I therefore, the prisoner in the Lord, beg you to lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace. There is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called to the one hope of your calling, one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all, who is above all and through all and in all. (Ephesians 4:1-6)
December 2, 2039
Dear Samuel,
Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.
We trust this letter finds you well. We imagine you are now deep into your young adult years, out and about and on your own in God’s world, and, we pray, following God’s word and sharing in God’s work.
Indeed, that is why we write to you now, to beg you, in the words of the ancient apostle, “to lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called.” (Ephesians 4) More about that calling, momentarily.
First, who are we? We are the elders and pastors from 50 churches who, on this date, 25 years ago, gathered in a sanctuary on the west end of Greenville, Pennsylvania, to baptize you with water and to welcome you into the great household of God. Likely you don’t remember that cold and damp Tuesday evening, but with great warmth and gladness we remember it for you. We poured the water. We read the promises of scripture. And we were witnesses to your parents’ profession of their faith in Jesus, as well as their public pledge to raise you in such a way that there would never be a time in your life when you did not know the word and the way of Jesus. We made a pledge that night, too: that we would pray for you and, even if from afar, play whatever part we could in nurturing your discipleship. Indeed, this word to you now, this letter, is an installment on that quarter-century old vow.
It brings us joy and a sense of good hope to imagine who you are and what you are up to, now that you are into your adult years. And just as we gathered for worship and fellowship that night of your baptism, so it is our expectation that you yourself have found a place in some fellowship of believers—however great or small, however formal or informal. You need the unity of the Spirit; you need the bond of peace.
You belong to God the Father through Jesus: this truth about your life is deeply personal. But we also want to insist that it is not a private truth. To enjoy a place at the table of Jesus is likewise to share it with all those whom he has called. If you know not the fellowship of other Christians at this juncture, seek it out. And if you do know it, if you are a part of a communion of saints that bears the name of Jesus, then we, in the spirit of the apostle’s teaching, urge you to “make every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.”
We believe the Lord will use you, Samuel, to build up the body of Jesus in your own time, and this is not just because your dear parents are both preachers and pastors in the church. That work is important; it is an honorable legacy. But more significant than a recognizable religious profession is that basic calling to be what someone once called “a mere Christian.” We entrust to you, Samuel, and to your fellow young believers, the next generation of the body of Christ. We look to you for unity in the Spirit and for bonds of peace, for we believe you will be the first generation of a new era of Christian fellowship and Christian worship and Christian witness.
Yours is a fine Biblical name: Samuel. He was what one might call an in-between character in God’s redemptive story. He finished up one era and likewise saw the birth of a new one. Samuel was the last in a long line of those called the Judges, and he was also the first of the prophets and priests who would watch over the new monarchs of ancient Israel. Likewise, Samuel, we look to you to carry forth the best of our time as church, even as we urge you to be a part of what God will surely do next, and do differently.
This much we know: our time as Protestant Christians is drawing to a close. All of us who gathered for your baptism, we are inheritors of a great and important movement in the universal body of Jesus. We are proud of our deep Reformation roots, but as urgent and important as that movement was, we are aware that it has just about played out. The great themes of scripture and faith alone, an emphasis on the individual believer, the importance of education and escape from religious tyranny, the voice of God’s people to choose their leaders: these were important correctives in their day. But the world has changed. The gospel must be – can be! – reinterpreted and re-announced against the backdrop of different concerns – just as it needed to be in the 15th century.
The great denominations that once loomed so large and promised such structure are now in great decline. Our educational efforts, originally in the name of Jesus, now often ring hollow with secular themes. The unity of Jesus’ body, established by his word, has been marred by constant splitting and fracturing; in some cases, entirely obscuring his love and light for many of our neighbors. The personal, individual nature of salvation that needed to be emphasized then has now been hijacked by the narcissism of our era. Many seem more enamored with their own experience of worship than with the One who is worthy of our worship. Although there are, at times, bursts of familiar energy to rebuild what once was great, and votes and splits and new denominations seem to promise renewed vitality, humility demands that we admit our time is now ending. Like the Judges before Samuel, our lead role in God’s redemptive drama – as Protestants and Americans – is being eclipsed.
But we who are gathered for your baptism, we do not despair. Traditions come and go. Movements rise and fall. Generations grow up and fade away. From one season to the next, from our time to your time, we cling to the apostle’s affirmation: “There is one body and one Spirit, one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all, who is above all and through all and in all.”
And so, Samuel, in the name of that God, our God, your God, we beg you to take your place in the body of Christ, to make every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace. Just as Samuel was a midwife in the birth a new era in Israel’s long walk with God, so we have hope that you, and many others with you, will help give birth to a new season of faithfulness, unity, and witness for Jesus.
We have no idea what this will look like. Many of us present at the waters with you 25 years ago will not even be alive when at last you read these words. And even those of us who will, our energy and imagination will likely have been spent. We have no idea about the changes brought by time and technology, about political events or planetary realities. We do not know if your Christian witness will be out in the open or far underground. We confess how hard it is for most of us, on the tail end of one movement, to imagine how the Holy Spirit will be moving in the birthing of another.
But this we beg: lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called, Samuel. Devote yourself to the communion of the saints – whatever form that fellowship will need to take. Offer the body of Christ the kind of humility, gentleness, and patience it needs in order to stay focused on the one who is the same yesterday, today, and forever. In him, there is a living unity. In his Spirit, there is a bond made of peace.
