Had a wonderful day going out to the Laguna Pueblo yesterday for their Feast Day. And indeed it was a feast - visual, physical and spiritual. My friend Ed and I got out there around 10:30 and checked out lots of the booths.
We learned from one potter about how she learned the skill from her great grandmother, and how the rusty and black dyes were made. Ed picked up one very large pot that we both expected to be heavy; the only thing heavy about it was the base. The walls were a little thicker than eggshell, but very strong. It was a glorious work of art.
After we wound around the displays a while longer, we finally found our friend Molly Curtis. Molly is a member of the Presbyterian church on the pueblo, and she and her family had a booth set up to sell her pottery. Her work is amazing. I've never seen anything like it. Molly designed the communion ware for worship when General Assembly was held here in Albuquerque. Her decorative patterns are probably the most intricate of all that we saw.
Ed ended up buying one of Molly's pots. I came away with a bear which had a spot of blue on it - "Oh, I just felt wild that day" said Molly. A couple of refrigerator magnets with Molly's pots on them also followed me home. But my other treasure, largely because I learned the story behind it, was a Spirit Bowl.
In Native American tradition, each dinner table has a Spirit Bowl as part of the setting. When dinner is served, a bit of the food goes into the Spirit Bowl, to be shared with the ancestors. It's a lovely reminder of the presence of those who have gone before. And then, after the meal, the food is taken to the cemetery to be shared with the ancestors.
Being a genealogist, I of course loved to hear this tradition. But then Molly told me that one of my colleagues, Judy Wellington, a Native American pastor, uses a Spirit Bowl on the communion table. When the bread is broken, a little goes into the Spirit Bowl for the ancestors. If that's not "the communion of saints," I don't know what is.
I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. And I believe in honoring those who have gone before us, and their Maker, with our offerings and our lives.
Friday, September 20, 2013
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Amazing Grace
It's not much. And, it's everything.
I just got off a conference call with friends who also happen to be colleagues. One's wife is having major surgery on Monday for cancer. And we gathered from Albuquerque, Pittsburgh, Peoria and Houston to pray with and for her. Or, as it says in scripture, "they will come from east and west, from north and south."
It was just about 10 minutes. It's always a little awkward to pray with someone over the phone. But I am not sure there was a dry eye among us.
I wonder what the Apostle Paul would have done with email, and even just telephones, not to mention the ability to make conference calls across thousands of miles. Can you imagine?
One call. Ten minutes. We move forward and wait for surgery on Monday. It's really not that much. And yet, it's everything.
I just got off a conference call with friends who also happen to be colleagues. One's wife is having major surgery on Monday for cancer. And we gathered from Albuquerque, Pittsburgh, Peoria and Houston to pray with and for her. Or, as it says in scripture, "they will come from east and west, from north and south."
It was just about 10 minutes. It's always a little awkward to pray with someone over the phone. But I am not sure there was a dry eye among us.
I wonder what the Apostle Paul would have done with email, and even just telephones, not to mention the ability to make conference calls across thousands of miles. Can you imagine?
One call. Ten minutes. We move forward and wait for surgery on Monday. It's really not that much. And yet, it's everything.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
The Dream, Backward and Forward
Yesterday was the 50th anniversary of the March on Washington. I still cannot listen to Martin Luther King Jr.'s speech without tears. What incredible bravery, statesmanship, wisdom, prophecy and oratory skill. And he was all of 34 years old.
My dad had his own business at the time, with offices in Dallas and Houston. About once a month he would go to Houston for the week to take care of things. Sometimes my family would ride the train down to Houston towards the end of the week. We would stay somewhere, usually the Ramada Inn on Allen Parkway, and swim and eat silver dollar pancakes and shop. Then we would drive back to Dallas with Dad on Sunday.
It was probably that same summer, the summer of 1963. For once we didn't stay at the Ramada Inn, but instead at the very glitzy Sheraton downtown. I had never seen such a fancy place. The swimming pool was on the roof, on something like the 12th or 13th floor probably. You were out there swimming, surrounded by skyscrapers and the noises of the city. It was the most glamorous thing I had ever done - and might indeed still be. (then again, there was the Shamrock Hilton in Houston, but I digress...)
That weekend, we had just gotten ourselves to the pool. It was glorious. I guess we had been there about ten minutes when another family arrived to swim. All of a sudden my dad said, "Let's go." What? We had just gotten there. Now there was even a child my age for me to play with. But then I heard it in his voice: "Let's GO." So we did. I also heard in his voice that there were no questions to be asked. So we moved on with life, hoping that there would be another occasion to hit the pool before we had to leave.
It occurred to me some years later that the family who joined us at the pool that day was African American. To his great credit, my father used no other adjectives to describe the family, and he never talked about the reason he wanted us to leave. He was a man of his age, a Texan, trying to do the right thing as he knew it. Even so, I still regret that he was not able to allow us to do things differently.
