advent III...

Here are the rough notes from this morning's worship message: we shall see!

The sanctioned and appointed readings for this day – the Third Sunday in the season of Advent – invite, implore and encourage us to “Rejoice in the Lord.” St. Paul was adamant when he wrote to the aspiring Christians of Philippi:

Rejoice in the Lord – in all ways – rejoice. Let me say it again: rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God.  And the peace of God, which surpasses all under-standing, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.

A great number of people are having a rough go at honoring this text in hundreds of churches and communities all across the United States this week because they are afraid.  Afraid and angry – afraid and manipulated – afraid and confused. Not only are some religious and political leaders fanning the flames of xenophobia and religious hatred in America, they are insisting that their own personal uncertainties and loathing are somehow at the core of authentic American Christianity, too.  In a word, they are conflating their own odious opinions for the gospel of God’s grace made known to us in the birth, life, death and ascension of Jesus the Christ.

Take Franklyn Graham – Billy Graham’s son and heir apparent – who this week regularly tweeted to his followers that what American Muslims believe, represent a frightening evil that is tearing apart the security and future of our nation. Consider Jerry Falwell, Jr. – current president of the largest Southern Baptist University in the USA and son of the Moral Majority’s founder – who not only encouraged students at Liberty University to carry concealed weapons with them to class and in their dorms, but is on record as saying: “I’ve always thought, if more good people had concealed-carry permits then we could end those Muslims before they walked in killing ... Let's teach them a lesson if they ever show up here!"

And then, Lord have mercy, there is Donald Trump:  current front-runner in the pack of those vying for the Republican nomination to be President in 2016 – who is a showman, multi-millionaire, self-acknowledged Evangelical believer in Jesus Christ and master manipulator of the media – who just last week announced that: The US should ban all Muslims from entering our nation until we better under-stand who they are and why they are coming here. And his stated reason is that so many Muslims are committed to jihad. He had already called for surveillance of US mosques, a prohibition of Syrian refugees and the registration into a national database of all who practiced Islam as a religion. And now he is advocating that ALL Muslims be kept outside of our borders.

 Small wonder that bastion of political progressive ideology, the NY Daily News, ran a front page attack editorial stating: When Trump came for the Mexicans I did not speak out because I was not Mexican – and when he came for the Muslims, I did not speak out because I was not a Muslim… Those words are, of course, a satirical restatement of a poem written by the Nazi era German pastor, Martin Niemoller, who began as a supporter of Adolf Hitler back in 1933.  But as Hitler not only became more aggressive – and broke more of his promises to the German Church – Niemoller abandoned ship only to find himself arrested by the Nazis in 1937. After he was fined and set free, he was recaptured by Himmler’s Gestapo and held in the  Sachsenhausen and Dachau concentration camps from 1938 to 1945.  During this time he came to terms with how his own fears and the anxiety of his nation allowed him to compromise his faith and betray his deepest values.  In the early 1950’s, Pastor Niemoller summarized his reality like this:

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

We know that they came for the homosexuals and gypsies, the intellectually and physically challenges people, too – and no one spoke out because they were not homosexuals or gypsies of those with intellectual or physical challenges.  Eleven million people were murdered in the Holocaust – 1 million were Jewish children – and no one spoke out because…

People of God, I exercise extreme caution when speaking about politics – not because religion and politics don’t mix – they clearly do. Religion is about how we live into are most precious values and politics is how we get things done in the real world. So I’m not afraid of having discussions about the interface of religion and politics nor am I one who thinks you should never the political realm during worship.  The Pope does it all the time. The African-American and Evangelical churches, too.

Yes, I DO believe that worship must always be directed towards God rather than just ourselves and our limited perspectives. And YES I choose to be circumspect rather than promiscuous when it comes to talking about the mostly frivolous and petty irritants that take up so much time and space in most of our politics. And YES, YES, YES I have NO interest in narrowly defined partisan politics.  I un-registered myself from either of the dominant political parties five years ago so that I could be free from any hint of impropriety when it comes to advocating for the common good from the pulpit.

So I don’t call out Mr. Trump – or his theological minions in the church – lightly. Most of the time, I watch their shenanigans from the sidelines and shake my head in disappointment knowing that this, too shall pass.  But we have now arrived at a moment in America that has been long in the making.  45 years ago Richard Nixon and his administrative staff hatched a scheme known as “the Southern strategy” that has been the political play book for politics in the USA. And, to one degree or another, it has been a winning strategy for the likes of Ronald Reagan as well as Presidents Bush I and II.  It has fomented racial fears. It has played race against race, male against female, and urban American against the rural South.

Lee Atwater, political strategist for George Bush, put it like this in a death bed confession shortly before cancer took him from this realm:  we played the race card to win – we played the fear card to win – we played the hatred and class card to win… and now I ask God’s forgiveness. You see, as long as the political Brahmans of either party were in control of the nominating process, they could keep the crazies under control. Yes, George Wallace frightened the life out of the big money leaders of the Democratic Party back and Pat Buchanan spooked the Republicans, too.

But there was not a snowball’s chance in hell they would ever get the nomination.  Because back in the day, the old boys – and later to a much lesser degree the old girls – kept a lid on playing the fear cards so that exorbitant racism and religious demagoguery could be held in check.  It was the dirty little secret of the late 20^th century and it worked after Lyndon Johnson let the genie out of the bottle and signed the Civil Rights Act of 1965.