Don’t make the same mistakes of unity we made.
Many of us tried to forge Christian unity around a building or a place or a piece of land. Space is a great gift, a part of God’s creation, but we have learned the hard way that, over time, buildings alone cannot form a holy people for holy work. Sometimes our places have become bonds of burden rather than sources of strength. Be a steward of what God gives you, but maintain a unity in the Spirit.
Some of us tried to forge Christian unity around certain political postures. On both the left and the right, many in our time have used the church – its words and its people – to galvanize folks into certain philosophical tribes. We have realized too late that unity for a cause, absent Jesus’ word and way, is an expensive unity, and usually short-lived. We have watched as once great Protestant denominations have split and split and split some more. Every time, a vote seems to promise renewal and freedom from evil. But we always find ourselves right back in the same rooms with the same mere Christians. Samuel, don’t make our mistake: learn Jesus’ salvation and his justice, and don’t ever split them for the sake of political unity. Forge bonds made of his peace, which is both just and pure.
A great many of us tried to foster Christian unity by making Sunday morning church-going an expected part of being an American, of following the rules. That worked for a while. When things were socially stable in the church and the country, our churches were full on Sundays. But then those folks had children, and many in that generation saw it as their duty to break the rules. And then those folks had children, and then came a generation that questioned whether there were any rules to begin with – given all the hypocrisy. And so the gospel of Jesus has been bent over the barrel of a three-generation fight about whether to keep or break or disbelieve the “rules.”
But Samuel, you are not saved by rules. You are not bound by place or politics or personality. You are spiritual prisoner to no one, save the Lord who has captured you by his grace and marked you as his own. Believe this. Trust this. Live into this with a spiritual freedom that has been lacking in our own time.
If there is an upside to us old mainliners now being sideliners, it is that by your time, Samuel, the gospel will once again be free from the cultural captivity of our time. You will be in fellowship with believers around the world. You will enjoy a creative mix of justice and purity, evangelism and social witness, personal and public righteousness. You will no longer have to carry the burden of public religious opinion, or to satisfy fickle religious tastes, or to meet every person’s felt need. Our prayer is that you will be free to know the kind of living unity that is born of the Holy Spirit, refined in prayer, matured by scripture, enlivened in worship, disciplined in friendships, perfected in love, and completed in Christian community. We hope for you a kind of human fellowship forged, not in prideful piety or political posture, but in peace—Jesus’ peace.
The Samuel in scripture was dedicated to God before he was born. We do the same for you, at least at the moment of your baptism. We dedicate you to the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace. Know well the words and way of Jesus. Worship the living God – Father, Son, and Holy Spirit – in every circumstance, location, or dimension. Build up the body of Christ around you so that others, too, will be strong in the Lord and not held captive by the programs or poisons of your time. Wherever life in 2039 may take you: Do Jesus’ justice, love Jesus’ mercy, and walk humbly through your neighborhood in the power of his Holy Spirit.
Our time in God’s redemptive work has ended.
Yours has only just begun.
Go forth now, and lead a life worthy of the calling
to which you have been called.
Godspeed Samuel,
“prisoner of the Lord.”
Sincerely,
the Elders and Pastors
of the Presbytery of Shenango
Showing posts with label sermons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sermons. Show all posts
December 10, 2014
December 1, 2012
Narnia
So, chosen by God for this new life of love, dress in the wardrobe God picked out for you: compassion, kindness, humility, quiet strength, discipline. Be even-tempered, content with second place, quick to forgive an offense. Forgive as quickly and completely as the Master forgave you. And regardless of what else you put on, wear love. It’s your basic, all-purpose garment. Never be without it. -- Colossians 3
(Congregation, overhearing this brief interpretation of scripture for these two dear friends of mine on their wedding day will make much more sense when you learn that they have been teaching together a class of Jr. High youth on Sunday mornings here in our congregation. As a couple, they have been leading their little flock of young believers through the famous wardrobe and into the fabled world of The Chronicles of Narnia, that masterpiece of children’s literature by Christian apologist C.S. Lewis.)
And so I want to say to you two, you brave new explorers (Or should I call you Pevensie siblings?) ... Welcome to your new Narnia. That is to say, welcome to the landscape of a staggering new world, a strange and wonderful country known as Christian marriage.
Try to imagine with me that this familiar place, these four walls so well known to both of you — For it is here in the space of word and sacrament that you have worshipped and shared fellowship and served the Lord, here were you are met week to week with the bath, book, and banquet of our generous Jesus — try today to imagine this good place as ... a wardrobe, a divine armoire, a covenantal closet.
Because here, in this time of glad worship, by your outlandish promises to one another, and by your confidence in those outstanding promises God has made to you, here you step into a new world.
It is not the land of Lewis, not the land of Calormen, Telmar, or Narnia. Rather it is the territories of compassion, kindness, humility, quiet strength, discipline, and love … all those Christ-shaped arenas laid out on the dependable map that is Colossians 3, your favorite passage.
These are your new domains, these make up the new world you will now inhabit. Welcome to space for following Jesus through this life, together ... as the Son leads you ever closer to the Father, by way of countless neighbors and communions and even enemies ... all there for you to bless, together. Dare I say it (and don’t spoil it yet for your class), but Jesus is your Aslan ... the lion of your shared life, that great one who laid down his life for you, whose word is your guide and whose life is your power.