If Martin were alive today, he would be 84. If Dad were alive today, he would be 91. Martin has been gone for 45 years; Dad has been gone for 39. I remember Dad telling us later in the sixties that Martin was just a "troublemaker." I wonder how his perspective might have changed over time - and I pray that it would have.
Fifty years later, we have an African American president. My daughter's best friend is biracial. I have close friends who are African American, Asian American and Native American. There's a lot being written about the fact that we are living in a "post-racial world." Unfortunately, I don't believe that's the case. Even though we have definitely come a long way we all still struggle with racism, whether it is spoken or not. One of my closest friends, with whom I celebrated the night that Obama was first elected President, says that he still looks at our President and still sees a "black man" before he sees anything else.
How well do we have to know someone before race differences are no longer an issue? Or gender differences, or differences in sexuality? "Social location" defines the basis for our theology and worldview. Will my social location - female, anglo, native Texan, Presbyterian - always define who I am to others? Or is Martin correct, that some day all of that stuff will be secondary at best? Perhaps it begins to happen when the focus is less upon my own uniqueness, or the uniqueness and differences of the other, and more upon the One who deliberately created us to be diverse.
Do not remember the former things,
or consider the things of old.
I am about to do a new thing;
now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?
I will make a way in the wilderness
and rivers in the desert.
The wild animals will honor me,
the jackals and the ostriches;
for I give water in the wilderness,
rivers in the desert,
to give drink to my chosen people,
the people whom I formed for myself
so that they might declare my praise.
--- Isaiah 43:18-21
My dad had his own business at the time, with offices in Dallas and Houston. About once a month he would go to Houston for the week to take care of things. Sometimes my family would ride the train down to Houston towards the end of the week. We would stay somewhere, usually the Ramada Inn on Allen Parkway, and swim and eat silver dollar pancakes and shop. Then we would drive back to Dallas with Dad on Sunday.
It was probably that same summer, the summer of 1963. For once we didn't stay at the Ramada Inn, but instead at the very glitzy Sheraton downtown. I had never seen such a fancy place. The swimming pool was on the roof, on something like the 12th or 13th floor probably. You were out there swimming, surrounded by skyscrapers and the noises of the city. It was the most glamorous thing I had ever done - and might indeed still be. (then again, there was the Shamrock Hilton in Houston, but I digress...)
That weekend, we had just gotten ourselves to the pool. It was glorious. I guess we had been there about ten minutes when another family arrived to swim. All of a sudden my dad said, "Let's go." What? We had just gotten there. Now there was even a child my age for me to play with. But then I heard it in his voice: "Let's GO." So we did. I also heard in his voice that there were no questions to be asked. So we moved on with life, hoping that there would be another occasion to hit the pool before we had to leave.
It occurred to me some years later that the family who joined us at the pool that day was African American. To his great credit, my father used no other adjectives to describe the family, and he never talked about the reason he wanted us to leave. He was a man of his age, a Texan, trying to do the right thing as he knew it. Even so, I still regret that he was not able to allow us to do things differently.
If Martin were alive today, he would be 84. If Dad were alive today, he would be 91. Martin has been gone for 45 years; Dad has been gone for 39. I remember Dad telling us later in the sixties that Martin was just a "troublemaker." I wonder how his perspective might have changed over time - and I pray that it would have.
Fifty years later, we have an African American president. My daughter's best friend is biracial. I have close friends who are African American, Asian American and Native American. There's a lot being written about the fact that we are living in a "post-racial world." Unfortunately, I don't believe that's the case. Even though we have definitely come a long way we all still struggle with racism, whether it is spoken or not. One of my closest friends, with whom I celebrated the night that Obama was first elected President, says that he still looks at our President and still sees a "black man" before he sees anything else.
How well do we have to know someone before race differences are no longer an issue? Or gender differences, or differences in sexuality? "Social location" defines the basis for our theology and worldview. Will my social location - female, anglo, native Texan, Presbyterian - always define who I am to others? Or is Martin correct, that some day all of that stuff will be secondary at best? Perhaps it begins to happen when the focus is less upon my own uniqueness, or the uniqueness and differences of the other, and more upon the One who deliberately created us to be diverse.
Do not remember the former things,
or consider the things of old.
I am about to do a new thing;
now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?
I will make a way in the wilderness
and rivers in the desert.
The wild animals will honor me,
the jackals and the ostriches;
for I give water in the wilderness,
rivers in the desert,
to give drink to my chosen people,
the people whom I formed for myself
so that they might declare my praise.
