Climbing Out the Valley

The Santa Barbara Mission prepared for the Holy Week & Easter.

Another 40 days of Lent have come and nearly gone.  Another time of sacrifice and journeying coming to a close with the celebration of Easter and the entrance of a number of people who haven’t set foot in church since last Christmas Eve.

My own journey isn’t what it has cracked up to be.  To borrow a friend’s expression, it rather “crapped” up to be less than I had hoped.

I had wanted some real time in silence.  Some intentional time in prayer.  Some time spent on my own faith journey in reflection, other than writing blog posts.

It hasn’t happened.

That feeling of renewal I had hoped to experience this time of Lent hasn’t happened.

Maybe I’m to caught up in the travel to settle my own spirit down.  Maybe I’m too busy providing daddy day care to find time with God, after all, I did chalk up a good hour and a half nap today after one fussy ride into town and back.  And maybe I’m just not wired the way I had hoped I’d be.

I look up to a lot of spiritual-based people of the past, hoping to live up to those expectations and do something great – like, maybe, change the world or something.  Martin Luther King, Jr., Archbishop Oscar Romero, and so many other notables run through my thoughts.

At this point, the fictional Luke Skywalker sounds pretty appealing, too.

I think I’m right when I say, I’m just not wired that way.

If I can self-differentiate that over and against my own expectations, or even those who have expectations of me, then I’d be fine.  I’m not fine.  I am in this valley.  This valley shadowed with doubt.  Doubting myself.

While touring the Santa Barbara Mission, a beautiful historical site founded in 1786, I had a few moments to reconcile my own faith.

So here goes…

Listen, I’m not the kind of guy that’s gonna be remembered in 300 years.  For that matter, I’m probably not going to be remembered after 100 years except in old digital photos carried on by family and the occasional Rev. Larsen 8X10 hanging in a hallway of a church I used to pastor.  I’m not the kind of pastor that many think of when they hear that term, pastor.  I prefer to not wear a robe (I know, I’m a real trend-setter here), I prefer to step out of the pulpit and “talk” to the congregation rather than preach.  I prefer to not do a lot of things traditional pastors do.

I have a friend on Facebook who writes an awful lot about personal achievements.  I’d consider this person a scholar – smarter than your average bear…uh, pastor.  While trying to read this person’s posts I feel I’ve been dumbed down.  It seems like half the words this person uses are not in my vocabulary…all my literary slots are full.

Inside the Santa Barbara Mission

If I can’t understand him… well…

I’m a tell-it-to-me-like-I’m-a-third-grader type of guy.  A real keep-it-simple learner.  And doer.

I’m too broken of an individual to be in a spotlight.  The skeletons in my closet are enough to make any politician feel at ease.

There’s this statue inside the Mission that appealed to me.  It’s an image of Christ appearing to Mary Magdalene after resurrection.  I love this for a few reasons…

First, the Son of God appears to a woman…first.  Not just any woman, but a woman that some think he may have been quite fond of.  And she was broken.

The image of Mary looking up, responding to a call from the resurrected Christ.

Second, and sounding a bit redundant, she was broken.  Quite the follower, though.  Stayed by when the others had left or even denied.  She was a cast-away, a marginalized of society…and yet loved.  Loved enough to be appeared-to first.

Third, whatever she thought she was she had left behind.  This is the absolute power of Grace.

My own memory prevents me from moving forward.  The faults of my past, and there are many, bitterly linger in my thoughts, only a second away from being reminded at moments notice.

This image of Christ holding out his had to Mary struck me silent.  I mean, aside from looking rather caucasian and being ripped – you could do laundry on those abs – there is a sincere look on his face that is replicated in Mary’s.

The way I see it, that is complete understanding.

Call it love, call it grace, call it whatever you want, there is this moment where the two understood each other.

I guess that’s all I want to be.

For my congregation members and my peers and my family, I just want that understanding.  The kind of understanding that says okay, I get it, you are who you are and that is more than okay with me.

I’d love to lead a large, mega-church style congregation.  I’d love to be published (I have a feeling my vocabulary will hold me back on that one).  I’d love to be admire in the field of Theology by hundreds…

But…and that’s a real big BUT…

OMG – The cuteness is overwhelming. Please God, don’t let me screw this one up.

I’m okay if it doesn’t happen.  I have to be.  Matter of fact, my focus is a little more on trying not to screw up the life of my beautiful 100-day old daughter than it is on the realities of practical ministry.  I can’t believe these little critters don’t come with Lego-style how-to manuals for us guys.  I mean, Ikea furniture does, why not babies?

All said and done, I am your average Joe pastor.  Not too much flare, but sincere, loving, grace-filled, and wanting to have an honest talk with those who want to honestly listen to something simple and obtainable – how to love one another.

Doubting isn’t necessarily a bad thing.  Being an insufferable know-it-all may be to those trying to find a way in from the margins, for those trying to climb up out of a valley in shadow… for one like me.

I’m grateful for the sincere face holding out his hand…  This Lenten season I am reminded of that relationship of acceptance for who I am – me.

 

 

My Greatest Symphony

It was a dark and stormy night…  which has nothing to do with this post, it’s just that I have always wanted to write that.

