(Here begin more posts, based on my notes and experiences during June.)
I arrived in town in the early afternoon. It looked like it might rain later (which seems to be the weather report of every day, once I got past the extreme heat of the first few days). I decided to go to the park while it was still nice, and then find a place to get inside out of the rain later.
It was a lovely park. People were playing with their kids. Some were sitting and enjoying a little shade and a touch of a breeze. Others were busy setting up for an event that was to take place that evening.
I wandered into the park, only slightly self conscious anymore about the full pack on my back. (I had gotten used to the odd looks I often got, walking down busy sidewalks loaded as if I were in the woods somewhere.)
I headed across the park, looking for a likely place to put my pack down. I smiled at a couple as I passed them. She smiled back and commented, "Looks like you're out for a long walk."
They were sitting on the prime bench in the park - the place to see everything that was going on, and the one with the prettiest view as well. I stopped to chat. 45 minutes later, I was still standing there, chatting, with my pack still on my back. It was often thus - a good conversation starter, and then forgotten.
Ruth and Bill struck me as one of those easy, down-to-earth, couples. Maybe mid-60s. Ruth, with a twinkle in her eye. Bill with a quick smile, and a gentle laugh.
Although the conversation began with my pack and the fact of my walk, we easily moved into the 'why' of my walk.
I discovered that they are regular church-goers. They discovered that I was a pastor. For some reason, I kept the Episcopal church and the word "priest" out of the conversation. Instinct? I don't know. I just did, and instead listened and followed their lead in our conversation about our faith in God. Maybe there was something in the language cadences (especially from Ruth) that echoed my early church experiences. I discovered that they went to a Southern Baptist Church, and on that basis I continued to trust my instincts. I didn't want what issues might divide us to get in the way of a conversation about our shared faith.
So, instead of debating theological differences, we ended up talking about how hard it can be to let the world know that there is Good News. We talked about what that good news meant to each of us. We shared our experiences of how nice it is to gather with others in worship, and how dangerous it is to think that we have done our "God" thing when worship is over. I shared some stories from my journey. Some of the things I had heard and was thinking about. They wanted me to come and speak at their church. I pointed out to them that many Southern Baptist churches would have a real problem with a female pastor. They didn't seem to care. I declined, explaining that I wouldn't still be in town the next time their church gathered. We exchanged mailing addresses (they don't do email) because they wanted to try to get me back in town at another point. They really wanted me to come speak to their church.
I figured that after we had talked for quite a while, that maybe the time had come to connect the faith we shared with the denominations that so often seemed to keep us apart. They had already recognized the common ground we stood on in Jesus, to the point that they had wanted me to come to their church as evangelist. I wanted them to know that this was an Episcopalian who believed in Jesus. That Episcopalians aren't some crazy heretical bunch. That we had so much common ground.
But before I could get us there, Ruth suddenly changed the direction of our conversation - - to a woman who was approaching. "Oh, there's that woman! She came to our church a few times." And she calls out a greeting, "Hello! Hello! How are you doing?" As the woman tried to navigate all her stuff and her bicycle over towards us, Ruth explained to me, "She's homeless, and has been having some real health problems."
Ruth introduced me to Lisa, and then the two of them began to talk. We heard about Lisa's difficulties in accessing and navigating medical care when she had no address or phone to give. How excited she was that she finally had a date (the next week) for surgery for her cancer. How she had even gotten approval for a motel room for a week after she was discharged so she wouldn't have to go straight back to the shelter and the streets. How hard it has been since she got sick and had to quit working, and lost everything.
Ruth kept trying to interject that she just had to have faith in God. Ruth repeated that over and over. "But don't you agree, that it will all be alright if you only have faith in God? You've got to have faith in God. He'll take care of you."
Each time Ruth would say that, Lisa would pause, visibly clench her teeth, close her eyes, and then take a deep breath. She would let the irritation/anger pass, her jaw would relax again, her eyes would open, and then she'd pick up her story as if Ruth had said nothing. Another few sentences, and Ruth would interrupt again with the 'faith in God' line, and the whole scene would repeat itself.
I felt the common ground sliding out from under my feet. I wanted to let Lisa talk about what the clenched teeth meant. "Faith in God, and he'll take care of you" was obviously something of pain for her. Repeating it over and over didn't help. It seemed such a simplistic line, with lots of cultural prosperity baggage, and it didn't speak to this woman with no home, no prosperity. 'Faith in God, and he'll take care of you' has such gift in it, but not as she was hearing it at that time. She was more in the place of the cross, where a similar line was used as a jeer to Jesus - "If you believe in God, why doesn't he help you?" Rather than hearing hope in those words, she was much closer to feeling "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?"
After about 5 times of this happening, Ruth continued her 'faith in God' piece with, "But after all, that's why you came to our church isn't it?"