--- Isaiah 43:18-21
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Adoption Day(s)
Yesterday we celebrated what we call in our house "Adoption Day." That's the day when the judge in Vologda, Russia, dropped the gavel to say that we were now a family. We celebrate that day because, up until the moment that gavel was dropped, any family member or any Russian at all could have come into the room to say that they wanted to adopt these two children, and it would all have been over. Paul and I still marvel that no one did that. Obviously they did not know these children, or there would have been a line forming outside the courtroom. But by God's grace, we found each other and we were able to stay together.
The timing of the whole thing has always amazed me. Russia didn't even allow foreign adoptions until somewhere around 1992, which was the year we got married. And then the year that we began the process in 2001, Vladimir Putin took office and decided that adoption laws needed an overhaul. Our agency warned us of that. We just laughed, until it actually happened. The bad news is that we lost six months in the process; the good news is that our children were not even on the register until after that six months had passed. And now we see the global politics which in 2013 have once again caused Russia to close adoptions to Americans...
Once the gavel dropped, we had to wait to obtain two red passports, so that we could obtain two green cards, so that we could obtain two blue passports. Some number of Russian officials were so ill-disposed to the adoption of Russian children to foreigners that they had begun to drag out the time required to issue the red passports. So they had made a regulation internally saying that the passports must be issued within 72 hours of the court ruling. Some officials, including ours, would take every minute of 72 hours to make sure that our children were not terrorists or spies.
That gave us lots of time to go shopping for them. The rules also said that the children were ours, but that all their possessions were those of the state. So on the night that we departed for home, we had to arrive with new clothes and shoes and toys for them. We didn't shop very well - we had no experience in guesstimating sizes or thinking about what would actually be necessary. But we did our best.
On the appointed night, we arrived at the Baby House at 10:00pm. Amazingly, both of our children were awake and neither of them was crying or afraid. There was something absolutely baptismal about taking off their old clothes and putting new ones on. They were shedding their old life and preparing to enter the world, virtually for the first time, as Alexander Driskell Watson and Tatiana Meredith Watson. Accompanied by parents, affirmed by passports and paperwork.
We tied their shoes, hugged everyone in sight, and bundled ourselves into a jerry-rigged VW van to go to the train station. The good news is that we were accompanied by two friends, a translator and another Gladney worker, who could help us communicate and pass the first hurdle of parenthood: the first night together!
We rode the overnight train to Vologda, our family in one sleeper car and our friends next door. There wasn't much "sleeping" going on. I think that Meredith and I slept a little bit. But that night, Paul taught Alex his first words of English: the light switch could either be "on" or "off." We heard those words all night long!
When morning dawned, Alex was glued to the window, taking in all the sights. Every so often he would see something fascinating, like a tall crane or a dump truck, and he would squeal with delight. Meredith was more reflective, taking it all in. They continue to display similar traits to this day.That morning, Alex says he remembers some woman buttoning up his shirt for him - if that wasn't me it was probably Natasha - and he remembers jumping down off the train into Paul's arms.
We spent the next few days in Moscow, getting the blue passport, getting physicals, filling out more and more paperwork, and taking in the Moscow Fair as our first outing. Two toddlers at one of the world's largest fairs in the one of the world's largest cities... thank God there were other adults to help us! But we navigated it all, with their help and with God's, and found ourselves on the plane coming home on September 5, 2001.
Of course, the world changed for everyone on September 11, 2001. We missed the morning's drama because we were safely at home in Austin, having breakfast and watching Barney and Mister Rogers. Our world had changed already. We heard the news of the day from another mother at the park near our house. After some play time we came home and had lunch, put the kids down for their nap, and then turned on CNN and cried with the rest of the world.
When we were in Moscow, our translator and driver were showing us around one day. We had been to a Russian Orthodox church, which was fabulous. I noticed another building and asked about it. It was an Islamic mosque. I asked if we could go in and see it too. The driver inquired, and they enthusiastically invited us in. I have never been given such a tour. The fellow who showed us around was not the Imam, but he was wearing something resembling a monk's robe. I assumed he was either an assistant or maybe even someone in training. He had blondish hair and green eyes. He was so thrilled to see us - he said I was the first American that had ever been inside their mosque. He took me every single place a woman could go in that building, including the boiler room - he was so proud!
We ended up in the Imam's study, and he thrust a copy of the Koran at me for my reading pleasure. It was a parallel translation, in Arabic and Russian. Neither of which I could read! So I asked him to read me his favorite passage. He read me from the first of the book, which our translator said was their version of the creation story. And then he read me a passage that is always used at funerals. His face glowed with delight as he read.
On September 11, 2001, that young man was the first person I thought of. I still remember him and pray for his well being and safety, and hope that he remembers that crazy American woman with some level of fondness. Who knew that the adoption of our children would include Christian-Muslim detente?
Those days between August 26 and September 5, 2001, were absolutely unforgettable and life-changing, both for our children and for us.