The map is beginning to fill in! 5 states and counting!

For 392 miles I have been thinking of what to write for this post.  There is much ruminating in my head after a busy weekend in Vegas with friends – A trip to the Hoover Dam and a Las Vegas Wranglers hockey game, too.  Made for one tired little 13.5 week-old daughter.  And mother.  Okay, and me, too.  So by the time we arrived in Buellton, California, I had this idea…

I love music.  I would think that I have a deep appreciation for music that didn’t stem from my Music Appreciation 101 class in Junior College.  My family, in varying degrees, have all been into music.  My oldest brother even worked for a time as a radio DJ.  (But he makes an even better high school english teacher)

I’d move to Tennessee just for this plate.

My father and mother both sing, as do my older brothers, although one doesn’t admit it.  Even my wife can carry a tune in a bucket better than some I’ve heard.  But she doesn’t believe me.

With all this music in the family I, too, was immersed into a creative culture of tunage.  My first concert was Harry Chapin at the Welsh Auditorium in Grand Rapids, Michigan.  I was 9.  Way before that I had my father’s headphones on listening and memorizing words to Chapin’s tunes with greater efficiency than any early elementary student could.

One of my favorites was this song called Six String Orchestra.  In case you’re too busy to listen to it, here are the words to the chorus…

And so I’d dream a bass will join me,
and fill the bottom in.
And maybe now some lead guitar
so it would not sound so thin.
I need some drums to set the beat
and help me keep in time.
And way back in the distance,
some strings would sound so fine.

And we’d all play together,
like fine musicians should,
And it would sound like music,
and the music would sound good.
But in real life I’m stuck with
that same old formula,
me and my monophonic symphony,
six string orchestra.

This is my vision for what I do in ministry.  I dream a bass would join me, and fill the bottom in.  There’s nothing like having the unconditional support of one’s congregation, family, friends, peers – for whatever it is you do.  That’s that bass line – dependable, always there in the background and, if you’ve got a great sound system, when your support is there you can feel it in your gut.

And maybe now some lead guitar.  Oh, I wish I could solo like some of my friends could – shred the fretboard with, as Jack Black would say, “mind-melting riffs.”  I play guitar…but not like Eddie Van Halen.  These are the people that aren’t afraid to come forward to lead something.  Anything.  When something needs to be done this is the person who jumps forward to rip a solo and take care of awe-ing the crowd with their abilities.  Let’s face it:  we all have strengths we can use.  Even in a church-setting.  Don’t know yours?  Maybe you should ask someone like me.  In ministry we call this process discernment.  We pastors simply don’t use it enough.

I need some drums to set the beat.  I grew up playing the drums.  Since I was 11 I was keeping time on my brother’s drums while listening to my favorites with cassette tapes (omg – I’m old) and, more contemporary but still out-dated, a portable CD player.  In the 31 years that I’ve been playing I have come to learn that being too busy on the drums can be a bad thing.  Rhythm isn’t just keeping time.  It’s knowing how important and crucial silence is between the beats.  Yes, silence.  Without it, you can’t have rhythm.  A decent drummer knows when to play hard and when to lay back or even stop altogether.

In my early 20’s I attended a drum clinic with Liberty DeVitto – drummer for Billy Joel.  This is the guy that taught me how drums do more than just keep the beat; they can shape the whole song.  Listen to Billy Joel’s Downeaster Alexa  and tell me you’re not feeling the peak and trough of the high seas on a fishing boat.  Or, better yet, listen to Pressure and tell me your anxiety isn’t rising with the progression of the tune and the heartbeat-like thump of the drums.  You need someone to drive that music, right?  Prayerfully, they’ll drive it while knowing what the tune is really all about, like Liberty.

And way back in the distance, some strings would sound so fine.  StringS.  Plural.  Not one.  Not your guitar solo and not your rockin’ 12-minute drum solo by Dr. Neil Peart.  Many hands make for light work, right?  I love a good string background.  Without that element some music can sound just empty.  It’s the same in our churches.  Without people to help with the work flow…well…so many things stop dead in their music track.  Compare a half-filled sanctuary to a filled sanctuary on Easter and you’ll understand the difference.  There’s an energy present that can only be describes as “spirit-filled.”

And we’d all play together, like fine musicians should…

I once heard Church described like this:  Imagine a great concert hall.   The kind of hall where grand orchestras and symphonies jam out the classics like Mozart and Bach.  Some would say that to compare this venue to a church God would be the conductor, directing the pastor, who is the orchestra, and the audience are the people in the pews.

That works…in most dying churches today.  I’ve overheard some people say they just want to show up, be fed, and be left alone.  Really?  This is why you go to church?  Why bother?  You’re missing the point.

I think the analogy works better like this:  The pastor is the conductor.  The people in the pews are the instrumentalists, and God is the audience.  Now… what music are we going to play for the audience?

Like any pastor, I want a congregation that’s willing to play.  I want a congregation that knows each and every one of them has a part to play in this great symphony of life.  It’s simply a matter of finding the right instrument, the right music, and the right conductor.  Then the music begins… melodies so rich and full.  And when you listen carefully you can hear the individual artists playing their part.

