Speaking of Stewardship Season, here's a nice nugget of wisdom from our Presbyterian tradition:
"Those who follow the discipline of Christian stewardship will find themselves called to lives of simplicity, generosity, honesty, hospitality, compassion, receptivity, and concern for the earth and God’s creatures."
What a list. This week I'm struck by the word RECEPTIVITY; not the first term one might associate with an emphasis on stewardship giving, inside or outside our congregation. But I think it fits. If one starts with the spiritually cascading truths that all is God's and all is on loan from God and all is offered back to God as worship and gratitude — and that Jesus is our leader is no doubt the exemplar steward — then good stewardship invites us to learn again and again a supple posture of receptivity.
Openness. Nimbleness. Readiness. After all, one never knows what is next in this way of walking.
What opportunities for good giving will present themselves? Where will I sense the divine Holy Spirit nudge? When a moment of extra giving comes along, how can I trust that giving away more of the gifts of God will be good for my soul, thereby flipping the script on the tendency to grasp and cling? Maybe you have a talent: Are you open to new and surprising ways that our Providential God might put it to use for blessing others? And given that we serve a Resurrecting God, full of Easter Surprises and Pentecost Interruptions, how can we each pay attention for the prompting of that same Spirit in the nooks and crannies of ordinary days? and in the week to week of this congregation we love?
Sunday's gospel teaching is again from Luke, again it is Jesus teaching us in simple parable, and again is about a posture toward God and God's world around us that could rightly be called stewardship. Luke 12:35-48. Read ahead, and “be dressed for action. Have your lamps lit!" Jesus-receptivity and Jesus-readiness apparently call for a smart source of light. After all, a follower of Jesus never quite knows what the morrow will bring.
That is the blessing of this stewardship business, not a curse.
October 31, 2019
June 27, 2019
Friendships as Ministry
We all have friends.
Granted, the breadth and depth of friendship may vary from person to person, but surely all of us traffic in at least a few friendships. As such, other than our families of origin, friendships are probably the most ubiquitous of all relationships. Not everyone is called to marry. Not everyone raises children or grandchildren. Most of us do not loom large in public life and therefore the benefactor of hundreds of social acquaintances. But by virtue of the great commandment to love our neighbors as well as we would love ourselves, all of us are called to the ministry of friendship.
Our simple summer sermon series for June and July explores some themes in the Christian ministry of friendship. We started with a refresher on the love chapter of 1 Corinthians 13, in some ways rescuing those familiar lines from the clutches of wedding ceremonies and repositioning Paul's teaching as direction for every Christian in every relationship -- not just for couples "in love." Next we'll mine the collected wisdom of the book of Proverbs for reminders on the nature of friendship. Then we'll sit at table with Jesus and his first disciples as he announces to them, and us, that he no longer calls us servants, but rather "friends." The implications of this new and provocative nomenclature are many, so we'll take a look at what that means both for us as his friends and for others who know us as a friend.
Behind the scenes, your session is in prayerful discussion about specific areas and directions of ministry for the next five years in the life of our beloved Northminster church. We hope to discern a handful of mission endeavors that will guide our common life and offer ministry to others in Jesus' name. Those are sacred and important discussions, and I know we will be sharing with you soon what we are discerning and where we hope to go in the way of direction, vocation. The ministry we do together is important.
But meanwhile, regarding ministry, it seems to me that everyone of us also has a ministry waiting for us every time we connect with our friends. One does not always have to cross the seas or cross the town or cross cultures in order to share in Jesus' ministry of mercy, reconciliation, and love. Sometimes his kingdom is as a close at hand as a text message, a lunch date, a golf outing, or a note. I hope this short summer series will be an encouragement to you as you steward the friendships God has providentially placed in your life.
Granted, the breadth and depth of friendship may vary from person to person, but surely all of us traffic in at least a few friendships. As such, other than our families of origin, friendships are probably the most ubiquitous of all relationships. Not everyone is called to marry. Not everyone raises children or grandchildren. Most of us do not loom large in public life and therefore the benefactor of hundreds of social acquaintances. But by virtue of the great commandment to love our neighbors as well as we would love ourselves, all of us are called to the ministry of friendship.