Lisa paused, and then pointed out to Ruth that she only came two times, and then never came back. It had been almost a year ago.
I expected this to be the end of this conversation. But it wasn't. Lisa talked about the arrangements for her surgery the next week. About the difficulties of finding a place to store her bicycle and her stuff while she was in there.
And then it happened. Ruth offered to visit her in the hospital.
Lisa jumped at this offer! "Oh, would you? Really??" She couldn't believe it. But I knew Ruth was serious. It was etched all over her face. "You've got to have someone at the hospital with you!"
And suddenly, we were back on common ground.
When I was sick, you visited me.
The bugs started getting bad, and Ruth and Bill got the details about when and where Lisa was going to be in the hospital, and then quickly departed to get away from the mosquitoes. Lisa and I talked some more (and yes, I asked about the clenched teeth, and we talked about how God understands, from the inside, that feeling of abandonment, even though the feeling is not the reality). I like to think that maybe I helped . . . but I know that the real help for Lisa came that day from a bumbling evangelist named Ruth who managed to get to Lisa's real hunger. "I'll come visit you."
Even if we really blow it when we try to be evangelists (like I stood there thinking Ruth was doing, and maybe she was doing it trying to impress me that she was an evangelist too?), God can still manage to step in and lead our hearts to a better place. Lisa will be visited this week. She will not be alone. That is truly good news to her at this time. And Ruth gets the opportunity to be the incarnation of good news.
Being the incarnation of good news is our common ground. Our common call. Our common gift.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Monday, June 30, 2008
back home
I've needed to end my walking a few days early. Rick had gotten me from Portsmouth and brought me back home before I was to head for a last few days in the northern end of the state (Woodsville to Lisbon to Littleton). Instead of heading north, I've decided that the better wisdom is to pay attention to the heaviness in my chest and the asthma issues it raises. I will take chances in this life, but as much as possible they will always be measured ones. I know myself and my asthma enough to know that this was a time to not be out walking.
So instead, I'm home early. I am sorry to be missing the northern loop of this journey. It is an area where life is so different than in the southern, larger towns.
But, I've still got lots of notes, lots of experiences, lots of thoughts, that I wasn't able to blog about earlier. You'll still hear more from the June walk, even as I move into the next period of this sabbatical.
So instead, I'm home early. I am sorry to be missing the northern loop of this journey. It is an area where life is so different than in the southern, larger towns.
But, I've still got lots of notes, lots of experiences, lots of thoughts, that I wasn't able to blog about earlier. You'll still hear more from the June walk, even as I move into the next period of this sabbatical.
what the walls say
One of the things I've been thinking about is our buildings.
What do our buildings say about us? I've walked by different churches. Stepped inside some. Peered in the windows of others. Tried to get inside, and couldn't.
"Open daily for prayer" the sign out front said. I couldn't find an open door. Someone from that church comments to me that they don't think it's left open for prayer anymore. I think about my own church, with the sign out front that is accurate MOST of the year. But what about those who come in the summer, looking for that 6:30 service? And they only find a locked building.
I think it says: doesn't matter what we say to the world . . . you really have to already be an 'insider' to know what's going on here. (I make a note to call the Jr Warden about finding a way to adjust our own sign.)
I walk up the street and see lovely modern arches and rounded roofs. A modern building that speaks "Greek Orthodox" to me (who spent some time worshiping with the Greeks when I first left the church of my upbringing). I come around the corner, and sure enough . . . the Greek Orthodox Cathedral. I walk up the front path to the large glass doors and peer in. A large icon sits in the front entrance, with candles lit before it. I can see colored light further in - the sunlight streaming through windows. There are more votive candles flickering in the darker interior of the church. I wish to enter and pray. The door is locked, although I can see people at the other end of a passageway connecting church with what must be classrooms and offices. They stand there and watch me. Nobody moves. I take my pack off and kneel to pray, outside the glass doors looking in. Pack back on, I walk back out to the sidewalk and continue my journey.
A beautiful, absolutely beautiful stone church, sitting at the far side of a grassy 'commons'. Very English looking. Very proper looking. Large rose window in the gothic stone building. They hold the 'family' service in the multi-purpose building across the street. Have they been listening to their own buildings?
My own church - we had to cut down the very very large pine trees that surrounded the property. They had reached the end of their lives, were getting diseased and presented an increasing danger of coming down on their own. Many people, even 6 years later, wonder about why we cut the trees down. But there's the other comment that has stuck with me: "It's like you all came out of hiding! You can be seen now."
The Boston Globe is on the table before me in the morning. The cover story is about the move that the Roman Catholic Archdiocese is having to make. They've had to sell their buildings and are moving into modern, cheaper, office space. The paper quotes Cardinal William H. O'Connell 80 years ago, talking about their location, surrounded by schools and seminaries. Sitting in their beautiful enclave, safely separated from the 'other' world, he says, "Every hilltop now for miles around gleams the sacred sign of our redemption." The paper comments on their new location: "Now their neighboring hilltops feature a multiplex, a sports club, and a lottery billboard."
