Two or three Sundays a month, I attend an evening worship service at another congregation. Intentionally, it's not the same denomination as the one in which I minister. It's the liturgical style I prefer, despite the fact I will never minister in a similar style. It's a place of anonymity, for the most part, and one that I cherish.
It's interesting to be in that setting, one where always, no matter what happens, I will be an outsider. I don't make small talk. A couple of the ministers there know that I'm also a pastor, and graciously leave me alone. I smile and shake hands if necessary, but that's about it. I'm there to worship. I'm there to hear the Gospel. I'm there to receive the bread and the wine. I'm there to rest in God.
This practice has taught me a great deal about ministry. There's a reason I sit in this pew and pray alongside these people. Likely, I've already participated in two other services that days, services that aren't all that different from this one when it comes right down to nuts and bolts. It's the likely the third time I've received the bread and the wine--a whole other topic entirely.
I come because I want to have my spiritual hunger sated.
My own preparation for leading worship feeds that hunger. But there's never another time in my life when I get to sit, hear someone else read from my holy text, and simply let it wash over me. There's never another time when I sit in great anticipation to hear some bit of Gospel, something that will speak to my heart, draw me closer to God.
Unfortunately, some days, I walk away wondering why I bothered coming at all. Why, you ask?
Because our churches sometimes substitute the church's plans for the coming year for the Gospel.
Because our churches sometimes read the words of a denominational leader, that may be all well and good, but are words of guidance, not words of life.
Because our churches sometimes forget that studying the text is not the same as hearing a text.
Because sometimes, we're not sure what the Gospel is at all, and struggle to make it more palatable.
The list goes on, but it's a list of things that mean we didn't proclaim the Gospel; often, that thing is that we worried more about our congregations and their lives, which yes, are important to the Gospel, but aren't synonymous with it.
I'm sure all churches do it. I'm sure, as a congregational leader, I've done it. But those seemingly wasted twilight hours have convinced me: I'll do better.
I'll pray for the word from the Lord. I'll wait to hear the word. I'll offer it to my parishioners, trusting that it is Good News to them. I'll exegete and study to the best of my ability. I'll remember the struggles of those around me. I will speak words of grace, words of comfort, words of hope and transformation, if God will provide them.
I'll do it because I've learned my deepest hope: that somewhere, somehow, someone is doing this for me. I've learned that I come because I need to hear.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Gettin' Dirty
The list of things not learned in seminary can get quite long for most people. I never would have guessed that the thing I mentioned was burning the palm leaves for Ash Wednesday.
Let's recap: yes, I really do save the palm fronds from Palm Sunday in the spring, letting them dry all winter for use the following Ash Wednesday. It's a real and powerful reminder of "You are dust, and to dust you shall return."
The first time I had to burn the leaves, I never considered asking for directions. After all, I love playing with fire--literally, not figuratively--and well, since it's been going on for a few hundred years, it can't be that hard. Yeah, right.
Those dried up, nearly year old leaves burn quickly and they burn high, with nothing in between. Seriously, they go from smoldering to waist high flames (even though I'm burning them on the ground) in about three seconds. They also smoke a lot. And oh yeah, when you burn them, they smell suspiciously like pot.
Last year, I burned them in my garage, which created a temporary disaster for all the reasons mentioned above. This year, I was smart enough to go outside; other than the fact I was wearing ill-suited for burning things work clothes, it went pretty well. Then I went inside to the magic that is Google and found out the "correct" way to do it. Braziers are for sissies, in my opinion--and oh yeah, my church doesn't have any of those.
All of this makes for the reason that more than one colleague's recommendation was, "Oh, buy the ashes." One colleague even gave me the address of a store that was sure to have them on hand.
From the first time I heard it, I didn't like the suggestion. Deep down, I also was pretty sure it wasn't just the fact that I wouldn't get to play with fire.
Through the evening and the first days of Lent, I considered more and more why I didn't want to purchase ready-made ashes. I thought about it as I watched people during the Ash Wednesday service, covered with ash and clay and water and oil to varying degrees. I thought about it gathering up all the resulting dirty tablecloths to wash. I thought about it as I was preparing for the following Lenten services, finding videos and choosing passages to read.
Finally, I realized why I didn't like the suggestion of buying ashes: it was neat. As in clean. No muss, no fuss, ready to go.