I want to direct the greatest symphony.  I want you to be a part of my orchestra – either nearby or far away.  I want to conduct a tune that makes the world go ’round.  A song that makes hearts sing and leaves a person with a sense of accomplishment and a better world.  And here’s the thing – you do have a part in this.  I don’t care if you don’t follow Christ or if you’re so cynical that the words you say may offend me or anyone else.  I don’t mind if you use salty language or if you consider yourself Jesus’ next of kin – YOU have a part in this symphony.

I personally don’t want to be stuck with that same old formula, if you catch my drift.  Nope, no monophonic symphony for me.

Dinner before a Las Vegas Wranglers hockey game.

Now, I realize not all will want to play along.  That’s okay.  It really is.  To each his own… or in this case, her own.  That hockey game we went to this past weekend… there was at least one who did not want to play along.  With obnoxious voice and a crass vocabulary that would make Pope Francis blush, she wasn’t going to go quietly into the night, no, she had to play her own tune over and above everyone else’s.  She even played it right over my very tired daughter.  Of course, that’s why you have the bass support of arena security – they fill the bottom in.

There are some that need a little more directing than others.

Still, there is a symphony to be played.  I hope and pray that those of you who follow this will want to play along with me.  Create a little beauty that may leave someone humming it’s melody.

And it would sound like music,
and the music would sound good.

A little more…

As Fast as You Can…?

I drove the minivan today on an 80-mile stretch of I-17 in Arizona.  I felt like I was of Richard Petty talent in a minivan race of NASCAR.  After driving the RV on interstate roads and local highways I’ve noticed a slight difference in the acceleration ability between our Honda Odyssey and the Jayco Greyhawk.  Just a little.

Kinda like my Odyssey… without Homer. Let that one sink in a bit.

It was difficult to keep my foot off the pedal and not go for broke – after all my minivan does have balls the size of church bells for a family sedan grocery-getter.  There (to Phoenix) and back again (not a hobbit’s tale) in about 3 hours with some heavy traffic on the return side of the trip – not to mention, two stops to plug the baby.  (She’s so stinkin’ cute, but she doesn’t hold on to that pacifier when it is just me in the car)

While in Phoenix I met with a good friend, the one responsible for this career in ministry.  Back in 1996 Pastor Ted, as I have known him, told me I should go into the ministry.  He said I had a ‘gift.’  I politely told him he was full of sh_t.  Four years later, I was in the ministry.  He was right.  I was wrong.

Pastor Ted is the kind of pastor I want.  The man exudes unconditional love – for all.  He and his ordained wife co-pastored a large UCC in the Phoenix area.  Notice the past tense.  He’s now off on a new-church start with a whole new set of perimeters that any established church would find too nonspecific.  But before I derail my train of thought, Ted is the person you’d find on all those, um…er… those TED talks – inspirational.  His laugh and his love for others is contagious.

The point is he and his wife are no longer there and not by their own choice.

Churches can be brutal.  They can be brutal in countless ways.  Any non-Christian may wonder why we worship a God whose symbol is an ancient Roman tool of torture and inevitable death – the crucifix.  I believe the answer is, quite frankly, that some Christians want to put it back into practice…on their own parishioners or even their own pastors.

Some will say churches have lost their significance.  Some will say the Church isn’t a relevant source of inspiration for their spirituality to feed from.  From the ‘Spiritual-but-not-religious’ to the agnostic to the atheist to even the regular worship attendee – they’re almost right.

It’s not that the Church has lost touch with the general population, but it has lost the ability to be unconditionally compassionate, empathetic, simpatico.  It’s exchanged unconditional love for self-righteousness, occasionally for righteous indignation.

If anything else, the guy is handsome.

Recently, Rob Bell, thought of as one of the leaders of the emergent church movement, made the news as being openly supportive of gay marriage.  To my dismay, a few of my colleagues started hating on the fella because he’s just now doing this instead of doing this back when he was the lead pastor of his start-up church in Grandville, MI, called Mars Hill Bible Church, not to be confused with Mars Hill in Seattle, a church that is far from proclaiming marriage equality.

Here’s my take: (And so glad you asked)  First, Rob has never preached against marriage equality.  In all his work and teachings, all I’ve ever heard from Rob, aside from occasional and appropriate satire, was a positive message about following Christ.  Boiled down into two words – love others.  That’s it.  Period.  I know Rob started this church on his own.  I know the first Sunday’s attendance was over 1,000 people.  I know that many of my friends and their friends were leaving mainline denomination churches in droves to attend worship in this converted, nearly-abandoned mall – yes, a friggin’ mall.  The place is gigantic.  I also know that my personal feelings toward this Rob Bell phenomenon were not pleasant at first.  I was just as pissed at Bell, calling their worship ‘candy store’ theology…until I attended a service at Mars Hill Bible Church…and learned something new and something about myself in the process.  In its heyday Mars Hill would see about 12,000 people file through its doors on a worship Sunday.  That’s A LOT of people.

