Thoughts and Musings on Faith, Music, Family, Life

Reflecting on NEXT in the Pre-Op room

Okay, so granted, it wasn't the best planning on my part.  Nevertheless, less than 24 hours after the closing of the 2013 NEXT Church Conference in Charlotte, there I was: lying on a hospital bed in the pre-op, all gowned up and ready to go. It was a torn meniscus that had brought me there; and in standard surgery fashion there was a whole lot of "hurry up and wait."  Three hours of it, in fact. So I had plenty of time to think amidst the beeping and humming of machinery and the impending dose of drugs that would send me off to la-la land.

(and as a quick aside, I think every pastor should have surgery at some point in ministry, preferably for an actual ailment that requires it. I'll never look at hospital visits and pre-surgery prayers with parishioners the same again, having been in the bed rather than standing beside it.)

Anyway, so I had a lot of time to think in that pre-op room.  And I won't lie to you: I thought about NEXT.

I thought about this relatively new movement in the Presbyterian Church (USA), described on its Facebook page as "sparking imaginations, connecting congregations, and offering a distinctively Presbyterian witness to Jesus Christ." I thought about the way co-organizer Shannon Kershner further explained that it is not an affinity group pushing any doctrine or issue currently being contended with ad nauseum in our denomination. The one thing that binds those in NEXT together is relationship.  Relationship with each other and relationship with Jesus. The fact that NEXT makes this their focus and stubbornly refuses to be parlayed by any special interest group or agenda is precisely why I and many others are on board with it.

I thought about all the people there, around 650 of them.  Honestly, it was like a high school class reunion for not one year but twenty or thirty.  Pastors and laypeople, friends and new faces. Retired preachers and folks not yet ordained.  Southerners and Northerners, Midwesterners and West Coasters.  And a new category made possible in our social media age: people I've known for a year or more, conversed and engaged with, but have never actually met in person until now. A shout-out to Facebook and Twitter for creating this new way of knowing people, where the first face-to-face is not the beginning of a great friendship but the continuation of it.

I thought about something Steve Eason said in his sermon on Monday evening worship - something that struck me as tweet-worthy:

I think this speaks to a major reason why NEXT Church has taken off the way it has.  We all recognize the cultural shift the church has endured over the past 50 years. Gone are the days where no one dared hold a soccer game on Sunday mornings; where pastors were bestowed with de facto mayor-like authority in their communities.  Study after study has shown the sharp decline in mainline denominations that's reflected in greater pew vacancies and shrinking budgets. For some, the only appropriate response is an alarmist mindset rooted strongly in fear. NEXT, however, chooses to view these changes in a positive light as God's intentional process of creating something wonderful and new.

Around this time, some lady stuck me with an IV, so I had to think about needles for a minute. When she was done, though, I went back to thinking about NEXT.

And I thought about all the wonderful speakers. And you know the really cool thing?  They weren't the "big names" you typically see at these type of events.  That's not how NEXT rolls.  What they're more into are the unsung heroes who are quietly doing some amazing "next-ish" things in their contexts. So we heard from the Caucasian man and African-American woman who have teamed up to revitalize a defunct and crumbling church facility in Philadelphia; the seminary president who used thirty seconds of a Janet Jackson video (FYI, it wasn't "Nasty Boys") to share the story of a growing student body that at one point numbered seven; the Washington DC-based pastor who unpacked worship liturgy as improv; the pastor in Columbia, SC who equated God's spirit to live music as opposed to 16-bit MIDI. Every voice mattered, official speaking role or not; and it had nothing to do with the size of one's congregation or how many degrees are hanging on the wall.

I thought about what is NEXT for the church - something that is tempting to immediately jump to, like the kid who stares at the wrapped present under the Christmas tree wondering what's inside.  I thought about the fact that this journey we're on in the NEXT Church is not a formula or five-step plan that can be implemented in actions steps to acheieve "maximum results."

NEXT is more like jazz, really.  The Spirit moving in and through us, gently reminding us that we're not directing the band but are the called and equipped players offering our unique voice and gifts to the ensemble.  And the sound that is produced is the sound of a church that is not looking to be "successful" as much as it's striving to be faithful. 

That's all that I was thinking.  And then they wheeled me into the OR and hit me with the good stuff.  I don't remember much after that, but I do remember the last thought on my mind was how there is no better and more exciting time than now for the church to be thinking about what's next.

Imagine when...

