"Out of touch with the weather and the wind direction,
with the sunrise and the phases of the moon"
--Rush, "Earthshine"
This morning I was up early and outside to pray, a place and time I have not found much chance to pray in/at. I saw Orion and then quickly found Jupiter and Saturn, remembering how for quite a few years I did not go to bed until I found them. I got used to where they were in the sky.
Today was Barb Bryant's funeral, and I guess that's why I was restless this morning. When we got to First Church, one of the hymns was "Great is Thy Faithfulness:"
"Summer and winter and springtime and harvest,
Sun moon and stars in their course above
Join with all nature in manifold witness
To thy great faithfulness, mercy and love."
Melissa went with me to the funeral. She loved Barb and her children, and so I figured she would go. But I was not sure what to think; Barb lost a long fight with cancer, and I knew that was weighing on Melissa. But a good funeral preaches the gospel in the face of death, and if you listen closely, you understand that indeed, it is a war, and finally there must be great courage to stick with Christ to the end.
Tonight, I was probably calmer than I have been in a while, and so had more patience with the boys. We even survived bath time. We read one of their current favorite stories, The Tale of the Three Trees. Joe lets me read it then he retells it. I like his version better.
I talked to the boys a little bit about baptism. I take on all challengers who don't like infant baptism, and I was feeling the need to teach the boys why they were baptized, what it means, etc. And as I have said, theologically I have not moved much past the 4th century. So imagine my pride when I told the boys that baptism by water was the promise of God, the sign of entry into the fellowship of believers, and Joe says, "Just like Noah." St. Peter says, "In it [the Ark] only a few people, eight in all, were saved through water, and this water symbolizes baptism that now saves you also..." (I Peter 3:20-21)
The letters of Peter and John don't get near enough attention. All week, 1 Peter 1:1-9 has been on my heart. Carol Sparks said, "Maybe it's because of Barb?" 1 Peter 1:1-9 is a reminder that we don't belong here, and that "you greatly rejoice, even though for a little while you have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials (1 Peter 1:6)
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Cain and Abel
Apparently, when you add water to small children, it makes them do the opposite of what you tell them to. “Stop!” means “More!” “Don’t splash!” means “Cannonball!” “Don’t drink the water!” means “dive in such that you would be kicked out of Gideon’s Army!” Bath time can be a challenge. I think my grandmother’s plan of spraying us off in the driveway makes more sense. Getting clean is not on any boy’s agenda, so you have to trick them. Melissa has said, and I can vouch, “If I ever snap and lose it, it will be at bath time…”
One of the challenges of doing in-depth Bible study is that people think it is a G-rated book, or that the dominant figures in the Bible are supposed to be morality-tale good guys. I always say the Bible is brutally honest and that’s why so many people have a hard time with God. Straight talk is what we need, but it’s hard to see ourselves the way we really are. Jacob is a conniver. David is by turns violent and adulterous, distant and ineffective. I remember one preacher who said that you can see yourself in the three great patriarchs, and as the story went on, I was praying, “Lord, let me be like Isaac, or maybe Abraham, but not Jacob” because I knew Jacob was the one I resemble most. Joe apparently learned about Cain and Abel in school. It was interesting to see how as he told the story, that he and John were disturbed. Joe asked how did Cain kill Abel. I said, “maybe with a rock?” Joe broke the tension with a bit of humor, “That HAD to hurt.” Joe said that Cain’s sacrifice (he actually used that word) was not accepted because Abel kept sheep and God didn’t like vegetables. Now there is an example of contextual ministry; you could sense a new love for God! Maybe He will come down and stop me and Melissa from making the boys eat vegetables? Dare they dream?
One of the challenges of doing in-depth Bible study is that people think it is a G-rated book, or that the dominant figures in the Bible are supposed to be morality-tale good guys. I always say the Bible is brutally honest and that’s why so many people have a hard time with God. Straight talk is what we need, but it’s hard to see ourselves the way we really are. Jacob is a conniver. David is by turns violent and adulterous, distant and ineffective. I remember one preacher who said that you can see yourself in the three great patriarchs, and as the story went on, I was praying, “Lord, let me be like Isaac, or maybe Abraham, but not Jacob” because I knew Jacob was the one I resemble most. Joe apparently learned about Cain and Abel in school. It was interesting to see how as he told the story, that he and John were disturbed. Joe asked how did Cain kill Abel. I said, “maybe with a rock?” Joe broke the tension with a bit of humor, “That HAD to hurt.” Joe said that Cain’s sacrifice (he actually used that word) was not accepted because Abel kept sheep and God didn’t like vegetables. Now there is an example of contextual ministry; you could sense a new love for God! Maybe He will come down and stop me and Melissa from making the boys eat vegetables? Dare they dream?