I walk into a church built not too long ago. The worship space is large and open, 'multi-purpose' feeling, with wood beams and high ceilings. Chairs, rather than pews, are arranged facing an altar in the corner. Clear glass windows are behind the altar, allowing the outside world to be seen. Color and softness are provided by 'liturgical' quilts hanging on the walls. I, who love that English gothic stuff - stained glass and dark wood and stone walls- and who resonates with the Greek Orthodox love of image and icon and symbol, find myself drawn to this space. So different. Modern. Open. Clean. Looking out on the world. I wonder what difference it makes to the worshiping community - to the gathering of God's people.
What difference does it make - - when we open our doors and make every effort to communicate well with the world? When we no longer separate ourselves from the world but allow ourselves to both see and be seen?
What do our buildings say about us? I've walked by different churches. Stepped inside some. Peered in the windows of others. Tried to get inside, and couldn't.
"Open daily for prayer" the sign out front said. I couldn't find an open door. Someone from that church comments to me that they don't think it's left open for prayer anymore. I think about my own church, with the sign out front that is accurate MOST of the year. But what about those who come in the summer, looking for that 6:30 service? And they only find a locked building.
I think it says: doesn't matter what we say to the world . . . you really have to already be an 'insider' to know what's going on here. (I make a note to call the Jr Warden about finding a way to adjust our own sign.)
I walk up the street and see lovely modern arches and rounded roofs. A modern building that speaks "Greek Orthodox" to me (who spent some time worshiping with the Greeks when I first left the church of my upbringing). I come around the corner, and sure enough . . . the Greek Orthodox Cathedral. I walk up the front path to the large glass doors and peer in. A large icon sits in the front entrance, with candles lit before it. I can see colored light further in - the sunlight streaming through windows. There are more votive candles flickering in the darker interior of the church. I wish to enter and pray. The door is locked, although I can see people at the other end of a passageway connecting church with what must be classrooms and offices. They stand there and watch me. Nobody moves. I take my pack off and kneel to pray, outside the glass doors looking in. Pack back on, I walk back out to the sidewalk and continue my journey.
A beautiful, absolutely beautiful stone church, sitting at the far side of a grassy 'commons'. Very English looking. Very proper looking. Large rose window in the gothic stone building. They hold the 'family' service in the multi-purpose building across the street. Have they been listening to their own buildings?
My own church - we had to cut down the very very large pine trees that surrounded the property. They had reached the end of their lives, were getting diseased and presented an increasing danger of coming down on their own. Many people, even 6 years later, wonder about why we cut the trees down. But there's the other comment that has stuck with me: "It's like you all came out of hiding! You can be seen now."
The Boston Globe is on the table before me in the morning. The cover story is about the move that the Roman Catholic Archdiocese is having to make. They've had to sell their buildings and are moving into modern, cheaper, office space. The paper quotes Cardinal William H. O'Connell 80 years ago, talking about their location, surrounded by schools and seminaries. Sitting in their beautiful enclave, safely separated from the 'other' world, he says, "Every hilltop now for miles around gleams the sacred sign of our redemption." The paper comments on their new location: "Now their neighboring hilltops feature a multiplex, a sports club, and a lottery billboard."
I walk into a church built not too long ago. The worship space is large and open, 'multi-purpose' feeling, with wood beams and high ceilings. Chairs, rather than pews, are arranged facing an altar in the corner. Clear glass windows are behind the altar, allowing the outside world to be seen. Color and softness are provided by 'liturgical' quilts hanging on the walls. I, who love that English gothic stuff - stained glass and dark wood and stone walls- and who resonates with the Greek Orthodox love of image and icon and symbol, find myself drawn to this space. So different. Modern. Open. Clean. Looking out on the world. I wonder what difference it makes to the worshiping community - to the gathering of God's people.
What difference does it make - - when we open our doors and make every effort to communicate well with the world? When we no longer separate ourselves from the world but allow ourselves to both see and be seen?
Saturday, June 28, 2008
the little children
Two images:
(1) I'm sitting at the bar. In front of me is a wall of sports pictures. You know the type - the great hockey moment; the pensive face of the coach in deep thought; the slam dunk. All signed, of course. This wall had, overall, a very refined look to it, compared to most.
Except.
Except for that one picture, right in the middle.
The beautiful blond haired boy. Probably about 5 years old. Maybe 6. But not older than that.
He's in the stands at a baseball game. Red Sox fan shirt very visible. I guess his picture was hanging there because someone thought it was cute.