Did you know, just off hand, that Ben Fold’s Five Song for the Dumped makes for an awesome prelude to worship?  Give me my money back, give me my money back, you… (they didn’t sing the lyrics, but the house band rocked it!)

Second, I belong to one of the most progressive mainline churches in America – the United Church of Christ.  Which, of course, is almost unapologetic in its progressiveness.  It’s known as The Church of Firsts – ordaining the first African American, ordaining the first woman, and ordaining the first openly gay minister.  Sweet.  Matter of fact, in everything the U.C.C. stands for it is about 20 years ahead of other mainline denominations.  Not bad for a smaller denomination compared to the Presbyterian Church, PC(USA) or the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America (ELCA), or, the overwhelmingly huge Catholic Church. (They are, by the way, Christians)

What bugs me about the U.C.C. are the following:

• It’s the UnitED church OF Christ and not the UnitING Church IN Christ.  It’s like we’ve hung the MISSION ACCOMPLISHED sign on all of Christianity.  Oops… not yet, people.  If anyone reading this has been to a General Synod of the United Church of Christ during its business meeting portion of the event then you’d know that being united  is harder than it looks in print.
• Because of their radical stance on social justice issues like marriage equality, the U.C.C. estranges people in their own denomination.  What?  How can that be?  Due to this beautiful and complex phrase called local autonomy, any local church can believe in a manner acceptable to their local church as long as they’re not going off the deep end, which, for the U.C.C., is occasionally hard to see where that ‘end’ really is.  Still, the faster it goes, the more people are left behind… more on that in a moment.

I live in a more conservative area of Colorado.  I preach there, too.  I preach in a church that considers itself “theologically diverse.”  I am also an advocate of equality for all the world’s people.  I also despise the use of the word queer to describe a people I find as beautiful as the rest of the straight world.  Doesn’t queer mean things like odd, strange, unusual, funny, peculiar, curious, bizarre, weird, uncanny, freakish, eerie, unnatural, unconventional, unorthodox, unexpected, unfamiliar, abnormal, anomalous, atypical, untypical, out of the ordinary, incongruous, irregular, puzzling, perplexing, baffling, unaccountable; informal fishy,spooky, bizarro, and freaky.  I think those that argue for and support equality for all people don’t find gay people to be any or all of the above…on the contrary.

In the communities to the east and west of our humble community there were two more U.C.C. churches.  Notice the past tense.  They now have joined another denomination – the Conservative Congregational Church Conference, a.k.a The Four C’s.  These two churches felt as if the national office of the U.C.C. were forcing upon them the belief of marriage equality.  For many local church members, and sadly, many local church ministers, the phrase local autonomy didn’t matter.  The national office stepped off the deep end of belief.

Now, I don’t believe words like conservative or  liberal belong in theological conversations whatsoever.  They only serve to cause division rather than, say for example, unite.  Oh… there’s a concept.  What if we had a uniting Church?

Even within the U.C.C. there is rabid division – you can be O&A (Open and Affirming) or Faithful & Welcoming (still recognizing homosexuality as sinful gig) or you can be…well…you can just be.  Kinda like the church I serve.

But then, I would be accused of not being prophetic enough.  So I should just risk it all and tell my congregation to accept gay marriage and “get over it” if they don’t.  At the same time, I’d lose a majority of my congregation by verbally pushing that social justice issue…all up-in-your-face about it.

What many of my peers fail to realize is how many Christians we piss off by telling them point-blank it’s my way or the highway.  In a denomination that believes, or so I thought it did, in unification of Christians, telling other Christians who simply can’t wrap their minds around an opposing view that they are wrong simply doesn’t fly.

I heard of a pastor in Stone Mountain, Georgia who did just that.  Told his congregation that marriage equality was they way they were going to go.  End result?  Nearly half of a 6,000 member church left.  And those that left were probably pissed.  Not just the members that left, but the children of said members and maybe even their children.  So, while advocating for social justice for all people (something I deeply believe in) that church managed to divide over one theological issue, sending thousands into the abyss of resentment, digging in their heels for a battle anytime a chance at unification may rear its ugly head.

Rob never told Mars Hill he was pro-marriage quality.  Why do that and risk angering 6,000 people who desperately need to hear a message of love?  Just because it’s the right thing to do or there’s no better time than the present?  For who?  Also, who decides when the right time is for such an announcement to be made for this particular environment?  There is more than one social justice factor to consider.

But there’s another way.  And this way takes time.  This was always takes time.

Ask yourself these questions:   Have you ever noticed social change on a day-to-day basis?  From today to tomorrow, do you witness change on a global scale?  What you look back on the past 20 years of your life (if you’ve lived that long), how has life changed?

Truth is, we see change far better in the rear-view mirror than looking at the pavement in front of us.  Yes, change does happen.  Mostly in small increments.  We could say that the State of Colorado signing into law a civil union bill is massive change.  But how long, again, did it take that to happen?  It wasn’t overnight.

I often sit this way when I’m on my throne.  Wait… is that too much information?

