Tag Archives: A License to Preach

We Thought You Were Just Kidding

14 Sunday Jun 2015

Posted by in Forest, Learning from mistakes, Nature, People, Travel

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3 Owls

For forty-some years I took church youth groups on trips, accompanied by several adults, of course, on short trips, long trips, and in-between trips, for service, for learning, for recreation, for fellowship. The trip that took us to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park included some of all of these purposes. We devoted four days to work on houses that needed help—painting, repairing, building a wheelchair ramp. Then we had one full day and two nights in the Smokies.

We stayed in the national park campground. I gave the usual warnings, that included not keeping food of any kind in your tent. We would even keep the food we prepared together locked in the cars, out of reach of the bears, we hoped, though we had heard stories of bears breaking into cars. I repeated those instructions several times ahead of the trip, put them in writing, repeated them before we entered the park, and in the campground before we set up tents.

Shortly after we had our tents and equipment set up, sure enough, a bear came ambling through the campground. Everyone scurried out of the way, into the cars or behind them, giving the bear plenty of room. That bear seemed intent on a mission, heading straight toward one tent, which he circled for several minutes, stopped at the front tent flap, and poked his nose through the flap into the tent. He seemed to be pondering whether he should enter it or not, whether he dared to get into trouble with the park ranger or not, whether it would be worth it or not. Finally, he withdrew from the tent and continued on his way toward the deeper woods on the other side of the campground.

I gathered the group together at that point and asked the girls, whose tent it was, what food  they had hidden inside their tent. They shyly admitted that they had candy bars stored in their knapsacks.

“Didn’t I tell you that there were bears here, they had a keen sense of smell, and they enjoyed candy best of all?”

“We thought you were just kidding,” one of them answered.

To Pass or Not to Pass… the Peace

12 Friday Jun 2015

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Monkeys see, hear, speak no evil, Bangra.com

In the mid-1980’s “Passing the Peace” had been re-incorporated into Roman Catholic worship, but few Protestant congregations were engaged in the practice. I had taken a confirmation class to a Catholic service, noting commonalities with our liturgy, and they had appreciated the Passing of the Peace, asking why we did not do it, too, if it was an ancient tradition of the church. I took the idea to our worship committee, and the consensus was to begin to include Passing the Peace at different points in the service, with brief explanations of its purpose and history. This was done for the next three months before the congregation held its annual meeting.

Preparing for the congregational meeting in this place was always a challenge. The elected leaders knew that some members always made a controversy out of something, but could usually not predict what would be the issue at any given time. That year it turned out to be Passing the Peace. Some members demanded that any changes in the order or content of the worship service should always be presented to the whole congregation first, seemingly not aware of how cumbersome a requirement that would be.  Several comments veered from the issue of Passing the Peace into other elements that should or should not be included in a worship service. Clearly no consensus was present, and it was, as usual, hard to stick to one topic of discussion.

Pro and con statements about Passing the Peace showed the usual divisions in the congregation. Those who advocated for the practice made statements about its celebration of forgiveness, acceptance, and mutual care, but some admitted that it seemed disruptive in the middle of the service, and less disruptive at the beginning or end of the service.

The climax of the discussion came when one of those who objected to Passing the Peace said that it would be a cold day in Hell before he would pass the peace with some of the people in this congregation. He chose to sit where he did to avoid sitting near certain other people, but he didn’t want to shake hands or greet anybody else that just happened to sit nearby. The fact that the six hundred members of this congregation were mostly related to each other could not hide the divisions in the extended family. They would not be healed by a ritual of Passing the Peace or by pulpit teaching about forgiveness.

The vote to exclude Passing the Peace failed, as did the vote for the congregation to pre-approve changes in the service. No one voiced objections to the president’s idea that the next months should include some exploration of the different parts of the ritual and their meanings, including Passing the Peace, so that became the temporary resolution. A fuller resolution would require passing through many more controversies and much more time before a real peace could be shared.