Which is the very last thing Lent is and certainly the very last thing the church is.
Life is messy and dirty and complicated. It just is. We might not always like that it's so messy and dirty and complicated. In fact, we usually don't. We want things neat and tidy. We want people to behave appropriately and clean up after themselves, from the toddler up to the lady who the kids think knew Moses. We don't talk about things that are messy, since that might not be appropriate for church. We like to sweep the messiness under the rug and forget about it.
Yet, Lent is about living in the messiness, knowing that we'll live in the messiness again next year. The Gospel itself is pretty messy, talking about a God who would dare to live in the messiness of human life, die a messy death, rather than staying aloof in heaven which would make us all pretty comfortable.
So I think I'll keep burning the leaves to ashes, with all the messiness that it brings. It's a pretty good reminder to not keep things too neat and tidy, too comfortable. In the messiness, I think we might just find God.
Let's recap: yes, I really do save the palm fronds from Palm Sunday in the spring, letting them dry all winter for use the following Ash Wednesday. It's a real and powerful reminder of "You are dust, and to dust you shall return."
The first time I had to burn the leaves, I never considered asking for directions. After all, I love playing with fire--literally, not figuratively--and well, since it's been going on for a few hundred years, it can't be that hard. Yeah, right.
Those dried up, nearly year old leaves burn quickly and they burn high, with nothing in between. Seriously, they go from smoldering to waist high flames (even though I'm burning them on the ground) in about three seconds. They also smoke a lot. And oh yeah, when you burn them, they smell suspiciously like pot.
Last year, I burned them in my garage, which created a temporary disaster for all the reasons mentioned above. This year, I was smart enough to go outside; other than the fact I was wearing ill-suited for burning things work clothes, it went pretty well. Then I went inside to the magic that is Google and found out the "correct" way to do it. Braziers are for sissies, in my opinion--and oh yeah, my church doesn't have any of those.
All of this makes for the reason that more than one colleague's recommendation was, "Oh, buy the ashes." One colleague even gave me the address of a store that was sure to have them on hand.
From the first time I heard it, I didn't like the suggestion. Deep down, I also was pretty sure it wasn't just the fact that I wouldn't get to play with fire.
Through the evening and the first days of Lent, I considered more and more why I didn't want to purchase ready-made ashes. I thought about it as I watched people during the Ash Wednesday service, covered with ash and clay and water and oil to varying degrees. I thought about it gathering up all the resulting dirty tablecloths to wash. I thought about it as I was preparing for the following Lenten services, finding videos and choosing passages to read.
Finally, I realized why I didn't like the suggestion of buying ashes: it was neat. As in clean. No muss, no fuss, ready to go.
Which is the very last thing Lent is and certainly the very last thing the church is.
Life is messy and dirty and complicated. It just is. We might not always like that it's so messy and dirty and complicated. In fact, we usually don't. We want things neat and tidy. We want people to behave appropriately and clean up after themselves, from the toddler up to the lady who the kids think knew Moses. We don't talk about things that are messy, since that might not be appropriate for church. We like to sweep the messiness under the rug and forget about it.
Yet, Lent is about living in the messiness, knowing that we'll live in the messiness again next year. The Gospel itself is pretty messy, talking about a God who would dare to live in the messiness of human life, die a messy death, rather than staying aloof in heaven which would make us all pretty comfortable.
So I think I'll keep burning the leaves to ashes, with all the messiness that it brings. It's a pretty good reminder to not keep things too neat and tidy, too comfortable. In the messiness, I think we might just find God.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
I shall pour out my Spirit on all flesh...
Ash Wednesday is one of those things I didn't know about until I was a teenager. I didn't receive ashes on my forehead until I was leading a service during my final year in seminary. Yet, the service has become one of my favorite worship services during the whole year. Then, there was this year.
This year...this year...how can I begin to write about this year?
I had planned, as I always do. There were stations set up, which I'd never done, to be followed by a traditional service. I had my text, my sermon, my plan, all printed up and placed neatly in a binder. After the call to worship, I took my place in front of the congregation. I opened my binder. I looked out at the congregation.
In an instant, I realized nothing I had planned would work. I looked down at my 12th grade reading level text and out to a congregation where half, maybe even more than half, of the people gathered were between the ages of four and sixteen. It was impossible.
