Camel Committee

I know this was in the comment section. But I wanted to get it out front and think about the role and vision of committees.

Maybe camels are not so bad in a Christian committee. Need to remember to add God and prayers to the thoughts. Camels in a caravan kneel down in the evening and the camel-driver unloads their burdens. In the morning, the camels kneel down again, and the camel-driver put the burdens back on. It´s the same with prayer: we get on our knees to unload at night, and in the morning we get on our knees again. God gives us just the load we are able to carry that day

In Praise of Committees

One of the benefits of serving a United Church is that I can tap into the wisdom of a somewhat different tradition. The following is from the E-News of the Iowa Conference United Church of Christ, by permission of the writer:

It has often been said that a camel is a horse designed by committee. Usually, this tired old saw is uttered in an attempt to disparage both camels and committees. But does it, really?



What it is it about the camel that makes it so obviously an inferior design? Given the environment in which it functions, the argument can be made that a camel is, in many ways, superior to a horse. It has large feet to make walking on sand less of an effort. It can go for days, if not weeks, without water. It can carry a heavy load over great distances. It is even claimed by some that a camel is faster than a horse, at least in the desert. Is it possible that the camel, and not the horse, is the superior design? If so, what does that say about the design skills of a committee? Could it possibly be that a committee design is in some very meaningful way a better design than one done by a single designer?



I was thinking about this just yesterday. It was the day of the Conference's annual get-together for pastors serving their first call in Iowa. There were about 20 pastors in the room, of varying ages and degrees of pastoral experience. There were licensed pastors and ordained pastors, seminary grads and diplomates of the Conference lay ministry program. There were young and old. It was a widely divergent group, everyone with different strengths and different weaknesses. As the day wore on, however, some common characteristics became apparent, characteristics like genuine love for pastoral ministry, enthusiasm, realism, commitment to the well-being of their congregations. And, more than anything else, a core of competence. This was a really good group of people, anyone of which I would be proud to call colleague.



And yet, each one of them was chosen by a committee! Not a single one of these men and women was there because some individual had the power and authority to say to one "You go to that church" and to another "You go to that other church." All of them were serving their congregations because some group, some committee, of caring, concerned and faithful members of those congregations, guided by the Holy Spirit, did the hard, tedious and often thankless work of sifting through dozens and dozens of profiles, checking references, conducting interviews and trying to separate wheat from chaff. And I, for one, was impressed by the results of the hundreds of hours of work those committees devoted to the wellbeing of their churches.



Maybe the camel is a horse designed by a committee, but when the nearest oasis is a couple of hundred miles away, having a camel to ride is a pretty comforting thought.



Tony Stoik

Associate Conference Minister/Western Iowa

Iowa Conference

The Lord's Prayer

I try to pay attention to the thoughts that pop into my head while I'm praying, and here's one I thought worth sharing: as I was praying the Lord's Prayer this morning, I realized that, given the number of Christians there are on the planet, and given how universal the Lord's Prayer is, the odds are that someone else, somewhere, was praying that prayer (thought probably in a language other than English) at the exact moment that I was. Private prayer is normally just that, you and God, and Jesus encouraged that: "But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you." (Matthew 6:6) But I realized this morning that private prayer is not completely personal, that at any given moment my prayers are joined with the prayers of thousands of others all over the world--and I find that thought exciting.

Pass It On

Here's something worth pondering, from UCC Iowa Conference Minister for Youth Nicole Havelka (reprinted by permission):

http://www.youthministrycommotion.blogspot.com/

Talking to Statues

I was in Clarkson Hospital in Omaha yesterday when I noticed a man apparently having a very animated conversation with a bronze statue of Thomas Jefferson. The man was sitting across from Jefferson, talking clearly and gesturing freely. Jefferson, as is his wont, was listening intently, even though he was in the act of writing the Declaration of Independence. As I got closer, I realized that of course the man was talking on his cell phone, using his head set, and, like many of us, gesturing even though his conversation partner couldn’t see his gestures.