Instead, it's a very sad picture. This beautiful little boy has that angry shouting sports fan face going. He's leaning forward. Mouth open in a growling shout. Right arm extended . . . giving the finger. To the ump? To the Yankees? Who knows.
But it was about the saddest thing I've seen. And maybe more so because it was hanging there because someone thinks it cute.
Second image (2) I stay with a young family. Three small children. The oldest is a boy about the same age as the one in the picture.
Going to church was still a pretty new thing to this young father, in his mid-30's. He hadn't grown up going to church. It wasn't out of 'habit'. I ask him what started it all - what had gotten him through the door in the first place?
His answer: "My son said to me, 'Dad, I'd like to go worship God with you.' "
*****
We can nurture the best, or the worst, in these children. What a gift to me to see some of the best being nurtured in these three young children. And through them, being nurtured in their parents. What a gift to be welcomed into that.
(1) I'm sitting at the bar. In front of me is a wall of sports pictures. You know the type - the great hockey moment; the pensive face of the coach in deep thought; the slam dunk. All signed, of course. This wall had, overall, a very refined look to it, compared to most.
Except.
Except for that one picture, right in the middle.
The beautiful blond haired boy. Probably about 5 years old. Maybe 6. But not older than that.
He's in the stands at a baseball game. Red Sox fan shirt very visible. I guess his picture was hanging there because someone thought it was cute.
Instead, it's a very sad picture. This beautiful little boy has that angry shouting sports fan face going. He's leaning forward. Mouth open in a growling shout. Right arm extended . . . giving the finger. To the ump? To the Yankees? Who knows.
But it was about the saddest thing I've seen. And maybe more so because it was hanging there because someone thinks it cute.
Second image (2) I stay with a young family. Three small children. The oldest is a boy about the same age as the one in the picture.
Going to church was still a pretty new thing to this young father, in his mid-30's. He hadn't grown up going to church. It wasn't out of 'habit'. I ask him what started it all - what had gotten him through the door in the first place?
His answer: "My son said to me, 'Dad, I'd like to go worship God with you.' "
*****
We can nurture the best, or the worst, in these children. What a gift to me to see some of the best being nurtured in these three young children. And through them, being nurtured in their parents. What a gift to be welcomed into that.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Pay attention
Durham is a quiet place in the summer. UNH does offer some summer classes, but I imagine the flavor of life is much changed from when the full school is in session.
I went to a small celtic pub around 7 last night. It was empty. Me and the bartender. Sometimes that is a good thing - bartenders in empty pubs can be good conversation! But she was so intent on the movie she had playing on the bar TV that it simply wasn't to be. The conversation would have to start something like: "Excuse me, I know that Tommy Lee Jones is just about to shoot at the bad guys . . . .but wouldn't you rather talk with me about God and church and faith???" Nope . . . It would have been silly to have even tried. I ate a few of their 25 cent wings, waiting in vain for anyone else to come in, paid my bill and headed on down the street.
Libby's Bar and Grill seemed to be more active, so that's where I headed next. It seemed to be a wider cross section of community life gathered there than would ever dream of hanging out at that first pub. I took a seat at the bar, ordered my Guinness, and scanned the menu. Greens. I needed greens. Got my order in for a chicken caesar and settled in.
A young man sits down, orders a beer and lets out a tired sounding sigh. "Long day?" I ask.
He's an MBA student - going part time and working still. Had just gotten out of class. "At least this pace is only for a few years," was his comment. There seems to be no room in his life to add another obligation, another thing to put on his calendar. No room for church. No room to pay attention to any of that.
An older man sits down on the other side of me. (Older is all relative here in a college town, although he did seem to be a little older than I am.) Someone else spots him and comes over to greet him. It ends up that neither live here . . . And both just happened to be here at the same time. They share family news. "My daughter is getting married! She wanted to get married in June, but couldn't get on the church calendar until August. I guess that's what happens in such a large church."
I see my opening, and charge right in.
"What church is that? Is it around here?" (This is where I learn that neither man is from here.) The church in question has 3800 members, and I assume it must be Roman Catholic.
I'm wrong. It's Lutheran - in Minnesota.
They ask about my church affiliation, and we talk a bit about the Episcopal church. Man from Minnesota has a nephew who just became an Episcopal priest. "I think he's probably the tallest priest in the country!" His nephew is 6'7". I tell him about a priest I know who is taller. He's going to get his nephew in touch with Peter. He enjoyed getting that contact, and then returned to his table where he had been eating with his wife.
The man at the bar continued the conversaton with me. He teaches Greek and Latin at a Boston high school, and is here in Durham for a conference of the American Classical League.
He taught college for a number of years, and then moved to the high school ages, and truly loves it. I listened to him talk about opening up this other world to these students through the gift of Greek.
He has students who come from so many difficult family situations. Many are being raised by their grandparents. Or a neighbor. He is obviously in pain for these students, and the challenges of their lives.