I was catching a cup of coffee after a presbytery meeting at my favorite coffee house in Winston-Salem, Krankies.  I had my computer with me and was going to work on a sermon, because that's what I'm always doing, and because I tend to do my best sermonizing when coffee is involved.  Anyway, I grabbed my cup of Kenyan and sat down at a table in the corner, and when I looked up at the wall next to me this is what I saw:

It's called an "Imagination Installation," a local movement of sorts in the area; and per its website it's about "harnessing the collective power of our community's dreams."  Which, in case you're wondering, is awesome.  So was this wall - dozens of small lime green signs tacked and taped all over the place, each with the simple title "Imagine When...."at the top,  and lots of space underneath for folks to write whatever.

So the sermon would have to wait awhile, because in truth I was looking at tons of little sermons on the wall of this coffee house, and it's always good when the preacher gets preached too. Here are a few that particularily spoke to me:

**************

...the word "can't" is lost from the spoken language

...people "make each other right"

...we decide to invest in happiness instead of war and hatred.

...nutritiuous local food is abundantly available everywhere and is preferred

...elected officials work for the good of the people, not for the power of the office

...human beings realize we are stewards of this earth, and no more important than any other living being

...we are not strangers

...there is a woman in the White House!

...we recognize that "the kingdom of God is here" (no waiting required)

..very child can squish mud between his or her toes in a creek

..we dream together to empower each other, rather than live in isolation

...we grow food rather than lawns, and share that food with our community

..we all Iive in the moments like our dogs, cats and horses do.

...our economic system rewards cooperation, collaboration and generosity over competition

...we all realize we are happier the more we give and love others, rather than how much we get and are loved.

...public art is on every corner in downtown Winston-Salem

...we know that life comes from death

...color is a hue that a painter uses to transform the canvas :-)

...the health care system is healed

..all pets have an owner that is loving and caring and a comfortable place to be

...corporations figure out that creativity and innovation comes from liberated, encouraged and respected employees

...children and adults go outside and play every day

...education rewards innovation and creativity more than compliance

...every child comes home at the end of school to a loving family member and a plate of cookies and milk

...each of us life our lives with respect and honor of all living beings

...we all remember that we're one big family

...people have the courage to be themselves

...we all let our authentic selves shine!

**************

Of course, I got in on the act. Here's the one I did.  If you know me, this should come as no surprise:


You know what I liked most about this excellent use of coffee house wall space? It's "Imagine When," not "Imagine If."  It's only a matter of time, folks.  Let's get busy.

Darkness cannot drive out darkness...

I have a lot of favorite MLK quotes.  I think this one's my favorite:

Here are some others:

I have decided to love. If you are seeking the highest good, I think you can find it through love. And the beautiful thing is that we are moving against wrong when we do it, because John was right, God is love. He who hates does not know God, but he who has love has the key that unlocks the door to the meaning of ultimate reality. 

Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.

The church must be reminded that it is not the master or the servant of the state, but rather the conscience of the state.

I submit to you that if a man hasn't discovered something he will die for, he isn't fit to live.

The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.

Nonviolence is the answer to the crucial political and moral questions of our time; the need for mankind to overcome oppression and violence without resorting to oppression and violence. Mankind must evolve for all human conflict a method which rejects revenge, aggression, and retaliation. The foundation of such a method is love.

Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.

Let no man pull you low enough to hate him.

Hatred paralyzes life; love releases it. Hatred confuses life; love harmonizes it. Hatred darkens life; love illuminates it.

 

Happy MLK Day, everyone.

 

Take that, Mayans.

Craving Authenticity

A few years back, I read this book as part of my doctoral studies on preaching in a postmodern culture (and if you have tons of time to kill, you are welcome to read my dissertation HERE).  The book talked about the need for the church to be authentic.  Sounds simple enough, I know.  But its not.  Authenticity is a huge problem for today's church, as more and more congregations are either trying to mirror society with flashy "programs," or swing the other way and draw lines on who is in and who is out - all in the name of "growing their church."  When in fact, what people are desiring most from the church, I think, is for it to be authentic.  To be who they are; to be comfortable in their own skin.  To be real.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, as my church just finished an amazing Bible study on Phyllis Tickle's insightful book The Great Emergence and considered at depth some of these issues.  Then today, this article found its way into my RSS feed.  Please take five minutes to read it.  It's written by a man named Christian Piatt who took a decade hiatus from the church for a variety of reasons.  What brought Christian back to the church, he says, were four things in particular:

• He found a church that defied Christian stereotypes - real people who weren't what he had unfortunately come to expect from those bearing the title "Christian" (the old Gandhi line, "I like your Christ, but I do not like your Christians" comes to mind).
• He found his voice - the church was a place that validated and encouraged him to share his musical gifts.
• He found deeper meaning - meaning that went beyond the standard "heaven and hell" dichotomy and other surface issues that occupy so much of the space of Christianity today.
• He found a sense of belonging - that went beyond simply being a "member" of an "institution."  He was included, validated and welcomed simply for who he was.

