November 9: The Day After

Today something died. That’s the best metaphor I have for coming to terms with the unbelievable. When someone dies, your mind takes in the reality long before your heart can come to terms with it. Every reminder is like experiencing the death all over again. That’s the emotion that hits me every time I remember that we elected Donald Trump as our next president.  

        Were I to think only of myself, my fear would be minimal. I am a sixty-three-year-old white female Christian who is blessed with good employment that provides me with superb healthcare coverage. I’m old enough to be hopefully confident that my Social Security won’t ever be privatized. I don’t think my voting rights will ever be questioned. And I’ve spent my professional career in a role that was traditionally considered all male.

        Yet I am afraid for my children and my grandchildren. I want my daughter, daughters-in-law, and granddaughter to have reproductive choice. And I want them to be respected in their workplace, valued for the gifts they have to share and not their value on some scale of beauty. For now my sons, daughter, and daughters-in-law have access to good healthcare coverage. But that could easily change. And I want my children and grandchildren to be able to enjoy the beauty of God’s world for perhaps the next century and even beyond. I want that world to be healthy enough to sustain not only their lives but its life as well.

        Yet as a Christian I am compelled to fear for more than myself and even my family. The well-being of all God’s children is my concern. And so I am afraid for my Muslim brothers and sisters. I am afraid for my LGBT brothers and sisters. I am afraid for my African-American brothers and sisters. I’m afraid for my Hispanic brothers and sisters, especially those who may fear they now must hide.

        And I fear for our planet. Thirty-three years ago I remember watching The Day After. That was the decade of the 80s when many took up the call to limit or even dismantle nuclear weapons. Those movements now seem only a faint whisper in an overconfident age. Perhaps their time has come again.

        As a Christian I will now pray daily for President-elect Trump. My prayer will be that as he assumes the weight of this office, as he daily faces the challenges that are now his, he will change. The Grinch thought he understood the human heart and what brings joy. When he discovered a different source, one that could not be stolen, his heart grew three sizes. It is called grace and as a Christian I believe it is the most powerful force in the world.

        In my sermon for November 6^th I reflected on the prophet Haggai and his rallying cry to the returned exiles. They were facing the daunting task of rebuilding the Temple, of restoring a dream. Take courage, he said. Do not fear. Work for I am with you, says the Lord of hosts. Haggai told them there was work to be done. Work that would draw them close to the God who was still there, still working, still liberating, still redeeming no matter how foolish that work may have appeared.

        The intention was to reaffirm faith in a God who still holds the world in His good hands no matter the outcome of the election that was to happen two days later. On that Sunday, I did not expect to need to hear those words for my own heart. I did not expect our nation to choose a man whose words fill me with fear. If the complete sermon intrigues you, it is posted on this site.

        The lectionary texts for this coming Sunday include Isaiah 65:17-25. It is God’s vision for the world. If you have never read it, you should. For no matter who won an election, God is still God and the world still resides in God’s good hands.

The Obsolete Offering Plate?

“The offering plate became obsolete years ago but most congregations have yet to notice.” So begins an article posted recently to one of the plethora of church ministry support web sites. Since Seneca Presbyterian Church is in the midst of stewardship season right now, I was intrigued, so I read on. The author makes the valid point that cash and checks are virtually obsolete in our modern world. Most of us pay bills on-line and pay for dining out with credit cards. Why can’t we give to God the same way?

I must admit that the world of convenient “cash” is freeing. I’ve lived long enough to remember when you could only cash checks at your bank, and you had to be on an approved list at your regular station to pay for your gas with one. Now you can travel around the world with just that small piece of plastic. Traveler’s checks? Who needs them anymore!

So, the author continued, passing an offering plate in the middle of a service of worship to receive something that has become virtually obsolete is inherently embarrassing. Many may be inclined to give, but have no means of doing so. Better to encourage on-line giving. And for those who wish to donate on-site, a credit card kiosk in the narthex would be a welcoming sign of a modern church.

I can identify with the dilemma. I used to make my contributions through a monthly draft from my checking account. It was very convenient and also very faithful. The debit was made every month regardless of the current state of my finances. Now that’s every church treasurer’s dream!  But not this pastor’s.

A couple of years ago, I was inspired by the witness of one of our most faithful church members. I was told by those who sit around her in the worship service that as the plate is passed to her, she pauses for a moment and speaks a private prayer of thanks before placing her envelope in the relic otherwise known as the offering plate. In that moment, this otherwise obsolete practice becomes not only contemporary, but holy.

You see - I pay my bills on-line. But my offering is not a bill; it’s a spiritual practice. The distinction is subtle but critical.

It has been a very, very long time since the farmer placed a bushel of his finest wheat on the altar, next to the herdsman’s finest lamb. In those days, the concept of first fruits was tangible and powerful. Our offering to God was meant to represent the finest, the best, the first of all we had received from the hands of a generous God. Yet even by the time of Jesus, most personal offerings were coins, not cattle. Still tangible – but now also symbolic. It was up to the giver to see that the gift still represented first fruit: an offering that came first before all other obligations and desires.

Perhaps it is true that we have reached yet another moment of transformation. From cattle to coins to checks to digital transactions. But even if cash and checks are obsolete, I’m inclined to find a way to preserve the offering plate. Why not have that kiosk in the narthex print out a two-part receipt. One part is for the giver; the other for the plate. Rather than retiring the offering plate to the relic room, let’s embody the spiritual practice of never letting it pass us by without tangibly offering up our prayers of thanks to a God who continues to bless.  

Quiet Christmas

“Have a holly, jolly Christmas. It’s the best time of the year.”

     Maybe. But then again maybe not. It is hard to be the one who must admit to a less than warm heart and glorious good cheer as the whole world seems to be having its customarily wonderful, entire-month-of-December celebration. That’s the holiday where gifts are perfectly wrapped, children are perfectly behaved, and everyone who should be at the table is.

     Sometimes the stress overwhelms us. Sometimes the burden we assume when we seek to make everything perfect does us in. And sometimes – many times – someone who should be at the table isn’t. Death may have invaded in recent weeks or months or even years. A child may have become estranged from a parent. A marriage may have died. And no matter how much time has passed, something will always be not quite right.