Here is that point where I wish I could say that I thought a prayer, or something to make me sound equally pious. I can't. Instead, I can offer what came next: an outpouring of the Holy Spirit.
Confessing this makes me uncomfortable. Incredibly uncomfortable. I rationally affirm the presence and action of the Holy Spirit all the time. This was different.
This was standing before a congregation of people, realizing the first step was to offer an explanation of Ash Wednesday. "This service is about saying we're sorry, not just we're sorry to each other, but saying we're sorry to God."
This was standing there as, somehow, the reading of Jesus' teaching about storing up treasures in heaven became a story that children could hear, as did the short homily afterward. It was amazing. The words that flowed from my mouth amazed even me.
But they weren't my words.
I'm serious. I've struggled with the experience. I've struggled with the responses from that service, the "That was a really good service," feedback. Because, you see, it wasn't me.
It wasn't me. Not in an overarching God-called-me-to-this sort of way. Not in a to-God-be-the-Glory kind of way. In a I'm-not-sure-I-ever-could-do-that kind of way.
I have responded, "That was totally God, not me," but I'm still feel as if no one really grasps the fullness of that statement. The experience was surreal, strange, something Other. It left me wanting to grab people just to say, "That was God! Did you hear that?" It made me restless and uneasy and elated. It made me totally unsure of what would happen next.
For other reasons, I had to read the story of Pentecost a couple days later. The mighty rushing wind, tongues of fire, speaking in various languages story of Pentecost. The people must be drunk story of Pentecost. The coming of the Holy Spirit story of Pentecost.
For the first time, I considered those people who spoke in different languages rather than the ones hearing in their language. I realized that was the best means I have to talk about Ash Wednesday. It was sharing the experience of not my words, but God's words, in order that others could receive the Gospel.
Still wondering if this can really be me who is saying this, who is claiming these things, I say to the Church:
God was serious on this one: I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh. Your sons and your daughters will prophesy...
Thanks be to God.
This year...this year...how can I begin to write about this year?
I had planned, as I always do. There were stations set up, which I'd never done, to be followed by a traditional service. I had my text, my sermon, my plan, all printed up and placed neatly in a binder. After the call to worship, I took my place in front of the congregation. I opened my binder. I looked out at the congregation.
In an instant, I realized nothing I had planned would work. I looked down at my 12th grade reading level text and out to a congregation where half, maybe even more than half, of the people gathered were between the ages of four and sixteen. It was impossible.
Here is that point where I wish I could say that I thought a prayer, or something to make me sound equally pious. I can't. Instead, I can offer what came next: an outpouring of the Holy Spirit.
Confessing this makes me uncomfortable. Incredibly uncomfortable. I rationally affirm the presence and action of the Holy Spirit all the time. This was different.
This was standing before a congregation of people, realizing the first step was to offer an explanation of Ash Wednesday. "This service is about saying we're sorry, not just we're sorry to each other, but saying we're sorry to God."
This was standing there as, somehow, the reading of Jesus' teaching about storing up treasures in heaven became a story that children could hear, as did the short homily afterward. It was amazing. The words that flowed from my mouth amazed even me.
But they weren't my words.
I'm serious. I've struggled with the experience. I've struggled with the responses from that service, the "That was a really good service," feedback. Because, you see, it wasn't me.
It wasn't me. Not in an overarching God-called-me-to-this sort of way. Not in a to-God-be-the-Glory kind of way. In a I'm-not-sure-I-ever-could-do-that kind of way.
I have responded, "That was totally God, not me," but I'm still feel as if no one really grasps the fullness of that statement. The experience was surreal, strange, something Other. It left me wanting to grab people just to say, "That was God! Did you hear that?" It made me restless and uneasy and elated. It made me totally unsure of what would happen next.
For other reasons, I had to read the story of Pentecost a couple days later. The mighty rushing wind, tongues of fire, speaking in various languages story of Pentecost. The people must be drunk story of Pentecost. The coming of the Holy Spirit story of Pentecost.
For the first time, I considered those people who spoke in different languages rather than the ones hearing in their language. I realized that was the best means I have to talk about Ash Wednesday. It was sharing the experience of not my words, but God's words, in order that others could receive the Gospel.
Still wondering if this can really be me who is saying this, who is claiming these things, I say to the Church:
God was serious on this one: I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh. Your sons and your daughters will prophesy...
Thanks be to God.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
This is God...