When the Israelites are in Babylonian captivity under the rule of Nebuchadnezzar, the prophet Jeremiah wrote to them telling them to build houses and settle down there.  He told them to seek the prosperity of the city in which they now live, not just for themselves but for the sake of the city.  He told them that after 70 years God would come for them.  (Jeremiah, ch. 29)

70 years?  Why 70?  Why not just one?

How many generations of one family can you fit into 70 years?  Perhaps four?  One new generation every 20 years, for example, would make four generations in 70 years.  What happens when the ideals of one generation pass away?  Then the next?  Then the one after that?

Slowly with time and the quite literal death of old-shool thought, the world changes.  To change a societies way of thinking overnight, whether it be secular or theological, is nuttier than a Nutter Butter.

The methodology behind Jeremiah’s madness was to teach the Israelites to love their new digs.  To love those around them while maintaining their faith beliefs and practicing them just as they always had done before.  Keep doing what you’re doing with that LOVE thing, people! is what Jeremiah was preaching.  Love one another.  Regardless of their beliefs.  Even if they can’t change their mind as fast as the generation before them – love them.

To tell them they’re wrong, that the older ideals of theology just aren’t relevant anymore is to tell them that they aren’t relevant anymore.

I’m not willing to do that to anyone.  But I am willing to love all.  Unconditionally, no matter their speed of their faith, even if they never come to agree with me.

A good friend, April, wrote this.  I happen to admire this writing as it relates to this lengthy one of my own.

We are a society bent on winning, sometimes at all costs.  While we may believe it is all the right reasons sometimes it is just to piss off the ‘other’ party and set them back a decade in progressive movement.

It is okay to lose.  How you show love in the process makes the difference.

I don’t think we should drive as fast as we can to that final destination – we risk hurting others.  We risk hurting others who have faith, just a faith that’s lived differently than our own.  We should not forsake them.

I do believe we should keep on ‘driving’ per se, knowing it may take us 70 years to change.

Love… It really does win.  I have two of these stickers on my beloved RV – I may need to adhere a few more…

Oh, and Rob, thanks for your opinion, no matter when you spoke it, it’s all good!  By the way, I’m rolling through LA next week… can we meet?  Coffee?  A donut?  Some good conversation?  Please?

My Patronus is an Aerodynamic RV

Battling the wind didn’t take away from the awe-inspiring beauty of southeastern Utah.

355 miles.  What was the mileage like today?  Glad you asked.  Roughly 5.5 mpg.  Yep, from Moab, UT to Sedona, AZ a little bit of a headwind.  Not sure what the gusts were, but this rolling 31 foot billboard felt the breeze.  From the left.  From the right.  From the front.  But not once from the rear.  That’s where I like it – from the rear.  Ooo… That sounded weird.  I like a good tailwind, is what I meant to say.  Really.  I swear.  Anyway, that mpg was roughly $.85 per mile.  I could physically run cheaper than that, but I’d still be in Moab.

To know that your RV rig only spent all but 15 minutes of driving time downshifting due to high winds is somewhat stressing.  That knot that I had in my shoulder returned with vengeance.  After all, I was sitting up in the ‘captain’s’ chair, pulling myself forward to the steering wheel like my leaning forward would induce greater, progressive momentum.

The Jayco Greyhawk 31FK in tow-mode. Nice setting against the brilliant bazillion year-old rock surfaces.

What I’d love to develop is a fine-running, sleek aerodynamic RV for these kind of conditions.  I mean, we did drive through northeastern Arizona.  (Sorry AZ, but Utah stole your picturesque scenery on highways 163, 160, and 89 all the way to Flagstaff)  There was absolutely nothing to break the wind from beating the sides and front of the RV – no trees (at  least, trees tall and wide enough to do the trick), no nothing…  There was a lot of sand, however.  I still have some in my shorts.  How it got there I have no idea.  I want an RV that can plow through high winds at the holler of “EXPECTO PATRONUM!!!”

A delightful time (in the morning hours) to watch the sun move through the opening in the arch…

Life can present itself in much the same manner.  There are days when it is simply hard to move froward and doing so requires a exorbitant amount energy.  Then there are days when your energy pushes you forward.  My near-13 week-old daughter Sophie Ann is mostly like the latter.  When I’m with her I feel delighted…most of the time.  There are days when nothing seems to settle her unsettledness, not even Dr. Karp’s 5 S’s.  Kinda like having nothing to block the wind.

Still, whatever the day brings, at the end of the day you arrive safe at home where rest awaits – a recharge for the day to come, the oasis gas station to fill your tank when the wind has caused you to lose more than anticipated.

So stop and fill up.  If your day was life-taking or life-giving, you deserve a break from the winds of life.  A good rest awaits.

Located minutes from Mexican Water, Arizona (didn’t go there… I had mexican water once. Didn’t go well), Mexican Hat stands out in a crowd of rock structures. By ‘Hat,’ do they mean sombrero? Because I don’t think it looks like one.

