life. It may not be good or filled with joy and purpose - wandering rarely is, but it is true and real, an older story than me, and it's good company I keep here. What more could I ask?
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