So far, I've been asked to do two weddings. One of them didn't happen; the other did, although it was certainly interesting.
However, neither couple had ever had much to do with church. They didn't know anything about Jesus or baptism or communion. They had no idea how a wedding with pastor would be different from a wedding with a judge. Yet, neither struggled to answer my question, "So if you've never been part of a church or considered yourself a Christian before, why do you want a minister to perform the wedding?"
"Because this person is a gift from God." Almost verbatim, all four said just that, with and apart from the other.
Yes, there was a hint of hope of a little mystical help for their future as a couple. More than that, though, it was their deep, deep recognition that the goodness of their relationships had to come from outside them. None of them had anything so good or healing before.
And in that experience of goodness, they came looking for God. They came looking for the place and the people who say, "We know God."
I wonder what they found.
I know what welcome I gave them. Somehow, though, I don't think our churches know what to do with testimony of God that comes from outside Christian faith, or maybe any faith at all. I know the church I serve now doesn't. We still believe that God is present in only the ways God has been made known to us before. We forget that God calls to all sorts of people, even in ways we never expect. We forget that God gives good gifts to all sorts of people.
I had a professor once who said that studying church history was just a means of naming your own heresies. I have to say I've found that endlessly true. Probably the most heretical point of my life was when I owned up to believing that God could become known to humanity in another way, a fourth hypostasis for you theology nerds. Why not?
Truthfully, I don't think any of the folks coming to me, having experienced God, have experienced God in a new way.
Yet, if I believe that God called to Abraham in the desert, why not in small-town Missouri? If I believe that Moses stood before a bush that burned but was not consumed, in the middle of a desert, far away from anyone else, why do good gifts seem so difficult to accept? Jesus called to fisherman, at least one of whom had a non-Israelite name. The man from Ethiopia was reading something he didn't understand. The list goes on and on.
Still, when the young couple comes to the church, saying God brought them together, the first impulse of folks to say, "Oh, you need us!"
I think it should be more like, "Oh, we need you!"
However, neither couple had ever had much to do with church. They didn't know anything about Jesus or baptism or communion. They had no idea how a wedding with pastor would be different from a wedding with a judge. Yet, neither struggled to answer my question, "So if you've never been part of a church or considered yourself a Christian before, why do you want a minister to perform the wedding?"
"Because this person is a gift from God." Almost verbatim, all four said just that, with and apart from the other.
Yes, there was a hint of hope of a little mystical help for their future as a couple. More than that, though, it was their deep, deep recognition that the goodness of their relationships had to come from outside them. None of them had anything so good or healing before.
And in that experience of goodness, they came looking for God. They came looking for the place and the people who say, "We know God."
I wonder what they found.
I know what welcome I gave them. Somehow, though, I don't think our churches know what to do with testimony of God that comes from outside Christian faith, or maybe any faith at all. I know the church I serve now doesn't. We still believe that God is present in only the ways God has been made known to us before. We forget that God calls to all sorts of people, even in ways we never expect. We forget that God gives good gifts to all sorts of people.
I had a professor once who said that studying church history was just a means of naming your own heresies. I have to say I've found that endlessly true. Probably the most heretical point of my life was when I owned up to believing that God could become known to humanity in another way, a fourth hypostasis for you theology nerds. Why not?
Truthfully, I don't think any of the folks coming to me, having experienced God, have experienced God in a new way.
Yet, if I believe that God called to Abraham in the desert, why not in small-town Missouri? If I believe that Moses stood before a bush that burned but was not consumed, in the middle of a desert, far away from anyone else, why do good gifts seem so difficult to accept? Jesus called to fisherman, at least one of whom had a non-Israelite name. The man from Ethiopia was reading something he didn't understand. The list goes on and on.
Still, when the young couple comes to the church, saying God brought them together, the first impulse of folks to say, "Oh, you need us!"
I think it should be more like, "Oh, we need you!"
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Judgy-Wudgy Was a Bear...
It's amazing how many times I've run up against the criticism that Christians are judgmental. It's been named on numerous websites and a few studies, including the book unChristian. The shortest answer I have for that criticism is, "You're right."
I take quite seriously the admonition to be in the world, but not of it. To not be conformed to the ways of this world. To be a light to the world. All those things. All those things that say, "This world is broken; God has a better way."