Accepting calls…and divine signs?

10 Wednesday Jun 2015

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self-portrait

Soon after accepting a call to serve Zion United Church of Christ in Burlington, Iowa, I looked at the church’s address—412 North Fifth Street. At the time I was serving St. Paul’s UCC at 236 West Fifth Street in Minonk, Illinois, after serving the United Church of Tilton, Illinois, at 520 West Fifth Street. Excluding all of my short-term and temporary church-related jobs, every full-time church I served had a Fifth Street address. Purely a coincidence, I’m sure.

A first parish surely always makes a deep impression on a minister, for good or ill, but often in deep and tender impressions. The morning  I announced my resignation from the United Church of Tilton, I tearfully expressed my gratitude to the congregation for its loving support over the ten years I had  known them. I spoke of the major changes we had gone through and predicted the obvious—that more changes would come. At that moment lightning struck the church, creating an impressive flash in the air above the area where the congregation sat. It didn’t do any damage, but it sure emphasized my point.

Over a career I have interviewed with many congregations and organizations for different positions, especially in those years when I was just getting started and had little experience. For a while I thought I was getting enough background with interviews that I was learning how to do it, but then came three interviews in which I fell one vote short of having the unanimous vote that those committees required. The most disappointing decision came from South Haven, Michigan. The whole situation seemed too good to be true. The congregation’s program and its needs appeared to be a perfect fit, the church building and its parsonage were in good condition, the committee was responsive and cordial, and South Haven sat on the shore of our beloved Lake Michigan, not far from where we vacationed for many years. It was perfect. The one vote against me came from the woman who provided our overnight accommodations in her home. I never was a morning person, but I was on my best behavior. I was severely disappointed when I learned the outcome.

When I accepted the call to go to St. Paul’s in Minonk a short time later, and we looked at the parsonage once again, I looked across the street and saw the new senior citizen apartment complex. Its name was South Haven. Sometimes God’s sense of humor is just too much.

Driving from the Rear View Mirror

09 Tuesday Jun 2015

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3 OwlsA few days ago, I again drove my car, leading another driver and her car through a long road trip. I used to do that a lot, guiding groups of vehicles packed with young people, on trips hither and yon. I thought I had a talent for it. Only once in fifty years did I lose a carload of passengers at the tail of a caravan, and that was due to a vehicle breakdown out of sight, and the loss of radio communication with the driver, but I knew he was resourceful and dependable, he knew our point of rendezvous, and he caught up with us at the end of the day.

Driving ahead of another car or cars requires frequent and observant glances in the rear view mirror. It does not matter if one tries to maintain a speed at or five miles per hour above the posted speed limit, someone will always want to go faster, getting between the lead car and the followers. Sometimes it is a truck, large enough to hide the view of cars from front or rear. The leader must find a way quickly to restore the connection, before the next turn or stop, or an additional intruder adds to the distance between the tandem drivers. Changing lanes and preparing for turns needs to be signaled well in advance if possible, but obscured vision may require the use of another lane just to keep each other in view. The process becomes nerve-wracking in heavy, fast traffic.

Often the lead driver spends as much time looking in the rear-view mirror as looking forward. That may sometimes be true in normal driving, when trying to keep a safe stopping distance between oneself and the cars ahead and behind, but with a caravan behind, as part of one’s responsibility, it becomes even truer.

What seems to be required for the lead driver is to know well the destinations and the directions for the trip, to set a reasonable and steady pace forward, and to keep the changing needs of everyone who follows in constant view.  It also helps to have a back-up plan that everyone is aware of, for all the times when the unexpected happens, and contact is,  we hope temporarily, interrupted. That sounds like an ambitious goal for leadership in many contexts, not just tandem  driving.

The Deeper Magic

02 Tuesday Jun 2015

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Monkeys see, hear, speak no evil, Bangra.comHarry Potter’s summer assignments included writing an essay on “why witch burning in the Fourteenth Century was completely pointless.” Not a bad topic, I thought, although author J.K. Rowling’s reasons amounted to a flight of fantasy, not the down to earth responses I had been thinking of. 