He told a story about one student who got hurt somehow and ended up on crutches. This teacher set it up with the student to meet him in the morning to borrow his elevator key for the day, so the student wouldn't have to navigate the stairs. Then the student would meet him at the end of each day to return the key.
The first day he was off the crutches, he still went and met his teacher in the morning. Not for the key, but to thank him. He threw a huge hug around the teacher, and almost cried his thanks.
The teacher was at first totally baffled by the response. He really hadn't done much at all, he felt. The response of the student seemd so out of proportion to the event. But as he thought about it, he realized that this was a student who very possibly didn't have anyone in his life simply paying attention. And here was someone who had paid attention to his needs, and stepped forward with a small gift to meet that need, and then stayed consistent in the giving.
He talked about what he has learned through his years of teaching, and the most important thing of all has simply been to pay attention. To respect the students enough to pay attention.
It continues to be the almost constant refrain of this time I've been gifted with: listen. Pay attention. Get out of myself and pay attention and listen to each one in front of me.
This teacher loves his job. Loves the opportunity to pay attention to these students and in turn, have them pay attention to what he is so passionate about: the beauty and world that the Greek language opens up for him.
I think about how Jesus paid attention to each one in front of him. Nicodemus and his questions. Zaccheus and his curiosity. The Samaritan woman at the well, and her hunger to be known.
And we are, each one of us, called to follow as disciples. Learning to pay attention.
Love God . . . Love your neighbor. You've got to pay attention in order to love. Love is such a powerful verb. But it doesn't have to be big powerful acts. Love can be done by simply paying attention.
********
Other stuff I'm mulling over from those conversations:
The young man with 'no time' for church, and another young man I know who has commented to me about what a deep deep need it is in his life to find those 'set aside' times and places. One who has discovered the real gift that Sabbath is, and how extra important it is in the midst of a hectic young life. How do we help those who have already decided that there simply isn't time?
And with the teacher: these are students who are 'forced' to go to school. And he is working within that to open up in them a passion for learning. How does this relate to 'forcing' our kids to go to church? How does it become sharing our own passion for journeying with God and with a community of faith, instead of it becoming "cramming it down their throats." Even this teacher talked about his own daughter and her reaction to church being one of it having been 'shoved down her throat'. (Interesting to hear those exact words come from him.) He and his wife were the first couple that the then Cardinal of the Archdiocese of Boston allowed to be married by a priest and a Congregational minister with the service being held at the congregational church (in the late 60s) and they tried to raise their one child with a foot in each.
*********
Conversation going on at the table next to me this morning and I sit here in this coffee shop and write: 6 guys, all in their work uniforms, on some kind of a coffee break . . . "Yeah, life is tough (older man to young 20-something). But church is a whole lot cheaper than drugs."
Evangelism going on in the work crew. Simple sharing.
******
I got my book blurb submitted yesterday. Me! Writing something in 25-50 words. Ha! I'm taking it out on you all today by writing lots and lots.
I went to a small celtic pub around 7 last night. It was empty. Me and the bartender. Sometimes that is a good thing - bartenders in empty pubs can be good conversation! But she was so intent on the movie she had playing on the bar TV that it simply wasn't to be. The conversation would have to start something like: "Excuse me, I know that Tommy Lee Jones is just about to shoot at the bad guys . . . .but wouldn't you rather talk with me about God and church and faith???" Nope . . . It would have been silly to have even tried. I ate a few of their 25 cent wings, waiting in vain for anyone else to come in, paid my bill and headed on down the street.
Libby's Bar and Grill seemed to be more active, so that's where I headed next. It seemed to be a wider cross section of community life gathered there than would ever dream of hanging out at that first pub. I took a seat at the bar, ordered my Guinness, and scanned the menu. Greens. I needed greens. Got my order in for a chicken caesar and settled in.
A young man sits down, orders a beer and lets out a tired sounding sigh. "Long day?" I ask.
He's an MBA student - going part time and working still. Had just gotten out of class. "At least this pace is only for a few years," was his comment. There seems to be no room in his life to add another obligation, another thing to put on his calendar. No room for church. No room to pay attention to any of that.
An older man sits down on the other side of me. (Older is all relative here in a college town, although he did seem to be a little older than I am.) Someone else spots him and comes over to greet him. It ends up that neither live here . . . And both just happened to be here at the same time. They share family news. "My daughter is getting married! She wanted to get married in June, but couldn't get on the church calendar until August. I guess that's what happens in such a large church."
I see my opening, and charge right in.
"What church is that? Is it around here?" (This is where I learn that neither man is from here.) The church in question has 3800 members, and I assume it must be Roman Catholic.
I'm wrong. It's Lutheran - in Minnesota.