But those days are over – and now the parties don’t control the process – those with the most money call the shots. Rich candidates can buy all the media time they want. They can put as many legislators in their pockets as they can bankroll. And there is very little political, religious or social accountability in place to slow them down.  Today we have a situation where, as Bob Dylan once sang in 1965, “money doesn’t talk – it swears.” It corrupts. It pollutes. And it creates a dangerous political environment that is being exploited because of domestic terrorism, the explosion of Islamic refugees fleeing Syria and the rise of ISIS or more appropriately the forces called da’esh in what was formerly Iraq.  Now, what was once a carefully manufactured strategy of fear, has become normative.

 What was once an ugly minority report in American history has become the driving engine of the status quo.  If you know our legacy well, you will recall a repulsive story called the No Nothing Movement that discriminated in the 1850s against the Irish, exacerbated fear of and discrimination toward European Roman Catholics, exploited Chinese immigrants in California after being brought into the US to build the railroad, and engaged in acts of violence when intimidation failed. You may also recall the rise of the Klan at the turn of the 20th century that influenced movie making, a new wave of lynching and race hating and guided the political career of Presidents and Supreme Court judges. In addition to our blessings, we have a long history of going overboard when ordinary people grow anxious and mean-spirited politicians manipulate both white working class racism and the economic insecurities of the unemployed.

But what does any of this have to do with Advent? Or the birth of Jesus? Or rejoicing in the Lord always?  Well, according to St. Luke’s gospel, we’re told that before the Lord began a public ministry, the last Old Testament prophet was sent to prepare the way of the Lord.  John the Baptist was called to wake people up that something new was about to happen - something bold and liberating- some- thing to do with bearing fruit that befits repentance. Remember that repentance is really NOT about piety and trivial morality as is so often the case in American religion. Rather repentance is all about changing directions – realizing we’re going down the wrong path – and getting right with God.

And John is clear about what that looks like: he doesn’t much care about our theology – or ideas – or creed. No, if somebody has a NEED, he tells us help them with it. If they need a coat and you have two, what?  SHARE! If you are charged with a political or military office, what? DON’T EXPLOIT THE PEOPLE!  Don’t spread violence either – spread peace – make the pathways straight so that ALL people might rejoice in the blessings of God. And THAT – challenging selfishness, calling out fear-mongering, offering a clear and visible alternative to violence – is ONE of the ways we rejoice in the Lord. Like the Bible says:  rejoice in the Lord always and in ALL ways!  Bear fruit that befits repentance, beloved:  cut away – prune – discard those attitudes, behaviors, political agendas and bigotries that increase fear and hatred. How did St. Paul summarize this?

Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.

Part of rejoicing in the Lord is making visible and clear Christ’s way of peace: the way of Trump is not the way of Jesus. It is the way of Hitler. The way of the fear mongers is not the way to Christmas, it’s the way to the concentration camps. The way of the fruits of repentance is not to hide in dark and ugly bigotry, but to bring everyone to the table so that ALL flesh may see and rejoice.  We must be on record as standing with those who have no voice.  We must make visible the alternative way of Jesus. We must express our values to our legislators – over and over again. Because we’re all in this together. The silence of Nazi Germany speaks volumes of what happens when people of good will remain quiet and passive.  Our own history tells much the same story albeit on a smaller scale.  As Dr. King made so clear:

When evil men plot, good men must plan. When evil men burn and bomb, good men must build and bind. When evil men shout ugly words of hatred, good men must commit themselves to the glories of love. Where evil men would seek to perpetuate an unjust status quo, good men must seek to bring into being a real order of justice.

You see, we are getting ready to celebrate the birth of Jesus – the heart of joy – the font of forgiveness and grace. And he told that our lives will be judged in this life and the next NOT by what political party we support. Not by what denomina-tion we belong to nor what version of the Bible we like best. No, he said we will be judged by how we treat the most vulnerable among us. Because, what so ever you do unto one of these my sisters and brothers, you do unto me.

When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit on his glorious throne. All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left. Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world.  For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’ Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink?  When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you?  When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’ The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

Most of us cannot adhere to this degree of compassion all by ourselves. I know I can’t. Not only do we need God’s guidance and grace born deep within, but we need allies - compassion compatriots – to encourage us when we’re down and carry us when we need a break. We need one another.  And this is another way we can rejoice in the Lord always.  The refugee faces of the Lord Jesus are counting on us. The eyes of Jesus are looking out at us in hope from within the American Muslims who are harassed or demonized by part of the Christian family addicted to fear.  We have been called to show an alternative – we have been called to offer a holy Christmas gift to those who are most in need. 

So let me ask to do something for the Lord on Christmas Eve as a way to rejoice in the Lord ALL ways:  if you know a person of another faith – if you know one who follows the way of Islam or Judaism or Buddhism or even an atheist – would you ask them to join you here on Christmas Eve? Not to evangelize them. OMG no – and make that clear – we honor and respect their tradition.

Tell them that 0n Christmas Eve 2015 at 7:00 pm, we are inviting people of good will – Jews and Muslims, believers and atheists, Buddhists and Sikhs, Protestants and Catholics – to join with us on our holiest night to raise a candle of hope against the current darkness.  We will proclaim that Jesus did not come into the world demanding conversion. He is not the only way into God’s gracious healing and salvation. “In my Father’s house are many rooms…” There are many lights that lead to the source of hope and healing – and now is the hour to make that clear. Ask them to join you – and all of us – so that we might pray together for a better way.  A compassionate way.  A way saturated in peace. Ask them to stand with you as a friend as together we raise a candle against the darkness – all darkness – but especially the darkness of fear and hatred. 