He concludes with this powerful statement:

I can hear great sermons online. I can download more great music to my iPod than I can listen to in a lifetime. I can join a country club and feel like I’m a part of some fancy, exclusive group. What I can’t necessarily get in other parts of my life is authenticity.

That'll preach!

As a pastor I see people come and go in the life of the church.  And it's true; folks are often attracted to churches because the preacher preaches great sermons or the church has a great youth ministry or the choir is dynamic or the sanctuary is lovely.  But those kinds of things, I've found, don't sustain them for the long haul. Preachers come and go, the choir will occasionally hit a bum note, and youth eventually do what they're supposed to do and grow up and leave (and, sometimes, their families with them). 

More and more, I'm convinced that what attracts people to a particular church, and what keeps them there, is that they sense at some deep level that their church is authentic.  Not that it has all the answers, but that it's a place where you can ask all the questions.  Not that it knows exactly who it is and what it's called to do in the world, but that it's committed to the ongoing journey of discerning that.  Not that it understands itself by negation (we are not this; we are not that...), but that it understands itself by affirmation (we are this; we are that...).  And most importantly perhaps, not that it is defined by its fears, but that it is defined by its hopes.

I realize I'm a little biased, but I think people would be knocking down the doors to get into a church like that.  What do you think?

Homeless finding a home

Chalk this up to the "Why-didn't-I-think-of-this-before??" category.  Ignore the sappy music that runs throughout and focus instead on the "outside-of-the-box" thinking that's taken place. Man, I wish I could do that.

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

 

(Video HERE if you can't see it)

The soup isn't all that bad

Most every Sunday in church I close with a benediction that is a hybrid of my own words and the words of Fred Craddock, professor at Candler School of Theology in Atlanta.  His words, I've always felt, are so profound:

Live simply, love generously, speak truthfully, pray daily, and leave everything else to God.

Craddock has a way with words that many of us can only admire from a distance - a master storyteller where the message hits you in the face, and he never has to explain what that message is.  You already know it before you realize you do.  There's a story in particular I was thinking about earlier today and thought I'd share it here. I'm not sure what made me think of it, but I'm glad I did.  Now it's your turn.  Enjoy.

*******************

I was invited last year, in mid-October, to the University of Winnipeg in Canada to give two lectures, one Friday night and one Saturday morning.  I went.  I gave the one on Friday night.  As we left the lecture hall, it was beginning to spit a little snow.  I was surprised, and my host was surprised because he had written, “It’s too early for the cold weather, but you might bring a little windbreaker, a little light jacket.” 

The next morning when I got up, two or three feet of snow pressed against the door.  The phone rang, and my host said, “We’re all surprised by this.  In fact, I can’t come and get you to take you to the breakfast, the lecture this morning has been cancelled, and the airport is closed.  If you can make your way down the block and around the corner, there is a little depot, a bus depot, and it has a café.  I’m sorry.”  I said, “I’ll get around.  I put on that little light jacket; it was nothing.  I got my little cap and put it on; it didn’t even help me in the room.  I went into the bathroom and unrolled long sheets of toilet paper and made a nest in the cap so that it would protect my head against that icy wind.

I went outside, shivering.  The wind was cold, the snow was deep.  I slid and bumped and finally made it around the corner into the bus station.  Every stranded traveler in western Canada was in there, strangers to each other and to me, pressing and pushing and loud.  I finally found a place to sit, and after a lengthy time a man in a greasy apron came over and said, “What’ll you have?”  I said, “May I see a menu?” He said, “What do you want a menu for?  We have soup.”  I said, “What kind of soup do you have?”  And he said, “Soup.  You want some soup?”  I said, “That was what I was going to order – soup.” 

He brought the soup, and I put the spoon to it – Yuck!  It was the awfulest.  It was kind of gray looking; it was so bad I couldn’t eat it, but I sat there and put my hands around it.  It was warm, and so I sat there with my head down, my head wrapped in toilet paper, bemoaning and beweeping my outcast state with the horrible soup.  But it was warm, so I clutched it and stayed bent over my soup stove.