Now to be clear, and this should be said often among believers, one need not be married to be Christian. There is a long and important and noble place for singleness in the Christian communion and for the ministry of Jesus in the world.
But when Christians marry, that marriage becomes the primary territory in which Christ-shaped faithfulness and ministry are practiced and exercised and brought to perfection. After all, when our Lord calls us to “love our neighbor” — no less than the second great commandment — who else is a closer neighbor than the one beside whom you wake up each morning? In marriage, Christians practice daily that basic ministry to which we baptized folk are called in every other territory of life: faith, hope, and of course that all purpose garment ... love.
So it is then that your vows send you packing today, through the wardrobe of this wedding, away from your former existence, and out into the land where you will learn to handle the good gifts of God’s in-breaking kingdom:
That news — that you both already belong to him — that is enough to see you through this journey.
N. and N.,
it has been an honor to walk with you to this day.
Welcome to the threshold of a terrific new world.
Go on now.
(Congregation, overhearing this brief interpretation of scripture for these two dear friends of mine on their wedding day will make much more sense when you learn that they have been teaching together a class of Jr. High youth on Sunday mornings here in our congregation. As a couple, they have been leading their little flock of young believers through the famous wardrobe and into the fabled world of The Chronicles of Narnia, that masterpiece of children’s literature by Christian apologist C.S. Lewis.)
And so I want to say to you two, you brave new explorers (Or should I call you Pevensie siblings?) ... Welcome to your new Narnia. That is to say, welcome to the landscape of a staggering new world, a strange and wonderful country known as Christian marriage.
Try to imagine with me that this familiar place, these four walls so well known to both of you — For it is here in the space of word and sacrament that you have worshipped and shared fellowship and served the Lord, here were you are met week to week with the bath, book, and banquet of our generous Jesus — try today to imagine this good place as ... a wardrobe, a divine armoire, a covenantal closet.
Because here, in this time of glad worship, by your outlandish promises to one another, and by your confidence in those outstanding promises God has made to you, here you step into a new world.
It is not the land of Lewis, not the land of Calormen, Telmar, or Narnia. Rather it is the territories of compassion, kindness, humility, quiet strength, discipline, and love … all those Christ-shaped arenas laid out on the dependable map that is Colossians 3, your favorite passage.
These are your new domains, these make up the new world you will now inhabit. Welcome to space for following Jesus through this life, together ... as the Son leads you ever closer to the Father, by way of countless neighbors and communions and even enemies ... all there for you to bless, together. Dare I say it (and don’t spoil it yet for your class), but Jesus is your Aslan ... the lion of your shared life, that great one who laid down his life for you, whose word is your guide and whose life is your power.
Now to be clear, and this should be said often among believers, one need not be married to be Christian. There is a long and important and noble place for singleness in the Christian communion and for the ministry of Jesus in the world.
But when Christians marry, that marriage becomes the primary territory in which Christ-shaped faithfulness and ministry are practiced and exercised and brought to perfection. After all, when our Lord calls us to “love our neighbor” — no less than the second great commandment — who else is a closer neighbor than the one beside whom you wake up each morning? In marriage, Christians practice daily that basic ministry to which we baptized folk are called in every other territory of life: faith, hope, and of course that all purpose garment ... love.
So it is then that your vows send you packing today, through the wardrobe of this wedding, away from your former existence, and out into the land where you will learn to handle the good gifts of God’s in-breaking kingdom:
Gifts such as forgiveness, when the checking account is overdrawn ... Patience, when the dirty clothes remain piled on the floor ... discipline, to keep you in your vows, when hot dates and hand holding give way to stomach flus and overly-short haircuts ... grace, when you are not the prince or princess you so desire each other to be ... How about mercy, when work in the world has been demanding and there is little left over for love at home ... and especially humility, lest you forget that you are not your spouse’s savior, nor do you need your traveling companion to be one for you.
Why? Because you already have a Savior, both of you, and he has gone on up ahead of you to prepare a good place, a lasting place, and he has left you his Word and Spirit to guide you along.
Why? Because you already have a Savior, both of you, and he has gone on up ahead of you to prepare a good place, a lasting place, and he has left you his Word and Spirit to guide you along.
That news — that you both already belong to him — that is enough to see you through this journey.
N. and N.,
it has been an honor to walk with you to this day.
Welcome to the threshold of a terrific new world.
Go on now.
Go on through,
together.
Godspeed.
Godspeed.
October 24, 2012
Get It?
God has blessed me with laughter
and all who get the news will laugh with me! - Genesis 21
There’s just something funny about the Lord announcing to Sarah and Abraham, their 30-year AARP membership pins notwithstanding, that they will soon be parents to a child---the beginning of an impressive, promise-shaped family. Sarah looks at herself in the dim mirror, then down on her dresser at the fading retirement photo of Abe, and secretly snickers before the Lord.
Stuttering Moses gets the call to speak to Power. Empty-nest Hannah is promised a bouncing baby boy. Jonah, running from the Lord’s demand to love unlovely neighbors, gets a lesson on unmerited favor in the briny stomach of a fish. The Lord walks Ezekiel down to the Pile-o-Bones cemetery for a theological discussion about new life. Teenage Mary discovers via angel-gram that she will push salvation into the world. Let’s just say that Peter was not named “rock” because of his top-of-the-class IQ, yet the risen Jesus decides to build the church on him. And the guy the Holy Spirit conscripts to plant the seedlings of Jesus-shaped communities all around the Mediterranean basin? The same dude who, beforehand, quite drunk on his own religion, attempted to uproot the Easter movement before it spread like the kudzu he would later water.
and all who get the news will laugh with me! - Genesis 21
There’s just something funny about the Lord announcing to Sarah and Abraham, their 30-year AARP membership pins notwithstanding, that they will soon be parents to a child---the beginning of an impressive, promise-shaped family. Sarah looks at herself in the dim mirror, then down on her dresser at the fading retirement photo of Abe, and secretly snickers before the Lord.