Now I don’t know if they’ll come:  Christmas Eve is hard for a lot of people, but tell them we’re committed to the cause of rejoicing in the Lord ALL ways. That we seek to honor and celebrate ALL people. That we repent of the way Christianity has been used to oppress and harm and we're trying to bear fruits that befit repentance. So we're willing to try to find a way to stand in solidarity with one another. In our church. In our politics. In our homes. And in our hearts.

For then we can rejoice in the Lord ALL ways...

returning thanks for an unknown saint...

I had the privilege of laying to rest one of the unknown saints of our congregation this afternoon. For me, she was an icon of God: a woman through whom God's light shown as she smiled, laughed, lived and loved. She never made a big impact on the wider community - she was a gentle home body - but her simple acts of tenderness were authentic. 

I was struck that nobody from our faith community was present for this farewell except the staff. My hunch is that she fell off the radar of the movers and shakers back in 1968 when profound tragedy struck - and was never able to make it back.  No one ever spoke to me of visiting her when I first arrived 8+ years ago and many remained ignorant of her life. After all, when heart break struck so long ago, it was apparently too tragic to deal with back in the day of power and prominence. I can't say exactly how she came upon my awareness, but she was one of the first home bound people I visited - and she's been a blessing to me ever since.

In anticipation of a new year in ministry - one in which my role is going to shift profoundly as well as our way operating as a congregation, too - I've been rereading David Ray's The Indispensable Guide for Smaller Churches. It is very insightful. One paragraph clarifies so much for me - including why and how some people fall off the map for others and never return - in a chapter entitled "theories and tools for understanding smaller churches." The late Lyle Schaller has noted that smaller churches are different from other sizes of church, but not all smaller churches are the same. All have a distinctive history, appeal and sense of self. Our congregation falls into this category:

The once large or remnant smaller church... a prevalent and often troubled reality in the

USA. It has a sense of inferiority and - ignoring reality - wants to bring back the good old days when the pews were full and the Sunday school was overflowing. It is at greater risk of closing, because it may not have learned how to be small or is saddled with an albatross of a building it cannot support. A pastor who is quite astute, loving and visionary is required to love the people into loving themselves, to build their self-esteem and morale by leading the people from one successful strategy to another, and to help the church discern a new, God-given identity and reason for being.

In 8+ years we have moved from inferiority and fear to trust and love - mostly - but we haven't broken free of old expectations of being "big" again. In a word, we haven't yet figured out how to love the people who are now present fully and profoundly rather than just the people we've known for a long time. We've made progress, but our future depends on opening our hearts. It also depends on celebrating the blessings of our new smallness. We are now better equipped to respond to real needs. We are now part of the marginalized and vulnerable rather than the movers and shakers. We are now required to fully trust God rather than social standing and bank accounts.

Indeed, we are now ready - and I pray able - to love those who have been invisible to many for too long. It did my heart good to lead the liturgy honoring this unknown saint today. I pray that tomorrow we may take another step towards honoring our new condition as part of the unfolding of God's grace in our generation.

silence, song and solidarity...

Ok, I confess: I am currently a Barbara Brown Taylor junkie. Since returning from Montreal I have been reading and rereading her books non-stop. Last night, I read the first chapter in her small volume, When God is Silent, and fell in love with her tender wisdom all over again. In particular it was these words that spoke to my heart:
.

..silence becomes God's final defense against our idolatry. By limiting our speech, God gets some relief from our descriptive assaults, By hiding inside a veil of glory, God eludes our projections. God deflects our attempts at control by withdrawing into silence, knowing that nothing gets to us like the failure of our speech. When we run out of words, then and perhaps only then can God be God. When we have eaten our won words until we are sick of them, when nothing we can tell ourselves makes dent in our hunger, when we are prepared to surrender the very Word that brought us into being in hopes of hearing it spoken again - then, at last, we are ready to worship God.

When I returned from our magical, mystery tour in Montreal I was certain of a few things: mostly that my spoken words no longer really mattered. What I needed in my soul - and in my ministry - was more silence and prayer, more songs of joy and sorrow, and more shared acts of solidarity with people of tenderness and compassion. That is, perhaps, what I can do best at this moment in time - and it is what I sense matters most for our churches as we struggle to help love grow and mature within all the fear, hatred and brokenness. 

Earlier in Taylor's essay, she notes how words have lost their nobility. Through the "assault of consumerism" words now carry promises they cannot keep by seducing us with our fantasies. Think of the crappy tasting tomato labeled "vine ripened" she says and "the connection between language and truth has been lost." Journalism has contributed to the obfuscation of truth in words, too as has the sheer "proliferation of words with which most of us are faced with each day... it is estimated that the English language now contains some six hundred thousand words.

By comparison, Elizabethan English had about one hundred fifty thousand, and the King James Version of the Bible contains only six thousand... Predictably, our care for words has declined as their number has increased... We learn to filter out words that are not necessary to our lives the same way we learn to sleep in a house near railroad tracks. Our brains protect us from the daily barrage of words by increasing our resistance to them... We do not listen well.

Her conclusion is more than erudite, however, it is chilling. Citing George Steiner, who

suggests that "until the 1870s, western civilization honored a contract between logos and cosmos, the essence of which was basic human trust in the sayability of the world" she writes: "trust was broken in European, Central European and Russian culture during the decades from the 1970s to the 1930s, resulting in a revolution of spirit which, as far as Steiner is concerned, defines modernity itself."