Our simple summer sermon series for June and July explores some themes in the Christian ministry of friendship. We started with a refresher on the love chapter of 1 Corinthians 13, in some ways rescuing those familiar lines from the clutches of wedding ceremonies and repositioning Paul's teaching as direction for every Christian in every relationship -- not just for couples "in love." Next we'll mine the collected wisdom of the book of Proverbs for reminders on the nature of friendship. Then we'll sit at table with Jesus and his first disciples as he announces to them, and us, that he no longer calls us servants, but rather "friends." The implications of this new and provocative nomenclature are many, so we'll take a look at what that means both for us as his friends and for others who know us as a friend.
Behind the scenes, your session is in prayerful discussion about specific areas and directions of ministry for the next five years in the life of our beloved Northminster church. We hope to discern a handful of mission endeavors that will guide our common life and offer ministry to others in Jesus' name. Those are sacred and important discussions, and I know we will be sharing with you soon what we are discerning and where we hope to go in the way of direction, vocation. The ministry we do together is important.
But meanwhile, regarding ministry, it seems to me that everyone of us also has a ministry waiting for us every time we connect with our friends. One does not always have to cross the seas or cross the town or cross cultures in order to share in Jesus' ministry of mercy, reconciliation, and love. Sometimes his kingdom is as a close at hand as a text message, a lunch date, a golf outing, or a note. I hope this short summer series will be an encouragement to you as you steward the friendships God has providentially placed in your life.
March 29, 2019
Found but Lost
The fifteenth chapter of Luke and the "parable of the Prodigal Son" have been for many years fertile soil for preachers and therefore familiar ground for congregations. Indeed, the images are rich and memorable: the younger son insisting on cashing out his inheritance early; the whorish squandering of his monies in foolish Las Vegas living; a wised-up, sobered prodigal, down on his news asking for forgiveness from a father who has every right to judge. He is we, our preachers have often said: We are each the Prodigal. We are all saved by grace alone.
True enough. But a fresh reading of the whole of Luke 15 reveals that the oft-preached Prodigal Son story is actually a gateway narrative for the climactic story Jesus really wants to tell. It is the sad song of an older sibling, with its own provocative images: an embittered, resentful older son who stubbornly refuses to join in on the Prodigal's welcome home party. While the DJ cues up the homecoming dance, the older son is passive-aggressively out in the parking lot — declaring his disapproval of the father's lavish grace.
Who are we in the full story of Luke 15? Are we the once-lost? Are we the have-always-been-here found? Are we the younger or the older brother? Are we guilty ... or are we angry? What side of God's grace do we most need to hear in this stage of life? ... the unfettered welcome home of the foolish prodigal? ... or the pat-on-the back "you have always been with me" ... but "we need to celebrate" reminder to a resentful older sibling?
Join me Sunday morning in Luke 15 as we celebrate the good news that both brothers — the lost and the found — are welcomed back by the Father's sumptuous, unmerited favor.
True enough. But a fresh reading of the whole of Luke 15 reveals that the oft-preached Prodigal Son story is actually a gateway narrative for the climactic story Jesus really wants to tell. It is the sad song of an older sibling, with its own provocative images: an embittered, resentful older son who stubbornly refuses to join in on the Prodigal's welcome home party. While the DJ cues up the homecoming dance, the older son is passive-aggressively out in the parking lot — declaring his disapproval of the father's lavish grace.
Who are we in the full story of Luke 15? Are we the once-lost? Are we the have-always-been-here found? Are we the younger or the older brother? Are we guilty ... or are we angry? What side of God's grace do we most need to hear in this stage of life? ... the unfettered welcome home of the foolish prodigal? ... or the pat-on-the back "you have always been with me" ... but "we need to celebrate" reminder to a resentful older sibling?
Join me Sunday morning in Luke 15 as we celebrate the good news that both brothers — the lost and the found — are welcomed back by the Father's sumptuous, unmerited favor.