For a while I was on the mailing list for the Wiccan Newsletter at the University of Iowa, as I was investigating the religious diversity of our area. My eyes were opened to the creative efforts poured into constructing a new faith in magic and witchcraft as an alternative to creedal and group religion. Their fellowship events and calendar of celebrations, promoted by the newsletter, looked like a bland reflection of many traditional congregations.  

Muggles (for non-Harry Potter-readers, if there are any, those are people with no magical abilities or heritage) can also come up with good reasons not to join in efforts to eradicate witchcraft. Chief among them is the sordid history of persecution and depravity that includes witch-burnings, demonstrating how people delude themselves, act on prejudices, and harm others. We hope we are beyond that. 

Witchcraft and magic have returned to the realm of religious options. And I thought the New Millennium would be a face-off of liberal Christianity and secular humanism. Talk about a bland and unimaginative confrontation! Instead we see a resurgent fundamentalism around the globe, spiced with reconstructed native, animistic, and Old Earth religions. What will people try next? Or revert to? 

In ancient Israel witchcraft was a subversive activity punishable, according to the Levitical Holiness Code, with death, hence the medieval efforts to burn witches. It didn’t do any good. Intent on becoming pure and clean, communities became soiled with their efforts to eliminate alternative faiths. According to most of the New Testament we should leave the purification standards behind. We recognize our communities as impure and our own efforts to clean them up as tainted, unless we let mercy and compassion rule. 

Instead we rely on a Deeper Magic, as C.S. Lewis called it, from before the memories of time, rooted in a loving God who places God’s own self-offering into creation. And we enjoy the fantasies of Harry Potter anyway.

Because of a car with an eagle on the hood…

28 Thursday May 2015

Posted by in Caring, Death, Events, Learning from mistakes, Racial Prejudice, Small town life

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3 Owls

The young man was two years out of high school, making a high wage as he worked in construction on the Clinton nuclear power plant, and proud of his shiny new black Trans-Am with the large eagle design on the hood. He was a brash and mouthy country boy, which was understandable. He was young, energetic, with pockets full of cash, and he came from a small town not noted for open attitudes.

Two young men, about the same age, drove down from Chicago, looking for work, but not finding. They filled out applications, but knew they were filed away at best, often just tossed into the waste can. They had more wishes than experience, and their references were not spectacular. Their car was an old beater, barely held together by Bondo and wire. They were as brash and mouthy as the first young man.

They were on a collision course, randomly, to all appearances, not by clear intent, and they had more in common than they knew, except that one had a good paying job and the other two did not. No one witnessed the event itself. We could only imagine what was said, by whom. It was in Champaign, Illinois, outside a bar. None of the three was operating with his best behavior. Prejudices and resentments fueled their encounter.

A telephone call came to me soon afterward. Would I officiate at the funeral of a young man, killed in an angry altercation, his “pride and joy” car stolen? They didn’t know who had done it, but they had ideas. A neighbor had recommended that they call me. I didn’t know any of them, but I said “yes.” They needed someone.

There was a mob at the funeral, filling the mortuary chapel and its overflow spaces. The directors had “never seen such a crowd,” they said. The young man was well-known, if not always well-loved. Grief held center stage, but it was surrounded by a cast of anger, hatred, and fear.

After conversations with his family, I had plenty to say that appreciated his life and work. I noted the absurdity of dying because of one’s proudest possession, and I named the encounter as a tragic and devastating loss for everyone concerned. I represented a “Savior who died for all,” who loved each person, understanding the mixture of guilt and good that is in each one, and who can be trusted to take what we are and to shape it for  a better world to come. It was too early to expect anyone to understand a call for forgiveness. What did they need to forgive in the young man who was murdered? How could anyone ever forgive the murderers? Mostly the crowd was silent afterward. A few made the special effort to say that they heard what I was saying. Much later, a man said that it was the one sermon that he remembered and pondered.