If that is too abstract for you, then consider Steiner's case in point: in Germany in the 1940s, we discovered that a person who can read Goethe or Rilke in the evening, who can listen to Bach and Schubert will getting ready for bed, can also get up the next morning and go to his day's work at Auschwitz. With this discovery, Steiner says, the ascendancy of the Word came to an end. 'The house of classic humanism, the dream of reason which animated Western Society' largely broke down. We now live 'after the Word,' in a time of epilogue, which is both a time of endings and new beginnings.

Cut (ironically after all these words) to my opening hunch that silence, song and solidarity is where the Spirit of the Living God is calling us in this generation. This is the season where the prophet Amos got it right: "I will send a famine on the land; but not a famine of bread or a thirst for water, but of hearing the words of the Lord." No amount of words can derail the hatred being cultivated and spread by Donald Trump. No reasoned, linear appeals to our shared Christian faith can dissuade Franklyn Graham or Jerry Falwell, Jr. from their terror-mongering. Only inner silence, shared song and acts of public solidarity communicate something greater and more salvific than our angst and confusion. Thus, U2 brings the Eagles of Death BACK to Paris to play hard-edged, passionate rock and roll as an act of solidarity in defiance of death. 

So Jews across Europe and the USA head out to the streets to declare: we know what national registration of a religious group looks like - and we will not abide!  Sadly, most of the Christian response has been... words. In the NY Times, on-line, in statements from denominational leaders. Ok, this is a piece of the puzzle - a record of our commitment - but now is the season of famine and only presence communicates the truth of our hearts in the Spirit of God. Taylor gets it right at the close of her essay:

This is my reading of our situation at the end of the twentieth century (when she first wrote this essay.) Our language is broken. There is famine in the land. God's true name can never be spoken.

That's why I am looking for a way to make this year's Christmas Eve worship a celebration of solidarity - not words or nostalgia - but songs, silence and sharing with and in solidarity with those who are afraid, vulnerable and targeted by the merchants of hatred. I wonder if some of my Jewish and Muslim colleagues might join me for our worship - might pray and stand together on behalf of compassion and trust - might sing ALL our songs of hope and light within the darkness? I've got some work to do if this is going to come to pass. Like another artist once sang, "You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. I hope someday you'll join us and the world will live as one."

another light begins to dawn...

It is odd how brooding decisions that encompass heart and soul never come to resolution in a linear way - at least not for me. I fret, release, pray,  ponder, wander, think, talk, argue, discuss and then go silent for months before, all of a sudden, a bit of light glimmers in the darkness. And if I am paying attention, this light glows more real. And then I feel like a weight has been lifted and new life has been born. Such a revelation happened to me today and I am so grateful. As I wrestled spiritually with the hatred and fear running roughshod over so many tender but broken people in our land, an alternative that I can strengthen started to take shape and form for me.

I've been listening and discerning the Spirit since the hear of my sabbatical. I've exhausted Dianne's profound patience talking about my questions. And I have awoken in the middle of the night for months trying to grasp what the Lord is quietly inviting me into.

So, today, after midday Eucharist, as "the brothers" gathered (no sisters showed up today) to talk about the hard-ass message of John the Baptist, I got a clue. When I walked to the back of the Sanctuary to turn out the lights - and noticed where some of our youth had placed the wooden figures of the Magi on their journey towards the birth of Christ - the clue became clearer. Later, as I spoke with a trusted and beloved younger colleague, another layer of uncertainty was resolved. And then at a late mezze dinner with my sweet Di it all fell into place.

It is very clear to me that the radical, counter-cultural faith, hope and love of Jesus  is aching for renewal in this realm. The hatred, demagoguery and fear that fills the air needs more and more women and men committed to a gentle and healing alternative. And this challenge must be born of tenderness and peace - not fear or tradition power-politics - a willingness to suffer but also celebrate, too. 

This picture from Chanukah 1931 in Germany speaks volumes to me about what will ripen if an bold, creative and loving alternative is not advanced in moments like our own.

And so a new part of the journey begins... as I wrote earlier:  This picture expresses the essence of this season for me: quiet, faithful waiting for God's peace born from the inside and then shared with creation in gratitude. Peace is aching to be born, hope is waiting for new expressions. And like Mary it begins within.

moving slowly...

We are moving VERY slowly this Advent: Di given her constant pain and me as I try to slow down even more than usual to pray the hours and discern where the Spirit is leading us. That said, we were able to get our tree decorated tonight - and for that I am grateful.

advent two...

On my way to worship this morning, as I was waiting for the frost to melt on the windshield, I snapped this picture on my phone. It speaks to me of the quiet mystery of this Advent season.

In addition to the picture on my phone was a plea to stop by one of our local jails to visit a person in great need. Two surprises before I left the driveway. At church, many people asked about Di's health (still no diagnosis and lots of hurting last night.) I had fun talking with our youth about the Magi's journey and singing the hymns of this season. We practiced a bit of Ignatian prayer (part of my series on temperament and spirituality) before meeting with our youth and their families. After a very satisfying conversation about plans for the new year, I spent a few hours at the jail trying to sort out how best to help a lonely soul in need of a friend. The surprises just kept coming.