They ask about my church affiliation, and we talk a bit about the Episcopal church. Man from Minnesota has a nephew who just became an Episcopal priest. "I think he's probably the tallest priest in the country!" His nephew is 6'7". I tell him about a priest I know who is taller. He's going to get his nephew in touch with Peter. He enjoyed getting that contact, and then returned to his table where he had been eating with his wife.
The man at the bar continued the conversaton with me. He teaches Greek and Latin at a Boston high school, and is here in Durham for a conference of the American Classical League.
He taught college for a number of years, and then moved to the high school ages, and truly loves it. I listened to him talk about opening up this other world to these students through the gift of Greek.
He has students who come from so many difficult family situations. Many are being raised by their grandparents. Or a neighbor. He is obviously in pain for these students, and the challenges of their lives.
He told a story about one student who got hurt somehow and ended up on crutches. This teacher set it up with the student to meet him in the morning to borrow his elevator key for the day, so the student wouldn't have to navigate the stairs. Then the student would meet him at the end of each day to return the key.
The first day he was off the crutches, he still went and met his teacher in the morning. Not for the key, but to thank him. He threw a huge hug around the teacher, and almost cried his thanks.
The teacher was at first totally baffled by the response. He really hadn't done much at all, he felt. The response of the student seemd so out of proportion to the event. But as he thought about it, he realized that this was a student who very possibly didn't have anyone in his life simply paying attention. And here was someone who had paid attention to his needs, and stepped forward with a small gift to meet that need, and then stayed consistent in the giving.
He talked about what he has learned through his years of teaching, and the most important thing of all has simply been to pay attention. To respect the students enough to pay attention.
It continues to be the almost constant refrain of this time I've been gifted with: listen. Pay attention. Get out of myself and pay attention and listen to each one in front of me.
This teacher loves his job. Loves the opportunity to pay attention to these students and in turn, have them pay attention to what he is so passionate about: the beauty and world that the Greek language opens up for him.
I think about how Jesus paid attention to each one in front of him. Nicodemus and his questions. Zaccheus and his curiosity. The Samaritan woman at the well, and her hunger to be known.
And we are, each one of us, called to follow as disciples. Learning to pay attention.
Love God . . . Love your neighbor. You've got to pay attention in order to love. Love is such a powerful verb. But it doesn't have to be big powerful acts. Love can be done by simply paying attention.
********
Other stuff I'm mulling over from those conversations:
The young man with 'no time' for church, and another young man I know who has commented to me about what a deep deep need it is in his life to find those 'set aside' times and places. One who has discovered the real gift that Sabbath is, and how extra important it is in the midst of a hectic young life. How do we help those who have already decided that there simply isn't time?
And with the teacher: these are students who are 'forced' to go to school. And he is working within that to open up in them a passion for learning. How does this relate to 'forcing' our kids to go to church? How does it become sharing our own passion for journeying with God and with a community of faith, instead of it becoming "cramming it down their throats." Even this teacher talked about his own daughter and her reaction to church being one of it having been 'shoved down her throat'. (Interesting to hear those exact words come from him.) He and his wife were the first couple that the then Cardinal of the Archdiocese of Boston allowed to be married by a priest and a Congregational minister with the service being held at the congregational church (in the late 60s) and they tried to raise their one child with a foot in each.
*********
Conversation going on at the table next to me this morning and I sit here in this coffee shop and write: 6 guys, all in their work uniforms, on some kind of a coffee break . . . "Yeah, life is tough (older man to young 20-something). But church is a whole lot cheaper than drugs."
Evangelism going on in the work crew. Simple sharing.
******
I got my book blurb submitted yesterday. Me! Writing something in 25-50 words. Ha! I'm taking it out on you all today by writing lots and lots.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Choke hold
A few days ago I had a wonderful, but brief interlude at home- the transition from Concord to the Seacoast area needed a car ride. After picking me up from Concord (and bringing me home), Rick then brought me down to Rochester to begin this part of the journey, and we had to once again make our goodbyes. I think it's the hardest part of this entire sabbatical journey.
But the challenge to "find answers" is also hard. Not emotionally, like the goodbyes, but hard nonetheless. Early on in this month, another clergy had wistfully said to me, "I know it's probably too much to ask for, but I think it would be wonderful if you were able to come back from your sabbatical with a list of '5 Things We Should All Be Doing' to break through those barriers between the unchurched and the church community."
5 things. That suggestion has actually stuck with me, and I'm working on it. But as I travel and listen, I realize that it really isn't about discovering something new. Something we don't already know. Something we haven't already read about and thought about.
I'm not going to end up reinventing church. Or finding one amazing breakthrough 'thing' that will turn us instantly into the church of the 21st century.
But I will come home with new focus on old things. A renewed commitment to the important things, rather than the urgent ones.l And a new commitment to evangelism.