Pentecostal Kerfuffling

24 Sunday May 2015

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Pentecostal banner

From time to time I like to have the experience of a good kerfuffle. Pentecost seems just the right time. The Holy Spirit is supposed to be available all the time to motivate people, set us straight, remind us of what is important, activate our highest aspirations and enthusiasms. Pentecost not only highlights what the Holy Spirit can do. It provides many opportunities. Our world fills with new life and an environment conducive to activities of all kinds. We can work with hours of daylight. We can feel the warmth of the sun. We can enjoy the invigorating waters. All good opportunities for kerfuffling.

The Spirit brings people together and moves people to face each other and work together openly and honestly. We do not have to hide our feelings or our past failures or our present weaknesses if the Spirit of God is present to help. When we see each other as we are and recognize our need to join in animated confrontations and open exercise of our abilities we have a chance to grow. Just like siblings who must engage in horseplay and rivalries we must work through the things that bother us. Though gentleness and courtesy are always needed, the process may be neither quiet nor relaxing. It can be a kerfuffle.

O.K. Kerfuffle is a word I learned a long time ago, but, good as it is, I seldom use it. Like “googol” that became popular a few years ago when the capacity of new computer memory seemed to be reaching for infinity, or at least to 10 to the 100th power. I first saw “googol” used in Ruth and Lewis Ita’s Christmas letter twenty-four years ago, as they described the number of gingko tree seeds that had fallen onto their lawn during their autumn season. New words can be useful, and they can sound even better than anything we have now.

Worship can be solemn and meditative, thoughtful and centering, all of which are important and useful experiences. It can include one speaker, one performance, one actor, to whom everyone else pays close attention. It can be organized and ritualized to the point that we know what to expect almost every minute. But worship can also be surprising, enjoyable, unexpected, exciting, involving, and out of control– to the point that spontaneous breakthroughs of humor and participation and liveliness engage everyone’s spirits. Then we can be on the edge of a real kerfuffle.

It was a real kerfuffle on that exceptional Pentecost that followed Jesus’ crucifixion, according to the story in Acts. The noise distracted casual observers and some guessed that the kerfufflers gathered there were drunk. Perhaps that was and should remain exceptional in our life with people who may misunderstand and misinterpret what we are doing. But once in a while, shouldn’t we get carried away? Into a kerfuffle?

Lest it be artificially limited to those who consider themselves Christian, let the Sufis, the Hassids, and other people of good will join in, and we’ll have a truly universal kerfuffle.

I can’t say that it will be easy for me. Keeping myself and my emotions and impulses under control has been a major discipline of my life. But if I do not quench the Spirit, and let Spirit take control, I suppose I will create a kerfuffle with the best of them.

Missed Signals and What They Meant

21 Thursday May 2015

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red footbrigde over lily pads

Many years ago a couple came seeking a wedding at the church I was serving. I had worked with the young man as his occupation crossed paths with mine. The young woman did not know me, except by reputation. They had grown up in nearby villages to the one where I lived and served.

When a couple had no experience in the church which they wanted to host their wedding, I usually asked, “Why do you want to hold your wedding here?” In this case I knew the church where she and her family had participated. It was a recent merger of two friendly congregations, who had built a beautiful new building with convenient facilities, all on accessible ground level, instead of “my” traditional Gothic  two-story building with its many steps. So I asked my question.

The bride-to-be paused momentarily, as if uncomfortable, dropping her eyes. The groom came to the rescue, saying that they planned to move to this community and expected to take part in this church, where they would make their home. She seemed to recover her composure quickly, and the rest of our conversations moved smoothly over many appropriate thoughts about marriage and the wedding service itself.

Still I puzzled about that moment and what it meant.