I had hoped to decorate our Christmas tree this evening, but given the way this day shook out, all I could do at day's end was crash out for an hour. Maybe tomorrow. Still, tonight I return thanks to God for a community of faith willing to struggle with me re: how to make our commitments real in a complicated world. I give thanks for youth and parents who know we can't do everything, so choose do what really matters! (Would that other adults might be as wise as these young families!) I give thanks for being present to one who is alone and afraid. I give thanks for the beautiful music our director selects each week - and asks me to play on, too. I give thanks for pain meds and heating pads for Di. I give thanks for our sweet albeit goofy dog. And I give thanks for naps that refresh - and let's not forget the beauty of red wine.

This week portends to be full: staff evaluations, preparations for next week's Council meeting, conversations with colleagues about a shared Advent retreat, planning for a Saturday memorial service, visiting people in jail, finding the right time for our young people to go caroling, living into my Advent commitment of praying the hours (four times each day), crafting next week's Sunday message, decorating our home for Advent/Christmas, selecting small but loving gifts for our daughters and their families, getting our dryer fixed (after I threw wet blankets from a basement flood in and burned-out the belt), taking Di for yet another medical exam, meeting with members about next steps in our annual fund-raising effort, practicing a bit of bass, preparing music for next Sunday's worship, planning for a possible February fund raising concert to raise money for emergency fuel assistance in our area and giving Lucie a measure of love and exercise. 'Tis the season, yes?

That's the stuff I know about - and there are always more surprises, yes? My benediction echoed the truth that greeted me this morning: Go out this week and let yourself be... surprised. Don't let your imagination atrophy like Zechariah's. Let God speak to you in some unheard of and unexpected way. And then, if it is in your power, share the blessing of your surprise with another so that our sacred imagination is strengthened. For we live and move and have our being in Christ Jesus our Lord. Amen.

dance with me...

One of the truths I have learned over the years is that many people, whatever their congregation or denomination, are uncomfortable with ambiguity.  In the Myers-Briggs typology, they are loving individuals who want clarity, closure and spiritual comfort from their church. It has also been suggested that upwards of 50% of those in the pews live within this perspective. Oddly,only 12% of the population lives out of a more introspective worldview, while 70% of clergy come from this tribe. Naturally, without care, patience and deep trust, congregation and clergy are apt to miss one another with regularity - and maybe even misunderstand one another, too.

This chasm is hard enough to bridge when things are running smoothly. But in a culture shift like

we are experiencing - where the foundations of faith are questioned, time is at a premium and anxiety is at an all time high - it becomes even more complicated. Especially when the testimony of spiritual wisdom urges discernment in the darkness but people's hearts yearn for answers and solutions. I think this tension is exaggerated at this time of the year when we are inundated with the urge to consume and fill our deepest hunger with gifts or food or parties. So much busyness is imposed upon the organic darkness of this season - and so much false light. Perhaps that is why I have postponed putting up any Advent/Christmas decorations in our house: the more darkness the better.

Gertrud Mueller-Nelson, my historic spiritual mentor for the Advent journey, writes in To Dance with God:

The more life asks us to wait, the more we anxiously hurry. The tempo of haste in which we live has less to do with being on time or the efficiency of a busy life - it has to do with our being unable to wait. But waiting is unpractical time, good for nothing but mysteriously necessary to all that is becoming. As in a pregnancy, nothing of value comes into being without a period of quiet incubation: not a healthy baby, not a loving relationship, not a reconciliation, a new understanding, a work of art, never a transformation. Rather, a shortened period of incubation brings forth what is not whole or strong or even alive. Brewing, baking, simmering, fermenting ripening, germinating, gestating are the feminine processes of becoming and they are the symbolic states of being which belong int a life of value, necessary to transformation.

Upon returning from sabbatical, it was clear to me that not only had I changed - honoring my contemplative longings - but that changes had taken place withing the congregation, too. That is a blessing even as we struggle to understand how our changed selves now fit together as we try to dance with God. It is a bit awkward. Confusing. Maybe even somewhat unsettling for some - and still the dance goes on.  As I wait in this darkness, however, I am beginning to see two truths albeit it faintly.

+ First, we have the opportunity to do something creative, bold, faithful and satisfying together over the course of the next year IF we are willing to take some risks. Specifically, we can strip away another layer of our past that is getting in the way of being engaged in mission. That is, we can let go of the illusion of being a "big" church and honor the beauty of our smallness. We can quit pretending to be driven by a "theology of glory" - the FIRST in our town - and be guided by a "theology of the Cross" - those who are in solidarity with the suffering, wounded and powerless.  We can do little things for the Lord, quiet and tender things that live below the surface of publicity but bring joy and hope to our broken hearts.

Already I see some of this taking place in the gentle fund-raising effort for this year; rather than a stewardship "campaign" we are asking individuals and families to share what they can in gratitude to strengthen the work of compassion and justice, prayer and worship. At recent church council meetings, too we have taken extensive time to talk about where we experience joy in service to the Lord - and name the soul-numbing things, too. My hunch is that we might be ready to move this effort forward and both revitalize the way we do administration and set more people free to engage in hands-on ministry. That is my prayer and hope. And while there will be resistance born of nostalgia, the alternative is death by attrition.

+ Second, after four months of being back, I have found a new rhythm for being here that feels increasingly solid. That was not the case upon re-entry.. After all, I had just spent four months free of expectations. More importantly, as I see now, it was also four months without having to be social. As a profound introvert (who has cultivated a measure of balance for professional reasons) my sabbatical liberated me from the exhaustion of social interaction. In many ways, Di and I could live happily as quasi-monks in the world - and we did so with abandon during our time in Montreal. 