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Sabbath, or Fra Lupo Lupi
Today was a good Sabbath for me and the boys. Poor Melissa was back in the clinic. I had some things I guess I could have done, productive things, but it seemed important to take this time, and it was well-rewarded.
A nurse who is very fond of Melissa gave us some passes to Kentucky Kingdom, so we rode some kid rides in the morning. When we got home, the boys and I napped. Then Melissa came home and we sat in the garage (she can't be in the sun much) and talked to her. The boys played and then asked if we could go to the clay bank, where we have not been in a while. So we got into old clothes and headed down to the creek.
They know the way. You go past the dog-leg and turn at Joe-Joe's Drum. It's a big tank my brother-in-law scavenged so he can one day make a smoker out of it. We bang on it and it bellows all thru the woods. While we were down at the creek, Joe banged on it, and it really sounded like the natives were restless.
As we were fiddling with clay and finding more veins of it (if that's the right word), talk turned to theology. That's a rare commodity in my line of work. I mean, I guess we talk about it a lot, but so often it comes down to proving this or that point, or adopting this or that measure. It seems that you always have to be "on," as if there were some contest going on, or we're all scrutinizing each other. It is rarely unburdened from purpose to the point where it becomes a simple sharing of Christ and His life in us.
Joe I guess started it by talking about how all Adam and Eve had to do was not eat from "that one tree." "Why did that devil do that, daddy?" Joe asked. What do you say? "Is the devil mean?"
"Yes," I answered. "He wants people to hurt and kill each other, and he makes sickness and death."
"Why?"
"Because he wants to hurt God. He knows he can't win, so he tries to go after God's children. It's like this: I would rather die than anything happen to you boys." I was getting nervous. They were into the deep stuff, and I feared lest I say something that could warp future frames of reference. But they got it. John even going so far as to say, "The devil is the king of the people who killed Jesus." My, my; that is going to go deep one day. As Charles Wesley wrote, "Died He for me, who caused His pain? For me, who Him to death pursued?"
John had huge chunks of clay that he was molding to a rock. He kept saying he was making the Word of God. I wasn't sure what he meant. After some heavy rains recently, the ground above the creek bed had some nice mounds of new dirt, just wonderfully rich earth-smelling stuff. I told John about how in bottomlands, the dirt that is left behind is so rich; that's why there's such huge farms in Mississippi, a place they are fascinated with because they know it means so much to me.
Then John took some of the dirt. "I am going to dough this into my clay." He started sprinkling it all over the "sculpture" and then pressed it in.
"Why are you calling it the Word of God?" I asked.
"Because God made Adam and Eve from dirt. He didn't use tools or concreke [as he says]. He just said it." Man, now that is abstraction. I was not sure what to say except, "Praise the Lord."
The Little Seminary is in effect. But it takes lots of teachers. John and Joe have had and have some good ones who teach them all kinds of things. The talking about God is natural with them. And as we were leaving, John said, like the time we talked about clover, "I know a prayer we can pray:
Bless us O Lord, as we leave here,
wrap us in your loving care,
guide our footsteps, show the way,
keep us safe we pray."
I have on two occasions had the chance to preach to the animals. Once, about 3 years ago, a spike buck came down the hill, walked across the creek and came to me on the deck at the creek, all the while that I preached-- and many of you know how much I move around. I led him out of the woods and he ate from my hands.
Maybe two months ago a similar thing happened. But this time a squirrel and two chipmunks and two bucks listened. The squirrel and chipmunks darting around not two feet away and the bucks just coming slowly down the creek, grazing and drinking. The does ran away.
Perhaps it is too mystical for some to hear, but why should we be surprised that the animals know the Word that made them and the Spirit that sustains them? I long to hear it that way, to trust it beyond its difficulty.
A nurse who is very fond of Melissa gave us some passes to Kentucky Kingdom, so we rode some kid rides in the morning. When we got home, the boys and I napped. Then Melissa came home and we sat in the garage (she can't be in the sun much) and talked to her. The boys played and then asked if we could go to the clay bank, where we have not been in a while. So we got into old clothes and headed down to the creek.