The timing of the whole thing has always amazed me. Russia didn't even allow foreign adoptions until somewhere around 1992, which was the year we got married. And then the year that we began the process in 2001, Vladimir Putin took office and decided that adoption laws needed an overhaul. Our agency warned us of that. We just laughed, until it actually happened. The bad news is that we lost six months in the process; the good news is that our children were not even on the register until after that six months had passed. And now we see the global politics which in 2013 have once again caused Russia to close adoptions to Americans...
Once the gavel dropped, we had to wait to obtain two red passports, so that we could obtain two green cards, so that we could obtain two blue passports. Some number of Russian officials were so ill-disposed to the adoption of Russian children to foreigners that they had begun to drag out the time required to issue the red passports. So they had made a regulation internally saying that the passports must be issued within 72 hours of the court ruling. Some officials, including ours, would take every minute of 72 hours to make sure that our children were not terrorists or spies.
That gave us lots of time to go shopping for them. The rules also said that the children were ours, but that all their possessions were those of the state. So on the night that we departed for home, we had to arrive with new clothes and shoes and toys for them. We didn't shop very well - we had no experience in guesstimating sizes or thinking about what would actually be necessary. But we did our best.
On the appointed night, we arrived at the Baby House at 10:00pm. Amazingly, both of our children were awake and neither of them was crying or afraid. There was something absolutely baptismal about taking off their old clothes and putting new ones on. They were shedding their old life and preparing to enter the world, virtually for the first time, as Alexander Driskell Watson and Tatiana Meredith Watson. Accompanied by parents, affirmed by passports and paperwork.
We tied their shoes, hugged everyone in sight, and bundled ourselves into a jerry-rigged VW van to go to the train station. The good news is that we were accompanied by two friends, a translator and another Gladney worker, who could help us communicate and pass the first hurdle of parenthood: the first night together!
We rode the overnight train to Vologda, our family in one sleeper car and our friends next door. There wasn't much "sleeping" going on. I think that Meredith and I slept a little bit. But that night, Paul taught Alex his first words of English: the light switch could either be "on" or "off." We heard those words all night long!
When morning dawned, Alex was glued to the window, taking in all the sights. Every so often he would see something fascinating, like a tall crane or a dump truck, and he would squeal with delight. Meredith was more reflective, taking it all in. They continue to display similar traits to this day.That morning, Alex says he remembers some woman buttoning up his shirt for him - if that wasn't me it was probably Natasha - and he remembers jumping down off the train into Paul's arms.
We spent the next few days in Moscow, getting the blue passport, getting physicals, filling out more and more paperwork, and taking in the Moscow Fair as our first outing. Two toddlers at one of the world's largest fairs in the one of the world's largest cities... thank God there were other adults to help us! But we navigated it all, with their help and with God's, and found ourselves on the plane coming home on September 5, 2001.
Of course, the world changed for everyone on September 11, 2001. We missed the morning's drama because we were safely at home in Austin, having breakfast and watching Barney and Mister Rogers. Our world had changed already. We heard the news of the day from another mother at the park near our house. After some play time we came home and had lunch, put the kids down for their nap, and then turned on CNN and cried with the rest of the world.
When we were in Moscow, our translator and driver were showing us around one day. We had been to a Russian Orthodox church, which was fabulous. I noticed another building and asked about it. It was an Islamic mosque. I asked if we could go in and see it too. The driver inquired, and they enthusiastically invited us in. I have never been given such a tour. The fellow who showed us around was not the Imam, but he was wearing something resembling a monk's robe. I assumed he was either an assistant or maybe even someone in training. He had blondish hair and green eyes. He was so thrilled to see us - he said I was the first American that had ever been inside their mosque. He took me every single place a woman could go in that building, including the boiler room - he was so proud!
We ended up in the Imam's study, and he thrust a copy of the Koran at me for my reading pleasure. It was a parallel translation, in Arabic and Russian. Neither of which I could read! So I asked him to read me his favorite passage. He read me from the first of the book, which our translator said was their version of the creation story. And then he read me a passage that is always used at funerals. His face glowed with delight as he read.
On September 11, 2001, that young man was the first person I thought of. I still remember him and pray for his well being and safety, and hope that he remembers that crazy American woman with some level of fondness. Who knew that the adoption of our children would include Christian-Muslim detente?
Those days between August 26 and September 5, 2001, were absolutely unforgettable and life-changing, both for our children and for us.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Vines, Branches, and Questions
I'm in Taos, NM this afternoon, enjoying a thunderstorm of biblical proportions. At least it seems that way when you've been in a drought for years. Even our two-year-old cat Ruby hides when it rains - she has no idea what that stuff is.
The saints of Taos First have asked me to reflect on John 15:1-17 for their Session retreat tonight. So I'm going to share my ponderings on this passage with you in hours of focusing my thoughts for them. And if you happen to know anyone on Session in Taos, please don't leak this to them before tonight!
