Unexpected chuckles on an Advent Sunday

Our second service this morning was "alternative worship"----whatever that means.  Perhaps it means  that we used a screen (heads-up) instead of bulletins (heads-down).  Today, however, in the first Sunday of Advent, it mostly meant that two of our college students, who were home for the Thanksgiving holiday, led some of our music: guitar, piano and random percussion worked together.  One piece that a young woman sang was particularly beautiful: "Let Your Light Shine Down on Me."  

That theme about which she sang came from Isaiah and Romans: Walking in the light of the Lord.  One of our quieter, young adults helped to lead worship, prayers, a teaching about the advent wreath and, yes, even parts of the "message".  Another read the scriptures...and what does 'debauchery' and 'licentiousness' mean anyway?  Someone else had cut out footprints for each of us, and on them we wrote down simple, ordinary things that are characteristics of walking in the light of the Lord, maybe things that God is inviting us to do this advent.  People spent time talking to each other about ways they had seen God's light in their lives recently.   Now you must understand, talking with one another about faith stuff is an unfamiliar step for reserved Lutherans who usually sit spread out in the pews apart from one another.  Yet today people moved closer together and before long the congregation was buzzing with conversation.  Singing the African song, "We are [walking] in the light of the Lord," we walked and rolled (one of us is in a wheelchair) around the sanctuary, placing our footprints on the floor leading up to the communion table.  We looked at what other people had written on their footprints.   We walked up to place our offerings in a basket that had been brought back from Nigeria by two Peace Corp workers, relatives of one of our congregation.  

There were tea lights (battery operated) lining the path up to the communion table and which my alb managed to brush out of place here and there. It didn't matter.  We hadn't figured out how to get the wheel chair up the steps to the communion table, but by the end of the worship one of our people had already addressed that challenge for the future in order to make our rolling brother better included in the circle.   As we were singing "This Little Light of Mine" throughout communion, a second-time visitor and African American, lifted up her voice above the others and sang it the way we up-tight European-descended Lutherans can't manage yet. For a brief  moment I had to pause in handing out the bread of Christ just so I could listen to her unexpectedly leading our song.  

In Advent we are reminded to wait, to wake up, to notice, to be ready for the unexpected coming of Christ. "Come, Lord Jesus."  I can't wait until Jesus comes again.  But meanwhile I am determined to write this down tonight because the quiet, intermediate arrivals of Christ in our midst are so easy for us to miss.  I know in my gut that Jesus was hanging around this morning, a foretaste of what is to come, and if I don't write it down it will be one more of God's gifts that may go unnoticed.  In this morning's second service, we weren't particularly organized and our worship wasn't polished.  Some of us were definitely out of our comfort zones, and our ushers were graciously asking with puzzled looks: and what is it you are asking us to do?  

But here was Christ's unexpected presence today: several  voices (not one pastor's) led worship; many voices shared the message with one another---different ages, different backgrounds, different abilities were welcomed in tangible ways. In fact, the whole body of Christ was more actively working and participating in worship today. It was a community-body-of -Christ experience.  If no one of us was quite comfortable or totally sure about what was happening next, well, judging from the gospel today, that isn't one of Jesus' priorities. Jesus just tells us to be ready and then surprises us.  And, yes, my hunch is that he has a sense of humor about it all.

This morning was not quite what any of us expected.  All I'm saying is that Jesus, chuckling a bit, showed up in worship today.  (Thanks be to God.)  

Rebuilding Humility on the Jersey Shore

In the last few blog posts I have been thinking about humility, the lack of it in our culture and in ourselves, the importance of it when we find it.  Granted, humility is not the most popular topic to write about, but here's one more thing to say about it.

Last week, I went on a working mission trip to help with the long rebuilding of the New Jersey shore from hurricane Sandy which devastated the area over a year ago.  We stayed in a Presbyterian Church in Point Pleasant and were absolutely amazed by their hospitality and the great lengths this congregation has gone to feed and house volunteer groups week after week. Thank you, people of Point Pleasant Presbyterian Church.

This was my first experience with a mission trip of this nature.  I am a musician, a thinker, a reader, a preacher, a writer, a listener---but rebuilding a house is not one of my strong suits. Yet, here I was, ready to serve, convinced by fellow members in my congregation that there would be something I could do.