They know the way. You go past the dog-leg and turn at Joe-Joe's Drum. It's a big tank my brother-in-law scavenged so he can one day make a smoker out of it. We bang on it and it bellows all thru the woods. While we were down at the creek, Joe banged on it, and it really sounded like the natives were restless.
As we were fiddling with clay and finding more veins of it (if that's the right word), talk turned to theology. That's a rare commodity in my line of work. I mean, I guess we talk about it a lot, but so often it comes down to proving this or that point, or adopting this or that measure. It seems that you always have to be "on," as if there were some contest going on, or we're all scrutinizing each other. It is rarely unburdened from purpose to the point where it becomes a simple sharing of Christ and His life in us.
Joe I guess started it by talking about how all Adam and Eve had to do was not eat from "that one tree." "Why did that devil do that, daddy?" Joe asked. What do you say? "Is the devil mean?"
"Yes," I answered. "He wants people to hurt and kill each other, and he makes sickness and death."
"Why?"
"Because he wants to hurt God. He knows he can't win, so he tries to go after God's children. It's like this: I would rather die than anything happen to you boys." I was getting nervous. They were into the deep stuff, and I feared lest I say something that could warp future frames of reference. But they got it. John even going so far as to say, "The devil is the king of the people who killed Jesus." My, my; that is going to go deep one day. As Charles Wesley wrote, "Died He for me, who caused His pain? For me, who Him to death pursued?"
John had huge chunks of clay that he was molding to a rock. He kept saying he was making the Word of God. I wasn't sure what he meant. After some heavy rains recently, the ground above the creek bed had some nice mounds of new dirt, just wonderfully rich earth-smelling stuff. I told John about how in bottomlands, the dirt that is left behind is so rich; that's why there's such huge farms in Mississippi, a place they are fascinated with because they know it means so much to me.
Then John took some of the dirt. "I am going to dough this into my clay." He started sprinkling it all over the "sculpture" and then pressed it in.
"Why are you calling it the Word of God?" I asked.
"Because God made Adam and Eve from dirt. He didn't use tools or concreke [as he says]. He just said it." Man, now that is abstraction. I was not sure what to say except, "Praise the Lord."
The Little Seminary is in effect. But it takes lots of teachers. John and Joe have had and have some good ones who teach them all kinds of things. The talking about God is natural with them. And as we were leaving, John said, like the time we talked about clover, "I know a prayer we can pray:
Bless us O Lord, as we leave here,
wrap us in your loving care,
guide our footsteps, show the way,
keep us safe we pray."
I have on two occasions had the chance to preach to the animals. Once, about 3 years ago, a spike buck came down the hill, walked across the creek and came to me on the deck at the creek, all the while that I preached-- and many of you know how much I move around. I led him out of the woods and he ate from my hands.
Maybe two months ago a similar thing happened. But this time a squirrel and two chipmunks and two bucks listened. The squirrel and chipmunks darting around not two feet away and the bucks just coming slowly down the creek, grazing and drinking. The does ran away.
Perhaps it is too mystical for some to hear, but why should we be surprised that the animals know the Word that made them and the Spirit that sustains them? I long to hear it that way, to trust it beyond its difficulty.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Some Psalms
About two weeks ago when Melissa was in the hospital, Psalm 77 seemed to speak to something important. Barb Foster highlighted these verses:
“The waters saw you, O God, the waters saw you and writhed; the very depths were convulsed. The clouds poured down water, the skies resounded with thunder; your arrows flashed back and forth. Your thunder was heard in the whirlwind, your lightning lit up the world; the earth trembled and quaked. Your path led through the sea, your way through the mighty waters, though your footprints were not seen” (Psalm 77:16-19). Many of us are familiar with the “Footprints” poem that talk about seeing two sets of footprints, ours and God’s, then, when trouble comes, seeing only one and wondering where God is, but it’s His footprints because He’s carrying us. These verses add a twist to that. This God of Creation, the God if Israel, His footprints don’t show up! In spite of unbelievable power, no footprints—just the deep shadows of the natural world. We meditated on God being present in ways much more powerful than if we actually saw His footprints.
And then a few days ago, I read Psalms 126-130. I like reading 126-128, especially now. As prayer, I think they say everything I am needing to say lately.