     It was years ago during my seminary days that I first heard a pastor reflect on the need to acknowledge pain during the Christmas season. He was a wise man who understood the human heart. In fact, he understood the human heart so well that he left ministry near the end of his career in order to serve as a counselor at a state mental hospital. This wise man said he always devoted one sermon in the Advent season to the Christmas “blues.” Those who experience Christmas with a sense of loss and longing need to know they are not alone.

     It was much later that I learned of the tradition of offering an opportunity for worship that publicly acknowledges those struggles. Some are called a “Longest Night” service, taking place on the evening of the winter solstice just a few days before Christmas, literally the longest night of the year. Others are called “Blue Christmas.”

     The tradition at Seneca Presbyterian Church began just before my arrival. We have modified its format over the years. Now we call it “Quiet Christmas” because loss isn’t just death; it’s a loss of what was – health, security, friendship, relationship, confidence, even hope – trapped in the time before what is to be has been found. That hoping against hope is what Advent longing is all about. So we seek to make this opportunity for worship simply an oasis of quiet and calm amid the world’s chaos.

     We are offering this year’s Quiet Christmas service on Wednesday, December 16 at 5:30 p.m. The service will center on song, scripture, silence, and prayer. We will offer the sacrament of communion. We will also offer a time for personal, private prayer for healing. That portion of the service will be entirely optional. Within that option, three practices are possible for each person who seeks them.

     The first option is simple. It would be to express a personal concern and ask for a spoken prayer addressing that concern.

     The second is an option for the laying on of hands and prayer. Hands are placed on the person’s head or shoulders and these words are spoken: Spirit of the living God, present with us now, enter you body, mind, and spirit, and heal you of all that harms you. Those words are borrowed from the service of healing prayer held each Tuesday evening at the Abbey Church on Iona, Scotland. They affirm our belief that all healing comes from God and takes whatever form God deems best.

     The third option is new for me. It is anointing with oil. It was the practice of early Christians to anoint the sick and pray for healing. Oil was used to clean wounds and was considered to have healing powers. Throughout scripture, oil was also a sign of blessing and God’s favor when used to anoint kings and prophets. Its fragrance reminds us of God’s healing mercy. Yet it is a practice unfamiliar to most Protestants.

     When we gather on Wednesday evening, I do not know if anyone will seek this option. But as a pastor, it is my desire to make available any tangible way for my people to experience the presence of the Spirit and the grace of God. These practices are merely the means of conveying that grace, which is the true source of healing.

     My preaching this Advent season has been more somber, more “shadowy” than usual. The times seem to require it. That mood will change as we approach the Holy Night. It is my prayer that those who join in the service of “Quiet Christmas” will receive a gift of presence, peace, and hope that they can place in reserve for whenever it is needed. For the Christ child was born not only on Christmas Eve. He is born whenever we believe that, despite the longest night, the grace of God is from everlasting to everlasting.

               

Beginning the Conversation

“For this reason, a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.”  

        Our son married his soul mate last Sunday. It was a wonderful event that they had carefully choreographed for months, down to honoring their grandparents by serving their favorite candies. As both mother and minister, I had the “best seat in the house” as they repeated their vows and became husband and wife.

        My son gave his heart and his life to his now-wife long ago. He told me he already felt married. But when that commitment is witnessed publicly and documented legally, it is a momentous moment. As I listened to my son pledge his devotion to “the most important woman in my life,” I must admit that this mother’s heart sank – but just a bit. It was a tangible sign of what Jesus referenced when he said that a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife. In today’s context, I’m certain Jesus would have added: a woman shall leave her father and mother and be joined to her husband.  “Leaving” family is how it should be when a new family is created. Even as I lived that transition in my son’s pledge, so too did her parents when they heard their daughter referred to as “Mrs. Morris.”  

        As our son and now daughter-in-law reviewed the language in the traditional wedding ceremony from the Book of Common Worship of the PC (USA), they asked me to modify the phrase “a man and a woman.” In those contexts, I was glad to use instead “two persons.” I do not know if their request came from a general sensitivity to the issue of same-gender relationships or out of specific concern for their friends who gathered to celebrate with them. It doesn’t matter. I still find it intriguing that as heterosexual twenty-somethings in our world, the concern was significant for them.  

        This week, Seneca Presbyterian Church is beginning to talk about same gender relationships in a tangible way. Almost a year ago, I approached our Session with the question: Are we ready to begin an intentional conversation about homosexuality, same gender marriage, and our response as a church?  My request came as a direct result of the district court ruling that legalized same gender marriage in South Carolina, along with the growing movement in the PC (USA) to refine marriage as inclusive of same gender couples. At that time, the amendment to our Book of Order had not yet been approved by a majority of presbyteries. That happened last March.

        My desire for this dialogue is increasingly motivated by a sense of justice for our l/g/b/t brothers and sisters who have for too long been harmed by the Church. I often wonder if it is too late for the Church to atone for the sins of silence and exclusion that fill our past. My confidence is being nurtured by the many personal stories I hear from among our congregation – from gay and lesbian persons as well as those with sons and daughters among that community.

        The Session’s response to my request was affirmative and deliberate. We created a Conversation Team of seven persons to discuss the process of beginning the dialogue. Our desire was to enable respectful discussion that listens rather than divides.

        We are planning a series of Talk/Listen/Learn sessions where members of the congregation can hear of our process and reflect with us their thoughts, concerns, desires, and questions. We intend to model compassionate listening, defined as follows:

Let this be a safe place for conversation…

• Where we can accept all, because God has first accepted us.
• Where the wounds of our lives and the struggles of our souls are safe – where they can be spoken and honored; protected and healed.
• Where one does not have to be wrong in order for another to be right.
• Where diversity of belief and theology and piety are a blessing; where I am nurtured by those who differ from me, as long as I am open to what they have to share and they to me.
• Where we acknowledge that there are core essentials to what we believe, but they are far fewer and far more open than many would contend.
• Where compassion and care are grounded in the mercy of God, a mercy that endures forever.