No Less than MOab, Utah

A long-view of the Windows at Arches National Park and the La Sal mountains in the background

There is a certain beauty in a place where humans aren’t supposed to be living.  I found that today at Arches National Park, in Moab, Utah.  We traversed this national park for a little more than 3 hours before heading into the little community of Moab.  Brilliant hues of red, blue, and green.  (Some of which was actually vegetation – you’ll have to visit this place to see why I used the word some)

Of course, there was the obstacle course of humanity that invades Arches on a daily basis.  They were all behind me in a line as I drove the single-lane road through the park, pulling off occasionally for the opportune photo op and allowing the gathered train of traffic to pass on by.  This happened a lot, for both photos and cars.

Simon and Garfunkel once sang, slow down, you move too fast, you got to make the morning last.  While I didn’t kick down the cobblestone, but did manage to trip over a firmly rooted sagebrush while enjoying the scenery (THAT was embarrassing), I felt a rushed presence of the tourists behind me, as if they had another park to go to today.

It wasn’t too long ago, while at a retreat for confirmation youth, I experienced the same phenomena.  I purposefully entered into a prayer labyrinth ahead of the youth to see how long a one would form behind me.  It didn’t take long.  Before I knew it, I had to ‘pull over’ to allow a train of youth in the labyrinth to get to where they needed to go…the center of the labyrinth.  I imagine for many of these youngsters a prayer labyrinth was a new experience.  Not knowing what else to do, you just go with the flow, right?

Life can be lived much the same way.  Without knowing how to live it yourself, you could get sucked by the extreme flow of secular society, rushing down the rapids of life trying to hold on or even blowing wherever life blows you without holding onto something firmly planted…something…say, for example, God.

With the tragic myriad of activities for any one of our family members to be involved with, when would anyone have the time to slow down.  You have to drive through that proverbial park as fast as you can so you can get to another park as soon as possible, right?  Because that’s what life has taught you.  But do you miss a chance to perfectly frame a photo for a memory book?  Would you have the opportunity to be so lost in wonder that you trip over the very wonder you’re wondering about, looking goofy as ever in front of a few hundred people?  Would you even know to stop and take in the various colors of a land that you may only see once?

I’ve got the 59th Street Bridge Song rolling through my head…  especially the last line of the song… Life, I love you, I’m feelin’ groovy.

Maybe, just maybe, you all can join me in singing that first line – slow down, you’re movin’ too fast, you’ve got to make the morning last…today, tomorrow, and the weeks to come.  Life, I love you.  I’m feeling very groovy.

Go West, Young Man…

Once you’re past Grand Junction you enter… Utah… and many miles of barren lands.

So we’re here.  Well… Let me edit that.  We’re at our first stop.  Moab, Utah.  FAR from being ‘here.’  After 430 miles and a fill up 150 miles ago for gas (yes, mileage sucks.  No pun intended) we’ve arrived at a lovely RV just south of Arches National Park, where many a Dr. Scholl’s have trod (let that one sink in a bit).

The weather is mildly beautiful and, being 400+ miles from the eastern edge of the Mountain Time Zone, we had plenty of light to set up camp.

Now I can breathe.  Truth be told, I still drive tense – I had a muscular knot in my right shoulder that ached something fierce while navigating I-70 westbound and the lovely headwind that accompanied our ride.

Still, the journey has begun.  My head is filled with thousands of thoughts of what may happen during my sabbatical journey.  My only prayer is to save a tire blow-out for within a mile from home.

Actually, I have many prayers.  Prayers asking God keep us safe, and lead me to people in sacred conversation, and please, God, be a presence back home…at my church…that they may be lead to recognize your spirit and move forward in delight, just to name a few.  Rev. Mark Sandlin, a pastor in the PC(USA) in North Carolina, wrote in magnificent depth of his own sabbatical journey.  Another one of my prayers is to meet Mark when we journey through N.C. this coming May.  Many questions Mark asked then are my own today.

After five years of ordained ministry I am feeling the burn.  This journey, Lenten liturgical calendar timing be damned, is something I have longed for.  Our church has grown to a point.  We’ve received many young families.  A category most church-growth models show to me a less-than-dependable area of growth in the Church.  While I was excited about this our church has lived into that model reality.  Our average church worship attendance has trickled down like pee from a 12 and-a-half week-old baby’s diaper onto a clean pair of pants – takes some time, but eventually you notice.

So I figured we’ve made ‘members’ but not disciples.  There is this sense that people want a church to belong to but not a church to be.  What I mean is some people want a place of worship that’s there when they need it and so they can also tell their friends that they go this particular church or that unique church – but they can’t commit.  I’d say that less than 30% of our church members attend worship regularly.  That means that more than 70% of our church members hardly attend at all.

I was raised that going to church wasn’t an option.  I did.  Period.  No choice was given to me.  Even though I didn’t understand the pastor, even though I was bullied by other kids in the church, even though I’d rather stay at home a worship the almighty Atari I still went to church.  What that taught me was what I needed to be taught – Commitment.  And not just any commitment, but commitment with a capital C.  My parents’ level of commitment was passed on to me and for that I am grateful.

Now, instead of having to go to church.  I get to.  I long for this ideal to be the standard for all Christians.  A deep-seeded desire to want to be in church, to want to be the church.  Maybe someday that’ll happen.  But on we go.  Go west, young man… and then north.  And then back west before going east, south, north and back west again.