This is a very intimate passage. In just 17 verses, Jesus refers to himself and to us more than 30 times each. Even God only gets 7 mentions. Jesus is talking straight to his disciples, and to us, looking us all right in the eye. It's a monologue; Jesus is doing all the talking. The disciples don't get a word in edgewise. But there's a lot of good stuff to hear.
And what does he say? The thing that really pops out to this 21st century girl is this: ask for anything, and you will get it. Wow! A parking spot AND a new car to go into it? A million dollars? Obedient children? Perfect health? It's like Jesus is our own personal genie: rub the bottle, and, voila.
This is sounding a little too Joel Osteen, "prosperity gospel," for me. If you pull out that one verse, that's what you get. But we can't just ignore the other 16 verses, as much as we might like. Upon further investigation, there's more. (As is usually the case where Jesus is concerned)
Verse 7, NRSV: "If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you." Ah, the catch.
In English, "abide" and"abode" are closely related. Take up residence. Move in permanently. Become part of the neighborhood. No camping, no renting. LIVE in Jesus, and let Jesus' words live in us.
It's kind of like that fruit which he talks about in this same section. It sounds like we are to be as organically connected to Jesus as grapes are to the vine, as Jesus describes himself to be to us.
That's a fairly hard thing to wrap my head around. Maybe it would help to remember (she said, stepping out of her liberal arts comfort zone and into agriculture) that produce, whether it's apples or grapes or cotton or corn, is organically related to that which produces it. Grapevines cannot produce rice. And different kinds of grapevines produce different types of grapes. Jesus even says so himself in the Sermon on the Mount, in Matthew 7: "You will know them by their fruits."
Suffice it to say that if Jesus is the vine upon which we grapes grow, then our grapes will have a certain quality and character they might not receive from another source.
And then, suffice it to say that if we are so connected to the vine, then any questions we might ask will take on an entirely different character. Grapes so closely connected to this particular vine will probably not be concerned with parking places or cars. Our askings might sound more like: Give us this day or daily bread. Forgive us as we forgive others (and while we are at it, give us the capacity to forgive others). Deliver us from evil. Bring your realm to bear on earth, just as it does in heaven.
One last thought: grapes by their very nature know that they must hang together or they will hang separately. The Vine proves all the nourishment that each grape, each cluster of grapes, and each clump of grapes needs to flourish. There's plenty of vine to go around.
I'm thinking that the more connected we are to the Vine, and to the other grapes that surround us, the healthier we all will grow. That very connection is what will help us frame our questions, and then to be prepared to wait expectantly for the answers we are promised.
The saints of Taos First have asked me to reflect on John 15:1-17 for their Session retreat tonight. So I'm going to share my ponderings on this passage with you in hours of focusing my thoughts for them. And if you happen to know anyone on Session in Taos, please don't leak this to them before tonight!
This is a very intimate passage. In just 17 verses, Jesus refers to himself and to us more than 30 times each. Even God only gets 7 mentions. Jesus is talking straight to his disciples, and to us, looking us all right in the eye. It's a monologue; Jesus is doing all the talking. The disciples don't get a word in edgewise. But there's a lot of good stuff to hear.
And what does he say? The thing that really pops out to this 21st century girl is this: ask for anything, and you will get it. Wow! A parking spot AND a new car to go into it? A million dollars? Obedient children? Perfect health? It's like Jesus is our own personal genie: rub the bottle, and, voila.
This is sounding a little too Joel Osteen, "prosperity gospel," for me. If you pull out that one verse, that's what you get. But we can't just ignore the other 16 verses, as much as we might like. Upon further investigation, there's more. (As is usually the case where Jesus is concerned)
Verse 7, NRSV: "If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you." Ah, the catch.
In English, "abide" and"abode" are closely related. Take up residence. Move in permanently. Become part of the neighborhood. No camping, no renting. LIVE in Jesus, and let Jesus' words live in us.
It's kind of like that fruit which he talks about in this same section. It sounds like we are to be as organically connected to Jesus as grapes are to the vine, as Jesus describes himself to be to us.
That's a fairly hard thing to wrap my head around. Maybe it would help to remember (she said, stepping out of her liberal arts comfort zone and into agriculture) that produce, whether it's apples or grapes or cotton or corn, is organically related to that which produces it. Grapevines cannot produce rice. And different kinds of grapevines produce different types of grapes. Jesus even says so himself in the Sermon on the Mount, in Matthew 7: "You will know them by their fruits."
Suffice it to say that if Jesus is the vine upon which we grapes grow, then our grapes will have a certain quality and character they might not receive from another source.