Stuttering Moses gets the call to speak to Power. Empty-nest Hannah is promised a bouncing baby boy. Jonah, running from the Lord’s demand to love unlovely neighbors, gets a lesson on unmerited favor in the briny stomach of a fish. The Lord walks Ezekiel down to the Pile-o-Bones cemetery for a theological discussion about new life. Teenage Mary discovers via angel-gram that she will push salvation into the world. Let’s just say that Peter was not named “rock” because of his top-of-the-class IQ, yet the risen Jesus decides to build the church on him. And the guy the Holy Spirit conscripts to plant the seedlings of Jesus-shaped communities all around the Mediterranean basin? The same dude who, beforehand, quite drunk on his own religion, attempted to uproot the Easter movement before it spread like the kudzu he would later water.
The Bible is the best joke book going.
For that matter, there’s something hilarious about the Lord co-opting a bored, depressed, and wayward teenager into the business of preaching the faith “once delivered to the saints.”
Sarah and Abe and Moses and Miriam and Hannah and Jonah and Mary and Peter and Paul: They are all waiting for the resurrection, laughing it up in the lobby. In that way, the gospel of Jesus is like a good joke. If someone has to stop snickering in order to explain it to you … Well, never mind.
Sarah and Abe and Moses and Miriam and Hannah and Jonah and Mary and Peter and Paul: They are all waiting for the resurrection, laughing it up in the lobby. In that way, the gospel of Jesus is like a good joke. If someone has to stop snickering in order to explain it to you … Well, never mind.
Says Paul: If you only look at us, you might well miss the brightness. We carry this precious Message around in the unadorned clay pots of our ordinary lives. That’s to prevent anyone from confusing God’s incomparable power with us. - 2 Corinthians 4
I wonder, where is the Christ-shaped laughter in your testimony? What’s funny about the Father calling you “saint” by including you with the Son? What unlikely part of your pilgrimage will the Holy Spirit turn on its happy head?
I wonder, where is the Christ-shaped laughter in your testimony? What’s funny about the Father calling you “saint” by including you with the Son? What unlikely part of your pilgrimage will the Holy Spirit turn on its happy head?
(As you ponder all of that, would you mind going down to the Dollar General to pick up some baby diapers for Sarah and Abe? They need all the help they can get.)
October 3, 2012
Permissive God
God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. God saw that the light was good, and separated the light from the darkness. And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day. - Genesis 1
I always imagined God physically engrossed in the hard work of creation, putting in long hours on the job, overalls covered in sticky chaos … the way my father looked at the end of every day, the summer he decided to take off a week from work to repaint the chipping exterior of our two-story home. Work is, well … work. No wonder God needed a break and a beer on Day Seven. Or so I imagined.
In returning as a preacher to the first chapter of the Bible, paying attention to what few precious descriptors we are really given on the whole matter of producing a planet, I realized that, in fact, God sweats very little throughout the first work week. (Some say “week,” others say “a million years.” I say tomÄto, tomato.”) In truth, in the text, God doesn’t really make all that much in making the world.
What God does do is speak. It is apparently enough for God to say, surely with a tinge of delight, “Let there be _____.” God has only to give permission for the world to exist and the summoned sphere cannot help but be. Me, I can’t even get this chick “Siri” who supposedly lives in my smartphone to call my brother at work. “I’m sorry Ralph, I don’t understand ‘Haul your mother a smirk.’” Geez.
Genesis 1 is less a proof text for an all-powerful god as it is a hymn of praise to One (in Three) whose very speech contains the seed for a million stars in the southwestern sky, gives permission for a thousand-and-one sunsets over Evangola beach. God’s words do that sort of thing. Should we be surprised when a little later, our older brother Jesus subdues a storm, sends some nefarious spirits into a pack of pigs, and invites a little dead girl to get up and get back to the business of living---all through the uttering of a few potent, permissive words. (Luke 8)
Let there be Ralph. Let there be Wayne. Let there be Dan and Jan and Stan. Let there be Debbie and Bob and Judah. Let there be Walter, and Will, and Elaine. Let there be you. It would appear that the triune God has gladly given you permission to be here just about now. In the words of the poet Mary Oliver,
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
I always imagined God physically engrossed in the hard work of creation, putting in long hours on the job, overalls covered in sticky chaos … the way my father looked at the end of every day, the summer he decided to take off a week from work to repaint the chipping exterior of our two-story home. Work is, well … work. No wonder God needed a break and a beer on Day Seven. Or so I imagined.
In returning as a preacher to the first chapter of the Bible, paying attention to what few precious descriptors we are really given on the whole matter of producing a planet, I realized that, in fact, God sweats very little throughout the first work week. (Some say “week,” others say “a million years.” I say tomÄto, tomato.”) In truth, in the text, God doesn’t really make all that much in making the world.