I knew her minister; in fact, he and I gathered with other ministers of our affiliated denominations monthly in conversation. He was popular due to the successful growth of his congregation during and after their reorganization and building program and also due to his outgoing and attractive personality. When we next met, I let him know that the couple had come to me to prepare for their wedding, and that they had shared their plans to move. He did not respond visibly. To my mind, he seemed unusually uninterested in what they were doing or planned to do.

A year later, several of the young women of his church, several of them being juveniles, accused him of sexual misconduct. He was arrested and held in jail for a few days, much to the embarrassment of his wife and children. He submitted his resignation, surrendered his credentials as a minister, and eventually moved to a distant community and took up another occupation, selling insurance. The case against him fell apart as the women, one by one, decided not to go through the visible public process of a trial.

Old Man Hide and Seek

20 Wednesday May 2015

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Bridge in AutumnWhere, but in the ministry, would you find a 50-something old man sitting in the dark under a table in the anteroom behind the chancel, playing a game of hide and seek with young teens at midnight? Yet there I was at a youth lock-in, listening to the amusing echoes of youngsters and adults at play in a cavernous church.  

The room was pitch black, and I found my way into a space whose form I had memorized from previous visits. It was true and remained so—no one would find me there. I was safe. I could even take a nap if I wanted. 

As I sat there, holding knees folded to chest, a single thread of light found its way from the sanctuary through the doorway, and spread its thin light in a cruciform shape along the tile floor, and shot its way unfailingly to my eye. My place in the utter darkness was illuminated with a steady and incredibly bright light, considering that it came from a dim emergency exit lamp a hundred feet away. I was astonished. 

God does not usually find anyone at youth lock-ins. Things that are sublime and ineffable flee from such events. The most that one hopes for are fun and good fellowship, and these often come in full measure. But not revelation. 

There I was, discovered by a cross-shaped light in my utter darkness, with the young people who were “it” not far off breaking the silence with their name-game, “Who are you? Tell us who you are, and we won’t catch you… this time. I don’t know who this is, but I know someone is there. Is it the red-haired girl? What’s her name? Who is it? Tell us and we won’t give you away.” (It was in actuality another fifty-something minister who remained anonymous until he could no longer restrain his laughter.) 

It was a revelation. Not communicable on that night when minds glass over with sheets of youthful energy impenetrable by thought. Barely expressible even now, when I still wonder at the mystery of that moment. We can try, but we never can hide from the mystery.

Labor-saving devices

19 Tuesday May 2015

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Monkeys see, hear, speak no evil, Bangra.com

When I came to Zion twenty-seven years ago I observed our secretary folding newsletters and bulletins. I thought that this was an inefficient process and could be improved by the use of a machine. We purchased a paper-folding machine similar to one I had used previously. Our secretary used this fine piece of machinery. In my enthusiasm I had forgotten how often it had to be adjusted, how the trial and error process wasted so much paper, how humidity and quality of paper affected how well it slipped through the machine and how often it jammed. It worked as well or better than my earlier experience, but it took longer than our efficient secretary to get the job done. She covered the machine with its dust cover and it occupied a place of honor in the corner of her office. Later it was sold.

Machines may do many things well for us, but they are not the answer to every need and every situation. They are not always efficient nor the final answer. They can be exasperating. They do not always meet the needs of each of us as personally as our own handy efforts. Not paper-folding machines, not computers, not I-pads, not televisions nor DVD players, not voting machines.

A flesh and blood human being, an incarnation, talented and dedicated, serves our purposes better than any mechanical and unfeeling substitute. No automaton and no robot could make a personal and loving demonstration of God’s love the way that a human being did or does.

Something prepared by hand, baked, composed, collected, artfully or even innocently manu-factured often expresses our affection and respect better than something bought from a store or a “manufacturer.”

We may well enjoy many labor-saving devices, many entertaining examples of human ingenuity and art, many elaborate contrivances that can prolong life and sometimes assist healing. They help us… sometimes, but they do not save us. Saving some time, maybe, but not saving us.

Let no machine get in the way of counting each person and each person’s life special, valuable and cared for. Let your hands become the hands of a Master.