Had one of those funerals yesterday that I would rather not have had to do: the deceased was a 33-year-old man, the same age as one of our sons, who left behind a wife and two children, not to mention a mother and three brothers. More than 700 people came to the visitation and 300 or more came to the funeral. I wrote a funeral sermon on Saturday, then after the visitation I tore it up, chose new Scriptures, and wrote a new sermon. Someone else might have done it differently, or done it better, but I was the one who was called on to do it, and I did what I hope was my best, under God. People told me it was helpful.
So while I would rather not have had to do that funeral, I was glad I was able to do it. If as the church we can’t offer something at a time like this, we probably ought to close up and sell the building. “If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.” (1 Corinthians 15:19 NRS)
Nevertheless, these are the times we feel most inadequate as preachers, which is probably good for us spiritually. After all, “we have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us.” (2 Corinthians 4:7 NRS) It brings out the paradox of everything we do, from preaching to counseling to administration: nothing happens that does not happen by the power of God, yet nothing happens that doesn’t involve work on our part as well. Somehow God takes what we do and uses it, often in ways we don’t even know about.
So today I am reflecting and looking ahead to Sunday and calling on a few people, believing that God is as much a part of my ordinary activities as he was of our extraordinary activities yesterday.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Monday, January 4, 2010
The Big Storm of '09
Last year I took both of the congregations I serve through a series of what we called “cottage meetings.” The people gathered by small groups in private homes for an evening of sharing around the following questions, which came to me from a long-forgotten source as “Quaker Questions:”
1.Where did you live between the ages of 8 and 13, and what were the winters like?
2.How was your home heated during that time?
3.What was the center of warmth in your home during that time? (It could be a place, person, or time of day)
4.When did God become a “warm person” to you, and how did it happen?
Over the years I’ve learned to expect both conventional and surprising results from those questions, and this year was no exception. One thing that kept coming up was that most of us remembered winters as being more severe when we were growing up than we have experienced lately.
Of course I found myself wondering how much of that was accurate and how much the effect of the passing of time, blizzards and snowdrifts increasing in our memory until they assume nearly mythical proportions. Dylan Thomas, in his beautiful memoir, A Child’s Christmas in Wales, writes, “I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.” After all, we only have snow at Christmas about half the time in Iowa, yet our memories all tend to be of white Christmases.
Well. This is turning out to be a real old-fashioned Iowa winter with two- and three-day blizzards, messing up travel plans, forcing churches to cancel services—this is the first time I can remember canceling Christmas Eve services in 30+ years of ministry—and straining the already-strained budgets of towns, counties, businesses and churches as we cope with finding places for all the snow.
Interestingly, all the people I’ve talked to, even the family who went without electricity for three days, seem to be taking it all in stride, finding things to celebrate and be thankful for in the middle of some mighty serious weather. We talked, we read, we huddled together for warmth, we shoveled and scraped and ran snowblowers, and in spite of everything, we enjoyed Christmas.
As pastors, this weather makes our jobs harder in some ways, but it may force us to spend a little more time reading, reflecting, and even planning. And I guess that brings me back to the point I was making a few weeks ago: learn to adapt to what’s happening in your world, and you might find that God is giving you an opportunity.
1.Where did you live between the ages of 8 and 13, and what were the winters like?
2.How was your home heated during that time?
3.What was the center of warmth in your home during that time? (It could be a place, person, or time of day)
4.When did God become a “warm person” to you, and how did it happen?
Over the years I’ve learned to expect both conventional and surprising results from those questions, and this year was no exception. One thing that kept coming up was that most of us remembered winters as being more severe when we were growing up than we have experienced lately.
Of course I found myself wondering how much of that was accurate and how much the effect of the passing of time, blizzards and snowdrifts increasing in our memory until they assume nearly mythical proportions. Dylan Thomas, in his beautiful memoir, A Child’s Christmas in Wales, writes, “I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.” After all, we only have snow at Christmas about half the time in Iowa, yet our memories all tend to be of white Christmases.