What God does do is speak. It is apparently enough for God to say, surely with a tinge of delight, “Let there be _____.” God has only to give permission for the world to exist and the summoned sphere cannot help but be. Me, I can’t even get this chick “Siri” who supposedly lives in my smartphone to call my brother at work. “I’m sorry Ralph, I don’t understand ‘Haul your mother a smirk.’” Geez.
Genesis 1 is less a proof text for an all-powerful god as it is a hymn of praise to One (in Three) whose very speech contains the seed for a million stars in the southwestern sky, gives permission for a thousand-and-one sunsets over Evangola beach. God’s words do that sort of thing. Should we be surprised when a little later, our older brother Jesus subdues a storm, sends some nefarious spirits into a pack of pigs, and invites a little dead girl to get up and get back to the business of living---all through the uttering of a few potent, permissive words. (Luke 8)
Let there be Ralph. Let there be Wayne. Let there be Dan and Jan and Stan. Let there be Debbie and Bob and Judah. Let there be Walter, and Will, and Elaine. Let there be you. It would appear that the triune God has gladly given you permission to be here just about now. In the words of the poet Mary Oliver,
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
September 19, 2012
Stomachs of Trust
“This one is for all you doubters out there in sanctuary-land. We know who we are.”
Is doubt a sin?
Depends. I suspect there is a kind of head doubt that can lead one into temptation. Standing comfortably over on the curb of faith, scoffing at the blunders and excesses and misinformation of those passing by you, struggling in the religious race: That’s a sin. Tossing out vexing questions that call for impossible answers, just to make your parents (or anyone with whom you cannot yet connect) squirm and worry about your salvation: That’s likely a sin, and kind of cruel, too. Dressing up your naked dread in a coat of Christian Confidence, always ready with the right comeback or explanation or verse: If that’s not a sin, it surely is annoying. Imagining you are a spiritual island, all alone on your own comfortable terms, doubting your need for the mainland of those who have gone before you, insisting that “God” wash up on your shore just the way you want: That’s probably a sin, being so cut off. If nothing else it’s lonely, always being right.
But there is another kind of uncertainty in the Christian pilgrimage, what Frederick Buechner once dubbed stomach doubt. That may well be hope in the Lord, only upside down. That creeping numbness you carry after watching too much World News Tonight, too many Google news feeds. That comfortable self-loathing (or church-loathing) to which you retreat when the pilgrimage proves harder than you had first imagined. That pinch you feel when your friend confronts you with a calamity that sent her reeling away from any sanctuary or its god. The fear of failure when a 9-year-old smacks you with a theological puzzle you cannot explain. That dread that settles in your bones at the end of the day, horizontal in your bed: when life is not coherent, the way forward not at all clear, the coming of another morning not at all certain.
Garden variety anxiety notwithstanding, I suspect that knots in the stomach exist to bear witness to the fact that all is not yet right with God’s good world. The gospel is already true, and yet that news has not yet worked itself out in every place and time. We feel that in our gut. See Romans 8. In that way, the Christian should likely pull up a chair next to stomach doubt and get to know it better. Befriend it, hear it out, invite it over to the party that is Jesus’ resurrection and see how things go between them. By paying attention to stomach doubt and not castigating ourselves for it or dressing it up in the drag of faithless surety, we learn to trust in the sure promises of the Triune God: whose light and life will eventually find its way into every corner of every abdomen. That’s a Holy Spirit-born truth we are likely to learn in our bellies before we are convinced of it in our heads.
The opposite of faith is not doubt.
It’s too much of the wrong kind of certainty.
Is doubt a sin?
Depends. I suspect there is a kind of head doubt that can lead one into temptation. Standing comfortably over on the curb of faith, scoffing at the blunders and excesses and misinformation of those passing by you, struggling in the religious race: That’s a sin. Tossing out vexing questions that call for impossible answers, just to make your parents (or anyone with whom you cannot yet connect) squirm and worry about your salvation: That’s likely a sin, and kind of cruel, too. Dressing up your naked dread in a coat of Christian Confidence, always ready with the right comeback or explanation or verse: If that’s not a sin, it surely is annoying. Imagining you are a spiritual island, all alone on your own comfortable terms, doubting your need for the mainland of those who have gone before you, insisting that “God” wash up on your shore just the way you want: That’s probably a sin, being so cut off. If nothing else it’s lonely, always being right.
But there is another kind of uncertainty in the Christian pilgrimage, what Frederick Buechner once dubbed stomach doubt. That may well be hope in the Lord, only upside down. That creeping numbness you carry after watching too much World News Tonight, too many Google news feeds. That comfortable self-loathing (or church-loathing) to which you retreat when the pilgrimage proves harder than you had first imagined. That pinch you feel when your friend confronts you with a calamity that sent her reeling away from any sanctuary or its god. The fear of failure when a 9-year-old smacks you with a theological puzzle you cannot explain. That dread that settles in your bones at the end of the day, horizontal in your bed: when life is not coherent, the way forward not at all clear, the coming of another morning not at all certain.
Garden variety anxiety notwithstanding, I suspect that knots in the stomach exist to bear witness to the fact that all is not yet right with God’s good world. The gospel is already true, and yet that news has not yet worked itself out in every place and time. We feel that in our gut. See Romans 8. In that way, the Christian should likely pull up a chair next to stomach doubt and get to know it better. Befriend it, hear it out, invite it over to the party that is Jesus’ resurrection and see how things go between them. By paying attention to stomach doubt and not castigating ourselves for it or dressing it up in the drag of faithless surety, we learn to trust in the sure promises of the Triune God: whose light and life will eventually find its way into every corner of every abdomen. That’s a Holy Spirit-born truth we are likely to learn in our bellies before we are convinced of it in our heads.