March 21, 2019
Redirection
737 Max crashes. New Zealand shootings. Mozambique cyclones.
Where do your heart and mind go when the news of more far off human pain hits your ears?
Like many of you, I was raised in a family that valued staying current on world affairs. Walter Cronkite was a nightly fixture in our house. My father had the Times Picayune in front of him for an hour a night. Presbyterian faith + the value of education + access to newspapers and networks equaled regular conversation about current events, near and far. Surely one part of loving this world that "God so loved" is staying educated about its happenings. True enough.
But that was before the World Wide Web and the 24/7 news cycle. These days, with the onslaught of ticker tape news feeds and pundit-talking-heads and round-the-clock media, one wonders if discipleship calls for more restraint in the consumption of news. With so much data available to us now, I worry about a kind of spiritual-sadness inebriation that leaves us insensible to so much macro and maybe also numb to the micro in and around our own lives. Perhaps Lent is a season to take a step back from the Big News ... in order to take a step forward into our Small Souls? I am not adovcating retreat, merely rest, and reflection. Each of us must work out that balance for ourselves.
In Sunday's lectionary reading, Luke 13:1-9, Jesus' disciples are ruminating on the news of more human tragedy. When the conversation shifts to human causality — Who's fault is this? — and the matter is brought to their Teacher, Jesus offers a curious response. Redirection. To be sure, sometimes politicians and diplomats use redirection as a means of misdirection. But in Jesus' case, our Teacher uses a moment of public gossip to remind his followers about the frailty of life and the resulting call to spiritual readiness. Jesus: We can obsess about macro matters we cannot control ... or we can be spiritual stewards of those micro matters about which we can do something. After all, what good is worry for the whole world if it wrecks our ability to love locally?
Where do your heart and mind go when the news of more far off human pain hits your ears?
Like many of you, I was raised in a family that valued staying current on world affairs. Walter Cronkite was a nightly fixture in our house. My father had the Times Picayune in front of him for an hour a night. Presbyterian faith + the value of education + access to newspapers and networks equaled regular conversation about current events, near and far. Surely one part of loving this world that "God so loved" is staying educated about its happenings. True enough.
But that was before the World Wide Web and the 24/7 news cycle. These days, with the onslaught of ticker tape news feeds and pundit-talking-heads and round-the-clock media, one wonders if discipleship calls for more restraint in the consumption of news. With so much data available to us now, I worry about a kind of spiritual-sadness inebriation that leaves us insensible to so much macro and maybe also numb to the micro in and around our own lives. Perhaps Lent is a season to take a step back from the Big News ... in order to take a step forward into our Small Souls? I am not adovcating retreat, merely rest, and reflection. Each of us must work out that balance for ourselves.
In Sunday's lectionary reading, Luke 13:1-9, Jesus' disciples are ruminating on the news of more human tragedy. When the conversation shifts to human causality — Who's fault is this? — and the matter is brought to their Teacher, Jesus offers a curious response. Redirection. To be sure, sometimes politicians and diplomats use redirection as a means of misdirection. But in Jesus' case, our Teacher uses a moment of public gossip to remind his followers about the frailty of life and the resulting call to spiritual readiness. Jesus: We can obsess about macro matters we cannot control ... or we can be spiritual stewards of those micro matters about which we can do something. After all, what good is worry for the whole world if it wrecks our ability to love locally?
March 15, 2019
Highs and Lows
Life in this world brings with it some highs and some lows, especially when one leans into the good news and seeks to love God and neighbor. Ups and downs: That much is clear. Apparently it was not so different for Jesus in his public ministry. This Sunday we sit together before a another memory from the Gospel of Luke. Last week we sat with Jesus in his 40-day tempting and testing wilderness. This week, we hike with a few of Jesus' first disciples as together they climb toward a mountaintop and experience a high of all highs — a magical moment of heavenly overlap the church clumsily labels "transfiguration." Who wouldn't want to stay right there, basking in the glow of God? But mountaintop highs can't go on forever, at least not in this life. With Luke's help, Sunday we'll see what happens on the other side of the mountaintop, when Jesus takes the high of heaven down to the lowest of earth. Read and prayer this encounter ahead of time — Luke 9:28-43 — and help your preacher find the good news when we all gather again this Sunday.