Well. This is turning out to be a real old-fashioned Iowa winter with two- and three-day blizzards, messing up travel plans, forcing churches to cancel services—this is the first time I can remember canceling Christmas Eve services in 30+ years of ministry—and straining the already-strained budgets of towns, counties, businesses and churches as we cope with finding places for all the snow.
Interestingly, all the people I’ve talked to, even the family who went without electricity for three days, seem to be taking it all in stride, finding things to celebrate and be thankful for in the middle of some mighty serious weather. We talked, we read, we huddled together for warmth, we shoveled and scraped and ran snowblowers, and in spite of everything, we enjoyed Christmas.
As pastors, this weather makes our jobs harder in some ways, but it may force us to spend a little more time reading, reflecting, and even planning. And I guess that brings me back to the point I was making a few weeks ago: learn to adapt to what’s happening in your world, and you might find that God is giving you an opportunity.
Monday, December 21, 2009
The Longest Night
I’m writing this on the first day of winter, December 21, which makes tonight the longest night of the year. We’ll be having a Longest Night service tonight, not so much to commemorate the Winter Solstice as to acknowledge the sense of loss and loneliness that some of us feel at this, “the most wonderful time of the year.” We’ll be missing our youngest son, who isn’t able to be with us this year, and if the weather does what they say it might, our middle son and his wife may not make it, either. Of course not seeing a family member is a lot less serious than losing a family member, and everyone who has been through that can testify that holidays can be difficult, especially the first Christmas after the loss.
At the Crawford County Hospice Tree of Lights ceremony on December 1, the speaker shared a story about how her grandmother’s noodles were the highlight of Christmas dinner for all the years she was growing up. Then Grandma died, and when Christmas came along that year, one of the sisters offered to make the noodles. The speaker said that as they all sat down to Christmas dinner, she took one look at the bowl of noodles and began to cry. It’s often the small things that are the most poignant.
As the Church of Jesus Christ we ought to be experts at dealing with loss. We have several ways of supporting people when they lose a loved one from cards to memorial gifts to the funeral dinner. But we don’t often acknowledge the losses that are harder to pin down. Having gone through two periods of unemployment in my life, I know something of the sinking feeling that brings; it’s almost a loss of self, as though my job helps tell me who I am. The changes our communities have seen over the past few years are a kind of death, and while we keep hoping they’ll come back, we know it won’t be the same.
Well, all this is kind of a downer at Christmas, but if we are going to celebrate with any kind of integrity we have to acknowledge that our celebrations are imperfect because we live in a fallen world. We are surrounded by loss, even as we live in what Titus calls the blessed hope, a text I hope everyone will read on Christmas Eve.
Scholars suggest that the accepted date for Christmas, December 25, came about by attraction to a Roman festival, the Feast of the Unconquered Sun. As the shortest day of the year came and went, the days grew longer and people celebrated the changing of the year. Winter is on its way out; Spring will come, even though it’s months away. The Church in its wisdom seized on that date to celebrate the Sun of Righteousness, who rises with healing in his wings (Malachi 4:2, an image used by Charles Wesley in “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing”). The wisdom of that decision is seen year after year, at least in the Northern Hemisphere, as we celebrate the birth of Christ at just the time when the earth is at its lowest point. A candle is that much brighter when it is lit in the darkness.
May the candles of Christmas light the way for you this year, and may your celebration be filled with joy.
At the Crawford County Hospice Tree of Lights ceremony on December 1, the speaker shared a story about how her grandmother’s noodles were the highlight of Christmas dinner for all the years she was growing up. Then Grandma died, and when Christmas came along that year, one of the sisters offered to make the noodles. The speaker said that as they all sat down to Christmas dinner, she took one look at the bowl of noodles and began to cry. It’s often the small things that are the most poignant.
As the Church of Jesus Christ we ought to be experts at dealing with loss. We have several ways of supporting people when they lose a loved one from cards to memorial gifts to the funeral dinner. But we don’t often acknowledge the losses that are harder to pin down. Having gone through two periods of unemployment in my life, I know something of the sinking feeling that brings; it’s almost a loss of self, as though my job helps tell me who I am. The changes our communities have seen over the past few years are a kind of death, and while we keep hoping they’ll come back, we know it won’t be the same.