The opposite of faith is not doubt.
It’s too much of the wrong kind of certainty.
September 12, 2012
Moving In
I read with interest much of the press on remembering 9/11, eleven years later. A phrase in a CBS.com article caught my eye: “… subdued ceremonies suggested it’s time to move on after a decade of remembrance.” Really? I bet it depends on who you ask.
I know from walking with many families through thick grief that moving on can be easier suggested than enacted. If your heart still aches, moving on seems to be what you most want to do and at the same time what you swear you’ll never do. I also know that those promoting the importance of it are often not themselves immediately tinged by the pain. “They just need to move on” --- often uttered off-handedly at the bridge table or during halftime banter. (What I think folks are saying is: It’s hard to stay connected to someone who is grieving.)
But while a nation quietly considers how long is long enough, let us ponder another possibility. For followers of Jesus, maybe “moving on” from big pain is never the goal. What if the good hope is not to get past anything, to forget about it or put it behind us. Could healing be a kind of Spirit-born transformation in yourself that makes living with the past a viable option? Rather than erasing your pain, the Lord seems interested in subduing it so that is does not harm or hinder any more. Granted, a journey from Friday pain to Sunday transformation may take time. But in the realm of a risen Jesus, that the journey is possible at all is a stunning gift for those of us hindered by past pain.
Moving into grief to find healing, as opposed to moving on: What else would we expect from the hands of a Teacher who, even after the stunning mystery of the resurrection, still bears the deadly scars in his hands and side. The marks remain, only now instead of wounds of death, they are markers of transformation. It's not so much that Jesus has moved on, it's more that new life has moved in.
May it be so, in God’s good time, for all who hurt.
I know from walking with many families through thick grief that moving on can be easier suggested than enacted. If your heart still aches, moving on seems to be what you most want to do and at the same time what you swear you’ll never do. I also know that those promoting the importance of it are often not themselves immediately tinged by the pain. “They just need to move on” --- often uttered off-handedly at the bridge table or during halftime banter. (What I think folks are saying is: It’s hard to stay connected to someone who is grieving.)
But while a nation quietly considers how long is long enough, let us ponder another possibility. For followers of Jesus, maybe “moving on” from big pain is never the goal. What if the good hope is not to get past anything, to forget about it or put it behind us. Could healing be a kind of Spirit-born transformation in yourself that makes living with the past a viable option? Rather than erasing your pain, the Lord seems interested in subduing it so that is does not harm or hinder any more. Granted, a journey from Friday pain to Sunday transformation may take time. But in the realm of a risen Jesus, that the journey is possible at all is a stunning gift for those of us hindered by past pain.
Moving into grief to find healing, as opposed to moving on: What else would we expect from the hands of a Teacher who, even after the stunning mystery of the resurrection, still bears the deadly scars in his hands and side. The marks remain, only now instead of wounds of death, they are markers of transformation. It's not so much that Jesus has moved on, it's more that new life has moved in.
May it be so, in God’s good time, for all who hurt.
September 5, 2012
Jesus Thoughts
On Monday I was tooling around Best Buy, enjoying a second-rate worship experience with lots of plastic false gods. (I do like the prelude music they play. Just lovely.) It was Labor Day; the place was packed. I strolled over to the cell phone section, just for kicks, only to stumble upon a first-rate consumer smack down. Two women, arms full of smartphone accessories, one of them supported by her mother, were in a battle royal for a spot in the protracted line. A crowd had formed around them, like inmates watching a prison yard scuffle. The yelling was shrill. “You got out of line!” “We were here first!” “You only care about yourself!” “You are a horrible person!” And on and on it went. I felt for the wiry 20-something BB employee, dressed in bright blue and deep distress.
Pittsburgh’s own Andy Warhol once quipped, “Buying is much more American than thinking, and I'm as American as they come.” He might be on to something. I confess I’d much rather stroll around the brightly lit aisles of an electronic wonderland, struggling with this size flatscreen or that, than think about who exactly is my neighbor and how can I love them. Bring on the gadgets!
But as I watched my Best Buy neighbors throw down over a coveted place in the cell phone queue, I thought to myself: “On balance, I think I’m grateful to be baptized, and grateful for the crisis the gospel of Jesus usually prompts in my otherwise mundane life. Not that I’m any better than these three in the brawl. (I'm thinking: Hey, while they are distracted, you could jump in line!) But I do give thanks for gospel commands that call me to love, gospel freedom that makes that possible, and gospel thinking on why it even matters.
What Jesus-thoughts are you thinking this week?
Where is the Holy Spirit calling you, above the consumerist fray?
Pittsburgh’s own Andy Warhol once quipped, “Buying is much more American than thinking, and I'm as American as they come.” He might be on to something. I confess I’d much rather stroll around the brightly lit aisles of an electronic wonderland, struggling with this size flatscreen or that, than think about who exactly is my neighbor and how can I love them. Bring on the gadgets!
But as I watched my Best Buy neighbors throw down over a coveted place in the cell phone queue, I thought to myself: “On balance, I think I’m grateful to be baptized, and grateful for the crisis the gospel of Jesus usually prompts in my otherwise mundane life. Not that I’m any better than these three in the brawl. (I'm thinking: Hey, while they are distracted, you could jump in line!) But I do give thanks for gospel commands that call me to love, gospel freedom that makes that possible, and gospel thinking on why it even matters.