I guess I wouldn’t have blamed the man if he had been talking to Jefferson; the statue (in bronze) is very lifelike. Jefferson is seated, in his shirtsleeves, a large writing board propped on his lap, with a quill pen in his hand. On the board is a piece of parchment with the opening words of the Declaration of Independence already written. But Jefferson isn’t looking at his paper. He’s looking straight ahead, as though pondering what the next words will be in this seminal document of American history, indeed, of world history. It will be important to get it right.

The statue has the effect of humanizing this larger-than-life figure, of making me feel a certain kinship to him. How many times have I turned away from my manuscript or my keyboard and looked at nothing in particular, trying to decide where to go next in what I was writing. The late Charles Schultz of “Peanuts” fame once said that getting the idea for a comic strip was much more difficult than the actual drawing and lettering of the strip. He added, “It’s hard to convince people that when you’re sitting and staring out of the window you’re doing the hardest work of the day.”

But as I thought about the humanized Jefferson I was looking at my thoughts went back to the man who seemed to have been having a conversation with him. Aren’t we all having a conversation with the people who have gone before us? As Americans, we converse with Thomas Jefferson, John and Abigail Adams, Abraham Lincoln and Sojourner Truth; as Christians we are in dialogue with Augustine and Anselm, Knox and Calvin, Theresa of Avila and Mother Theresa. We listen to what they have to say, and we respond, sometimes in agreement, sometimes in challenge. G.K. Chesteron, one of my conversation partners, once wrote that tradition is simply a way of giving dead people a vote.

When I was in the Reformation Museum in Geneva a few years ago, I saw a life-sized statue of the reformer John Calvin. Calvin, too, is seated, but instead of pondering his next words, he is caught in the act of expounding Scripture. The Bible is open on his lap; with his right hand he is marking the passage he is talking about; his left hand is raised, thrust forward, the index finger up to make a point. The statue, it seems to me, captures one aspect of Calvin, but not everything, any more than the statue of Thomas Jeffereson captured everything about Jefferson. What this statue captures is Calvin’s energy, his commitment, his total captivation by the Word. We may not want to follow Calvin in everything, but here’s one place where he becomes a first-class conversation partner.

If you ever see me talking to a statue of Calvin, you’ll know why.

The Alban Institute

This is an excellent seminar if you can afford it. Highly recommended for those who have been their current pastorates more than about 8 years and plan to stay a long time.

The Alban Institute

Killing a Dead Man

Word got out among the Jews that [Jesus] was back in town. The people came to take a look, not only at Jesus but also at Lazarus, who had been raised from the dead. So the high priests plotted to kill Lazarus because so many of the Jews were going over and believing in Jesus on account of him. - John 12:9-11, The Message

They are just a few verses, easy to miss in the transition from Mary anointing Jesus’ feet and the Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem, but they struck me when I read them this morning. The high priests want to kill a dead man!

Lazarus, of course, was the brother of Mary and Martha, and we read the dramatic story of his resurrection in the 11th Chapter of John. He died, and Jesus restored him to life. I admit that sometimes I wonder what kind of life he had after that, but John isn’t interested in telling us, except for this: by being raised from the dead, he became a marked man.

Well, I don’t know how Lazarus reacted to that threat on his life, but I suspect with laughter. He’s already passed through the most extreme experience life has to offer. He has already died. What more can they do to him?

On one hand, it shows the futility of the opposition to Jesus. First, they’ll get rid of Jesus. Then, they’ll get rid of the man Jesus raised from the dead. Where do they go from there? Get rid of everyone who saw Jesus raise him from the dead? Get rid of everyone who heard about Jesus raising him from the dead? The reaction of the Pharisees at the Triumphal Entrance is more realistic: “You see, you can do nothing. Look, the world has gone after him!” (John 12:19)

The Church is kind of like Lazarus: still alive, in spite of all the forces that would like to see it dead and buried. In fact, you could say that the Church has already died and been raised from the dead. What else is there that anyone can do to us? “When you were buried with him in baptism, you were also raised with him through faith in the power of God, who raised him from the dead.” (Colossians 2:12) Every attempt to kill the Church, through persecution, harassment, or neglect, is only killing a dead man. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.

Knowing that should give us a new lease on life, so to speak.