Well, all this is kind of a downer at Christmas, but if we are going to celebrate with any kind of integrity we have to acknowledge that our celebrations are imperfect because we live in a fallen world. We are surrounded by loss, even as we live in what Titus calls the blessed hope, a text I hope everyone will read on Christmas Eve.
Scholars suggest that the accepted date for Christmas, December 25, came about by attraction to a Roman festival, the Feast of the Unconquered Sun. As the shortest day of the year came and went, the days grew longer and people celebrated the changing of the year. Winter is on its way out; Spring will come, even though it’s months away. The Church in its wisdom seized on that date to celebrate the Sun of Righteousness, who rises with healing in his wings (Malachi 4:2, an image used by Charles Wesley in “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing”). The wisdom of that decision is seen year after year, at least in the Northern Hemisphere, as we celebrate the birth of Christ at just the time when the earth is at its lowest point. A candle is that much brighter when it is lit in the darkness.
May the candles of Christmas light the way for you this year, and may your celebration be filled with joy.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Snow Daze
All these snow days are prompting me to revisit an earlier post. What do you do when nature throws you for a loop?
I really didn’t mind staying home for a couple of days last week and again today (Monday) because of weather. But I didn’t get as much done as I thought I would.
Part of that was because Kathy and I, armed with snowblower and shovels, spent a couple of hours last Wednesday digging 30” of snow out of the driveway. But my lack of productivity during a couple of enforced days at home had more to do with my personality.
I am the kind of person who thrives on a regular schedule. I want to be the one to introduce any variations, thank you very much. I prefer to do my studying in the mornings, calling in the afternoons, meetings in the evening. And for a long time that worked well for me.
Since moving to Vail/Westside, however, I’ve had to accept a lot more uncertainty in my “schedule,” and not just because of snowstorms. Traveling between several communities, keeping track of the doings of two congregations, and keeping up with two denominations has meant that I can’t always organize my days and weeks the way I would like.
So I’m working on flexibility. I really can study at other times than morning, and I really can call at other times than afternoon. Steven Covey, author of Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, recommends scheduling yourself tightly at the beginning of your week and allowing your schedule to get “softer” toward the end of the week to leave room for things (like blizzards) that crop up unexpectedly.
That works pretty well. But it’s more than scheduling. It’s also an attitude adjustment. Thomas a Kempis wrote, Nam homo proponit, sed Deus disponit, usually translated as “man proposes, God disposes,” or “man plans, but God arranges.” (I have been searching a long time for a non-gender-specific way to say that and haven’t found one) The point is that we have limited control over our lives. God may be bringing something into my life or yours that we didn’t plan for—and that’s a good thing.
I really didn’t mind staying home for a couple of days last week and again today (Monday) because of weather. But I didn’t get as much done as I thought I would.
Part of that was because Kathy and I, armed with snowblower and shovels, spent a couple of hours last Wednesday digging 30” of snow out of the driveway. But my lack of productivity during a couple of enforced days at home had more to do with my personality.
I am the kind of person who thrives on a regular schedule. I want to be the one to introduce any variations, thank you very much. I prefer to do my studying in the mornings, calling in the afternoons, meetings in the evening. And for a long time that worked well for me.
Since moving to Vail/Westside, however, I’ve had to accept a lot more uncertainty in my “schedule,” and not just because of snowstorms. Traveling between several communities, keeping track of the doings of two congregations, and keeping up with two denominations has meant that I can’t always organize my days and weeks the way I would like.
So I’m working on flexibility. I really can study at other times than morning, and I really can call at other times than afternoon. Steven Covey, author of Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, recommends scheduling yourself tightly at the beginning of your week and allowing your schedule to get “softer” toward the end of the week to leave room for things (like blizzards) that crop up unexpectedly.
