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?
October 3, 2012
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?
March 4, 2012
Listen to Him
A meditation on Mark 9:2-10
I promise you this, Jesus
You give me a shot up on that mountain
Up there with you
In the bleach and the dazzle
In the company of dudes as cool as
fire-calling Elijah
and
water-parting Moses
You give me a shot up there
And I won’t screw it up, like Peter did.
...
Actually, that’s not true.
I probably will. Probably have.
Poor Peter. What a chump.
Poor me. What a mug.
The things we say when we are piously petrified.
...
But I know this
Mountain climbing Jesus, Matterhorn Messiah
After six days in this tired, twisted world of yours (well, almost yours)
I want to be up on that mountain.
I want to be apart from the tempestuous world below
With you
With the Father
With at least my foot in the door of what you Two Friends (and Another) share.
Not that your sanctuary up there at 1 Transfiguration Place
Is any less dangerous than the Youngstown nightly news
(that's the only news I get on my antenna)
Danger down here! That much is clear.
But it's all danger-danger up there, too!
What, with your
Shimmering new suit
Blinding with the gleam of a 1000 suns
A disco ball of divinity
Spotting everything
Exposing all
And that terrible cloud of knowing
That dreadful veil of the Godhead
Overshadowing
Overcoming
With that penetrating voice that fracks the shale of all our falsehood.
So there’s no safe place, after all
In the back alley or in the back pew.
But at least your danger rings true.
At least in your blinding light there is life.
At least
up there
with you
one can hear the brassy confirmation of the Father
that fundamental word we nightly-news-orphans ache to hear
Beloved!
...
Speaking of ache
I dread the climb up there.
I'm out of shape.
(too many cheeseburgers)
But I need the view!
Let me go with you, Jesus.
Just once.
Actually, how about every 7 days?
Once a month?
Quarterly?!
I want to see what you see
I want to see this broken-down world
And its tiresome schemes
And your impotent church
And my fickle life
I want to see all of it
Washed over in a dazzling white.
Not Caucasian, mind you.
(Please. I get enough of that in the mirror, 6 days a week)
No, I mean that unpigmented goodness
that seeps out of God’s space.
I want to see what this world, your world, looks like
Bleached of its sad stink
Blanched of its greyish, mournful hue
When I was a kid my older cousin Tommy told me
that if I stared directly into the sun my pupils would catch on fire.
I tell you this much, Jesus
When it comes to your son-face
I’d sure like to try.
Burn off all the religious gas
Melt away my stubborn dross
Because the truth is
I’m as much of a lummox as the apostle Petra
Old Peter, the rock.
His head may as well been made of stone
Always opening his mouth at the wrong time.
And me too
I’m always trying to speak to you
Always wanting to explain reality to you
That’s why I need you to take me up on the mountain
Take me up above myself
Sit me down
And tell me, in effect
To shut up
(Gently, of course ⎯ as I know you can do)
Just for a moment ...
A silent church.
No tired hymns.
No ubiquitous praise songs.
No needy, all-knowing preachers. (Thank the Lord!)
No polls or papers or opinions.
Teach us to stay silent in the stupefying cloud of your all-knowing.
Take me up with you, Jesus
Take us all
Up into your shared life
With the Father
And the Spirit
Let us eavesdrop on that endless song you sing together
Give us a peek at that unending luminescence you transact
Let us feel the puff of your threefold life
The way the Spirit moves around in your space
Ever-ancient
Ever-new
Blow on us as it blows among you
The way
When I leave my new window cracked
At the first of March
The sudden new breeze
Scatters my piously neat papers
All across my humbled office.
Blow like that.
“This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!”
I see.
I hear.
I will
listen.
Up here
And down there, too.
I promise you this, Jesus
You give me a shot up on that mountain
Up there with you
In the bleach and the dazzle
In the company of dudes as cool as
fire-calling Elijah
and
water-parting Moses
You give me a shot up there
And I won’t screw it up, like Peter did.
...
Actually, that’s not true.
I probably will. Probably have.
Poor Peter. What a chump.
Poor me. What a mug.
The things we say when we are piously petrified.
...
But I know this
Mountain climbing Jesus, Matterhorn Messiah
After six days in this tired, twisted world of yours (well, almost yours)
I want to be up on that mountain.
I want to be apart from the tempestuous world below
With you
With the Father
With at least my foot in the door of what you Two Friends (and Another) share.
Not that your sanctuary up there at 1 Transfiguration Place
Is any less dangerous than the Youngstown nightly news
(that's the only news I get on my antenna)
Danger down here! That much is clear.
But it's all danger-danger up there, too!
What, with your
Shimmering new suit
Blinding with the gleam of a 1000 suns
A disco ball of divinity
Spotting everything
Exposing all
And that terrible cloud of knowing
That dreadful veil of the Godhead
Overshadowing
Overcoming
With that penetrating voice that fracks the shale of all our falsehood.
So there’s no safe place, after all
In the back alley or in the back pew.
But at least your danger rings true.
At least in your blinding light there is life.