        Our son believed he was already “married” to his beloved. In the eyes of the law, he now is. This past weekend, they were honored by the presence of friends and family as they publicly proclaimed their vows and were blessed by God. They were roasted and toasted and celebrated. They desire the possibility of nothing less for all God’s children.

When the Pastor Becomes the Patient

From the looks of this blog, you would think that I have been away from preaching for quite a long time. Actually not. My discipline has simply lagged. But I have been away from the pulpit of Seneca Presbyterian Church for six weeks. Why? I needed to face the challenge of the orthopedic surgeon’s knife!

                On May 28 I underwent shoulder replacement surgery. The leaders of Seneca Presbyterian were graciously generous with me, allowing me six weeks for recuperation. Before the fact, I wondered if I would need them. After the fact, I know I did. I returned to work this week and will be back in the pulpit this Sunday – if my brain remembers how to preach. That’s what I’m trying to work on in these final days. And trying to put down in words the memories of my experience.

                I started experiencing pain in my left shoulder almost two years ago. When I finally consulted with doctors, I discovered that I had osteo-arthritis in that shoulder. An injection and physical therapy came after the diagnosis. An unsuccessful trial with medication came about ten months later, followed by another injection and the word from two surgeons that my shoulder was “surgically ready.”

                I had often heard that the rule of thumb for joint replacement is to put it off until you simply cannot stand it. Yet the advice I was getting seemed the opposite. “Your shoulder is not going to get any better on its own. The sooner you do the surgery, the greater the chance for a good outcome. And the sooner you do it, the sooner it’s done.” So I agreed.

                Now that six weeks have passed, I can honestly say the experience was tougher than I imagined. I guess I did not want to believe what my surgeon said as he exited my pre-op room: “Shoulders are rough.” In those first days, my body seemed to be overwhelmed with the trauma inflicted upon it. It was not so much the pain from the shoulder – though I did get a feel for that pain during a “break through” moment as the medication was being adjusted during the first days post-op. The challenge was more systemic. Every part of my body seemed to be in focused protest. My tongue was raw – like it had been burnt or frozen or both. Nothing tasted right. A simple trip from the bed to the bath was an ordeal. I became much too acquainted with the hospital’s green barf bags that looked like mini-dunce caps. And a full night’s sleep became an elusive dream. Watching the clock pass from 2 to 3 to 4 to 5 a.m. isn’t easy. Sometimes my prayer was simple: God, please let me sleep. Even newborn babes can do that.

                Throughout the ordeal and into the recovery, I kept a list of cryptic notes to remind me of thoughts and experiences that I might want to reflect on later. Cryptic they were – because some make little to no sense now. But here are some that do.

• It’s amazing what people will tell you when you tell them you are about to undergo major surgery. It seems everyone has a story to share – of what happened to them or to their sister or to their distant cousin. We seem to have a strong instinct for grounding the experience of others in our own. Ironically, when you are facing the unknown, you actually do crave other people’s stories. Anything to fill the void of what to expect. But this I have learned about sharing personal stories: there is no need to state the obvious. “It’s really going to hurt.” Or “I hear physical therapy is really rough.” No matter what your experience, it’s better to be encouragingly realistic. And when hearing personal stories, it’s better to just listen. Everyone’s story is different. Everyone’s experience will be different too.
• I entered this journey expecting it to be an exercise in empathy. And it was. So many of the saints at Seneca Presbyterian Church have been through joint replacement. Through this experience, I am now better able to understand theirs. Yet so many of my people endure far greater challenges than just a few weeks of misery post-op. For their sake, I hope my exercise in empathy lasts. I hope I can remember what it’s like to truly have no appetite; how eating can be an ordeal rather than a delight because nothing tastes right; how it feels to wake up wondering just what the day will bring because it is so totally outside your control.
•  Ironically, my recuperative instincts held little desire for visitors. I felt lousy. I looked lousy. I really had no energy to engage others. It is ironic because I’m often the one doing the visiting in the hours and days post-op. As I existed in a weakened state, I actually wondered if I had imposed myself on others inconsiderately. The wonder came with a bit of guilt, too. Yet when I was coaxed and encouraged to receive the genuine well-wishers who came my way, I had to admit in hind-sight that their visits were a blessing. They provided an escape from reality for a brief moment. And they forced me to summon up energy I did not know I had. When visiting others now, I shall do my best to remember that the patient can be putting on a better face than their reality dictates. While that can be a blessing, I need to listen for the clues when it is not.
• There is no better medicine than humor that comes from a glad heart, so I am grateful for all who brought laughter into my overshadowed existence, especially during those early days. This is not just any humor – and certainly not the kind that makes light of current infirmities. The distinction is subtle but important. This is humor that comes from a heart filled with the kind of joy that draws the sufferer into a different realm. It is a much needed reminder of a world that is “normal”; a world that is free from pain and discomfort.  It is a glimpse of hope. It is assurance that recovery will come. And it is a precious gift for those who possess the ability to express it.

Throughout these weeks, I always knew I would get better. I know too many who live without that assurance. So my experience only deepens my prayer for all who struggle with pain, limitations, fear, and despair. May they find a simple thing that brings joy every day, if only for a moment. For that is God.

                I can’t end this blog without a big thank you to all my friends near and far, but especially the saints of Seneca Presbyterian Church. Over 100 cards filled my mail box. The picture included at the top of this post is only a glimpse. Each one was a blessing and a sign of the remarkable grace of God expressed in our family of faith.

The Faith of "Mother Emmanuel"

My “home” state of South Carolina has been in the news lately. I use quotation marks around home for a good reason. Although I am South Carolina born, on a July morning in the hot and humid city of Columbia, only eight weeks later my mother, brother, and I made our way north to our new home in New Jersey. My South Carolina born and raised father had already begun work in his new job with a corporation based in Manhattan. He never brought his family back. Aside from our daughter’s college stay, our relocation to South Carolina barely five years ago in order for me to become pastor of Seneca Presbyterian Church represents the only sojourn of my immediate family in the Palmetto state since that departure. Yet the fascination of late with my home state of South Carolina fascinates me.