Small wonder I grieved upon returning - it was overwhelming. But now I've found a bit of clarity in being back: I have discovered a new way of being prayerful during each day, a new way of being engaged and then being a part, a new way of doing ministry from within the heart of contemplation rather than compulsion. If the new incarnation of our shared ministry can get to the place of understanding and honoring this change, I know I would be able to continue serving with gratitude. The alternative is far less clear.

This morning, upon waking and realizing my heart was singing "Dance with Me" - a prayer of joy and trust - a new friend sent me this Advent poem by Jan Richardson. It expresses so much that I cannot.

Go slow
if you can.
Slower.
More slowly still.
Friendly dark
or fearsome,
this is no place
to break your neck
by rushing,
by running,
by crashing into
what you cannot see. 

Then again,
it is true:
different darks
have different tasks,
and if you
have arrived here unawares,
if you have come
in peril
or in pain,
this might be no place
you should dawdle. 

I do not know
what these shadows
ask of you,
what they might hold
that means you good
or ill.
It is not for me
to reckon
whether you should linger
or you should leave. 

But this is what
I can ask for you: 

That in the darkness
there be a blessing.
That in the shadows
there be a welcome.

That in the night
you be encompassed
by the Love that knows
your name. 

an adult faith in obscurity...

Funny? Synchronistic? Or both?  Whatever the foundation, all the books I am reading right now address the outdated ways we speak of the Holy. Interestingly, they are all written by women - as is the on-line Advent/Christmas retreat I am participating in - and therein lies the commonality. Clearly these women of faith, who have embraced the Christian tradition even as it has marginalized them, have found that their pilgrimage into a sacred, sensual trust requires a new vocabulary.  And rather than suffer through the soul-numbing work of simultaneous translation when they go to worship - or read theology - or celebrate the Sacraments, they are discovering new ways of talking about God.

Lauren F. Winner in Wearing God put it like this in the opening chapter, "The God who Runs after Your Friendship" about the metaphors we use to consider the ineffable:

Simply put, I felt very far away from God for some years. It was a long season, salty and bitter, but it did not last forever. During the months in which I was emerging from that season - the months in which I was beginning to realize that God had been there all along; that maybe what had felt to me like God's absence was actually a tutorial in God's mystery; that maybe it was my imagination, not God, that had faltered - during that emergence, I began to notice God darting hither and thither, and I began to notice that I was darting hither and thither near God, and I began to realize that my pictures of God were old.  There were not old in the sense of antique champagne flutes, which are abundant with significance precisely because they are old - when you sip from them you remember your grandmother using them at birthday dinners, or your sister toasting her beloved at their wedding. Rather, they were old like a seventh-grade health textbook from 1963: moderately interesting for what it might say about culture and science in 1963, but generally out of date. My pictures of God weren't Zeus on a throne, the Sistine Chapel God. Instead, m pictures were some combination of sage professor and boyfriend, and while sage professor and boyfriend might, as metaphors, have some true and helpful things to say about God, I found that neither of them had much to say about this new acquaintance I was embarking on, or being embarked on.

Like Winner, my words and pictures of God have changed over the years, mostly because the

old ones have worn out. Perhaps that is why I have found solace in the journey of Barbara Brown Taylor over the past year. Her trilogy of confession and questioning - Leaving Church, An Altar in the World and Learning to Walk in the Dark - have helped me ponder what it means to claim an adult faith as a 21st century Christian once the childish words have lost their value. And while her journey is not parallel to my own, her words ring true to me when she observes that after losing faith in the institutional Church to advance the love of Christ in the world:

Chief among (the reasons for my alienation) is the way the Christian teaching thrives on dividing reality into opposed pairs: good/evil, church/world, spirit/flesh, sacred/profane, light dark. Even if you are not Christian, it should be easy to tell which half of each pair is "higher" and which is "lower." In every case, the language of opposition works by placing half of reality closer to God and the other half farther away. This not only simplifies life for people who do not want to spend a lot of time thinking about whether the divisions really hold; it also offers them a strong sense of purpose by giving them daily battles to engage in. The more they win out over the world of the flesh, the better. The more they beat back the powers of darkness, the closer they God to God. The ultimate goal is to live with that d forever, in a bright heaven where the bottom half of every earthly equation has finally returned to dust. After years of using this language to pray, teach, preach and celebrate the sacraments, I fell out of love with it - not just the words themselves but also the vision of reality they represent.

Towards the end of Learning to Walk in the Dark, Taylor declares that she no longer has much of a vocabulary when it comes to talking about God. The Lord, whatever that might mean, is more of a relationship than an idea or even a well-defined being, In her chapter about "The Dark Night of the Soul," she writes:

I cannot say for sure when my reliable ideas about God began to slip away, but the big chest I used to keep them in is smaller than a shoe box now. Most of the time, I feel so ashamed about this that I do not own up to it unless someone else mentions it first. Then we find a quiet place where we can talk about what it is like to feel more and more devoted to a relationship that we are less and less able to say anything about. The slippage started with the language of faith, which I had spoken fluently for a long time. After years of teaching other people what words like sin, salvation, repentance and grace really meant, those same words began to mean less and less to me... (so I looked for words) with more nuance and force...