At least
up there
with you
one can hear the brassy confirmation of the Father
that fundamental word we nightly-news-orphans ache to hear
Beloved!
...
Speaking of ache
I dread the climb up there.
I'm out of shape.
(too many cheeseburgers)
But I need the view!
Let me go with you, Jesus.
Just once.
Actually, how about every 7 days?
Once a month?
Quarterly?!
I want to see what you see
I want to see this broken-down world
And its tiresome schemes
And your impotent church
And my fickle life
I want to see all of it
Washed over in a dazzling white.
Not Caucasian, mind you.
(Please. I get enough of that in the mirror, 6 days a week)
No, I mean that unpigmented goodness
that seeps out of God’s space.
I want to see what this world, your world, looks like
Bleached of its sad stink
Blanched of its greyish, mournful hue
When I was a kid my older cousin Tommy told me
that if I stared directly into the sun my pupils would catch on fire.
I tell you this much, Jesus
When it comes to your son-face
I’d sure like to try.
Burn off all the religious gas
Melt away my stubborn dross
Because the truth is
I’m as much of a lummox as the apostle Petra
Old Peter, the rock.
His head may as well been made of stone
Always opening his mouth at the wrong time.
And me too
I’m always trying to speak to you
Always wanting to explain reality to you
That’s why I need you to take me up on the mountain
Take me up above myself
Sit me down
And tell me, in effect
To shut up
(Gently, of course ⎯ as I know you can do)
Just for a moment ...
A silent church.
No tired hymns.
No ubiquitous praise songs.
No needy, all-knowing preachers. (Thank the Lord!)
No polls or papers or opinions.
Teach us to stay silent in the stupefying cloud of your all-knowing.
Take me up with you, Jesus
Take us all
Up into your shared life
With the Father
And the Spirit
Let us eavesdrop on that endless song you sing together
Give us a peek at that unending luminescence you transact
Let us feel the puff of your threefold life
The way the Spirit moves around in your space
Ever-ancient
Ever-new
Blow on us as it blows among you
The way
When I leave my new window cracked
At the first of March
The sudden new breeze
Scatters my piously neat papers
All across my humbled office.
Blow like that.
“This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!”
I see.
I hear.
I will
listen.
Up here
And down there, too.
December 25, 2011
Take Your Place Among Us
Dear Baby Jesus
It’s starting to make more sense to me
why people go home
come home
for Christmas
Maybe it’s just right that your birthday
would be marked
by a feverish return to the familiar
Everywhere these few two days
unsuspecting pilgrims
making the holiday trek
on rails, on tires, on wings
All en route
back to the center of their lives
back home
Back to a place of hoped-for gravity
in a world
otherwise weightless
Many find it
and there is gladness
Some do not
and with the forthcoming flip of the calendar
the search goes on
Now whether these holiday hoards know it or not
(that’s a matter of some theological debate, you know)
all this traveling home this week
seems a fitting party
for your fleshly advent among us
From the start of your story
you were always at the center of things
You’ve continually made your bed among us
right here in our ranks
We call it
Nativity
I remember well my mother’s chalky-white nativity set
Its annual December appearance on the dark marble hutch
along the wallpapered side of the dining room
After the stuffing of Thanksgiving
After the last LSU game in November
out it came
from the dark nether regions of the attic
all 12 pieces
The whole blessed scene
probably a Green Stamp purchase
during some closeout season gone by
I remember
your tiny little hands and feet
formed in cheap Plaster of Paris
your manger
cast in a sweat-shop mold like 1000s of others
your familiar scene-mates
each one with MADE IN HONG KONG affixed to their bottoms
All of it
as if to say
Jesus
the Lord of All
even down at the Dollar Den
And although
(when my mother’s attention was elsewhere)
it was my great delight to rearrange
shepherds and sages
to put Joseph outside with the bleating sheep
camels on their wise men
and
oxen up where only angels should trod
I never dared moved you, baby Jesus.
It never felt right.
You always seemed to fit
in the center of things
The hub for their wheel
The sun in their middle
to fix their orbits
Even as an infant
there you were
on the mantle
already calling God’s chosen band to gather round
You
the smallest
most helpless
most needy of them all
most Plaster of Paris among them
Born a sacred irony
their Life and Love and Lord
So I say
Come again
grown up Jesus
Come and take your post
at the center of our lives
Rearrange the oft-handled
mishandled pieces
of our homes and hearts
Until each finds its proper place on the periphery
encircling your Easter life
Come again
O Jesus
Be that blessed homecoming
at the end of all our misguided, wayward treks
Show us that weight of glory
that ballasts our wispy, worried world
Teach us to live in the shelter of your sanctuary
until at last
when the fever of this life is over
we are home
raised up!
for good
For this is who you are
Nativity Jesus
our Plaster of Paris Prince
Founder of my Fragile Faith
You
so small and yet so hilariously glorious
You
the hub of our salvation
the core of our communion
the weight of our world
Come
take your place among us
Right here
where you most belong
At the center of our lives
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)