                Growing up far away from the deep south, yet with southern roots, South Carolina was the ancestral home for my father’s family, our Myrtle Beach vacation destination every August, the source of some of the world’s best music, and producer of the world’s finest peaches, which by the way are just now coming into season. God is good!

                Yet up until about two weeks ago, the world saw South Carolina as the birthplace of the confederacy and home to those who celebrate white supremacy. That impression was painfully and sorrowfully captured in the person of Dylann Roof as he took the lives of the nine children of God who welcomed him into their church sanctuary as they were gathered around the Word. He thought his act of evil would ignite a racial war, divide a nation, and empower racial bigotry. Instead, it brought the races together and likely will bring down what has become the symbol of hate that seemed to motivate his actions. Dylann thought the world worked one way; God’s people showed him another way.

                How did everything change so rapidly? It’s a fascinating question with no simple answer.

                First, we must acknowledge that what seems rapid is actually a culmination, the sudden burst of light that is the fruit of long faithful work and diligent faithful witness. I do not think that the legislature of the state of South Carolina would have been moved to secure the 2/3 majority needed to remove the flag were it not for the person of Clementa Pinckney. They knew him. He had been their colleague in the house and senate for 18 years. They knew his calm but persistent voice along with his compassionate and embracing heart. And they know how profoundly he will be missed. So they know it’s time for the flag to come down – in honor of their friend and in opposition to the hate and violence that took his life.

                Second, I think change has come so rapidly because Dylann Roof crossed the line. Of course, he crossed the line of violence in the taking of innocent lives. Yet others have died before. Dylann crossed the church line; he violated a sacred southern space. He abused God-breathed hospitality. It was a hospitality that even almost stayed the killer’s hand. “They were so nice to me.”

                The witness of those lives and the testimony of their families continue to change hearts. Many have been astounded at the words of forgiveness spoken when grief was only a few days young. Many question how that could happen and know they could never overcome the anger that understandably dwells within a human heart at such a tremendous loss. They wonder if such rapid grace is a vestige of the racial divide that always placed our Black brothers and sisters in a position of deference.

                For me, it is a vestige of our racial divide, but one less insidious. It is a reminder to me of the power of faith known and lived by our Black brothers and sisters. When you live in a world that treats you as second-class and unworthy then come into God’s house where the message of grace is preached with power, you absorb that grace in amazing ways. Not to enable deference to power but in order to be a witness to power – a witness to the heart of Christian faith.

                Forgiveness doesn’t negate justice; it enables it. It breaks the cycle of violence. It sees the guilty one with God’s eyes. They are the same eyes that see us as just as guilty and just as much in need of grace. Yes - we still pay the human price for our sins. Yes - we are still accountable for our actions. Atonement is still the pathway toward reconciliation, but forgiveness becomes the first step; not the last.  

                I discovered recently that one of my ministerial friends knew Rev. Pinckney. They shared a CPE (Clinical Pastoral Education) experience together. She says he was in life everything everyone is saying about him in death. A man who walked the talk. I know that must be true. His people are living proof. They are the ultimate testimony to the effectiveness of pastoral leadership; a witness every pastor would covet.

                 It remains to be seen what lasting legacy will come from this terrible loss of life. Will the flag actually come down? But more important still, will we begin the hard journey of acknowledging our past and claiming our future across the divisions that still own us?

                Our president said it eloquently: “God helped us to see where we were blind.” Let us not be blind to the heritage of history. Slavery was evil. That truth is self-evident today. Yet my ancestors who owned slaves were not evil people. They were good people who were blind to the evil that existed all around them.  In like manner, let us not be blind to the truth of our reality. Racism is evil and it exists all around us, even if we who are not its targets can just as easily be blind to its power.

                Let’s move beyond taking down a flag. Let’s work together to bring life out of death – abundant life for all God’s children. 

Why would a church need a nurse?

Seneca Presbyterian Church will commission our Parish Nurse Ernie Lombard at both worship services on November 9. It will be a day to celebrate the long tradition of Christian congregations being involved in the ministry of healing. I first heard of the concept of a Parish Nurse – they are also called Faith Community Nurses – in the late 80s while serving St. John’s Baptist Church in Charlotte, NC. Presbyterian Hospital had received a grant from the Duke Endowment to place Parish Nurses in six Charlotte congregations. Since St. John’s sits right beside Presbyterian Hospital, it was logical for that congregation to be approached with the possibility. Tom was pastor at the time and he was intrigued by the idea. I was a bit of a skeptic.

                I reasoned that just about all the thousand plus members of St. John’s had access to good doctors and medical care. Why did we need a Parish Nurse? It did not take long for me to turn from skeptic to supporter.

                I watched as Dianne took blood pressures during office hours while listening to the challenges of aging. I saw her step into a medical crisis where a wife was all alone in making life and death decisions for her suddenly critically ill husband. She interpreted medical data for me, and help many stay just as healthy as possible. She organized a congregation as it responded to the hospice needs of a member dying with cancer. And she helped us understand the AIDS epidemic. Remember: this was the late 80s and churches did not know how to respond to the fears of a new and frightening health care challenge.

                Our SPC Parish Nurse has been on the job since the first of August. The world of health care is a bit different now than in was in the 80s. People check their own blood pressures at home. But they are also called upon to perform nursing duties at home that in the not so distant past would have been done by nurses in hospitals. Remember when we actually stayed in the hospital a couple of days after surgery? Now it’s often in and out on the same day.

                Retirees make up the bulk of membership at Seneca Presbyterian Church. Many are “young” and vital, traveling freely to see the wonders of the world and the wonders of their grandchildren. But many have slowed down from that pace. They stay close to home. They live with the pain of aging joints. They know what it’s like to see numerous doctors on a regular basis. Often their extended families are not nearby. Many don’t have children or grandchildren around to help out when a medical crisis hits. So we have Ernie to help us assess how we can be church for each other, deal with medical devices that come home with post-op patients, and see to it that folk get to physical therapy sessions when needed. And so very much more. 