And then, suffice it to say that if we are so connected to the vine, then any questions we might ask will take on an entirely different character. Grapes so closely connected to this particular vine will probably not be concerned with parking places or cars. Our askings might sound more like: Give us this day or daily bread. Forgive us as we forgive others (and while we are at it, give us the capacity to forgive others). Deliver us from evil. Bring your realm to bear on earth, just as it does in heaven.
One last thought: grapes by their very nature know that they must hang together or they will hang separately. The Vine proves all the nourishment that each grape, each cluster of grapes, and each clump of grapes needs to flourish. There's plenty of vine to go around.
I'm thinking that the more connected we are to the Vine, and to the other grapes that surround us, the healthier we all will grow. That very connection is what will help us frame our questions, and then to be prepared to wait expectantly for the answers we are promised.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Presbyterian Idol
It seems that Presbyterians in general have been freaked out about their numbers since at least the mid-1970s. It's noted in the book The Big Sort that the decline, for Presbyterians and Catholics and Baptists and everyone, actually, began in about 1965. But now that our numbers nationally have dropped to around 1.9 million, we think that the end of the world is near.
Of course I would like it if we won the popularity contest, and had more numbers than all the other mainline denominations combined. But I don't remember reading anything about "Blessed are you when your membership tops 5 million" anywhere in the gospels. Not even in John. Not even in the apocryphal Gospel of Thomas. The book of Acts does talk about the day when three thousand souls were added to their numbers, and also that "day by day the Lord added to their number those who were being saved." (Acts 2:47). But did you catch that? We're not the ones that do the adding. That's a gift from God. That must mean that our job is something else.
In the last few verses of Acts 15, we're told that Paul invited Barnabas to go with him to check out all of their "new church developments" and see how everyone was getting along. Barnabas agreed, but said "Let's bring along John Mark too." Nothing wrong with that, right? The more the merrier and all that. But Paul said no. His objection had to do with the fact that John Mark had "deserted" them in Pamphylia and "had not accompanied them in the work." So quite the blowup ensued. Barnabas and John Mark ended up going one direction, and Paul then invited Silas to go with him in another. Funny, from that point on we read a lot more about Paul than we ever do about Barnabas or John Mark.
Some would write off this passage to the hard-headedness of Paul. But there's more going on here than that. For one, it shows me how bent we are on "church growth" these days, to the point that we are willing to take in anyone who will join our church, whether they are interested in our mission or not. And we dare not say anything, even if it's the truth, to make anyone mad lest we lose a member. To me, that means that we have made a false idol of the numbers game, to the detriment of faithfulness. I hate to say it, but you know I'm right: sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is to bless certain members on their way, trusting God as we do. Not everyone is meant to go along. If we drag someone along who is less than committed at best and dangerous at worst, we have not gained anything and we have not furthered the cause of the Gospel.
But what about the poor John Marks of the world? Do we leave him behind to his own devices, and therefore to the wolves? Have we forsaken him? Perhaps our job is to trust that God has not left John Mark behind. Perhaps someone else will help him, or he will help someone else. We don't have to know that. But we do have to discern that accompanying Paul, or accompanying us, may not be his call in life.
Systems theory teaches that gearing towards the lowest common denominator does not strengthen the system. Rather, focusing on the health of the system will strengthen all of its members. That dram of wisdom, along with trusting God for the results, spares us from the idolatry of numbers.
Yes, of course, I want for there to be millions of happy and healthy Presbyterians. That's not what I'm saying. What I do NOT want is for that to be our goal in life. Our goal is to witness to and to serve the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of Holy Spirit. If that's all that we do, we're going to be just fine.
Of course I would like it if we won the popularity contest, and had more numbers than all the other mainline denominations combined. But I don't remember reading anything about "Blessed are you when your membership tops 5 million" anywhere in the gospels. Not even in John. Not even in the apocryphal Gospel of Thomas. The book of Acts does talk about the day when three thousand souls were added to their numbers, and also that "day by day the Lord added to their number those who were being saved." (Acts 2:47). But did you catch that? We're not the ones that do the adding. That's a gift from God. That must mean that our job is something else.
In the last few verses of Acts 15, we're told that Paul invited Barnabas to go with him to check out all of their "new church developments" and see how everyone was getting along. Barnabas agreed, but said "Let's bring along John Mark too." Nothing wrong with that, right? The more the merrier and all that. But Paul said no. His objection had to do with the fact that John Mark had "deserted" them in Pamphylia and "had not accompanied them in the work." So quite the blowup ensued. Barnabas and John Mark ended up going one direction, and Paul then invited Silas to go with him in another. Funny, from that point on we read a lot more about Paul than we ever do about Barnabas or John Mark.