February 28, 2019
Less Is More in Lent
The forty day season between Ash Wednesday and Easter morning (minus the Sundays) known as Lent is something of an enigma for many Presbyterians. If you grew up Protestant before the late 1960s, Lent was likely not a part of your spiritual upbringing. In fact, many mid-century Protestants would have probably shunned the season (and other liturgical seasons like it) as being "too Catholic." It is true: the Protestant reformers of Europe did push back on many of the calendars, observances, and seasons that marked medieval Catholic worship in Europe and later brought to America, concerned as the new Protestants were about liturgical rites taking on a life of their own and overshadowing the preaching and teaching of the New Testament.
However, our English word "Lent" simply means "spring" and as a Christian observance, its roots are much older than the squabbles of the Reformation era. Lent originally developed as the final season of spiritual preparation for those new followers of Jesus being readied to be baptized on Easter Sunday. As these preparations usually called for self-examination and repentance, the six week period became known as a time of intense piety and sacrifice. Some of that spiritual DNA comes down to us in the form of "giving up something for Lent," but in the ancient baptismal preparations, the spirit of that sacrifice was less about "going without something I love" and more about "making more room in my life for prayer, worship, and service." The point of Lent was not to add to your spiritual suffering, but to take away from your daily burdens — for Jesus' sake.
That last point is instructive for us. Lent need not be a dark, serious time of feeling more guilt. Indeed, as a springtime season even the creation all around us welcomes more sun after cooler months. Rather, let Lent be some weeks during which we offload one or more of life's distracting comforts ... in order to make room in our daily lives for what the Protestant reformers would have called "deeper piety" — personal examination, silent prayer, spiritual reflection, preparation for public worship, acts of mercy among our neighbors, etc. If eating less chocolate or binging less Netflix or skipping Starbucks in the morning helps you welcome fresh piety ... great! But remember, the point is not so much additional suffering (especially first world suffering!) for suffering's sake, but rather additional prayerful consciousness for Jesus' sake. Less of one thing makes room for more of another. Lent need not be any more complicated than that.
So, no, Lent is not a native experience for many Presbyterians of certain generations. But since the late 1960s there has been among American Christians, Catholic and Protestant alike, a much greater awareness that we could probably stand to learn from one another the various ancient practices of discipleship, of following Jesus. I for one am grateful for Lent's arrival on our Presbyterian scene in recent decades. I appreciate its sharper focus, its simplicity, and its call to pay closer attention to how we are remembering our baptisms and following Jesus in our daily lives.
This month, we will follow the ministry of Jesus through the gospel of Luke, as the lectionary gospel readings serve up living examples of his lordship and love. I'm looking forward to making this Lenten journey with you for the first time.
However, our English word "Lent" simply means "spring" and as a Christian observance, its roots are much older than the squabbles of the Reformation era. Lent originally developed as the final season of spiritual preparation for those new followers of Jesus being readied to be baptized on Easter Sunday. As these preparations usually called for self-examination and repentance, the six week period became known as a time of intense piety and sacrifice. Some of that spiritual DNA comes down to us in the form of "giving up something for Lent," but in the ancient baptismal preparations, the spirit of that sacrifice was less about "going without something I love" and more about "making more room in my life for prayer, worship, and service." The point of Lent was not to add to your spiritual suffering, but to take away from your daily burdens — for Jesus' sake.
That last point is instructive for us. Lent need not be a dark, serious time of feeling more guilt. Indeed, as a springtime season even the creation all around us welcomes more sun after cooler months. Rather, let Lent be some weeks during which we offload one or more of life's distracting comforts ... in order to make room in our daily lives for what the Protestant reformers would have called "deeper piety" — personal examination, silent prayer, spiritual reflection, preparation for public worship, acts of mercy among our neighbors, etc. If eating less chocolate or binging less Netflix or skipping Starbucks in the morning helps you welcome fresh piety ... great! But remember, the point is not so much additional suffering (especially first world suffering!) for suffering's sake, but rather additional prayerful consciousness for Jesus' sake. Less of one thing makes room for more of another. Lent need not be any more complicated than that.