United Church of Christ: Email - August 29: Love endures

I thought this was good, from the United Church of Christ's "Stillspeaking" daily devotion:

United Church of Christ: Email - August 29: Love endures

Remembering Connie

I see it’s been a long time since I posted anything to this Blog. I was away on vacation for two weeks, then at Synod School, where I chose not to take my computer so I could focus on worship, the main presentations, and the classes I was taking. I came home with a fever and cough that set me back for a few days, then Kathy’s mother died August 11 after a long battle with cancer.

Connie was first diagnosed a little over two years ago, and we all went through the stages of shock, cautious hopefulness, waiting and watching. There were more and more trips to Tarkio, Missouri to help arrange things, more phone calls to keep abreast of the latest developments, and finally the word we had all been dreading: there’s nothing more that can be done medically. We enlisted the help of the local Hospice and began the really long wait as Connie’s condition slowly deteriorated. She went from sleeping in a recliner to a hospital bed in the living room to a room at the local care center, which was where she died, peacefully, early on a Wednesday morning.

Nearly all her family was able to gather for the funeral. There are three ordained ministers in the family, counting me, and we all had a part in the service, as did Kathy and her brother Paul. Kathy’s brother Jeff preached on the resurrection and got through with only one pause to compose himself, which was more than I would have been able to do. Some folk from our congregation here came down for the service, which was a great comfort and support for both of us. I had to leave shortly after the funeral lunch to get back to Westside for a wedding, but I was able to come back to Tarkio Sunday to spend some more time with our kids before they headed home on Monday.

As pastors, we get to spend a lot more time with dying people and their families than almost anyone else. In some ways it prepares you for the time when the dying person will be a loved one, but in other ways it doesn’t. We grieve for those with whom we minister and serve, but it’s not like the grief we feel when we lose a family member. I grieve for Connie but even more, I think, I grieve for Kathy’s grief, and for the grief of my father-in-law, my brothers-in-law and their families, and my children. For a time it becomes the dominant thing in your life, the sun around which all the planets orbit.

We do not grieve, Paul says, as those who have no hope. (1 Thessalonians 4:13) The mood Friday and Saturday was somber, but joyful, if I can put it that way. We know that for Connie, this is not the end, but the beginning. Thanks be to God.

Op-Ed Contributor - Congregations Gone Wild - NYTimes.com

Haven't posted here for a month, I see, due to a variety of circumstances--vacation, Synod School, illness--so am easing back in with a link to a New York Times Op-Ed piece by a UCC pastor. Would be interested in your comments: Op-Ed Contributor - Congregations Gone Wild - NYTimes.com

From My Daily Reading

Lately I've been reading in The Message, Eugene Peterson's paraphrase of the Bible. Today I ran across this, Peterson's take on Romans 9:30-33, emphases in the original:

How can we sum this up? All those people who didn’t seem interested in what God was doing actually embraced what God was doing as he straightened out their lives. And Israel, who seemed so interested in reading and talking about what God was doing, missed it. How could them miss it? Because instead of trusting God, they took over. They were absorbed in what they themselves were doing. They were so absorbed in their “God projects” that they didn’t notice God right in front of them, like a huge rock in the middle of the road. And so they stumbled into him and went sprawling. Isaiah (again!) gives us the metaphor for pulling this together:
Careful! I’ve put a huge stone on the road to Mount Zion,
a stone you can’t get around.
But the stone is me! If you’re looking for me,
you’ll find me on the way, not in the way.

Vacation

I will be on vacation July 12-25 and at Synod School July 25-31. I may or may not post during Synod School.

Nouwen: More on the Elder Brother

Here I see how lost the elder son is. He has become a foreigner in his own home. True communion is gone. Every relationship is pervaded by the darkness. To be afraid or to show disdain, to suffer submission or to enforce control, to be an oppressor or to be a victim: these have become the choices for one outside of the light. Sins cannot be confessed, forgiveness cannot be received, the mutuality of love cannot exist. True communication has become impossible.

I know the pain of this predicament. In it, everything loses its spontaneity. Everything becomes suspect, self-conscious, calculated, and full of second-guessing. There is no longer any trust. Each little move calls for a countermove; each little remark begs for analysis; the smallest gesture has to be evaluated. This is the pathology of darkness.