And there was!  Primarily as a learner.  This is where the humility part comes in.  For four of the five days I was down there I was on the painting crew.  Now, I have painted in my own home and done a passable job.  But here in Point Pleasant I was working with a volunteer who is a professional painter!  He is also retired from being a high school principal, so he knows how to teach and administrate.  Out on the work site he was teaching me the craft of painting.

You may wonder how much one needs to know in order to paint. You would be surprised. Thoughout the week he would walk by, observe what I was doing (or not doing) and ask in his quiet way, "May I offer a suggestion?"  Of course, I would answer with a yes.  And then he would tell me more about how to hold a brush, the best way to roll the paint on the wall, in what order to paint a paneled door, how to edge the trim and much more.  Sometimes when I heard "May I offer a suggestion?" I would be momentarily disappointed; it meant that I was still not doing something right!  That's where some humility needed to come in; it takes humility to be a learner.  As the week progressed, I  began to value each new painting tip I learned.  I was doing better work for the people we were serving and someday I would be doing better work in my own home.

But I also learned to value the question itself.  My painting coach didn't come to me and tell me how to do something.  Instead, he very simply asked if he could suggest something, which I think implies a respectful way to teach, more of an invitation.  For the learning to continue, I would need to agree to my own learning.  By answering "yes" I accept the invitation and become a participant in the process, not just an object to be corrected.  It appears to be a more humble way to teach.  What would he have done if I said, no?  I didn't test that.  My guess is he would simply have shrugged his shoulders and said calmly, "Okay, let me know when I can help."

It seems to me that Jesus' preferred way of teaching was also by invitation: he invited people into ways of being participants in the kingdom of God. He did this by telling stories like the one about the Samaritan who crossed the road to help an injured stranger or by suggesting metaphors like being "salt" and "light" in the world to describe how our living can make a difference to others.  Hopefully we answer "yes" on most days. Teaching, learning, rebuilding on the Jersey shore and being a  follower of Jesus happen best when accompanied by a sprinkling of humility.

Humility in the face of all saints

Tomorrow we celebrate All Saints Day, although technically the festival of All Saints was November 1.  We Lutherans are not very good at going to mid-week services, so we postpone the celebration until Sunday. This year the list of our congregation's saints who have died and entered the "church triumphant" is especially long.  In fact, it is heart-rending.  We will read their names in our prayers of the church and a bell will toll after each name is read.  The bell tolls deep.  We miss their faithful presence.

In my last two posts here and  here, I have written, reflected and wrestled with humility...or the lack thereof. I told you I would let you know if I found it.  I have.

On October 30, a congregation member died suddenly.  Over the past few days I have been preparing for the All Saints Day message in which I have reflected on the gifts of the ten brothers and sisters who have died in the Lord this past year.  But I have also begun preparing for the funeral of this faithful and beloved sister in Christ who has most recently departed and whose name will be read last tomorrow.  It is fair to say that I have been humbled.

There is a tendency for many to say only good things about the one who has died as if we have to prove that they are worthy of God's notice.   As if we will jinx their future or dishonor their memory if we admit some of the ways that they may have failed us.  What short shrift we give God's graciousness and forgiveness!

Nevertheless, I am humbled when I hear of the gracious things my departed brothers and sisters have done that I have known nothing about.  When I discover that they, quietly and behind the scenes, have been serving their neighbor (and therefore the Lord) in ways that few people know about, I can only describe my response as humility. How much they had to teach me and I didn't know.  Perhaps I didn't  know about it because I wasn't listening carefully with enough of my own humility. I also suspect, though, that they didn't care about the "left hand knowing what the right hand was doing."  There is something about many in the passing generation that doesn't need to be praised, that knows we do what is right and loving because we can (by God's grace), not because anyone is looking.

And so I now name humility as a frequent part of the generation that preceded me. If that is true, then I only have a few more years to learn from them.  Or perhaps humility is  the final stage of development for any generation that is entering their last years.  Maybe I too will do things with humility by the time I am 85. Nevertheless, I know this: I still have a lot to learn about walking humbly with one's God.  And every time I preside at a funeral, the more I realize time is running out for what I have yet to learn.

On meeting a black snake

Yes, I have been out day hiking on the AT again.  Three times, actually, because I've had the luxury of a full week of vacation.  