“When the Lord brought back the captives to Zion, we were like men who dreamed. Our mouths were filled with laughter, our tongues with songs of joy. Then it was said among the nations, ‘The Lord has done great things for them’” (Psalm 126:1-2).
“Sons are a heritage from the Lord, children a reward from Him. Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one’s youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them” (Psalm 127:3-5).
“Blessed are all who fear the Lord and walk in His ways. You will eat the fruit of your labors. Blessings and prosperity will be yours. Your wife will be like a fruitful vine within your house; your sons will be like olive shoots around your table” (Psalm 128:1-3).
“The waters saw you, O God, the waters saw you and writhed; the very depths were convulsed. The clouds poured down water, the skies resounded with thunder; your arrows flashed back and forth. Your thunder was heard in the whirlwind, your lightning lit up the world; the earth trembled and quaked. Your path led through the sea, your way through the mighty waters, though your footprints were not seen” (Psalm 77:16-19). Many of us are familiar with the “Footprints” poem that talk about seeing two sets of footprints, ours and God’s, then, when trouble comes, seeing only one and wondering where God is, but it’s His footprints because He’s carrying us. These verses add a twist to that. This God of Creation, the God if Israel, His footprints don’t show up! In spite of unbelievable power, no footprints—just the deep shadows of the natural world. We meditated on God being present in ways much more powerful than if we actually saw His footprints.
And then a few days ago, I read Psalms 126-130. I like reading 126-128, especially now. As prayer, I think they say everything I am needing to say lately.
“When the Lord brought back the captives to Zion, we were like men who dreamed. Our mouths were filled with laughter, our tongues with songs of joy. Then it was said among the nations, ‘The Lord has done great things for them’” (Psalm 126:1-2).
“Sons are a heritage from the Lord, children a reward from Him. Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one’s youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them” (Psalm 127:3-5).
“Blessed are all who fear the Lord and walk in His ways. You will eat the fruit of your labors. Blessings and prosperity will be yours. Your wife will be like a fruitful vine within your house; your sons will be like olive shoots around your table” (Psalm 128:1-3).
Congo
I made my first visit to the Congolese families Monday. When I arrived, they were eating, and as the young man who answered the door spoke in English, I said in English that I would be back later, and left my card. As I turned to walk down the stairs, another man said Hello, one of the elder sons of the family. I asked him if it would be easier to speak in French. He said yes, it would. And so I told him who I was, why I was there. The door flew back open as the people inside heard French. They invited me in, and we talked for a while. They have only been here for a month, and are still getting acclimated to being in America.
They have church sponsors, but not really a place to worship. Some speak English, some not yet.
The really powerful thing was how much it meant to them to hear a language they understood and were comfortable with. It meant a lot that an American came to visit them, and that I came as a pastor to them. The father kept saying that it was such a good thing that I came by. The mother and children kept putting their hands together and bowing to me. You can never underestimate how important a visit is. We need to think about this not only in terms of immigrants, but also in terms of our being Ambassadors for Christ. We ought to be able to say that we are hoping to welcome people into the Kingdom, which is a foreign country, and welcome them generously... but I digress. The elder son I talked to said, “it is a good thing when people come together with the Word of God.”
The French I speak is a bit childlike-- there are a lot of words I don't know, especially theological words.
Yesterday, a man from Liberia walked into the church asking about our GED programs. He had a long history of working with missionaries, and he had a good time telling his story. Then later that afternoon, a Congolese man called me. He is a Methodist pastor! Son of the first democratically elected leader of the Congo (back in the 60s). Sad that someone so educated has to start over so dramatically... When I told him that I wanted to minister to the Congo immigrants and provide spiritual care, he jumped on it. I am hoping to meet him this week.
La Roche roule toujours...
They have church sponsors, but not really a place to worship. Some speak English, some not yet.
The really powerful thing was how much it meant to them to hear a language they understood and were comfortable with. It meant a lot that an American came to visit them, and that I came as a pastor to them. The father kept saying that it was such a good thing that I came by. The mother and children kept putting their hands together and bowing to me. You can never underestimate how important a visit is. We need to think about this not only in terms of immigrants, but also in terms of our being Ambassadors for Christ. We ought to be able to say that we are hoping to welcome people into the Kingdom, which is a foreign country, and welcome them generously... but I digress. The elder son I talked to said, “it is a good thing when people come together with the Word of God.”
The French I speak is a bit childlike-- there are a lot of words I don't know, especially theological words.