Me, too.In fact, a poem by Sheri Hostetler called "Instructions" strikes me as a better primer for faith than most of the others I once cherished:

Give up the world; give up self; finally, give up God.
Find god in rhododendrons and rocks,
passers-by, your cat.
Pare your beliefs, your absolutes.
Make it simple; make it clean.
No carry-on luggage allowed.
Examine all you have
with a loving and critical eye, then
throw away some more.
Repeat. Repeat.
Keep this and only this:
what your heart beats loudly for
what feels heavy and full in your gut.
There will only be one or two
things you keep,
and they will fit lightly
in your pocket.

The Abbess of the Arts, Christine Valters Painter, asked those of us on the Advent retreat to read Wendell Berry's poem, too:

To go in the dark with a light is to know the light.
To know the dark, go dark. God without sight,
  and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,
   and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.

So different from so much of my tradition that aches for the light like an addiction. Painter notes

that there is "an expansive Mystery which night calls us to... rest in the emptiness... and remember that the night does not call for doing but for being." It is the Via Negativa, the way of trusting the sacred relationship beyond linear knowledge, the journey into faith without facts, creeds or dogma. May Sarton explains this leap of faith in 21 words:

Now I become myself
It's taken time, many years and places.
I have been dissolved and shaken, 
Worn other people's faces...

... and then started to live beyond the certainty of light or words or even tradition. 

At this moment in my own inward and outward journey, there is certainly more clarity in the darkness than anything else. Not sadness, mind you, although there is a measure of loss. And not fear either because I continue to experience and encounter that love greater than myself in Christ Jesus. There is a refreshing humility - an unknowing - for me in all of this. Like Merton at the close of his life, I really do not know where Christ is calling me beyond watching and waiting.

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot
know for certain where it will end. Nor do I
really know myself, and the fact that I think I
am following your will does not mean that I am
actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to
please you does in face please you. And I hope I
have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope
that I will never do anything apart from that
desire. And I know that if I do this you will
lead me by the right road, though I may know
nothing about it. Therefore I will trust you
always though I may seem to be lost and in the
shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever
with me, and you will never leave me to face my 
perils alone.  (Thoughts in Solitude)

When we left Arizona, I thought that my experience and knowledge might be useful in another struggling congregation. I had the arrogance to assume that I could be useful. Now, I'm not so sure.  Not that my ministry has had no meaning, but rather given these rapidly changing times of obscurity, I am coming to believe that  all I can really do is love and pray. I have introduced new ways of doing worship, new songs and styles of prayer; I have helped make intergenerational events common place rather than banishing children to the fringes as second class citizens. I have helped streamline our governance and focus our mission and ministries in the community. And I have consistently advocated for authentic radical hospitality for all who once lived on the border of faith rather than hip slogans and/or ironic, post-modern publicity stunts. But really the only thing that matters is sharing love and presence when it counts. Yes, people still want me to fix things: to ebb the flow of those leaving the congregation or bring comfort to their as yet un-confessed or unrecognized wounds. But all I can really do is be present in love and prayer. This, I suspect, is what an adult faith truly means for the 21st century - and probably always has, too.

Examine all you have
with a loving and critical eye, then
throw away some more.
Repeat. Repeat.
Keep this and only this:
what your heart beats loudly for
what feels heavy and full in your gut.
There will only be one or two
things you keep,
and they will fit lightly
in your pocket.

Be still...

I am beginning a "contemplation binder" as part of my Advent renewal practice. A colleague in town invited and encouraged me to be a part of an on-line Advent/Christmas retreat - and I am loving it. At the heart of our pilgrimage is a chance to "pray the hours" in a new and embodied way. Truth be told, I've never been very good at this except when I am away on retreat. Then, I order my life around four key times to pause and pray. But most of the time I am neither on retreat nor aware enough of how I can reclaim a measure of order and tranquility deep within given the chores and challenges of each day in ministry. Most of the time I let myself be a victim of the hours rather than a celebrant.

What this gentle on-line retreat is helping me realize, however, is that the whole point of praying the hours is NOT to retreat from the world, but rather to be engaged in real life fully but from the heart of stillness. Henri Nouwen once wrote:

The invitation to a life of prayer is the invitation to live in the midst of this world without being caught in the net of wounds and needs. The word "prayer" stands for a radical interruption of the vicious chain of interlocking dependencies that lead to violence and war. Instead, we enter into a new dwelling place. Prayer points to a new way of speaking, a new way of breathing, a new way of being together, a new way of knowing, and yes, a new way of living. It is not easy to express the radical change that prayer represents, since for many the word "prayer" is associated with piety, talking to God, thinking about God, morning and evening exercises, Sunday services, grace before meals, sentences from the Bible and many other things. 

All of these things have something to do with prayer, but when I speak about prayer... I speak first of all about moving away from the dwelling place of those who hate peace into the house of God's peace... Prayer is the center of the Christian life. It is the only necessary thing... for it is living with God here and now.

It is one thing to know this intellectually - and affirm it while on retreat or vacation or sabbatical - but it is another thing entirely to know and practice it within the ordinary rhythms of my life. I am not very good at this yet. I sense I can move more authentically into a new rhythm, however, as I tenderly practice the daily lessons on this retreat. Already I have turned my IPhone into a church bell that rings softly four times each day to call me into awareness again at dawn, day, dusk and dark.. I have started a contemplation binder/journal, too so that I can carry various prayers, poems and practices with me throughout the day. Last night I brought it to my bedside so that I could pray this poem from Rumi upon waking:

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don't go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the door sill
Where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don't go back to sleep.