Yes, the E word. It's about sharing good news (which is what euangelion is all about in the greek anyway).
My first afternoon in Rochester had some major clouds piling up. The thunder and lightening began rolling, and I was desperate for a place to get in out of the rain. Slim's Tex Mex Saloon had a sign that said that they opened at 4, which was still 10 minutes away. But the neon open sign was lit, so I tried the front door and walked in out of the rain into an empty place.
Right on my heels two young men slipped in as well.
Within moments someone came out of the back, and we were assured that yes, we could come on in. I settled my pack into a corner, and took a seat at the bar. The other two left a bar seat open between us, and took seats as well.
Chips and salsa and a guinness before me, the rain no longer dripping out of my hair, I asked the bartender about what she knew about the Episcopal church here in Rochester. "I know it closed, but I was wondering if you knew where it was?"
She had no idea. I asked the two young men, even specifically asking about a church that I had seen that was now a bank. (Which I later found out was the former Episcopal church.) The only church they knew up in that area was Holy Rosary.
The one young man admitted that he never went to church anymore, and that he might even be an agnostic.
"Anymore? Did you used to go to church?"
He talked about having church crammed down his throat when he was a kid. Roman Catholic school even. He really used that term: "crammed down my throat."
It didn't sound as if it ever tasted like good news to him. It sounded more like he was still gagging on it instead.
We've got good news. I think he would respond to that. But how do we begin to help people who are already choking because of the way it's been given to them in the past? How do we overcome the gag reflex they've already developed?
From what I've been hearing, over and over again, that would be one of those "5 things".
But the challenge to "find answers" is also hard. Not emotionally, like the goodbyes, but hard nonetheless. Early on in this month, another clergy had wistfully said to me, "I know it's probably too much to ask for, but I think it would be wonderful if you were able to come back from your sabbatical with a list of '5 Things We Should All Be Doing' to break through those barriers between the unchurched and the church community."
5 things. That suggestion has actually stuck with me, and I'm working on it. But as I travel and listen, I realize that it really isn't about discovering something new. Something we don't already know. Something we haven't already read about and thought about.
I'm not going to end up reinventing church. Or finding one amazing breakthrough 'thing' that will turn us instantly into the church of the 21st century.
But I will come home with new focus on old things. A renewed commitment to the important things, rather than the urgent ones.l And a new commitment to evangelism.
Yes, the E word. It's about sharing good news (which is what euangelion is all about in the greek anyway).
My first afternoon in Rochester had some major clouds piling up. The thunder and lightening began rolling, and I was desperate for a place to get in out of the rain. Slim's Tex Mex Saloon had a sign that said that they opened at 4, which was still 10 minutes away. But the neon open sign was lit, so I tried the front door and walked in out of the rain into an empty place.
Right on my heels two young men slipped in as well.
Within moments someone came out of the back, and we were assured that yes, we could come on in. I settled my pack into a corner, and took a seat at the bar. The other two left a bar seat open between us, and took seats as well.
Chips and salsa and a guinness before me, the rain no longer dripping out of my hair, I asked the bartender about what she knew about the Episcopal church here in Rochester. "I know it closed, but I was wondering if you knew where it was?"
She had no idea. I asked the two young men, even specifically asking about a church that I had seen that was now a bank. (Which I later found out was the former Episcopal church.) The only church they knew up in that area was Holy Rosary.
The one young man admitted that he never went to church anymore, and that he might even be an agnostic.
"Anymore? Did you used to go to church?"
He talked about having church crammed down his throat when he was a kid. Roman Catholic school even. He really used that term: "crammed down my throat."
It didn't sound as if it ever tasted like good news to him. It sounded more like he was still gagging on it instead.
We've got good news. I think he would respond to that. But how do we begin to help people who are already choking because of the way it's been given to them in the past? How do we overcome the gag reflex they've already developed?
From what I've been hearing, over and over again, that would be one of those "5 things".
Monday, June 23, 2008
Jesus is in the house
One thing I'm becoming more and more aware of as this journey continues is how 'in the moment' such a journey needs to be. I suspect the rest of my life should try to function more like that as well.
What I mean by this is that need to listen to the flavor of a moment, the flavor of a room, of a time. To not force an idea or agenda, but to be open to the needs at hand. I guess it goes back to how I see Jesus traveling - not bringing an agenda but listening and asking and responding to what is in front of him. Hungry people get fed. Blind people are healed. Those not even knowing their need of it, are forgiven. "Tax collectors and sinners" are hung out with. Are welcomed into relationship through an evening meal. A dinner party.
I have discovered that for me, 'one off' conversations happen best at quiet places. Even for an extravert like myself, the spirit of the place prevails. The quiet Irish pub. The bench along the street where you can stop and sit a spell. The shopkeeper in the small store.