Yesterday, a man from Liberia walked into the church asking about our GED programs. He had a long history of working with missionaries, and he had a good time telling his story. Then later that afternoon, a Congolese man called me. He is a Methodist pastor! Son of the first democratically elected leader of the Congo (back in the 60s). Sad that someone so educated has to start over so dramatically... When I told him that I wanted to minister to the Congo immigrants and provide spiritual care, he jumped on it. I am hoping to meet him this week.
La Roche roule toujours...
Monday, September 11, 2006
A Winding Road
You never can tell how where you've been, what you've done, what you've heard, or who you are is going to come into play for the Kingdom of God. This is a long story, so maybe I will spread it out. Or maybe not.
About ten years ago, I met a woman in the UK Library. She looked lost and no one was helping her. I asked if she needed something and could tell from her accent that she was a Russian speaker. Her name was Svetlana, and because of a simple gesture of help, she took me to her house to meet her husband and parents. There was an impromptu concert, because her dad was an unbelievable tenor and Svetlana was a great pianist. Over the course of the next few months, I met many Russians, especially a babushka who was lost downtown and I helped her get home. I had just come back from First Church's mission trip to Estonia, and was blown away that the Russian I learned to be of use during the Cold War was turned to the Gospel. I asked the powers that be to find a way to minister to the rising tide of Russian immigrants. But there wasn't much interest, and a Russian pastor was assigned to Eastern Kentucky, when he could have a fruitful ministry right here in Lexington.
I vowed that if the opportunity to minister to immigrants ever came up again, I would jump on it. So, some of you know of my attempt to minister in the Ukrainian community. It came about because shortly after I got to Louisville, I kept running into Ukrainians. Unfortunately, I could see that a ministry to Ukrainians and immigrants generally was not going to mesh with where I was at that time. So, even though it was clearly a God-thing, I did not carry through. That said, I do believe that it will one day. I just have to be patient.
But perhaps not. There ends up being more to it than I can see. The Rock/La Roca has a subversive value behind its mission: to be a multicultural ministry. It is subversive not only in terms of the usual structure of churches, but I think we are finding that it is even subversive to our own comfort zones. To whit: Ruben and I discovered that we are perceived as an Hispanic ministry, or a church that has an Hispanic ministry. Not only do others see us this way, we see ourselves this way. And then we think we have done our job in being multicultural because we have Anglos and Hispanics together! We realized that we have a problem in our name. What will happen if Koreans or Sudanese begin to be a part of our church? Will we add a new name, “The Rock” in whatever language is coming? We're thinking maybe we just use a symbol, and become “The Church formerly known as...”
Here's how this comes to a head. Again about ten years ago, I was working for a small construction company. We were building a wooden fence with stone pillars. We had rebuilt a large rock wall and with all the masonry work going on, I got to thinking of my great-grandfather, who was a stonemason in France. He left because he did not really like his future as a stonemason in France. I got to thinking, “I am not so sure he left France thinking his great-grandson would end up doing masonry work in Kentucky, and preparing to be a Protestant minister at that.”
I grew up speaking French. In some ways I suppose most people expected that speaking a few languages I would be working overseas, if not doing something glamorous, at least not living the counter-intuitive life I have now. But then... the Kentucky Refugee Ministries in Lexington is settling a lot of Congolese refugees. Two things about the Congolese-- they speak French and they are often Methodists. There are a number of families here, and there are more on the way (26 this month).
America is in a golden age of immigration. Every wave of immigration has made us stronger, made us, well, more American. Let me tell you some sad facts:
There is no county in America that has more people in church than it did in 1990. So, that means that if your church has grown it has done so by transfer, by people moving to the suburbs, or by luring people from a church they use to go to. This last is especially pernicious because what it amounts to is larger churches siphoning people away from smaller churches that can't provide the “programs” that Christians who are retreating to fortress/enclave churches want. So, if you have seen a church grow, the sad fact is, it is hardly a church, because the mission of the Church is to go into all nations making disciples, not sit around providing a place for us to relax.
Add to that the pathetic excuse mainline churches give for their decline: educated people have fewer children, so therefore, there are not as many people in the churches. This is a subset of my “This-Is-Why-There-Are-Nazis” theory: there are some people who are not good enough to come to our churches! If they aren't white, college-educated homeowners, then the Assemblies of God can have them...