So, no, Lent is not a native experience for many Presbyterians of certain generations. But since the late 1960s there has been among American Christians, Catholic and Protestant alike, a much greater awareness that we could probably stand to learn from one another the various ancient practices of discipleship, of following Jesus. I for one am grateful for Lent's arrival on our Presbyterian scene in recent decades. I appreciate its sharper focus, its simplicity, and its call to pay closer attention to how we are remembering our baptisms and following Jesus in our daily lives.
This month, we will follow the ministry of Jesus through the gospel of Luke, as the lectionary gospel readings serve up living examples of his lordship and love. I'm looking forward to making this Lenten journey with you for the first time.
January 30, 2019
Gifted Gifts
Presbyterians have a large gene labelled Modesty running around in our spiritual DNA.
Most of our parents taught most of us to 1. stay nice and quiet during the worship of God, and 2. never to brag. Makes sense. You can add to these parental prohibitions a strong emphasis in our Reformed tradition on glory always being given to God and not to humanity. Even faith itself is a gift, we say. Boasting is the cardinal Presbyterian sin.
Given all of this, the invitation to talk about ourselves in the context of faith and church likely leaves many of us feeling a bit uneasy. Even more, the language of "spiritual gifts" might sound to some like it better belongs in one of those other Christian churches, perhaps one on a cable access channel. Bottom line: Is the naming aloud of our spiritual gifts — be they communal or individual — a form of bragging? Is it, inevitabily: "I have the spiritual gift of wisdom ... Look at me!"
The New Testament is chockablock full of language about the gifts Christ gives to his church, in every generation and in every place. Ephesians 4 is my favorite example, where the apostle lists a sacred chain of invisible gifts that are given by the Spirit for building up the visible church. The logic of Paul's gift-talk seems to run like this: God gives good gifts to those God calls to faith, gifts for blessing the whole of the faithful, all so that the faithful can become the kind of persons whose lives and love bring glory back to God amid a watching and wanting world.
It is this logic that hedges against bragging. Our gifts come from God, not us. No one can claim original ownership. And when gifts bear fruit in the church and in the world, the taste of said fruit will develop an appetite in others for the divine, not for us. Glory (emphasis, reputation, legacy, credit) goes back to God, not to us. In short, spiritual gifts are gifts to be given away. There is no room in that chain of logic for self-referential bragging. But given the mandate to use them for blessing, there is also no need to keep the whole matter under wraps. Indeed, there is a real sense in which we need each other to help each other discern what our own gifts might be. That calls for conversation, and prayer, and encouragement.
There is freedom in the grace of gifts, freedom to ask of our lives and of a congregation's culture: What particular invisible gifts has God entrusted to me and to my visible community? All disciples and all communions share Jesus in common, as well as his faith, hope, and love. But beyond those sacred universals, what are the particular marks of God's gifting grace in our history? Asking these questions, sharing in this discovery, and celebrating our findings — this activity is not bragging; this is stewardship. To whom much is given (by God), much is expected (by God). Staying clear about what has been given TO us helps us stay alert to those moments when grace invites us to give AWAY the spiritual blessings Christ has deposited in our communion.
What gifts of a spiritual nature has the Holy Spirit invested in your life?
Most of our parents taught most of us to 1. stay nice and quiet during the worship of God, and 2. never to brag. Makes sense. You can add to these parental prohibitions a strong emphasis in our Reformed tradition on glory always being given to God and not to humanity. Even faith itself is a gift, we say. Boasting is the cardinal Presbyterian sin.
Given all of this, the invitation to talk about ourselves in the context of faith and church likely leaves many of us feeling a bit uneasy. Even more, the language of "spiritual gifts" might sound to some like it better belongs in one of those other Christian churches, perhaps one on a cable access channel. Bottom line: Is the naming aloud of our spiritual gifts — be they communal or individual — a form of bragging? Is it, inevitabily: "I have the spiritual gift of wisdom ... Look at me!"