My personal life is quite calm, sometimes downright boring. For the most part, I'm the designated driver, plan for a rainy day, think about the consequences kind of person. In ministry, parents love my stable, show up, be consistent traits.
I work to make my faith an embodied, living reality. I hope that faith is evident apart from my work and vocation. With God's help, my life does look very different from the ways of this world.
Yet, I find myself biting my tongue often when I'm with church folks. I try to gauge how much truth I can speak, how much is safe to reveal. Yes, there's appropriate pastoral boundaries, which I hope to employ. Then, there's this...this thing voice that says, "You can't say that here."
I can't say my best theological conversations are over dinner with people who steer clear of church. I certainly can't name the reasons they steer clear of church.
I can't say that the non-clergy friends from my life in mainline Protestant world have absolutely no clue why I would bother with church.
I can't say that, you know what, I really don't know how to theologically process transsexualism, but I want a community that will genuinely wrestle with that question.
I don't talk about the movies I watch or the books I read without careful deliberation, even though I am convinced that some Stephen King works provide better theological fodder than 90% of what is in the devotional section of bookstores. Give me an exorcism movie if you want to talk about the problems of evil and the difficulties of being faithful. I have an ever-growing whole collection if you want a viewing party!
The list of things I don't speak could go on and on.
And every one of those things adds a little bit to that chasm between my world and the church. It's part of the ever-growing concern I have, wondering if there is a church that has room for people like me and people nothing like me. I'm pretty sure the Kingdom of God does.
Oh--and one other thing. I want a community that holds me accountable, and yes, might even judge me. Please, look for the works that are a mark of my faith. See if I have done what Jesus asked--clothed the poor, fed the hungry, visited the lonely.
Look for the fruits of the Spirit. Guide me when I am not gentle enough. Admonish me when I speak in hate rather than love. Chastise me when I am impatient.
Please.
And don't worry that the title of this post is a quote from Sex and the City.
I take quite seriously the admonition to be in the world, but not of it. To not be conformed to the ways of this world. To be a light to the world. All those things. All those things that say, "This world is broken; God has a better way."
My personal life is quite calm, sometimes downright boring. For the most part, I'm the designated driver, plan for a rainy day, think about the consequences kind of person. In ministry, parents love my stable, show up, be consistent traits.
I work to make my faith an embodied, living reality. I hope that faith is evident apart from my work and vocation. With God's help, my life does look very different from the ways of this world.
Yet, I find myself biting my tongue often when I'm with church folks. I try to gauge how much truth I can speak, how much is safe to reveal. Yes, there's appropriate pastoral boundaries, which I hope to employ. Then, there's this...this thing voice that says, "You can't say that here."
I can't say my best theological conversations are over dinner with people who steer clear of church. I certainly can't name the reasons they steer clear of church.
I can't say that the non-clergy friends from my life in mainline Protestant world have absolutely no clue why I would bother with church.
I can't say that, you know what, I really don't know how to theologically process transsexualism, but I want a community that will genuinely wrestle with that question.
I don't talk about the movies I watch or the books I read without careful deliberation, even though I am convinced that some Stephen King works provide better theological fodder than 90% of what is in the devotional section of bookstores. Give me an exorcism movie if you want to talk about the problems of evil and the difficulties of being faithful. I have an ever-growing whole collection if you want a viewing party!
The list of things I don't speak could go on and on.
And every one of those things adds a little bit to that chasm between my world and the church. It's part of the ever-growing concern I have, wondering if there is a church that has room for people like me and people nothing like me. I'm pretty sure the Kingdom of God does.
Oh--and one other thing. I want a community that holds me accountable, and yes, might even judge me. Please, look for the works that are a mark of my faith. See if I have done what Jesus asked--clothed the poor, fed the hungry, visited the lonely.
Look for the fruits of the Spirit. Guide me when I am not gentle enough. Admonish me when I speak in hate rather than love. Chastise me when I am impatient.
Please.
And don't worry that the title of this post is a quote from Sex and the City.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Christmas...
I'm as annoyed by Christian insanity over Christmas as the next person. Another "Keep Christ in Christmas" might put me over the edge. That's a whole other topic, though.
Instead, I want to pick on Santa Claus. Hang on. Don't freak out yet. Give me a few minutes.