And finally, the coup de tache: the last time the mainline churches' growth kept pace with the rate of U.S. Population growth was 1896. This is really tough news; it mean the rot spans generations. In fact, there is no one alive who has a functioning knowledge of the work it took (and will take again) to grow.
My take on this (not that anyone listens) comes down to two issues. First, the mainline churches were very well established before the U.S. became an urban nation (1920). So, we weren't really prepared for the shift the nation was undergoing. Second, the immigrants of the early 20th century were predominantly Southern and Eastern European, who were mainly Roman Catholic. Previously, we did not have much trouble assimilating the various Northern Europeans who made up the wave of immigration in the second half of the nineteenth century. And we had become Anglicized Americans. So these boisterous large family Catholics were not quite what we wanted to deal with.
I know that we are comfortable with monocultural (homogenous) churches to the extent that we believe they are the Gospel way. And yet even a cursory read of the New Testament reveals a very diverse mix of languages, races, classes, etc. They were united in a very clear understanding of Jesus as Lord. The irony today is that our monocultural churches can't even agree on the authority of Scripture, the divinity of Jesus, or appropriate moral standards regarding the controversial issues of their times (two of which were homosexuality and abortion). The early Christians fought and died for these issues (among many others crucial to what we call “orthodoxy”).
I guess in the end, this is just personal to me. It's not just the business of ministry. As one old school preacher used to say, “If I wasn't a Methodist, I'd be A-Shamed.” I get sick when I see us continuing to decline, and comforting ourselves when some churches grow, as if they have done anything to bring new converts to the faith! Or how we get excited by a church like The Rock/La Roca. It shouldn't be an exception!
The population continues to grow. New immigrants come to our cities every day. There are close to 9,000 people from the former Yugoslavia in Louisville, 5500 Russians, maybe 1500 Ukrainians. Don't be fooled; they are not all, or even many, members of the Orthodox Church, or Muslims. They lived for 70 years under enforced atheism. We, it seems, are under something worse. I am not sure of the immigrant demographics in Lexington yet. But I will find out. Then again, I don't really need to. I have the names and addresses of some of the Congolese immigrants already here. And with 26 more coming just this month, I see a new church meeting at The Rock/La Roca/La Roche.
About ten years ago, I met a woman in the UK Library. She looked lost and no one was helping her. I asked if she needed something and could tell from her accent that she was a Russian speaker. Her name was Svetlana, and because of a simple gesture of help, she took me to her house to meet her husband and parents. There was an impromptu concert, because her dad was an unbelievable tenor and Svetlana was a great pianist. Over the course of the next few months, I met many Russians, especially a babushka who was lost downtown and I helped her get home. I had just come back from First Church's mission trip to Estonia, and was blown away that the Russian I learned to be of use during the Cold War was turned to the Gospel. I asked the powers that be to find a way to minister to the rising tide of Russian immigrants. But there wasn't much interest, and a Russian pastor was assigned to Eastern Kentucky, when he could have a fruitful ministry right here in Lexington.
I vowed that if the opportunity to minister to immigrants ever came up again, I would jump on it. So, some of you know of my attempt to minister in the Ukrainian community. It came about because shortly after I got to Louisville, I kept running into Ukrainians. Unfortunately, I could see that a ministry to Ukrainians and immigrants generally was not going to mesh with where I was at that time. So, even though it was clearly a God-thing, I did not carry through. That said, I do believe that it will one day. I just have to be patient.
But perhaps not. There ends up being more to it than I can see. The Rock/La Roca has a subversive value behind its mission: to be a multicultural ministry. It is subversive not only in terms of the usual structure of churches, but I think we are finding that it is even subversive to our own comfort zones. To whit: Ruben and I discovered that we are perceived as an Hispanic ministry, or a church that has an Hispanic ministry. Not only do others see us this way, we see ourselves this way. And then we think we have done our job in being multicultural because we have Anglos and Hispanics together! We realized that we have a problem in our name. What will happen if Koreans or Sudanese begin to be a part of our church? Will we add a new name, “The Rock” in whatever language is coming? We're thinking maybe we just use a symbol, and become “The Church formerly known as...”
Here's how this comes to a head. Again about ten years ago, I was working for a small construction company. We were building a wooden fence with stone pillars. We had rebuilt a large rock wall and with all the masonry work going on, I got to thinking of my great-grandfather, who was a stonemason in France. He left because he did not really like his future as a stonemason in France. I got to thinking, “I am not so sure he left France thinking his great-grandson would end up doing masonry work in Kentucky, and preparing to be a Protestant minister at that.”