That works pretty well. But it’s more than scheduling. It’s also an attitude adjustment. Thomas a Kempis wrote, Nam homo proponit, sed Deus disponit, usually translated as “man proposes, God disposes,” or “man plans, but God arranges.” (I have been searching a long time for a non-gender-specific way to say that and haven’t found one) The point is that we have limited control over our lives. God may be bringing something into my life or yours that we didn’t plan for—and that’s a good thing.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Thoughts from the Grinch
I was part of a clegy support group a few years ago, and we were meeting at the beginning of December. As is the habit of minsters during Advent, we were grumbling about how many activities we had added on to our schedules, how much pressure we felt during the “holiday” season, and how little of it had to do with what we considered ministry. At some point I said, apparently with some energy, “Don’t you just hate December?” And they all leaned away from me with shocked expressions. Finally someone said “No-o-o” rather slowly and we went on to another topic. It’s just Richard, he’s a little weird sometimes.
So I shut up about it. And I have to admit it’s gotten better for me. But I refuse to believe that I am the only person in the world who endures rather than enjoys December. We’re all apt to complain about “materialism” when we talk about Christmas as it’s usually celebrated, but it’s more than that—it’s that everything seems to go out of focus. Even when we are at our most generous it seems to have more to do with the season as popularly conceived than with the birth of Christ.
What I’ve come to rely on is the Advent texts. Preaching, not to put too fine a point on it, keeps me sane. The readings for the four Sundays before Christmas, whatever they do for the congregation, sharpen my own focus, especially as they have very little to do with shepherds and mangers and wise men and more to do with judgment and grace.
The other spiritual discipline I observe during Advent is to read W.H. Auden’s Christmas Oratorio, For the Time Being. It’s a long, difficult poem, not for everyone, but it always speaks to me.
On a lighter note, I have a Grinch tie for every Sunday this month. It’s a reminder to me that what the Grinch objected to was the “noise, noise, noise NOISE” (I can relate) but also that the Grinch’s heart was two sizes too small. I get it. I really do.
So I shut up about it. And I have to admit it’s gotten better for me. But I refuse to believe that I am the only person in the world who endures rather than enjoys December. We’re all apt to complain about “materialism” when we talk about Christmas as it’s usually celebrated, but it’s more than that—it’s that everything seems to go out of focus. Even when we are at our most generous it seems to have more to do with the season as popularly conceived than with the birth of Christ.
What I’ve come to rely on is the Advent texts. Preaching, not to put too fine a point on it, keeps me sane. The readings for the four Sundays before Christmas, whatever they do for the congregation, sharpen my own focus, especially as they have very little to do with shepherds and mangers and wise men and more to do with judgment and grace.
The other spiritual discipline I observe during Advent is to read W.H. Auden’s Christmas Oratorio, For the Time Being. It’s a long, difficult poem, not for everyone, but it always speaks to me.
On a lighter note, I have a Grinch tie for every Sunday this month. It’s a reminder to me that what the Grinch objected to was the “noise, noise, noise NOISE” (I can relate) but also that the Grinch’s heart was two sizes too small. I get it. I really do.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Calvin on the Spirit's Help
26. And likewise the Spirit, etc. That the faithful may not make this objection — that they are so weak as not to be able to bear so many and so heavy burdens, he brings before them the aid of the Spirit, which is abundantly sufficient to overcome all difficulties. There is then no reason for any one to complain, that the bearing of the cross is beyond their own strength, since we are sustained by a celestial power. And there is great force in the Greek word [sunantilambanetai,translated as "helps"], which means that the Spirit takes on himself a part of the burden, by which our weakness is oppressed; so that he not only helps and succours us, but lifts us up; as though he went under the burden with us. The word infirmities, being in the plural number, is expressive of extremity. For as experience shows, that except we are supported by God’s hands, we are soon overwhelmed by innumerable evils, Paul reminds us, that though we are in every respect weak, and various infirmities threaten our fall, there is yet sufficient protection in God’s Spirit to preserve us from falling, and to keep us from being overwhelmed by any mass of evils. At the same time these supplies of the Spirt more clearly prove to us, that it is by God’s appointment that we strive, by groanings and sighings, for our redemption. - John Calvin, commenting on Romans 8:26
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