The door opened again.  The wind was icy, and somebody yelled, “Close the door!”  In came this woman clutching her little coat.  She found a place, not far from me.  The greasy apron came and asked, “What do you want?”  She said, “A glass of water.”  He brought her a glass of water, took out his tablet and said, “Now what’ll you have?”  She said, “Just the water.”  He said, “You have to order, lady.”  “Well, I just want a glass of water.”  “Look.  I have customers that pay – what do you think this is, a church or something?  Now what do you want?”  She said, “Just a glass of water and some time to get warm.” 

“Look, there are people that are paying here.  If you’re not going to order, you’ve got to leave!”  And he got real loud about it, so that everyone there could hear him.

So she got up to leave.  And almost as if rehearsed, everyone in that café got up and headed to the door.  If she was going to have to leave, they were as well.  And the man in the greasy apron saw this happening and blurted out, “All right, all right, she can stay.”  Everyone sat down, and he brought her a bowl of soup.

I said to the person sitting there by me, I said, “Who is she?”  He said, “I’ve never seen her before.” The place grew quiet, but I heard the sipping of that awful soup.  I said, “I’m going to try that soup again.”  I put my spoon to the soup – you know, it was not bad soup.  Everybody was eating this soup.  I started eating the soup, and it was pretty good soup.  I have no idea what kind of soup it was.  I don’t know what was in it, but I do recall when I was eating it, it tasted a little bit like bread and wine.  Just a little bit like bread and wine.

(from the book Craddock Stories by Fred Craddock, Chalice Press, 2001)

Rainbow over Mayberry

The rush-rush of a weekday morning - getting dressed, getting the boys off to school.  And as I pulled into the church parking lot and walked up the handicapped ramp, I turned toward downtown and saw this:

Thanks for the reminder.

http://www.stevelindsley.com

Amazing Peace

thunder rumbles in the mountain passes
and lightning rattles the eaves of our houses.
flood waters await us in our avenues.s

snow falls upon snow, falls upon snow to avalanche
over unprotected villages.
the sky slips low and grey and threatening.

we question ourselves.
what have we done to so affront nature?
we worry god.
are you there? are you there really?
does the covenant you made with us still hold?

into this climate of fear and apprehension, christmas enters,
streaming lights of joy, ringing bells of hope
and singing carols of forgiveness high up in the bright air.
the world is encouraged to come away from rancor,
come the way of friendship.

it is the glad season.
thunder ebbs to silence and lightning sleeps quietly in the corner.
flood waters recede into memory.
snow becomes a yielding cushion to aid us
as we make our way to higher ground.

hope is born again in the faces of children
it rides on the shoulders of our aged as they walk into their sunsets.
hope spreads around the earth. brightening all things,
even hate which crouches breeding in dark corridors.

in our joy, we think we hear a whisper.
at first it is too soft. then only half heard.
we listen carefully as it gathers strength.
we hear a sweetness.
the word is peace.
it is loud now. it is louder.
louder than the explosion of bombs.

we tremble at the sound. we are thrilled by its presence.
it is what we have hungered for.
not just the absence of war. but, true peace.
a harmony of spirit, a comfort of courtesies.
security for our beloveds and their beloveds.

we clap hands and welcome the peace of christmas.
we beckon this good season to wait a while with us.
we, baptist and buddhist, methodist and muslim, say come.
peace.

come and fill us and our world with your majesty.
we, the jew and the jainist, the catholic and the confucian,
implore you to stay awhile with us
so we may learn by your shimmering light
how to look beyond complexion and see community.

it is christmas time, a halting of hate time.
on this platform of peace, we can create a language
to translate ourselves to ourselves and to each other.
at this holy Instant, we celebrate the birth of jesus christ

into the great religions of the world.
we jubilate the precious advent of trust.
we shout with glorious tongues the coming of hope.
all the earth’s tribes loosen their voices to celebrate the promise of
peace.

we, angels and mortals, believers and nonbelievers,
look heavenward and speak the word aloud.
peace.

we look at our world and speak the word aloud.
peace.

we look at each other, then into ourselves,
and we say without shyness or apology or hesitation:

peace, my brother.
peace, my sister.
peace, my soul.

poem by maya angelou; picture at top by michael kimble, art at bottom by Brian Kershisnik.

MLK, White Flour, and Hope

This past Saturday evening I was honored to be asked to participate in a special program honoring Martin Luther King Jr. at the Mount Airy Museum of Regional History.  As part of the service I sang one of my favorite songs about hopeful faith that is still searching for completion: U2's I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For.  I've worked up a nifty little acoustic version over the years (and dropped the key considerably, as Bono hits notes I cannot). 