Is there a way out? I don’t think there is—at least not on my side. It often seems that the more I try to disentangle myself from the darkness, the darker it becomes. I need light, but that light has to conquer my darkness, and that I cannot bring about myself. I cannot forgive myself. I cannot make myself feel loved. By myself I cannot leave the land of my anger. I cannot bring myself home nor can I create communion on my own. I can desire it, hope for it, wait for it, yes, pray for it. But my true freedom I cannot fabricate for myself. That must be given to me. I am lost. I must be found and brought home by the shepherd who goes out to me. - Henri Nouwen, The Return of the Prodigal Son, p.82

The Case Against Marriage

Here's something to think about, from the June 21 issue of Newsweek:

Comments, anyone?

Weeds

I was out last week pulling weeds in the flowerbed under the tree and got to thinking, not for the first time, about how the Church can be more like a weed than a flower or a fruit tree.

Every time I try to get rid of the weeds I marvel at how resilient they are. Most of the time you don’t really pull them out by the roots; you break them off, and they’ll just happily regrow. They not only survive but thrive in conditions that would kill any plant you really want to grow. Can you imagine trying to get a tomato plant to grow out of a crack in the sidewalk? Yet I’ve seen crabgrass flourishing on a cement surface hot enough to fry an egg. The deadliest herbicide known, which is most familiar under the trade name Roundup, is supposed to leave any area where it’s sprayed totally devoid of plant life. But I’ve gone over an area with this nuclear option, watched the weeds wither and die, only to notice them coming back a few days or weeks later. Did some survive the onslaught? Did new seeds blow in? It really doesn’t matter, because the weeds won. They always do.

Well, the Church is like that in a lot of ways: not always pretty, but tough and resilient, popping up again and again in places where it was supposed to be dead or dying, reseeding itself in places where it was supposed to be stamped out, growing in places you would swear couldn’t support life. You can pull it up, root it out, spray it with Roundup and pave over it, but it will always come back. The gates of Hell haven’t got a chance. (Matthew 16:18)

I first met Avon Murray when I went to the first church I served as a pastor. Avon was about 90 at the time and had attended an agricultural college for a couple of years after graduating from high school, which was an unusual thing for farm boys from Missouri in the early part of the 20th century. He told me that on the first day of class he learned the definition a weed: a weed, he was told, is “a plant out of place.” Every gardener, every farmer, can testify to the appropriateness of that definition. If you plant corn and it comes up, that’s good. If you plant soybeans and corn sprouts up because some seed stayed in the ground over the winter, that's bad. That corn just became a weed, like the volunteer tomatoes in my pea patch.

Sometimes the Church, too, is “out of place,” not accidentally, but by design. When we challenge conventional wisdom, when we speak out against injustice, when we witness to the good news of Jesus in a world of fear and unbelief, we are often told to get back in our proper place. And it’s tempting to do just that. That’s when we need to remember that we don’t get to pick the place where we are supposed to grow. That’s up to God. We may find ourselves planted, as the Church so often has over the millennia, in a pretty inhospitable place. If so, that may well be where we need to be. Remember that plants produce fruit, but they also, over time, break down rocks. And that may be what we’re called to do, too.

Nouwen: the Underside of Virtue

The more I reflect on the elder son in me, the more I realize how deeply rooted this form of lostness really is and how hard it is to return home from there. Returning home from a lustful escapade seems so much easier than returning home from a cold anger that has rooted itself in the deepest corners of my being. My resentment is not something that can be easily distinguished and dealt with rationally.
It is far more pernicious: something that has attached itself to the underside of my virtue. - Henri Nouwen, The Return of the Prodigal Son, p.75, my emphasis

Spiritual Letdowns

Reading over the story of Elijah's encounter with the “still, small voice” of God in 1 Kings 19, I was struck, as I almost always am, by how this episode comes immediately after what most people would consider Elijah’s greatest triumph.

According to 1 Kings 18, the kingdom is in the third year of a God-ordained drought, a drought meant to bring the people to their senses and leave off the worship of Baal. Baal-worship, you may remember, had been introduced by King Ahab and his wife Jezebel. Apparently now the time is ripe for a direct confrontation between Elijah, the one prophet of Israel’s God, and the 450 prophets of Baal.