At noon time today, after a few quiet moments of prayer, I read and watched today's lesson. At

first I was apprehensive for it was an invitation to "dance" a prayer. My experience with liturgical dance has been spotty - most of it doesn't communicate anything good to me - as it mostly looks goofy and forced. Back at San Francisco Theological Seminary, when I had started my Doctor of Ministry in spiritual direction, however, one afternoon was given over to embodied prayer that was liberating.

And that's what today's practice was, too: liberating. Joy-filled and simple. Embodied and tender. More like the movement of a tree's branch in the wind set to a folk hymn than anything like the liturgical dance I've encountered over the years. So as I began to pray the song with my arms and body, my heart and soul, I experienced a quiet blessing. There is more for me to do as this day unfolds, but I am going to return to this prayer later this evening and pray with my flesh again.

Prayer is leading every sorrow to the source of all healing; it is letting the warmth of Jesus' love melt the cold anger of resentment; it is opening a space where joy replaces sadness, mercy supplants bitterness, love displaces fear, gentleness and care overcome hatred and indifference. But most of all, prayer is the way to become and remain part of Jesus' mission to draw all people into the intimacy of God's love. 
                                                                                                                                      Henri Nouwen

learning to trust the celestial brightness that has nothing to do with sight...

It is Advent - and Dianne's pain has still to be diagnosed. In some ways, this journey feels more like Lent than Advent, but that is the part of the wisdom of practicing the liturgical year: we get to practice living in the confusing and hard places in the trust that they are not the end of the story. A sentence from Barbara Brown Taylor's most recent book, Learning to Walk in the Dark, really speaks to me right now. (My "understanding" of God) feels more and more like a devoted relationship that we are less and less able to say anything about (than anything resembling a creed or even a "thing.")

This comes in her reflection of "the dark night of the soul" and the way St. John of the Cross speaks of God as "nada" - literally nothing in Spanish:

He teaches by saying what God is not, hoping to convince his readers that their images of and ideas about "God" are in fact obstacles between them and the Real Thing. If this is a disappointment to some of John's readers, it comes as a great relief to others... After years of teaching other people what words like sin, salvation, repentance and grace really meant, those same words began to mean less and less to me... I do not believe I am describing a loss of faith in God here. I believe I am describing a loss of faith in the system that promised to help me grasp God not only by setting my feet on the right track but also by giving me the right language, concepts and tools to get a hook in the Real Thing when I found it. To lose all that is not the same thing as spending eleven months in a dungeon (like St. John.) It may not even qualify as a true dark night of the soul, but it is without doubt the cloudiest evening of the soul I have know so far.

This resonates with me. It is what I began to experience - and then realize - in Montreal. Most of the old words don't matter to me. I don't think they matter much to most other people either. I read earlier today while waiting to hear back from one of Dianne's team of doctors that when preacher Nadia Bolz-Weber was recently on NPR's interview with Teri Gross - Fresh Air - she said: “I don’t care if people believe or not. I just don’t think that should be the basis of belonging.” (In fact) I don’t feel responsible for what people believe; I feel very responsible for what they hear (i.e. for my preaching)."  Tony Robinson, in his weekly meditation, went on to add:

So Teri Gross asked, “Are you more concerned about people’s actions than their beliefs?” NBW: “I’m not even really concerned about their actions, no. TG: “That wasn’t the answer I expected.”TG: “That wasn’t the answer I expected.” NBW: “I don’t monitor people’s behavior, I’ll put it that way.” I loved this exchange, especially the part where Gross says, “That wasn’t the answer I expected.” She had expected a kind of typical liberal and American answer along the lines of, “What people say doesn’t matter; it’s what they do.” That sounds so robust and no-nonsense. Gross expected that. But NBW said, “I’m not even really concerned about their actions, no,” and they both broke out in laughter.

What we hear from NBW is not an indifferent pastor or theologian. What we hear is a

person who is clear about what she is responsible for and in some measure in control of (the sermons she preaches), and what she is not responsible for or in control of, i.e. what other people think, believe and do.This seems to me a healthy shift for pastors and churches. So often Christianity has been seen as somehow trying to make people believe this or that or do this or that. Which is to take responsibility for stuff you can’t control. Your job as pastor/ preacher is to take responsibility for the stuff with your name on it: what you preach, teach, say and pray. What people do with that is up to them. NBW describes her preaching as “confessional.” She shares/ confesses her faith. People listen in; do with that as they will.

In joy and suffering, in times of celebration and trial, I don't really know who or what God is - or how God works - and at this point in my life I don't care. I cannot explain grace nor can I summarize what it means to be buoyed by a love greater than myself. It is a relationship and that is about all I can say. I can sing about what it feels like in the Advent carols. I can listen for clues of how others have nourished this relationship in the stories of the season. And I can grasp a ray of light in the obscurity of this journey. But not much more. And oddly, at this moment in time, that is more than enough. Elsewhere in Learning to Walk in the Dark, Taylor adds that there is, indeed, a light in the darkness - but it comes from within the darkness. "... tonight it seems equally possible that the grace I need will come to me in the dark, where I too may learn to see the celestial brightness that has nothing to do with sight." 

Right now all I can do is be present with Dianne's pain - present and quiet - present and patient when I can. I can hold her. And pray silently for her. And hassle her doctors if necessary. But mostly it is sitting together in this darkness and trusting relationships born of love. Maybe that does sound like Advent after all.