When I entered "The Village Trestle" for an evening, it was obviously not going to be a quiet night. It was busy and noisy and happy. People joked with one another. Teased each other. Connected with each other in many different ways. Before smoking was banned in all restaurants, I suspect it was the premier smokers' hangout. It still seemed to be, as the steady stream of people moved in and out, "Coming outside with me?" There they'd stand or sit, continuing their connections as they smoked.
There were two of us there who were first timers at this place. Both of us were welcomed in and joked with. The other a soldier just back from Iraq, who had discovered the $1.50 draft beer for happy hour and decided this was the place to hang out at while he waited for his laundry to finish at the laundromat around the corner. Myself, not in clergy collar, trying to see which way conversation might go without its immediate recognition.
They taught me to play pool (well, I've played around with pool in the past, but never like this). They shared strategies and corrected my form. TC even lost a game on purpose to make sure I could play a second game (winner stays at the table and takes on the next person).
But a place like this was not the place for the quiet conversation. Not on a first visit. This was the kind of place to hang out in time and again. To build relationships in. To become friends in. To let the relationships be part of God's love and welcome.
They introduced me to Jesus. "Jesus is in the house!" came the loud exclamation as he came in through the door. I expressed my disbelief. Jesus claimed to have the ID to prove it, although he had no idea what his mother was thinking when she named him (they are not hispanic - the only group that I know of that still uses the name regularly).
Jesus took what was obviously his regular stool at the bar. He bantered easily with Renee, the bartender. Friends came and chatted with him. He was at home there.
I think the other Jesus would have been very comfortable there, too.
I wished, and not for the first time on this trip, that I had another night to come back. Another night to be in this particular gathering spot. With these particular people.
How did Jesus do it (our Jewish Jesus, rather than this American one at the bar) - always being on the road? Moving on from town to town. "The son of man has no place to lay his head." A wanderer, without home.
I'm glad I'm not called to be Jesus. I think I really really like the gift of being called to one place. To be able to know and to be known.
The trick though is to figure out how to know and be known better outside the normal boundaries of parish life. In our own towns. Where we have more than one evening.
What I mean by this is that need to listen to the flavor of a moment, the flavor of a room, of a time. To not force an idea or agenda, but to be open to the needs at hand. I guess it goes back to how I see Jesus traveling - not bringing an agenda but listening and asking and responding to what is in front of him. Hungry people get fed. Blind people are healed. Those not even knowing their need of it, are forgiven. "Tax collectors and sinners" are hung out with. Are welcomed into relationship through an evening meal. A dinner party.
I have discovered that for me, 'one off' conversations happen best at quiet places. Even for an extravert like myself, the spirit of the place prevails. The quiet Irish pub. The bench along the street where you can stop and sit a spell. The shopkeeper in the small store.
When I entered "The Village Trestle" for an evening, it was obviously not going to be a quiet night. It was busy and noisy and happy. People joked with one another. Teased each other. Connected with each other in many different ways. Before smoking was banned in all restaurants, I suspect it was the premier smokers' hangout. It still seemed to be, as the steady stream of people moved in and out, "Coming outside with me?" There they'd stand or sit, continuing their connections as they smoked.
There were two of us there who were first timers at this place. Both of us were welcomed in and joked with. The other a soldier just back from Iraq, who had discovered the $1.50 draft beer for happy hour and decided this was the place to hang out at while he waited for his laundry to finish at the laundromat around the corner. Myself, not in clergy collar, trying to see which way conversation might go without its immediate recognition.
They taught me to play pool (well, I've played around with pool in the past, but never like this). They shared strategies and corrected my form. TC even lost a game on purpose to make sure I could play a second game (winner stays at the table and takes on the next person).
But a place like this was not the place for the quiet conversation. Not on a first visit. This was the kind of place to hang out in time and again. To build relationships in. To become friends in. To let the relationships be part of God's love and welcome.
They introduced me to Jesus. "Jesus is in the house!" came the loud exclamation as he came in through the door. I expressed my disbelief. Jesus claimed to have the ID to prove it, although he had no idea what his mother was thinking when she named him (they are not hispanic - the only group that I know of that still uses the name regularly).
Jesus took what was obviously his regular stool at the bar. He bantered easily with Renee, the bartender. Friends came and chatted with him. He was at home there.
I think the other Jesus would have been very comfortable there, too.
I wished, and not for the first time on this trip, that I had another night to come back. Another night to be in this particular gathering spot. With these particular people.
How did Jesus do it (our Jewish Jesus, rather than this American one at the bar) - always being on the road? Moving on from town to town. "The son of man has no place to lay his head." A wanderer, without home.
I'm glad I'm not called to be Jesus. I think I really really like the gift of being called to one place. To be able to know and to be known.
The trick though is to figure out how to know and be known better outside the normal boundaries of parish life. In our own towns. Where we have more than one evening.
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