Some would write off this passage to the hard-headedness of Paul. But there's more going on here than that. For one, it shows me how bent we are on "church growth" these days, to the point that we are willing to take in anyone who will join our church, whether they are interested in our mission or not. And we dare not say anything, even if it's the truth, to make anyone mad lest we lose a member. To me, that means that we have made a false idol of the numbers game, to the detriment of faithfulness. I hate to say it, but you know I'm right: sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is to bless certain members on their way, trusting God as we do. Not everyone is meant to go along. If we drag someone along who is less than committed at best and dangerous at worst, we have not gained anything and we have not furthered the cause of the Gospel.
But what about the poor John Marks of the world? Do we leave him behind to his own devices, and therefore to the wolves? Have we forsaken him? Perhaps our job is to trust that God has not left John Mark behind. Perhaps someone else will help him, or he will help someone else. We don't have to know that. But we do have to discern that accompanying Paul, or accompanying us, may not be his call in life.
Systems theory teaches that gearing towards the lowest common denominator does not strengthen the system. Rather, focusing on the health of the system will strengthen all of its members. That dram of wisdom, along with trusting God for the results, spares us from the idolatry of numbers.
Yes, of course, I want for there to be millions of happy and healthy Presbyterians. That's not what I'm saying. What I do NOT want is for that to be our goal in life. Our goal is to witness to and to serve the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of Holy Spirit. If that's all that we do, we're going to be just fine.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Psychics, Pigs and Pharisees
Today's readings from the Daily Lectionary were a riot. All full of colorful characters. From Acts 15, Peter and the Jerusalem Council, where Peter basically tells the Pharisees to get over it where God's grace is concerned. From Mark 5, the story of the Gerasene Demoniac, where Jesus heals a man by casting his occupying evil spirits into a herd of swine. And last but not least, from 1 Samuel 28, the story of Saul - who had just thrown all the psychics and wizards out of the land, consulting (in costume) a psychic - known in Biblical lore as "The Witch of Endor." This was way too much fun to read. (And I commend them to you for your reading - but you must read ALL of them together for maximum impact!)
If there were psychics and wizards back in Old Testament times, why do we tend to freak out over them today and believe that they can no longer exist? If there were demons and evil spirits in Jesus' time, why are we surprised when we encounter them now? And what - there were gatekeepers in the church, who tried to separate the worthy from the unworthy? No!! Impossible.
But put them all together, and here's what I get: God will use what God will use: pigs, psychics, Pharisees, you name it. Saith Peter: "Why are you putting God to the test by placing on the neck of the disciples a yoke that neither our ancestors nor we have been able to bear? On the contrary, we believe that we will be saved through the grace of the Lord Jesus, just as they will."
God will use what God will use. Mad dogs and Englishmen. Even Missional Presbyters. Even alcoholics, people with terminal diseases, pregnant mothers, one-legged Ph.Ds, retired pastors, grieving widowers, two teenagers and their parents. All God's children got a place in the choir. How dare we test God by trying to restrain God's grace - by trying to put a yoke on that which is freely given to us.
As my friend Tom said yesterday, "Isn't it funny how pastors use the language 'seeking a call,' when really it's God doing the calling?" God's gifts are just that: God's gifts, freely given. Our job is to suit up and answer when they come, say "thank you" even if it doesn't seem like a gift at the time, and then put that gift to use. It's been done by psychics, pigs, and maybe even Pharisees - it's the least we can do.
If there were psychics and wizards back in Old Testament times, why do we tend to freak out over them today and believe that they can no longer exist? If there were demons and evil spirits in Jesus' time, why are we surprised when we encounter them now? And what - there were gatekeepers in the church, who tried to separate the worthy from the unworthy? No!! Impossible.
But put them all together, and here's what I get: God will use what God will use: pigs, psychics, Pharisees, you name it. Saith Peter: "Why are you putting God to the test by placing on the neck of the disciples a yoke that neither our ancestors nor we have been able to bear? On the contrary, we believe that we will be saved through the grace of the Lord Jesus, just as they will."
God will use what God will use. Mad dogs and Englishmen. Even Missional Presbyters. Even alcoholics, people with terminal diseases, pregnant mothers, one-legged Ph.Ds, retired pastors, grieving widowers, two teenagers and their parents. All God's children got a place in the choir. How dare we test God by trying to restrain God's grace - by trying to put a yoke on that which is freely given to us.
As my friend Tom said yesterday, "Isn't it funny how pastors use the language 'seeking a call,' when really it's God doing the calling?" God's gifts are just that: God's gifts, freely given. Our job is to suit up and answer when they come, say "thank you" even if it doesn't seem like a gift at the time, and then put that gift to use. It's been done by psychics, pigs, and maybe even Pharisees - it's the least we can do.
Friday, June 7, 2013
Life Imitates Choir
I'm spending a week in Henryville, Indiana, experiencing the gift to the Presbyterian Church (USA) that is CREDO. For eight days, other people cook other people clean, other people tend to your every need in order that you take the time to reflect upon your life and vocation.