I have stood on a rock precipice and peered over the valley to ridges beyond.  I have walked under yellowing trees tossing their flames one by one into the chill wind.  I have sat beside a stream of the clearest water that becomes the glass coffin for leaves of red maple and brown oak.  I have walked softly on scented needles of pine through the gloomy maze of their dark trunks.  In the warmth of a noon sun, I have traced the path through a thicket playground full of noisy sparrows.  Hunched by a campfire, I have watched the moon, part shadowed, part light, rise while my legs, facing the fire, burned with heat and my back, facing the damp grass, shivered.  It has been a full week.

Oh, yes, and I met a black snake on the trail not too far, as I recall, from the thicket with all the small birds---a virtual grocery store for a snake.  I will not, however, let that fact cloud my respect for this creature.  Soon it will be hibernating in a rocky den in mountains that I love, perhaps one of the rock jumbles I had just finished climbing over.  At the moment I saw it, however, the snake was absolutely still.  Whether it was soaking in the sun, or waiting for a chipmunk to run by, or watching for me to leave it alone, I do not know. I circled it, took a few cell phone photos, and estimated its length to be five and a half feet.  It remained motionless all the while.  Without analyzing, without words, its snake thing to do was simply to hold one's head up, be still, watch and wait.

The Psalms are well known for moving from the subject of creation and its Creator to the dilemmas of humanity.  I am going to make the same shift.  In my last post here I began reflecting on what it means to practice humility in our lives.  I'm not good at the humility thing, and in fact that was one of the things I was thinking about on this day of walking.  Then I saw the snake and eventually realized that an important quality of walking humbly is to be able to be still, hold one's head up, watch and wait.

What might that look like practically speaking?  Instead of jumping to my own conclusions, listen to what another is trying to say.  Instead of charging ahead with my own plans to fix problems, waiting in prayerful stillness to see what God might be suggesting.  Instead of first following my own interests, also looking to the interests of others (a paraphrase of the apostle Paul).  Instead of becoming defensive in the rightness of my own view, listen for the truth in what others are saying.

Why, in the face of a towering two legged creature, did the snake know to choose stillness over slithering away under the dry, fallen leaves?  Perhaps a herpetologist could answer that question.  But let me guess that true humility can remain still, wait and watch because it is curious to know and respect the other; it values the other as much as itself.   In some cases humility is the strength that gives itself for the sake of the other.  Isn't that at the heart of the good news of what Jesus did?  And if so, then why as followers of Jesus, aren't we better at listening and waiting? 

A little humility?

I am appalled by the self-righteousness that has permeated our lives. Two examples---no, three.

First, in the nation where I live, two factions of elected officials cannot work together.  They each are standing on supposed principles, refusing to compromise.  Meanwhile dedicated government workers are not getting paid, children are not able to to participate in clinical trials at a nationally run health institute, the economy is beginning to slump, research is being shut down, food is not being inspected, national parks are closed, and programs for those in need are in jeopardy---and that only names a few consequences.

Second, I am appalled that when my faith denomination installed a new presiding bishop last week, the clergy group on facebook, my colleagues, nitpicked and sniped about the worship service---about this procedure or that hymn chosen, what color should have been used, who was represented or under represented---all in self-righteous, deprecating tones.

Alas, finally, I realized this week that I am also rather appalled by me.  I once served on a staff that was creative and accomplished much in the congregation.  We were "successful" and loved our work;  we were supported and admired in return.  With pews full, I (self-righteously, I now realize) assumed that we were doing well because we were competent and had a good combination of gifts.  Well, we were a good ministry team, but herein lies the problem.  Although I would never have said it out loud, there was a barely conscious, but underlying judgment on my part that the colleagues who were struggling in other congregations must be lacking in some way while we were doing something right.  This is my confession.

Now I am the struggling, trying-to-be-faithful pastor in a struggling, trying-to-be-faithful congregation.   I love this group of God's people like I loved the group of years ago.  But I am forced to look at the world and at the Church from the shadow of a more (seemingly) insignificant, questioning, and self-doubting underside. That perspective has caused me painfully to confront my past self-righteousness for what it was.  At the time I could never have seen the inherent follies of  my thinking, but I now consider how very foolish I was to assume that our/my success was a sign of competence and God's favor.