                Parish Nursing began in Chicago in 1985. It has been a recognized nursing specialty since  1997. It is estimated that there are over 10,000 Parish Nurses in the United States and around the world. (You can learn more at www.parishnurses.org.) By bringing this aspect of health care into churches, we acknowledge the divine gift that is our bodies. We can support each other in keeping them just as strong as they possibly can be. But the relationship also works the other way. We can bring faith in the spiritual aspects of healing to the medical world. Because when you place your faith in the God who creates bodies, the Son who healed them, and the Spirit who brings peace when they are challenged, you realize there is vast difference between curing disease and healing lives.

                If you want to see more of what that means, I recommend checking out Ed’s Story. It is a video series produced by Flannel (www.flannel.org). Ed is a retired pastor with ALS. As his journey is highlighted in these videos, we see honesty, despair, grief, challenge, hope, purpose, and gratitude. We at SPC have our own Ed who is also living with ALS. With the Spirit’s care, Ernie’s guidance, and our love for our Ed, we plan to walk that journey with him and his family.

                In our world, disease is inevitable, and cures may or may not be possible. Healing always is. It comes in the power to claim and live the grace, mercy, peace, and hope of God that surpasses all earthly reality. 

Guess that's why a church needs a Parish Nurse 

- and so does the world. 

Heaven: The Abode of Love

I am about to undertake a risky adventure, namely preaching about heaven. That adventure will occupy my heart for the next three Sundays at Seneca Presbyterian Church. I enter the adventure fully aware that its risk lies on multiple fronts. Heaven is something we all contemplate. Exploring the mystery of what happens to us when physical life ceases is a basic human instinct. We each have our images and hopes based on what we have read or been taught or overheard in passing conversations. Even children can speculate on what or where or how heaven is, and they seem to have a delicious freedom in so doing.

The older we get the more serious the issue becomes. We begin losing people who are important to us and we want to know what has happened to them and where they might be. We long to stay connected. We cherish the assurance that we will one day be reunited. And we begin to wonder for ourselves just what our own “next journey” will be. So first of all, preaching about heaven runs the risk of disturbing personal images of something profoundly significant.

Second of all, what one believes about heaven impacts greatly what one believes about God. If heaven is the abode of the Almighty, it is up to God just who is there and who is not. Yet many of us already believe we know who is there and who is not. Allowing ourselves to speculate about that imponderable question runs the risk of challenging cherished beliefs. But I also believe it can deepen our understanding of who God is and how God does.   

Philosophers and theologians have long speculated about heaven, and have invested much ink in sharing those speculations with us common folk. They have the time and wisdom to offer point and counterpoint, and even to reject each other’s arguments. I can easily get lost in the whirlwind!

Yet as someone who does desire to ground my understanding of heaven in the biblical witness, I’ve been aided by the writings of N.T. Wright, particularly in his Surprised by Hope: Rethinking Heaven, the Resurrection, and the Mission of the Church (HarperCollins, 2008). As a consequence, what at first seemed an intimidating challenge has actually proven to be an enlightening journey. I hope I can share something about that journey in this series of sermons. In the process, I think our idea of heaven will be expanded rather than diminished.

But ultimately, preaching about heaven is risky because no one knows for certain the what and where and how and who. We can read accounts of near death experiences and find them credible or not. But even if we do see them as credible, they can only provide us with a faint glimpse of an immeasurable glory. We still see in a mirror dimly.  Perhaps that is all we are meant to see.

I attempt the risk of preaching about heaven because so many of the saints of Seneca Presbyterian have or will soon take that journey. Walking with them is such a blessing to me, even with the loss that it represents. I intend to begin, end, and frequently remind them of this disclaimer: Heaven is where God is, and where God is, there is heaven. Beyond that all details are speculation and faith. Your speculation and your faith are just as valid as mine.

But I believe the journey is worth taking. Mitch Albom, author of The Five People You Meet in Heaven, says it well:

There's one thing I would say about heaven. If you believe that there's a heaven, your life here on earth is different. You may believe that you're going to see your loved ones again. So the grief that you had after they're gone isn't as strong. You may believe that you'll have to answer for your actions. So the way you behave here on earth is changed. So in a certain way, just believing in the idea of heaven is heavenly in and of itself.

Yet I believe there is much more. The risky adventure begins Sunday.

Preaching for the Long Haul

Disclaimer: This is NOT my next sermon series
no matter how creative! 

Our group of faithful seekers took a bit of a break this week. Instead of pondering the text for Sunday and seeking to find ourselves in it, we looked at preaching in general. The ostensible reason was simple. I needed some help in planning for the long season of “ordinary time.” That’s the season in the church year that falls between Pentecost and Advent.

When this church year began last December, I had committed to following the lectionary in order to see just what disciplines lectionary preaching could instill in me. But when you hit “ordinary time,” the challenge mounts. Yes – there are two choices for ordinary time. One that works through the Gospel assigned for the year – this year it’s Matthew – and one that works through major portions of the Hebrew Scriptures. So – do the saints of Seneca Presbyterian Church want to listen to Matthew or Genesis and Exodus for twenty long weeks? If you seek to break up that long stretch, how to you break away from a story and then come back to it? Aren’t you going to miss major pieces of it?  I hope you see the preacher’s dilemma.

One of the reasons I enjoy meeting with the faithful seekers each week is that they keep me grounded in reality. As fascinating as the patriarchal and matriarchal narratives of Genesis are, the faithful worshipper in the pew isn’t really interested in JEDP. (That’s seminary jargon for the source narratives underlying the Torah texts of Hebrew Scripture.) It’s not at all surprising that our conversation this past week turned instead toward “series preaching.” Isn’t that a good option for the summer, we thought.

So we began speaking of the questions that touch our lives, particularly as a congregation full of “over sixty-somethings.” How do we find joy and purpose in later life? What happens to our lives when our relationships with our children change? Are we ready to be the ones who need to receive instead of give – especially when many of us are still the ones giving and caring for our own parents? Is there a clear moment when those roles reverse? How can those who have always been the ones ready to help become the ones asking for it? And how can the ones who are accustomed to receiving be ready to give?

Is it any wonder that we are also fascinated by heaven and what we can or cannot know about what comes after this life?