By the way, if you see me on the side of the road with a flat, kindly stop by for some friendly and potentially sacred conversation.  I’ll be waiting for the Good Sam Roadside Assistance to repair the dual-ie.

 

You Can’t Take It with You

The lists are many and they are, or at least they were, long.  The countdown to departure is now less than 60 hours. (Cue Europe’s The Final Countdown intro – sorry about that earworm)  Mentally I’m gathering and sorting, packing and re-packing hundreds of items needed for the trip.  I say mentally…It’s been snowing here – kinda hard to physically pack in those conditions.

As my anxiety for packing ebbs and flows, I realize the sheer amount of ‘stuff’ I’m choosing to leave behind on this journey.  The lump of it all can be called “negativity.”  And I could’t be more excited about it.

I was just on my Facebook account before hitting up this post.  I have been systematically eliminating some peoples’ posts from my Facebook feed due to negativity.  Well, that and major differences in political opinions.  However, I could tolerate political opinions if they were diplomatically stated and not these un-deserved attacks against other decent human beings – which, bottom line, is what these people are – human beings.  I keep thinking to myself when did all these friends of mine lose their respect for humanity?  Then I began to wonder if they had respect for humanity…ever.

I love people.  I really do.  And I am frustrated beyond Biblical proportion (Whatever that means, I just think the phrase “Biblical proportion” is cool even if it’s grammatically incorrect) that other’s negativity affects me so.  My solution?  Simply hide their feeds and posts from my own Facebook feed.  Yet, for every friend I’ve hidden, another pops up.  Aw, crap.  At the rate I’m going I may not have many friends left on my feed.

Then one might wonder, um, Greg, how are you choosing your friends?  Darn it… that’s a good question.  One I don’t have an answer for.

When I hit the road, all negativity stops.  I’m going for a refreshing ride with loving family and a neurotic cat.  (I can’t really include the cat into the complete ‘loving’ category.)  I’m going on Sabbatical to enjoy other’s company, to listen to the faith journey of others’ and learn something new.  I’m going to give myself a reprieve from the absurd (Facebook political memes – most of which, if you do the honest research, are complete B.S.) and relish in the satirical (bacon memes, of course.  All of which are healthy and good for you, too – only a decent cardiologist will tell you otherwise).

A trip like this demands luggage packed with a good sense of good humor.  Matter of opinion, nearly EVERY trip demands a healthy packing of humor.  Could I possibly live for 3 months, 9,800 miles with negativity?  Nope.  Not gonna do it.  Not packing that.  That can stay behind… preferably on the curb to be picked up by local trash trucks so its gone when I return.  After all, in this great creation of God’s, negativity only sets us three lightyears back of where we’d all like to be.

Negativity.  Leave it behind.  Being positive is a choice – not matter who’s President of the United States (I really want to say, “GET OVER IT ALREADY!”  But I’ll refrain)  Join a journey with hope, faith, trust, a 3-month old baby girl, a neurotic cat, and the humor (or complete stupidity) of two adults willing to embark on such a trip.  Or, choose to take a positive trip of your own.

Trust me, it’ll be a trip!  Less than 60 hours…  Where’d I put the baby?

Bats in the Belfry

There’s a joke I have shared amongst my ordained peers…  Wanna hear it?  Here it goes. (I hope you caught that In Living Color reference)

Once upon a time there was a large byzantine church with an equally large ministry staff.  (And no, that’s not the joke.)  Every Sunday as the crowd filled the pews in the ornate sanctuary their chatter was only muffled by the chirping of a rather large population of bats that lived in the belfry.  Fed up with the chatter as only a senior pastor could be (after all, who talks over the pastor’s sermon?) the esteemed clergy climbed up into the bell tower, trapped all the bats, relocated them miles away into a cave.  Rather proud of his endeavors, he returned to the pulpit with a smug appearance only to have it washed away with the return of the excessive chirping noise emanating from the belfry.

The associate pastor said, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this.”  He, too, climbed the belfry’s ladder armed with a shotgun loaded with powerful blanks.  The confident young man fired off a few rounds into the tower, scattering the bats at once.  Yet, the following Sunday, the chirping was ever more present, ever more powerful – as if the bats were out for revenge.

As it so happened, this gangly, underpaid, part-time, guitar-toting youth minister approached the senior staff and says to the ministers, “I got this.”  He disappeared into the belfry and a short time later reemerged with a polite grin on his face.

The following Sunday morning you could hear a pin drop.  It was so quiet the members didn’t even recognize the pastor’s voice…and neither did he.  The senior pastor and the associate pastor approached the youth minster after worship and excitedly asked, “How’d you do it?!?”

“It was easy,” replied the youth pastor, “I confirmed them.”  (Okay, now you may chuckle.)

This joke has received better mileage than a Prius with a 100 mph tailwind.  Yet every time I tell it I laugh a little less.  I laugh less because there’s a reality that myself and my peers who laugh with me are all to familiar with.  Once we “confirm” our youth, most of them, if not all, disappear from the church.