I grew up speaking French. In some ways I suppose most people expected that speaking a few languages I would be working overseas, if not doing something glamorous, at least not living the counter-intuitive life I have now. But then... the Kentucky Refugee Ministries in Lexington is settling a lot of Congolese refugees. Two things about the Congolese-- they speak French and they are often Methodists. There are a number of families here, and there are more on the way (26 this month).
America is in a golden age of immigration. Every wave of immigration has made us stronger, made us, well, more American. Let me tell you some sad facts:
There is no county in America that has more people in church than it did in 1990. So, that means that if your church has grown it has done so by transfer, by people moving to the suburbs, or by luring people from a church they use to go to. This last is especially pernicious because what it amounts to is larger churches siphoning people away from smaller churches that can't provide the “programs” that Christians who are retreating to fortress/enclave churches want. So, if you have seen a church grow, the sad fact is, it is hardly a church, because the mission of the Church is to go into all nations making disciples, not sit around providing a place for us to relax.
Add to that the pathetic excuse mainline churches give for their decline: educated people have fewer children, so therefore, there are not as many people in the churches. This is a subset of my “This-Is-Why-There-Are-Nazis” theory: there are some people who are not good enough to come to our churches! If they aren't white, college-educated homeowners, then the Assemblies of God can have them...
And finally, the coup de tache: the last time the mainline churches' growth kept pace with the rate of U.S. Population growth was 1896. This is really tough news; it mean the rot spans generations. In fact, there is no one alive who has a functioning knowledge of the work it took (and will take again) to grow.
My take on this (not that anyone listens) comes down to two issues. First, the mainline churches were very well established before the U.S. became an urban nation (1920). So, we weren't really prepared for the shift the nation was undergoing. Second, the immigrants of the early 20th century were predominantly Southern and Eastern European, who were mainly Roman Catholic. Previously, we did not have much trouble assimilating the various Northern Europeans who made up the wave of immigration in the second half of the nineteenth century. And we had become Anglicized Americans. So these boisterous large family Catholics were not quite what we wanted to deal with.
I know that we are comfortable with monocultural (homogenous) churches to the extent that we believe they are the Gospel way. And yet even a cursory read of the New Testament reveals a very diverse mix of languages, races, classes, etc. They were united in a very clear understanding of Jesus as Lord. The irony today is that our monocultural churches can't even agree on the authority of Scripture, the divinity of Jesus, or appropriate moral standards regarding the controversial issues of their times (two of which were homosexuality and abortion). The early Christians fought and died for these issues (among many others crucial to what we call “orthodoxy”).
I guess in the end, this is just personal to me. It's not just the business of ministry. As one old school preacher used to say, “If I wasn't a Methodist, I'd be A-Shamed.” I get sick when I see us continuing to decline, and comforting ourselves when some churches grow, as if they have done anything to bring new converts to the faith! Or how we get excited by a church like The Rock/La Roca. It shouldn't be an exception!
The population continues to grow. New immigrants come to our cities every day. There are close to 9,000 people from the former Yugoslavia in Louisville, 5500 Russians, maybe 1500 Ukrainians. Don't be fooled; they are not all, or even many, members of the Orthodox Church, or Muslims. They lived for 70 years under enforced atheism. We, it seems, are under something worse. I am not sure of the immigrant demographics in Lexington yet. But I will find out. Then again, I don't really need to. I have the names and addresses of some of the Congolese immigrants already here. And with 26 more coming just this month, I see a new church meeting at The Rock/La Roca/La Roche.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
John's Birthday
His name is John, meaning "God is gracious," or "God's gift," and that is very appropriate. Yesterday was his 6th birthday, and we are celebrating today. He seems very happy to hear stories from when he was a baby, like how we brought him home from the hospital, or how he liked to clunk heads in a game we call "Bulls." We still play it occasionally.
Melissa wanted to be home from the hospital in time for his birthday. You get fixated on things-- there are things (your health) that trump a birthday. Melissa thought she was going to be in the hospital thru the weekend, but she told the doctors her story and they worked hard to get her home. Maybe she went home a little early, but there were two happy boys. Through all this, John has been a rock for Joseph. It is at once touching and sad. He stands up for his brother, soothes him, lawyers for him. But somehow he has had to grow too quickly into that role. He was starting to crack a little as he wondered if Melissa was going to be in the hospital fro as long as last time. I think he got his birthday present when she came home. I wish I knew how to tell him what it means for a PET scan to be clear. I wish I knew how to push back his inevitable anxiety. I'm not much for waiting on time to do its work. The adults feel relieved, but what do you say to children?