We did not come up with any definitive plans for preaching during ordinary time. But still the conversation was a blessing. First of all, I am reminded that preaching really matters. It can offer us not only understanding and faith, but also wisdom for living our lives faithfully. Secondly, it gave me wonderful food for thought about what is important for at least this small group of “my people.” Yes- it left me with a great challenge. How do you preach effectively in ways that truly touch lives? The Holy Spirit has to help, taking feeble words and enabling them to be heard.

But you can also help me. What sermons have you heard that touched you or gave you new direction? How did it happen? How can it happen again?

Loaves and Fishes - and So Much More

It has been a rather eventful week for me at Seneca Presbyterian Church, but not in the usual sense of that word. This fourth week in the season of Lent proceeded rather smoothly. I enjoyed a relatively good balance between study, meetings, pastoral visits, and worship. Our Session gathered for a productive meeting on Monday evening. The greater community of Seneca gathered for worship on Wednesday noon at the home of our Episcopalian brothers and sisters. We saw one member return home from the hospital and another finally made it home after two months of hospitalizations and rehabilitation.

                In the midst of all that normalcy, Wednesday evening offered me two insightful and exciting encounters with faithful friends from our church family. The first was a meeting of worship leaders from our early service – both liturgists and members of the band. The ostensible reason was to reflect upon those worship experiences, tweak anything that needed tweaking, and contemplate the path ahead of us. Right now, that path is focused on our upcoming experiment with the weekly celebration of the sacrament of Holy Communion, an experiment that begins with the Sunday after Easter and will continue through the Sunday after Pentecost, namely Trinity Sunday.

                I shared with those gathered around the table the concerns that have already been expressed about “the experiment”: how observing Communion too frequently can make it seem rote and routine. Those around the table were genuinely surprised. Several come from traditions of weekly observance. They found it hard to believe that such observance could ever become routine. As our conversation progressed, we began to talk of ways we could deepen the experience of Communion for those who worship with us. We talked about adding song – and adding words – opportunities for active participation in the congregational work of worship.

As we talked, I became increasingly aware of how the limited words – and liturgy – that have surrounded my experience of Communion (in both Baptist and Presbyterian traditions) have truncated the sacrament and shortchanged worship.

Just after this meeting, the fellow seekers who gather weekly around the text for the upcoming Sunday convened. As we contemplated the feeding of the multitudes as told in the Gospel of John, the conversation continued. We talked of how we associate Communion with the Lord’s Supper – which inevitably becomes the LAST Supper, which inevitably becomes an experience of somber death and costly sacrifice. Of course, it is. But that is not all that it is. But when we make that all that it is, we rob ourselves of the joy that it also is, and shall be when all the nations of the world will gather around the feast table where Christ himself will be host.

So after this eventful week, I will never approach presiding at our Communion table in quite the same way. I’m not quite sure right now just how it will be different – but it will be.  My starting point will be moving past just Paul’s words of institution that begin “On the night when he was betrayed…” As important as they are, we need to hear more – so very much more.

I welcome your thoughts on just what that might be. 

An Experiment in Discernment

How often should a congregation celebrate the sacrament of Communion? It’s not an easy question to ask because there are so many varieties of preferences and so many reasons for them.

I honestly cannot recall how frequently we “had the Lord’s Supper” in the church of my childhood. But I do recall being excluded from it. I have a distinct visual memory of having the plate pass me by. That experience as a child was a key motivator for my seeking to be baptized.

I grew up in the Baptist tradition, which affirms believer’s baptism. One would not be baptized until one made a “personal profession of faith.” In order to make that profession, I received lots of nurturing from some wonderful people. They did their job so well that I was ready to affirm my love for Jesus when I was barely seven years old. That was truly the reason for my “profession of faith” – not being able to “take the Lord’s Supper.”

Ever since then, I’ve been acutely aware of what it means to exclude children from the Lord’s Table. I became even more acutely aware when our then almost eight year old son expressed the same exclusion. It was a moment I will never forget, and probably had much to do with my movement toward the Presbyterian tradition and away from the Baptist.

            Baptists would say that Communion is a memorial supper. The bread and cup remind us of Jesus. They are like object lessons – you might even say souvenirs – that trigger the memory of a story. Such an interpretation requires a level of understanding and comprehension, hence the typical Baptist reasoning for why children are excluded. They do not yet understand fully what it means to partake.

Presbyterians would say that, even though we do not affirm the Catholic doctrine of transubstantiation, the living and risen Christ is truly present whenever we celebrate the sacrament of Communion. That truth is inherent in the word sacrament – which is an outward sign of an invisible grace. Sacraments take ordinary things, like water and bread and wine, and make them holy through the power of the Holy Spirit. When we receive the bread and cup, we receive the living presence of Christ. Just how that happens is a mystery we can never fully understand – no matter our age.

Sometimes I wonder if the desire to limit our celebrations comes from too much attention to our human ability to understand it. If it truly is a “sacrament” – a genuine experience of the real presence of Christ, would we not seek that encounter as often as we could?

At Seneca Presbyterian Church, we are investigating the possibility of increasing our opportunities to celebrate Communion. I’m grateful that our practice now is monthly – on the first Sunday of the month. For many, that frequency is just fine. It is often enough to highlight the importance of the sacrament, but not so often that it becomes “routine.” Others at Seneca Presbyterian have come from traditions where weekly celebration is the norm – which by the way is not limited to just the Catholic tradition. They affirm the spiritual refreshment and renewal that comes from each experience of the grace of God regardless of the frequency.

John Calvin believed in the unity of Word and Sacrament. One is not complete without the other. Presbyterians have a wonderful way of expressing this truth. We receive the Word written through scripture, the Word proclaimed through preaching, and the Word sealed and enacted through the sacraments. It is a powerful movement from listening to acting; from passive worship to active engagement. Word and Sacrament together represent worship that is whole and complete.