What Jesus-thoughts are you thinking this week?
Where is the Holy Spirit calling you, above the consumerist fray?
August 10, 2011
Charge to a New Pastor
On this, the day of your ordination to the pastoral office,
the Presbytery offers you this binary charge:
Firstly, remember these moments: the latticework of hands applied to your head, the nine rash and quixotic vows you have just made, and this wonderfully impossible summons to a particular, peculiar ministry among Jesus’ people. Remember this moment, because everything is different for you now. You are a Teaching Elder. And this new nomenclature calls for a fresh focus -- a myopia, even -- as, after today, you carve up your time and choose your tasks.
In the words of our new Form of Government, may you now be “committed [above all other tasks] to teaching the faith and equipping the saints for the work of ministry.” That may be new wording, but it honors a venerable Presbyterian tradition about how the pastor should spend her God-given time: Teaching the faith. Equipping the saints. In your pastorate, some will want you to become a generalist, to be many things to many people, to spread yourself out thinly and evenly, like some manner of ecclesiastical jelly—what one critic of mainline clerical ministry has called “a quivering mass of availability.”
But by your vows today, we pray you will instead preserve the best of your time and talent for these most crucial tasks: Teaching the faith. Equipping for ministry. Says Stanley Hauerwas: “Pastors would do well to examine their schedules and ruthlessly delete any activity that doesn't help people do that which they do in worship.” 1. Hear God 2. Respond to God.
Hear us well: Others can organize Pandamania. Others can surf OrientalTrading.com for hats and pencils. Many can redecorate the bulletin board, defrag the Sunday School computers, reattach eyes to the puppets, stock the goodie boxes for servicewomen.
It is not that you are now above these tasks, it is rather that you are now below them —- not in personhood, but in function. You are now the lowly steward of that undergirding word of God that God’s people urgently need —- that foundational news, that calls forth fresh faith, illicits new dreams, make saints out of sinners, raises the dead.
You are now to a First Church of Samuels, an Eli (without the age lines, of course). Whatever else you do, with and for your Samuels, mine the depths of scripture, eavesdrop for God’s word, keep an ear cocked for the shocking Easter news, and listen for the Spirit’s movement. Listen well, and speak well what you hear -— whether it takes 5 or 45 minutes, whether it wins you supporters or scoffers -— be the Eli we have now set you to be. Be a minister of the word for Jesus’ people in the world.
Know that you will have many hats put upon you, now that R-E-V precedes your name. Organizer, therapist, guru, motivational speaker, public relations officer, boiler superintendent, seasonal chaplain, replacement parent, replacement spouse, CEO, CFO, CIA (that’s a long story). Don’t dismiss these hats, or those who bring them, as if you cannot be bothered. Instead, stay connected to all who come and go with their real or felt needs. But we ask you to quietly, doggedly, protect that one fundamental work God is now giving you —- word and sacraments -- so that by these, your people will be built up and nourished as the people of God.
And so we charge you to remember your ordination to this peculiar post.
Never forget that everything is different for you now.
Secondly, I charge you to forget everything I just said.
Nothing changes today; not one thing that matters. You were yesterday, and will remain tomorrow, first and foremost, ontologically, a child of God and a simple student of Jesus. Nothing more. Nothing less. Never forget this. Show me a preacher who is no longer a mere Christian and I will show you a fire without heat or flame or light. Preachers like me crackle and pop and sputter, but in the end, God always uses mere believers, not unionized clerics, to light up the world.
We’ve ordained you, yes indeed, but that has no eternal effect on your status with God, and neither is it the reason you can now say you are “in the ministry.” You’ve been in the ministry most of your life—the ministry that matters, Jesus’ ministry—loving the Lord, loving neighbor. Baptism is the mark most holy; not ordination. Don’t ever forget this.
We suspect you won’t. The vision of church as including all of God’s people in service, what Romans calls “one body with many members,” that vision is floating around in your DNA. You saw it in your parents, you’ve taught it your kids, you’ve known it in the churches you have served, you believe it in your bones. Remarkable vision: “We who are many are one body in Christ, and individually we are members one of another.” No one is more important than another; only Christ is absolute.
But know that many will come wanting to make it about you; wanting, needing, you to be absolute. Some will tell you are indispensible. You are not. Some will insist you are needed in every meeting. You are not. Others will say you are the face of the church in the community (better yours than mine), but you are not. If they tell you, you are the boss, the leader, the head, the honcho, the alpha/omega … quietly remind them: that would be Jesus.
In the words of the poet Dawna Markova, “choose to risk your significance.” Work to keep yourself and the church you serve out of the absolute position. Work to keep God in it.
Lead worship in such a way that they leave saying, not “R. did a lovely job,” but “God be praised.” Preach in such a way that they respond, not to you “That was good sermon, R.,” but more to God: “Take my life and let it be …” Give counsel in such a manner that one says, not “I could not do this without you,” but “I know now how I can follow the Lord!”
And when others drive by on East B., instead of “Hey, isn’t that R.’s church?” let it be said, in large measure by the mere Christianity you practice within your ministry, “Hey, I think that’s Jesus’ church.”
Risk your significance, because the best thing we can say about you -- the best that can be said about any of us -- is that in life and in death, in our falling or in our rising, we belong to God.