I used to think this was all a problem with me as a pastor.  What was I doing or saying that estranged these young folk after Confirmation was over?  I’ve wrestled with this question for as many years as I’ve been in ordained ministry…which, altogether now, is only five years.  “Is only five years.”  (I hope you’ve caught the Airplane reference there.  Just don’t call me surely.)

What I have come to learn is that this problem goes beyond the local church setting and into the local church member’s home.  The understanding of Confirmation as more a rite-of-passage than an actual acknowledgment of their parent’s vows at their baptism is one part.  The other part is two-fold.  Part A is the family that perpetuates this ideal that Confirmation is just another ceremony that has to be done because “I did it at that age” or “this is the church that I was confirmed in, too.”  Part B is the local church staff that allows this ideal to be perpetuated without addressing it or, at least, trying to educate the general membership – some may have long  forgotten the meaning behind many of the church traditions and have simply begun to “go through the motions.”

I’ve been witness to families who play Confirmation as “there for when they need it” and then they’re gone.  The only value in the program is just to be “confirmed” – whateverthehell that means.  Whatever promises are made by the youth to participate, to serve, to worship, to be a part of this new church family are only as strong as the investment the parents have in said church.  Little investment equals bats in the belfry.  Greater investment equals…well…a guy like me, even though it took much time to fully maturate.

Keep in mind that I find the local church to be equally as dismissive of confirmation as many parents are.  Even members in these churches have no desire to reframe their own affirmation of baptism to dive into a deeper understanding of relationship with their God.  Sunday morning worship, for lack of a better phrase, is merely “going through the motions.”

I am taking an online coaching course from The Center for Progressive Renewal, based in Atalanta, Georgia.  I heard a statistic that was more disturbing; hardly anyone in our church experience God within the worship service.

We (the Church) are dramatically disconnected in this highly connected world.

I’m not sure the answer.  I find myself wanting to make more rules and structure for a disciplined Confirmation program… which is completely opposite of what my heart speaks is needed.  I want youth to come to me and say, “Pastor Greg, I want to be confirmed this year” without me having to ask for a parent-youth informational meeting at the beginning of the confirmation season.  I want these youth to be mature.  Perhaps more mature than their parents or even me.

Today we celebrated Confirmation Sunday.  Eight youth made commitments to the church.  Six of them I know I’ll see in church through their high school years, at least when their travel sport of choice isn’t playing on Sundays.  Five of them I’m pretty sure I’ll see if they stick around after high school.  Four of them I see as potential leaders.  Two of them have greater potential in ordained ministry.

When I look back on the classes of Confirmation I have had the privilege to lead, my best reflective guess is that roughly 20% of the youth confirmed in the last six years make regular appearances in worship.  Compared to other churches in our denomination, that’s hardly the joke of the bats in the belfry.

But it could be better.

12 days… But who’s counting?

The Itch…

I’ve got it.  The “itch.”  “Senioritis.”  Attention deficit… SQUIRREL!

Two weeks and we’re on the road for a three-month sabbatical.  Well, I’m on sabbatical.  My wife, on the other hand, will be fresh off of maternity leave and back to work, 3/4 time for about a month before full-time resumes.  She’s stressed, but for totally different reasons than I am.  For her, it’s all about the packing and placement of said pack”ages.”  For me, it’s all about tying up loose ends.  Every time one is tied up, about a million more present themselves.

I am itchy to get on the road and journey with my family…and my God, who I will be praying to on a more than regular basis out of sheer need to arrive at our destinations without conflict.  (Fat chance?)

I will also be praying for a little direction.  I’m fried on the ministerial inside.  I could use some rest and guidance for my pastoral life during these coming months.

An acquaintance of mine writes for the Facebook page called The God Article.  I love this page.  It’s a progressive Christian page with its foundations clearly in what I would think is religious ‘reasonability.’  Meaning – all is spoken out of love.  I like that.  Last year, this author left his own North Carolina church for a sabbatical.  I anticipated his blog entries religiously… no pun intended… as he intentionally avoided “church.”  The blog was published in the Huffington Post.

As he journeyed I felt he may, like others I knew in ministry, leave the church because of its often-cited hypocrisy within its church leadership.  While he didn’t leave the church another one of my friends left the church years ago and claims “reason” as his greatest following.  Sad thing is… I get it.

It may be the loose canon preacher pretending to “speak for all of Christianity” who’s asinine YouTube videos go viral.  It could also be the people within the church who, as American author, friar, priest, contemplative and speaker Brennan Manning once said, “The greatest single cause of atheism in the world today is Christians who acknowledge Jesus with their lips and walk out the door and deny Him by their lifestyle.  That is what an unbelieving world simply finds unbelievable.”  It seems as if the whole of Christianity, even some who post on The Christian Left (similar to The God Article, I just find they speak with a little less love for others than our Gospels appear to teach) seem more able to open mouth and insert foot than to be effective at creating new (or, for this matter, used) disciples.

Am I going to do the same?  Will this sabbatical journey give cause to doubt?  Am I going to question my faith or will I … SQUIRREL!?!?

Two weeks from today the journey begins and the questions continue.  Prayerfully, mile by mile, God will speak the answers.  That is my hope.  It’s almost time to scratch that itch or grab some calamine lotion… one or the other will do.