Working hard, doing one's best and constantly learning are always important while at the same time they can lead into a trap.  Trust in what the world considers measurable success leaves no room for me to trust in how God is working. Trust in the rightness of my own capability and knowledge leaves no room for the humility one needs to listen carefully to others.  Trust in efficiency leaves no room for the patient, faithful, slow work of God. Trust in what is admired and applauded leaves no room for serving and taking up the cross.

How have we become so confused?  On this continent, at least, humility is hard to come by while self-righteousness is overly abundant.  Yet if I now name the latter in others, it is only because it has been and certainly is still a part of me and my own struggle.  Those of us who say we follow Christ are following one who walked a different, very foreign path to the assumptions we automatically live by.  The apostle Paul writes:

Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves.  Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others.  Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness.  And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death---even death on a cross....(Philippians 2:3-8)

The truth these verses convey is so jarring to what is considered normal in our culture that it sounds like chalk scraping on a chalkboard.  (Even as I date myself with the chalk simile,  my shoulders tense with the memory.)  To protect ourselves from its implications, I think we Christians have wrapped this humility sounding truth up tightly in a theological box for discussion only so we don't have to deal with what it looks like in practice.

So how do I let humility out of the box?  Where will I find it?  How do I help others find it?  Who do I know in my life that models it well?  I am going out searching---which is a little tricky, because humility doesn't want to be found.

If I make any discoveries that can be publicly posted, I'll let you know.

In between the first step up and the home-made soup

Yesterday was a hiking day on the section of the A.T. that climbs "southbound" out of Duncannon over Cove Mountain, descending to Miller's Gap Rd.  It was a very slow 8.5 miles.

One of the reasons I both enjoy and need to hike is that it is an activity that is wholly absorbing.  I must be attentive to where I am putting my feet, where I am placing my hiking poles, and the location of the next white blaze marking the trail.  This concentration was especially true for yesterday's hike because a good portion of the trail was covered with rocks.  All the rocks make it harder to discern trail from mountain, hence the need for the white blazes.

If I was not vigilant, I found myself veering off the path on the rockiest stretches, or catching a pole in a crevice, or placing my foot on a wobbly stone threatening my balance. With all my focus on the simple task of walking, for a while the worries of the week behind and the week ahead fade away.

But there are other things to notice too: the last of the goldenrod, yellowing fern, a dead caterpillar attacked by ants, white-rimmed fungus, red Virginia creeper, a glossy brown centipede climbing through dead leaves.  I hear the occasional sound of farm equipment in the valley, a hawk cry, cedar waxwings in a thicket where trees have blown down, a woodpecker drilling over the ridge, squirrel chatter.  Mostly I notice the absence of noise and the fullness of trees.

In between the silences I sometimes hum a song, often a hymn, in rhythm with whatever pace I am trying to keep. I was struck yesterday by how the words of "Come, my Way" sounded so different out in these remote woods rather than in  its usual setting within a worship setting under a roof and behind walls.

Come, my Way

As I am picking my way among the rocks and white blazes, occasionally wandering from the path.

my Truth, my Life:
such a way as gives us breath;

     As I breathe in the air smelling of damp earth and pine needles.

such a truth as ends all strife;

     As the strife and pressures of the week's responsibilities are laid down and left behind.

such a life as conquers death.

Out on the mountain I am more aware of creatures preparing for the winter and the fragility of life, the need for food, water and shelter to stave off death.

Come my light, my feast, my strength:
Such a light as shows a feast

I literally cannot walk out here without the daylight and am mindful I must be off the mountain before dusk.  And the feast?  Well, how about this view off of Hawk Rock, the silver Susquehanna winding through the mountains; the farm in browning fields, the scattered calls of black-capped chickadees.

Such a feast as mends in length;

This feast of walking out here does its mending and restoring, making me ready to go back to work---tomorrow, that is.

Such a strength as makes its guest.

I do need strength to hike like this and know that each year I am able to do it is a gift.  Already my body is aching.  But I am also aware, particularly on the trail, that I am a guest in God's creation.  It is not mine, but it is here to be delightfully enjoyed.

Come my joy, my love, my heart:
Such a joy as none can move;

As my feet slip here and there and I must keep moving, I think about the constant presence of joy that runs deeper than the roots of this mountain, the Joy that doesn't move.