I have absolutely nothing against the jolly old man. Really. It's just that he wasn't part of my childhood Christmas. He almost was, but my family was never really sure how to handle him. Basically, he was an excuse for presents appearing on Christmas morning rather than the night before. Because I never really believed in him, there's no traumatic childhood memory of realizing he doesn't exist, which has sometimes created problems.
Skipping over the trauma I caused my classmates, within three months of being hired as children's minister, I almost compared the nonexistence of Santa Claus to something else during a children's sermon. I don't remember what, actually. Yet, as I was walking up to give the children's sermon, I realized that anything alluding to no Santa was probably a bad idea. I can now only dream of the bullet I dodged there! Still, overall, I think Santa is a rather benevolent presence in life, even if a little creepy if you think about it very hard.
A couple weeks ago, though, I was talking with Sunday school teachers, all of whom are also moms. They were, of course, all sharing Santa stories. Who knew that Santa doesn't wrap presents at some houses? Or that he only fills stockings at others? Or that he only brings one gift at still others? One of the moms, though, was having to deal with her 4th grade daughter's realization that Santa isn't real.
As she and her daughter talked about Santa, she cried and told her daughter over and over again, "I've been lying to you. Santa is a lie."
Of course, the kid tried to comfort her mom, telling her, "No, it wasn't really a lie."
The mom dutifully responded, "Yes, it was. I want you to always remember that. I lied to you about Santa. He's not real. And I want you to know I lied to you about Santa because I really want you to know that I'm not lying to you about God and Jesus."
You can probably imagine the rest of the conversation.
There's something in there about the way Christians treat Christmas. I really, really am not upset if Christians choose to participate in the Santa thing. But I am kind of upset we feel like we have to.
Yes, the gifts go overboard. Yes, Santa's now totally secular and maybe always was so. More than that, though, it's the same thing we keep saying over and over to ourselves and our kids: the Gospel is not enough.
The Christ Child is not enough. We need a magic man to bring presents to make this a good holiday. We need magical flying reindeer. We need elves. We need gingerbread men and houses. We need all sorts of things to make Christmas special and memorable.
Those things aren't bad by themselves, but they help us lose our way. And if they all disappeared, what would we find?
Instead, I want to pick on Santa Claus. Hang on. Don't freak out yet. Give me a few minutes.
I have absolutely nothing against the jolly old man. Really. It's just that he wasn't part of my childhood Christmas. He almost was, but my family was never really sure how to handle him. Basically, he was an excuse for presents appearing on Christmas morning rather than the night before. Because I never really believed in him, there's no traumatic childhood memory of realizing he doesn't exist, which has sometimes created problems.
Skipping over the trauma I caused my classmates, within three months of being hired as children's minister, I almost compared the nonexistence of Santa Claus to something else during a children's sermon. I don't remember what, actually. Yet, as I was walking up to give the children's sermon, I realized that anything alluding to no Santa was probably a bad idea. I can now only dream of the bullet I dodged there! Still, overall, I think Santa is a rather benevolent presence in life, even if a little creepy if you think about it very hard.
A couple weeks ago, though, I was talking with Sunday school teachers, all of whom are also moms. They were, of course, all sharing Santa stories. Who knew that Santa doesn't wrap presents at some houses? Or that he only fills stockings at others? Or that he only brings one gift at still others? One of the moms, though, was having to deal with her 4th grade daughter's realization that Santa isn't real.
As she and her daughter talked about Santa, she cried and told her daughter over and over again, "I've been lying to you. Santa is a lie."
Of course, the kid tried to comfort her mom, telling her, "No, it wasn't really a lie."
The mom dutifully responded, "Yes, it was. I want you to always remember that. I lied to you about Santa. He's not real. And I want you to know I lied to you about Santa because I really want you to know that I'm not lying to you about God and Jesus."
You can probably imagine the rest of the conversation.
There's something in there about the way Christians treat Christmas. I really, really am not upset if Christians choose to participate in the Santa thing. But I am kind of upset we feel like we have to.
Yes, the gifts go overboard. Yes, Santa's now totally secular and maybe always was so. More than that, though, it's the same thing we keep saying over and over to ourselves and our kids: the Gospel is not enough.
The Christ Child is not enough. We need a magic man to bring presents to make this a good holiday. We need magical flying reindeer. We need elves. We need gingerbread men and houses. We need all sorts of things to make Christmas special and memorable.