Dear friend, now colleague, remember this truth:
Everything has changed. Nothing has changed.
You are a Teaching elder. You are a child of God.
Welcome.
Godspeed.
the Presbytery offers you this binary charge:
Firstly, remember these moments: the latticework of hands applied to your head, the nine rash and quixotic vows you have just made, and this wonderfully impossible summons to a particular, peculiar ministry among Jesus’ people. Remember this moment, because everything is different for you now. You are a Teaching Elder. And this new nomenclature calls for a fresh focus -- a myopia, even -- as, after today, you carve up your time and choose your tasks.
In the words of our new Form of Government, may you now be “committed [above all other tasks] to teaching the faith and equipping the saints for the work of ministry.” That may be new wording, but it honors a venerable Presbyterian tradition about how the pastor should spend her God-given time: Teaching the faith. Equipping the saints. In your pastorate, some will want you to become a generalist, to be many things to many people, to spread yourself out thinly and evenly, like some manner of ecclesiastical jelly—what one critic of mainline clerical ministry has called “a quivering mass of availability.”
But by your vows today, we pray you will instead preserve the best of your time and talent for these most crucial tasks: Teaching the faith. Equipping for ministry. Says Stanley Hauerwas: “Pastors would do well to examine their schedules and ruthlessly delete any activity that doesn't help people do that which they do in worship.” 1. Hear God 2. Respond to God.
Hear us well: Others can organize Pandamania. Others can surf OrientalTrading.com for hats and pencils. Many can redecorate the bulletin board, defrag the Sunday School computers, reattach eyes to the puppets, stock the goodie boxes for servicewomen.
It is not that you are now above these tasks, it is rather that you are now below them —- not in personhood, but in function. You are now the lowly steward of that undergirding word of God that God’s people urgently need —- that foundational news, that calls forth fresh faith, illicits new dreams, make saints out of sinners, raises the dead.
You are now to a First Church of Samuels, an Eli (without the age lines, of course). Whatever else you do, with and for your Samuels, mine the depths of scripture, eavesdrop for God’s word, keep an ear cocked for the shocking Easter news, and listen for the Spirit’s movement. Listen well, and speak well what you hear -— whether it takes 5 or 45 minutes, whether it wins you supporters or scoffers -— be the Eli we have now set you to be. Be a minister of the word for Jesus’ people in the world.
Know that you will have many hats put upon you, now that R-E-V precedes your name. Organizer, therapist, guru, motivational speaker, public relations officer, boiler superintendent, seasonal chaplain, replacement parent, replacement spouse, CEO, CFO, CIA (that’s a long story). Don’t dismiss these hats, or those who bring them, as if you cannot be bothered. Instead, stay connected to all who come and go with their real or felt needs. But we ask you to quietly, doggedly, protect that one fundamental work God is now giving you —- word and sacraments -- so that by these, your people will be built up and nourished as the people of God.
And so we charge you to remember your ordination to this peculiar post.
Never forget that everything is different for you now.
Secondly, I charge you to forget everything I just said.
Nothing changes today; not one thing that matters. You were yesterday, and will remain tomorrow, first and foremost, ontologically, a child of God and a simple student of Jesus. Nothing more. Nothing less. Never forget this. Show me a preacher who is no longer a mere Christian and I will show you a fire without heat or flame or light. Preachers like me crackle and pop and sputter, but in the end, God always uses mere believers, not unionized clerics, to light up the world.
We’ve ordained you, yes indeed, but that has no eternal effect on your status with God, and neither is it the reason you can now say you are “in the ministry.” You’ve been in the ministry most of your life—the ministry that matters, Jesus’ ministry—loving the Lord, loving neighbor. Baptism is the mark most holy; not ordination. Don’t ever forget this.
We suspect you won’t. The vision of church as including all of God’s people in service, what Romans calls “one body with many members,” that vision is floating around in your DNA. You saw it in your parents, you’ve taught it your kids, you’ve known it in the churches you have served, you believe it in your bones. Remarkable vision: “We who are many are one body in Christ, and individually we are members one of another.” No one is more important than another; only Christ is absolute.
But know that many will come wanting to make it about you; wanting, needing, you to be absolute. Some will tell you are indispensible. You are not. Some will insist you are needed in every meeting. You are not. Others will say you are the face of the church in the community (better yours than mine), but you are not. If they tell you, you are the boss, the leader, the head, the honcho, the alpha/omega … quietly remind them: that would be Jesus.
In the words of the poet Dawna Markova, “choose to risk your significance.” Work to keep yourself and the church you serve out of the absolute position. Work to keep God in it.
Lead worship in such a way that they leave saying, not “R. did a lovely job,” but “God be praised.” Preach in such a way that they respond, not to you “That was good sermon, R.,” but more to God: “Take my life and let it be …” Give counsel in such a manner that one says, not “I could not do this without you,” but “I know now how I can follow the Lord!”
And when others drive by on East B., instead of “Hey, isn’t that R.’s church?” let it be said, in large measure by the mere Christianity you practice within your ministry, “Hey, I think that’s Jesus’ church.”
Risk your significance, because the best thing we can say about you -- the best that can be said about any of us -- is that in life and in death, in our falling or in our rising, we belong to God.
Dear friend, now colleague, remember this truth:
Everything has changed. Nothing has changed.
You are a Teaching elder. You are a child of God.
Welcome.
Godspeed.
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