It was the pattern of worship for the first Christians, and Calvin argued for it in Geneva, where he led the work of reformation. For although the Mass was celebrated weekly by the priests in the Roman Catholic tradition, in the 16^th century it was only offered to the people once a year. Calvin lost the argument to the magistrates of the city. Moving from once to four times was quite sufficient in their minds. Calvin noted his disappointment with that decision for all who would follow: “I have taken care to record publicly that our custom is defective, so that those who come after me may be able to correct it the more freely and easily.”

So we are investigating the option. Our experiment will be small. We will try weekly Communion at just our 9:00 service for the eight Sundays between Easter and Trinity Sunday. We will talk about our experience and share our reflections. Then we will discern together what is best for the community of Seneca Presbyterian.

What reflections would you have to offer? 

"But I say to you..."

As a still relatively rookie weekly preacher, I find myself sticking pretty close to the script each Sunday. After all, that script represents hours of my own thought and work.  In my sermon writing, I actually enjoy struggling to find just the right word in order to convey an idea, recognizing how important that word might be in expressing what I’m trying to say. Not that my idea is so critical in itself. It isn’t. But I hope it triggers further thought in those who hear me.

                Which is why I surprised myself recently by going “off script” for just a moment. I was explaining to the saints of Seneca Presbyterian Church why my blog has been so idle of late and how I hoped to re-invigorate my weekly rhythm.  I told them that I enjoyed the challenge of it and the freedom of it. And then I let slip out something I had not prepared to say. I told them I could say some things in a blog that I could not say from the pulpit.

                I have always been very conscious of not using the pulpit for “hot topic” issues. The reasons are many. Foremost among them is the preacher’s role as interpreter of scripture. The text is supposed to guide the conversation, and if that is true, there is no place for a “bully pulpit” of personal opinion.  The challenge, of course, is when the text cries out to speak on a “hot topic” issue. That’s when my second reason for restraint comes into play. The pulpit is inherently a monologue. Difficult issues where passions can play on both sides require a dialogue.

                Yet I find myself being challenged by my own discipline. The text for this week includes what scholars call the great “antitheses” of the Sermon on the Mount. Those are the six statements found only in Matthew where Jesus says, “You have heard that it was said, but I say to you.” Jesus then goes on to call his disciples – which is us the Church – to a higher righteousness and a deeper commitment. The very first of those higher callings may be one of the most difficult. “You have heard that it was said ‘You shall not murder,’ but I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment.”

                Christians are so very often angry with each other. Sometimes we get so angry that we stop talking to each other. In my tradition, we express that anger politely. We separate from each other – we dismiss sister congregations to other denominational bodies. There have been times, however, when those I cared about were caught in the crossfire. The battles moved beyond differences of opinion to name calling, with the most hurtful name called being “non-Christian.” Sometimes those of us who are called to love our brothers and sisters in the faith above all else can so profoundly disagree that we say “If you don’t believe the way I believe, then you are not only wrong. You are not an authentic Christian.” In just about every case that I have known, my friends were not the ones saying it; they were the ones to whom it was said.

                When Jesus taught about the power of anger to kill, he urged reconciliation above just about all else. It was even more important than offering sacrifice at the altar. I think that’s because division in the body of Christ renders authentic worship impossible.

                So here is my dilemma. If difficult issues require a dialogue and Christians often fail to dialogue effectively, can we at Seneca Presbyterian model a better way? The people of SPC are remarkably diverse, and remarkably compassionate. I know we do not all agree on some of the issues that are dividing our world and our churches today. Yet for varieties of reason – including I trust our care for one another – we are not inclined to engage each other in open dialogue about the issues that challenge. Should we? Could we? 

              Would the dialogue divide us, creating tensions that could lead to anger? Or would the dialogue strengthen us, bringing us closer together and modeling for the world that there are Christians who can profoundly disagree on matters of deep importance and still receive and care for one another? Can our unity be so strong that we are able to listen and learn from one another rather than seeking to persuade the other of the “rightness” of our believing?

They are questions that cry out for conversation. 

I invite you into it.

In the Neuro-Trauma ICU

I don’t know if blogs collect dust, since they are digital creatures, but if they could, this one certainly would. The reality is simple. You get a busy week and realize there just isn’t time to post a blog entry and write a sermon. Since the latter is pretty much expected, it becomes the priority. One week becomes two, and then three. Before you know it, you have forgotten how it used to be possible to do both.

I guess it’s something like sleeping in on a Sunday morning. The more you do it, the easier it becomes. Since I might need to use that human slippery slope to chide a church member someday, guess I’d better get back into the business of blogging – for the sake of the few of you out there who may have noticed my absence.

                The saints of Seneca Presbyterian Church have had some challenging days of late. Not long ago, we learned that two in our community had been diagnosed with life threatening diseases. One underwent intense treatment for leukemia. We are grateful to God that at the moment he is doing well. That’s a testament to his faith, his family, and his courage. The other is learning how to cope with A.L.S. And he will do it with the same faith, family, and courage – though I’m darn sorry he has to.

Then last Friday afternoon as I was working on that sermon, I read an email from a church member. She was taking her mother to the hospital because something was dreadfully wrong. Her mom had just arrived in Seneca from Madrid, Spain. It’s a long and fascinating story. She was ready to begin a new era of her life back in the states under the watchful and loving care of a daughter and her family. On Friday night, she was admitted to the neuro-trauma ICU unit of a local hospital. The diagnosis was three hemorrhagic strokes – in three different areas of her brain. She died Thursday morning.

Last Saturday morning, I was on my way to check on her when I received a call from the son of a member. His dad had died in his sleep that night. Totally unexpectedly. There are times when you simply don’t believe what is happening around you. And then you remember if it is so amazingly challenging for you, how much more challenging is it for those families? We celebrated his life as a church family yesterday.

So the pastoral components of ministry have weighed heavily on my mind this week. What does presence mean? What words are most meaningful? Can simply being human suffice or are pastors supposed to have more? That is a sincere dilemma, not just a rhetorical question.

In my final year of seminary, an early mentor in my ministry spoke to a class on death and dying. His simple yet wise words have stuck with me even though they were spoken 36 years ago. “When you are present in the midst of death, the only one who easily knows just what to say is the undertaker.”  It is in those times that you hope the relationship you have with “your people” before the moment of crisis speaks in the midst of the silence and mediates, through the grace of God, the holy and powerful presence of the Spirit. Because sometimes that’s about all you have.