One of the reflections on my vocation has to do with writing, how I love it and find it nourishing, and how I haven't gotten myself to do blogging in FIVE YEARS. What's up with that! When I return home my plan is to get a journal and some lovely colored pencils to do some image journaling - to play with color and see what comes from that. But I cannot forsake my first love, the written word. And so here I am, back.
This week we were shown the technique of "Life Line" to describe one's life: how did I get here? What were the stops along the way? The speaker described his life in terms of vacation locales, places that had been important to him. They all had a similar theme. Another friend broke his life up into segments by the moves that he had made. I began to think about what my "skeleton" would be upon which I could frame my life. and it turned into.... life lessons I learned from being a member of the Westminster Youth Choir.
Many of you know that I was a member of this choir for 5 of its 35-40 years, and it shaped me in every imaginable way - including my call to ministry. The director, William C. "Bill" Everitt, shaped us all by his choices, his mentoring, and his demand for excellence. Some of the friendships I made in the choir continue to shape me to this day.
One of the reflections on my vocation has to do with writing, how I love it and find it nourishing, and how I haven't gotten myself to do blogging in FIVE YEARS. What's up with that! When I return home my plan is to get a journal and some lovely colored pencils to do some image journaling - to play with color and see what comes from that. But I cannot forsake my first love, the written word. And so here I am, back.
This week we were shown the technique of "Life Line" to describe one's life: how did I get here? What were the stops along the way? The speaker described his life in terms of vacation locales, places that had been important to him. They all had a similar theme. Another friend broke his life up into segments by the moves that he had made. I began to think about what my "skeleton" would be upon which I could frame my life. and it turned into.... life lessons I learned from being a member of the Westminster Youth Choir.
Many of you know that I was a member of this choir for 5 of its 35-40 years, and it shaped me in every imaginable way - including my call to ministry. The director, William C. "Bill" Everitt, shaped us all by his choices, his mentoring, and his demand for excellence. Some of the friendships I made in the choir continue to shape me to this day.
This was the choir in 1972. See if you can find me!
So, what have I learned in the way of life lessons from being a member of this choir?
* It's all about the community. All are welcome. There's room for everyone, even some who couldn't really sing that well. In choral singing, there is no room for egos. Dangly jewelry had to go. No scratching allowed! Any movements other than singing would distract from the whole. Your ears had to cover about 75 people: the altos could not overpower the basses; one alto could not overpower one another. The goal was to take those 75 disparate personalities and sing as one.
* It's not performance, it's offering. Every year, we toured some part of the United States or Canada. We visited places we had never been, dressed and acted respectfully (once we got off the buses!), and offered our gift of music. In turn we received the hospitality of strangers in meals and lodging. Mr. Everitt's personal slogan was taken from somewhere in Psalms or Proverbs, can't remember. But I remember the saying: "Offer not unto the Lord that which costs you nothing." In order to make that offering to God, we had to set aside our egos, our desires to wear jeans or flipflops, our ugly attitudes, our comfort. And it was always worth it.
* Everyone has a job. Some carried risers. Some loaded luggage. Some made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Some were officers. But everyone had to learn their part and contribute. Everyone had an assignment.
* Make sure everyone gets there. In order to be in the choir, we had to take voice lessons weekly. And if we couldn't afford the $3 per Saturday for that lesson, somehow the teacher would get compensated. When tour time came around, our cost was a whopping $100 or so. Mainly that covered the cost of the Greyhound buses, since some meals and lodging were provided by the host churches. Even so, some of the kids weren't able to find that $100. Funny - somehow, if there were 4 students who couldn't afford to go, 4 anonymous donors surfaced to pay their scholarship. It was grace at work. On free days, Mr. E would dole out dollar bills to all of us for spending money. He sure didn't act like he was made out of money, but something tells me he was... and, that internally, he was rich beyond measure.
* What goes in, comes out. Mr. E wouldn't let us sing anything but the best music. He challenged us with music from the early church and 8-part Russian anthems. He delighted us with spirituals, but we had to make them ring. And there were some anthems that were so treasured, we had to prove to him that we were "up to par" before he would let us sing them. We used to record for broadcast on KRLD Radio in Dallas. I'll never forget the time when Christmas was approaching, and he wanted us to record the "Hallelujah Chorus" from Handel's Messiah. He put on the headphones, the tape began to roll, and we sang it perfectly. We were so proud of ourselves! Then when the tape stopped, he said, "That was perfect. Not a note out of place. Now, let's record it again and sing it like we mean it." That was all we needed. I'm not sure there was a dry eye in the house that second time. Again, it's not performance: it's offering.
These are only five life lessons learned from my time with the Westminster Youth Choir. I could go on, and may well do in future notes. But these are the important ones that surface now for me. And for now, it is enough.
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