Those things aren't bad by themselves, but they help us lose our way. And if they all disappeared, what would we find?
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Welcome!
The thing I enjoy most about working with kids is getting to teach them Bible stories for the first time. It's awesome. They don't ask too many questions. They don't worry about the how and the details. They trust that God could do whatever the Bible story says God could do. It's awesome. I also believe that if those stories shape their world enough, then when they start asking all the questions, they'll wrestle with them rather than walking away from the faith in which they were raised.
But seriously, tell a kid about Elijah for the first time and watch her face. It's awesome.
Up until a few days ago, every kid I'd ever taught had some idea about God and churchy things. If I said, "It's time to pray," they'd bow their heads and fold their hands. If I said, "We're gonna sing," they'd have a request or two.
But all that changed a few days ago.
A man came to church and brought his two young children, ages 3 and 5. The second Sunday they came, I invited them to stay for Sunday school. They did.
That Sunday, I happened to be in the kids' class. Since I was the only person those two kids had ever met, they sat with me. I introduced them as my friends.
It soon became clear they'd never been to church at all.
They had puzzled looks when we sang. They didn't add to the list of things the kids were thankful for. And when the leader said, "Let's pray," the little boy looked up at me completely puzzled.
I thought quickly and said, "It's time to talk to God. Sit like this." So we sat, hands folded, eyes closed, heads bowed, and we talked to God.
It was easy, but it was easy because he was a little kid. Kids are used to having adults explain things to them. Kids are used to being shown how to do something. Kids are used to not knowing. As I think more and more about the people I encounter who have never had anything to do with church, I wonder how to do that.
How do we teach adults to pray? Not just the Jesus' response kind of way, but the I have no clue what you mean way.
How do we invite adults to sing? Unless they're karaoke fans or former choir members, should we even expect participation in congregational singing?
And that doesn't even get to the perceived more important stuff of communion, baptism, Bible, sermons...
We say, "Welcome!" all the time, but how do we live it?
I've wondered many times since the day that little boy and I prayed together what would happen if he had been 25 or 35 or 45 instead of only 5. Could he have asked? Could I have answered as easily?
I love tradition. I love churchy words. I don't think the answer is to toss out all the churchy things to be more friendly to folks who have never walked in the door of a church.
All those things together, though, can make our "Welcome!" sound a little more like "Welcome?" Where is the space to just as gently take an adult by the hand and say, "Here's how we pray," as one would a child?
But seriously, tell a kid about Elijah for the first time and watch her face. It's awesome.
Up until a few days ago, every kid I'd ever taught had some idea about God and churchy things. If I said, "It's time to pray," they'd bow their heads and fold their hands. If I said, "We're gonna sing," they'd have a request or two.
But all that changed a few days ago.
A man came to church and brought his two young children, ages 3 and 5. The second Sunday they came, I invited them to stay for Sunday school. They did.
That Sunday, I happened to be in the kids' class. Since I was the only person those two kids had ever met, they sat with me. I introduced them as my friends.
It soon became clear they'd never been to church at all.
They had puzzled looks when we sang. They didn't add to the list of things the kids were thankful for. And when the leader said, "Let's pray," the little boy looked up at me completely puzzled.
I thought quickly and said, "It's time to talk to God. Sit like this." So we sat, hands folded, eyes closed, heads bowed, and we talked to God.
It was easy, but it was easy because he was a little kid. Kids are used to having adults explain things to them. Kids are used to being shown how to do something. Kids are used to not knowing. As I think more and more about the people I encounter who have never had anything to do with church, I wonder how to do that.
How do we teach adults to pray? Not just the Jesus' response kind of way, but the I have no clue what you mean way.
How do we invite adults to sing? Unless they're karaoke fans or former choir members, should we even expect participation in congregational singing?
And that doesn't even get to the perceived more important stuff of communion, baptism, Bible, sermons...
We say, "Welcome!" all the time, but how do we live it?
I've wondered many times since the day that little boy and I prayed together what would happen if he had been 25 or 35 or 45 instead of only 5. Could he have asked? Could I have answered as easily?
I love tradition. I love churchy words. I don't think the answer is to toss out all the churchy things to be more friendly to folks who have never walked in the door of a church.
All those things together, though, can make our "Welcome!" sound a little more like "Welcome?" Where is the space to just as gently take an adult by the hand and say, "Here's how we pray," as one would a child?
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