I also read a poem that was penned by a friend of mine, David Lamotte, who recently hung up his guitar after some eighteen years of singing/songwriting and is now working with an organization he founded called PEG.  The poem is David's take on a true story about a KKK rally in May 2007 in Knoxville and a group of folks who came together to do something truly unique and beautiful in response, in a way Dr. King would've certainly been proud of.

So with David's permission I am posting his poem here for you.  Believe me when I say that you will want to take the time to read it. I also incorporated it into my sermon yesterday, a somewhat different take on the "turn the other cheek" passage in the gospel of Matthew.  As much as a pastor can and should "feel good" about a sermon, I do about this one.  You can check it out here.

On this day of remembrance and celebration - and on the eve of our country's inauguration of its first African-American president - let us strive for the equality of all people and do everything we can to further the way of nonviolence!

********************

WHITE FLOUR
By David Lamotte

The day was bright and sunny as most May days tend to be
In the hills of Appalachia down in Knoxville, Tennessee
The men put on their uniforms and quickly took their places
In white robes and those tall and pointed hoods that hid their faces
Their feet all fell in rhythm as they started their parade
They raised their fists into the air, they bellowed and they brayed
They loved to stir the people up, they loved when they were taunted
They didn’t mind the anger, that’s precisely what they wanted

As they came around the corner, sure enough, the people roared
They couldn’t quite believe their ears, it seemed to be – support?
Had Knoxville finally seen the light, were people coming ‘round?
The men thought for a moment that they’d found their kind of town
But then they turned their eyes to where the cheering had its source
As one their faces soured as they saw the mighty force
The crowd had painted faces, and some had tacky clothes
Their hair and hats outrageous, each had a red foam nose

The clowns had come in numbers to enjoy the grand parade
They danced and laughed that other clowns had come to town that day
And then the marchers shouted, and the clowns all strained to hear
Each one tuned in intently with a gloved hand to an ear
“White power!” screamed the marchers, and they raised their fisted hands
The clowns leaned in and listened like they couldn’t understand
Then one held up his finger and helped all the others see
The point of all this yelling, and they joined right in with glee

“White flour!” they all shouted and they felt inside their clothes
They pulled out bags and tore them and huge clouds of powder rose
They poured it on each other and they threw it in the air
It got all over baggy clothes and multi-colored hair
All but just a few of them were joining in the jokes
You could almost see the marchers turning red beneath white cloaks
They wanted to look scary, they wanted to look tough
One rushed right at the clowns in rage, and was hauled away in cuffs

But the others chanted louder marching on around the bend
The clowns all marched along with them supporting their new friends
“White power!” came the marchers’ cry — they were not amused
The clowns grew still and thoughtful; perhaps they’d been confused?
They huddled and consulted, this bright and silly crowd
They listened quite intently, then one said “I’ve got it now!”
“White flowers!” screamed the happy clown and all the rest joined in
The air was filled with flowers, and they laughed and danced again

“Everyone loves flowers! And white’s a pretty sort!
I can’t think of a better cause for marchers to support!”
Green flower stems went flying like small arrows from bad archers
White petals covered everything, including the mad marchers
And then a very tall clown called the others to attention
He choked down all his chuckles, and said “Friends I have to mention
That what with all the mirth and fun it’s sort of hard to hear
But now I know the cause that these strange marchers hold so dear

“Tight showers!” the clown blurted out, and hit his head in wonder
He held up a camp shower and the others all got under
Or at least they tried to get beneath, they strained but couldn’t quite
There wasn’t room for all of them, they pushed, but it was tight
“White Power!” came their marchers’ cry, quite carefully pronounced
The clowns consulted once again, then a woman clown announced
“I’ve got it! I’m embarrassed that it took so long to see
But what these marchers march for is a cause quite dear to me!”

“Wife power!” she exclaimed and all the other clowns joined in
They shook their heads and laughed at how mistaken they had been
The women clowns were hoisted up on shoulders of the others
Some pulled on wedding dresses, “Here’s to wives and mothers!”
The men in robes were angry and they knew they’d been defeated
They yelled a few more times and then they finally retreated
And when they’d gone a black policeman turned to all the clowns
And offered them an escort to the center of the town

The day was bright and sunny as most May days tend to be
In the hills of Appalachia down in Knoxville, Tennessee
People joined the new parade, the crowd stretched out for miles
The clowns passed out more flowers and made everybody smile
And what would be the lesson of that shiny southern day?
Can we understand the message that the clowns sought to convey?
Seems that when you’re fighting hatred, hatred’s not the thing to use
So here’s to those who march on in their massive, silly shoes.

(based on true events of May 26, 2007 - ©2007 David LaMotte)
http://lowerdryad.wordpress.com/white-flour-poem/