This is a vivid, memorable story: the construction of the two altars, the preparation of the two sacrifices, the prophets of Baal “limping” around the altar (1 Kings 18:26, NRSV), crying out to their god, cutting themselves “as was their custom” and being mocked by Elijah: “Cry aloud! Surely he is a god; either he is meditating, or he has wandered away, or he is on a journey, or perhaps he is asleep and must be awakened.” (1 Kings 18:27 NRS) The writer concludes, “Midday passed, and they ranted on until the time when the offering is presented; but there was no voice, no answer, no sign of attention.” (1 Kings 18:29 NJB)

You remember the rest: unlike the unresponsive Baal, the Lord answered with fire that burned up not only the offering, but the very stones of the altar. This was followed by a bloodbath as the people seized the Baal-prophets at Elijah’s instigation and slaughtered them to a man. Then Elijah prayed, and the rains came (1 Kings 18:41ff., a passage cited by James 5:17-18 to illustrate the power of prayer).

Elijah should have been on top of the world. He had demonstrated decisively who was the true God in Israel, and had established himself as God’s prophet. But when Jezebel sent word that she was planning to have him killed for his part in the challenge to the state religion, Elijah went into a funk. He ran off to the desert and hid in a cave. When God challenged him, he whined, “I have been very zealous for the Lord, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away.” (1 Kings 19:10 NRS)

I don’t know about you, but that’s been true to my experience, though on a much smaller scale. I’ve been part of something really good in the church—a baptism, a Confirmation Class, a special service of some kind—and felt blessed and lifted up by it. Then I come down to earth and start feeling sorry for myself, and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because, like Elijah, I expect God’s voice to come out of the wind, earthquake, and fire, and I’m disappointed that it’s only “a sound of sheer silence.” (1 Kings 19:12, NRSV) But that's often the way God chooses to speak to me, and who am I to tell God how to communicate?

The other thing about the story, of course, is that Elijah thinks he’s all alone, the last man standing, the only faithful follower in Israel. No, says God; I have chosen a king to succeed Ahab, I have chosen a prophet to succeed you, and I have seven thousand faithful people. Not many, in terms of the whole population, but enough. God is still at work, whether we know it or not. And that’s the good news.

Nouwen on the Elder Brother

The obedient and dutiful life of which I am proud or for which I am praised feels, sometimes, like a burden that was laid on my shoulders and continues to oppress me, even when I have accepted it to such a degree that I cannot throw it off. I have no difficulty identifying with the elder son of the parable who complained, “All these years I have slaved for you and never once disobeyed any orders of yours, yet you never offered me so much as a kid for me to celebrate with my friends.” In this complaint, obedience and duty have become a burden, and service has become slavery. - Henri Nouwen, The Return of the Prodigal Son, p.70

Prayer for the Day

Found this today in the Book of Common Worship for the Twelfth Sunday in Ordinary Time:

Teach us, good Lord,
to serve you as you deserve;
to give and not to count the cost;
to fight and not to heed the wounds;
to toil and not to seek for rest;
to labor and not to ask for any reward,
save that of knowing that we do your will;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

As the Years Go By...

I always assumed it would get easier. I would gain a better understanding of the Gospel, of the Church, of myself and of other people. I would gain skills that would smooth out the rough spots of ministry. I would learn not to take defeats and setbacks personally. I would not need to rely as much on other people’s affirmation because I would have learned to rely more on God.

In fact, it’s gotten harder.

Partly it’s because the Church I was trained to serve no longer exists. Partly it’s because there are issues in society that weren’t there when I began. But mostly it’s because I find myself going deeper all the time, so I shouldn’t be surprised that it doesn’t get easier.

Yes, I’ve gained skills that make me a better pastor than I was 30 years ago. For example, I’ve become more empathetic. But empathy is hard work. It’s pretty easy to pop into a hospital room, say something encouraging, offer a prayer, and leave. When you begin to put yourself in the place of a suffering person, you can’t do that. It gets harder.

And it’s gotten harder because I’m not so cocksure about some things as I once was. I have to think more, listen more, take more time to make up my mind. Even preaching has gotten harder because, though I know the Bible a lot better than I did 30 years ago I’m less satisfied with cliches and easy answers.

I always assumed it would get easier. Thank God it hasn’t.