The New Testament is chockablock full of language about the gifts Christ gives to his church, in every generation and in every place. Ephesians 4 is my favorite example, where the apostle lists a sacred chain of invisible gifts that are given by the Spirit for building up the visible church. The logic of Paul's gift-talk seems to run like this: God gives good gifts to those God calls to faith, gifts for blessing the whole of the faithful, all so that the faithful can become the kind of persons whose lives and love bring glory back to God amid a watching and wanting world.
It is this logic that hedges against bragging. Our gifts come from God, not us. No one can claim original ownership. And when gifts bear fruit in the church and in the world, the taste of said fruit will develop an appetite in others for the divine, not for us. Glory (emphasis, reputation, legacy, credit) goes back to God, not to us. In short, spiritual gifts are gifts to be given away. There is no room in that chain of logic for self-referential bragging. But given the mandate to use them for blessing, there is also no need to keep the whole matter under wraps. Indeed, there is a real sense in which we need each other to help each other discern what our own gifts might be. That calls for conversation, and prayer, and encouragement.
There is freedom in the grace of gifts, freedom to ask of our lives and of a congregation's culture: What particular invisible gifts has God entrusted to me and to my visible community? All disciples and all communions share Jesus in common, as well as his faith, hope, and love. But beyond those sacred universals, what are the particular marks of God's gifting grace in our history? Asking these questions, sharing in this discovery, and celebrating our findings — this activity is not bragging; this is stewardship. To whom much is given (by God), much is expected (by God). Staying clear about what has been given TO us helps us stay alert to those moments when grace invites us to give AWAY the spiritual blessings Christ has deposited in our communion.
What gifts of a spiritual nature has the Holy Spirit invested in your life?
January 17, 2019
Lagniappe Lord
"We picked up one excellent word, a word worth traveling to New Orleans to get; a nice limber, expressive, handy word: 'lagniappe.' They pronounce it lanny-yap. It is Spanish, so they said. We discovered it at the head of a column of odds and ends in the Picayune, the first day; heard twenty people use it the second; inquired what it meant the third; adopted it and got facility in swinging it the fourth. It has a restricted meaning, but I think the people spread it out a little when they choose. It is the equivalent of the thirteenth roll in a "baker's dozen." It is something thrown in, gratis, for good measure."
Mark Twain wrote those words in 1883 in his travelogue Life on the Mississippi. In my lifetime, my late father, John Hawkins, used Twain's favorite new word frequently in his everyday banter. "Lagniappe." Makes you feel like you know some fun French, even if you don't. "Just a little something extra," my dad used to say, with a wink. "Just because." And the kids in line at the church picnic, waiting for his homemade ice cream, were ever so grateful for his generosity.
Sunday's gospel reading is a lagniappe moment in Jesus' ministry, a story with a wink built in. John arranges his rich gospel collection in such a way that Jesus' first remembered miracle is an entirely unnecessary one: transforming a large batch of everyday water into a vivifying wedding wine. John 2:1-11. No blindness is cured; no leprosy healed. No lame legs are given new traction; no dark demons dethroned. Just some wine. Just because. At a wedding party in a side-road town called Cana, our Lord simply does a heaven-shaped favor for an everyday family throwing a party, lubricating the evening with wine when the supplies run out. It is a lagniappe miracle, a sign pointing to heaven — gratis, for good measure. Furthermore, it turns out the Son of God likes a good party as much as most of us (secretly) do. Who knew?
What does it suggest about the nature of God the Father that Jesus the Son performs a lagniappe miracle as a sign of heaven's shape? How does a beverage give a fresh taste-test of God's true heart? What does it mean to be a wine-flavored church in this sour-water kind of public season? Where have you noticed the Holy Spirit turning ordinary moments into kingdom encounters in your life? What must we run out of, and then have transformed, before we will trust afresh that we serve a generous God, our lagniappe Lord?
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