Such a love as none can part;

Under these trees, I find myself praying for the people given me to love and am grateful for love received---the Love which is life itself.

Such a heart as joys in love.

And that is what inevitably happens to me on a hike---it gives me back a heart that joys in love. Gratitude.  Time to go back to a loving home, to work, but most immediately to my husband's home-made chicken soup.

Hymn text:  George Herbert, 1593-1632; music;  Ralph Vaughn Williams, 1872-1958

Craziness!

This story that Jesus tells here is craziness, just craziness!

There was a rich man who had a manager, and charges were brought against him that this man was squandering his property.  So he summoned him and said to him, "What is this I hear about you? Give me an accounting of your management, because you cannot be my manager any longer."

Then the manager said to himself, "What will I do now that the master is taking the position away from me?  I am not strong enough to dig, and I am ashamed to beg.  I have decided what to do so that, when I am dismissed as manager, people may welcome me into their homes."

So, summoning his master's debtors one by one, he asked the first, "How much do you owe my master?"  

He answered, "A hundred jugs of olive oil."

He said to him, "Take your bill, sit down quickly, and make it fifty."

Then he asked another, "And how much do you owe?"

He replied, "A hundred containers of wheat."

He said to him, "Take your bill and make it eighty."

And his master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly; for the children of this age are more shrewd in dealing with their own generation than are the children of light.  And I tell you, make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest (worldly) wealth so that when it is gone, they may welcome you into the eternal homes.  (Luke 16: 1-9)

Craziness!  Shenanigans!  Dishonest manager caught and served notice.  Before he's axed, he gets in good with customers by means of his boss's money.  The owner, while terminating the manager's position, commends him for being shrewd.  Is this story supposed to be a life lesson for Jesus' disciples?  Or tongue in cheek maybe---as in "It wouldn't hurt you disciples to be a little more street-wise"?  Or is it a case of a playful Jesus chuckling over the puzzled faces of disciples as in, "Come on, guys, lighten up. We're on our last trip to Jerusalem, after all."

One of my colleagues noted that parables are designed to provoke conversation.  And in his follow-up remarks, Luke, the one who wrote down Jesus telling this story, seemed to think Jesus was trying to provoke conversation about how disciples were to use money.  As opposed to being dishonest with money (verse 10).  As opposed to how the Pharisees loved money (verse 14).  As opposed to how we can't serve God and wealth at the same time (verse 13).

But I didn't get anywhere in puzzling this story through by assuming that the disciples were being contrasted to act differently than the dishonest manager.  So I asked a different question of the story: How are the disciples and the dishonest manager suppose to be similar?  Let's rephrase it and get personal: How am I similar to the dishonest manager?

Bingo! The story suddenly opens up.  Let me count the ways.  Seriously.

1. Both the manager and myself each serve a master who, for all intents and purposes here, owns everything. The manager served, used, lent and collected his rich master's property, not his own.  I am not the owner of what I "own" either.  It's all God's.  Everything.  My calling is to be a steward of everything--even "dishonest,"worldly money.

2. Both the manager and myself squander what's given us to manage. Polluting the environment.  Wasting time.  Purchasing what I don't need. ("I "give" some to God, but the rest is mine to do with as I want.)

3. Just like the manager, my earthly job of being a manager/disciple for Christ will end---when I die, of course.  If asked to give an account of what God entrusted to me, will I have invested in the kingdom of heaven/eternal home priorities (as in "treasure in heaven," Luke 12:32-24)?

4. For all the wrong reasons, the dishonest manager at the last hour participated in the gospel of Luke's great reversal of being generous to the poor, lightening the burden of debt, and sharing.  I may not to be generous out of expediency because of impending job loss, but how am I generous and creatively resourceful with the money/wealth I manage because I am a follower of Christ?

5.  Similarly the dishonest manager, when in a bind, made establishing new relationships a priority.  As a follower of Jesus, does the generosity and resourceful sharing of gifts (including sharing the good news of Christ) establish  new relationships, inviting them into the community of Christ?  Do people come to faith and become brothers and sisters because of  my willingness to be involved in their lives?

Hmmmm.  Jesus' story is not craziness.  It's ingenious!  It has quite cleverly hooked me and is slowly reeling me in.