As I reflect on this past week, I am once again deeply grateful to these two families who allowed me into some of the most intimate moments of their lives. I learned much about them as I heard their stories – and watched them laugh through the tears. Literally.

We know that God is our refuge and strength – and always there in times of trouble. The psalmist says that means we will not fear. Living from that faith, I believe we are meant to be a refuge and strength for each other. As I continue to reflect on this week, and ponder the weeks that are to come, I invite you to reflect with me.

• How can a pastor most effectively care for her sheep?
• How can we best become a refuge and strength for each other? 

Seneca Presbyterian Church is doing something new and very meaningful this weekend. We are honoring Veterans. Not just by saying a quick thank you and moving on with the business of the day.  Our Outreach Committee has planned a program and reception. It will take place in our Pastors’ Hall on Sunday afternoon (November 10) at 3:00 p.m. Charlie – a member of our congregation who is president of Patriot’s Hall, a war museum dedicated to veterans of Oconee County – will be our speaker.

            It’s natural that a congregation of primarily retirees would take time to recognize this day and say thank you. But I also find it surprising. You see, in over thirty years of ministry, this reception marks the first time a church I was currently serving marked the day. It is long overdue.

            I invited Charlie to join our Wednesday evening Bible study group. That’s the group that helps me live into the text and sermon for the following Sunday. Charlie brought Del with him – another member of Seneca Presbyterian and Marine Corps vet with 20 years of service. I felt honored to be in their presence and to listen to stories of their active duty service along with their ongoing service to veterans in our area.

            I needed their help this week. I had discovered a fascinating and also disturbing topic: moral injury. It is defined as “perpetrating, failing to prevent, or being witness to acts that transgress deeply held moral beliefs and expectations.” (See “Soul Repair” in Presbyterians Today, Vol. 103, No. 8, September 2013) I needed to hear from Charlie – and thanks to Charlie, also Del – that the topic was real and open for discussion.

            Moral injury happens when we find ourselves caught up in a situation where we are forced to act in ways contrary to our moral code of conduct. We may do the right thing in the right moment – like killing the enemy in the moment of combat. But when we no longer live and function in that moment; when other moral codes take over; when a soldier comes home from war, the memory of those actions can create a living hell - even when the action was entirely justified and even when it was the “right thing to do.”

            It seems, some would say, that human beings have an instinct against killing. That’s hard to believe, isn’t it? When we think of Columbine and Virginia Tech and Newtown, we wonder if the opposite comes closer to the truth. Yet it has been said that we have to be taught to hate. What if we have to be taught to kill? And when we must kill, it leaves a giant moral injury in the human soul. Perhaps that is something of why our grandfathers and fathers and brothers and sisters don’t talk about war.

            But we cannot heal the deep wounds of the soul without talking about them. The Church can offer a unique and powerful place for that talking. For in the Church we also talk about forgiveness and about a God who loved us so much that He took on the sin of the world in order to redeem it. 

            We’ll talk about that this Sunday at Seneca Presbyterian Church. Join us if you can. 

Have You Ever Tried the Mainline?

I stumbled upon this response to a blog post one recent Saturday. I do not remember the issue that prompted the response – but I am drawn to the story reflected in it. Listen:

I’m a former Christian myself. When I followed the Bible, I was a bigot, because I was following it, down to the letter. When I tried being “Spiritual,” I became a liar, because I was no longer following the Bible. When I finally realized how screwed up the Bible really is, I became an Atheist, and I was no longer a bigot nor a liar, but indeed, I became my authentic self – someone worthy of other peoples’ trust. The irony is, I was always who I am , but I used to be buried under so many layers of religio-Biblical nonsense that it was hard to know who I was at all. Now I know. So does everyone else. I’ve never been more free and happy in my entire life than I am now. Just some food for thought.

It is a story of someone’s life and how it was harmed by “being Christian.” The writer seems to presume that the only options for faith are to be a “bigot” or a “liar.” It may be an authentic experience for our times, but at its heart it sorrows me because faith – the Christian faith – is so much more. I want to ask the writer – have you ever tried the Mainline?

Mainline Protestants are those particular branches of Christianity that have been around since the 16^th century. We were born out of a desire to “reform” the abuses we saw in the practice of faith in our time. Yes – to our shame – we have divided and divided and divided again and again. Much of that is human sin, but some of that is the belief that even though God does not change, our understanding of God deepens and grows over time.  We have learned that the Church was wrong about slavery – justifying it with scripture; divorce – condemning it unequivocally; and wrong about the role of women in Church leadership – thinking it knew better than God whom God has called and gifted to serve God’s Church.

As a Presbyterian, I am part of that great heritage that includes Lutherans, Episcopalians, Methodists, the United Church of Christ, Disciples of Christ, and even some Baptists. We used to be the steeple in the center square of every town that united the community. We still are in many places. But we are dwindling. Maybe we became too comfortable with our place in the community. We fussed among ourselves too much. We held too strongly to dying traditions and let the fire of our faith become barely burning embers. We didn’t change when we needed to – and we didn’t see the changes that were happening all around us. Many of us are now – and we want the world to know that there is an option for faith that is not bigotry or falsehood.  We affirm these truths…

• There is a God who is actively re-creating the world – this world. That God loves justice and kindness, not wealth and power.
• That God took on human flesh and walked among us in the person of Jesus of Nazareth. The power of his life, his death, and his resurrection embodies a love so great we can barely catch a glimpse of it, but it can forgive any sin and redeem any darkness.
• There is no human voice who speaks the entire truth about God.
• We work better when we work together.
• Salvation is not primarily a ticket out of this world and into a better one. It is healing, wholeness, reconciliation, and peace with God and the world God loves here and now.

We “main-liners” aren’t perfect; we’re human. But I hope we seek to provide a community where we can become our “authentic” selves: children of God redeemed for love and service. That is at least what we strive for at Seneca Presbyterian Church. So – have you ever tried the Mainline?