Today has been Waffle House, wrestling, a nap (now, thankfully) and later cake and ice cream and presents, and maybe swimming. My in-laws keep saying they need to close the pool because it is too cold. We keep showing them it's not that bad. They're mine, and I guess all those years of swimming in the cold water on California's Central Coast is paying off...
I can't believe John is 6. Time flies. I used to think how cool it was going to be, to get to know him. That's a rapid-fire thing, as kids change quickly-- know more, say more, do more. Sometimes I wish you could stop them at each point, but the next points will be good, too!
Melissa wanted to be home from the hospital in time for his birthday. You get fixated on things-- there are things (your health) that trump a birthday. Melissa thought she was going to be in the hospital thru the weekend, but she told the doctors her story and they worked hard to get her home. Maybe she went home a little early, but there were two happy boys. Through all this, John has been a rock for Joseph. It is at once touching and sad. He stands up for his brother, soothes him, lawyers for him. But somehow he has had to grow too quickly into that role. He was starting to crack a little as he wondered if Melissa was going to be in the hospital fro as long as last time. I think he got his birthday present when she came home. I wish I knew how to tell him what it means for a PET scan to be clear. I wish I knew how to push back his inevitable anxiety. I'm not much for waiting on time to do its work. The adults feel relieved, but what do you say to children?
Today has been Waffle House, wrestling, a nap (now, thankfully) and later cake and ice cream and presents, and maybe swimming. My in-laws keep saying they need to close the pool because it is too cold. We keep showing them it's not that bad. They're mine, and I guess all those years of swimming in the cold water on California's Central Coast is paying off...
I can't believe John is 6. Time flies. I used to think how cool it was going to be, to get to know him. That's a rapid-fire thing, as kids change quickly-- know more, say more, do more. Sometimes I wish you could stop them at each point, but the next points will be good, too!
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Carrying On
Well, let's see. Melissa is still in the hospital. It's the little things that get you. In fact, evil is in the little things. Strangely enough, it seems you can steel yourself for really hard and diffcult things, but it's the minor aggravations that take their toll.
It's the dilemma I mean when I say it's not enough to have cancer. And it's not enough to have the things that come with it-- feeling badly, feeling tired. Even those are bearable. And you can even handle how you've been robbed. Melissa wants nothing more than to be a mom, to take care of John and Joe. But when you have been beaten and robbed, it is too much to be needled by things that those of us who are well just take in stride.
And even when you can hear that graft-versus-host disease is a good thing, an expected thing-- such that if you don't develop it, they will introduce more of the donor's stem cells to cause it-- it still gnaws at you that just as you were feeling better, you had to go back to the place where you were radiated and poisoned, where you spent many painful and bitter days.
It strikes me that a lot of people don't like this kind of talk, as if somehow in all this there is some lesson on patient endurance. And yet, it is in the very pain and frustration that the presence of God is found. So if I say something negative or angry, it is not a sign of losing faith or hope (read the Psalms is all I can say).
About ten years ago, I wrote a country song with the awkward title, “Merle Haggard, I Wish I Didn't Know What Your Songs Were All About.” The function of country music (real country music) or the Blues is mostly to realize that someone else has been where you are, or even worse. You can't fix what happened to them, they can't fix what happened to you, but you share. You can never underestimate the power of solidarity. It shouldn't surprise us that God came to us in Jesus; after that, you can't doubt that He knows. He knows.
Sometimes there's nothing to say. You just sit with the person who is suffering. Sometimes you have to know when you can venture some word of encouragement, some word to keep things in perspective. And then you have to know when to keep quiet. And yet, both say something. And sometimes God shows you something. In the half-awake half-asleep time this morning, I started out bitter, all the things robbed from us. It was really focusing on how for four months now, closer to five, Melissa has been separated from us, from me. There she was, in the hospital bed. There I was on the uncomfortable bed/chair. But then, it hit me. I was there with her. She is still here. And even though the Evil One's threats are dire, he has yet to make good on them. And even so, we were still there together. It sounds like madness or some half-awake delirium, but I started chuckling. Even though we get stretched to the breaking point, we're still here, still have two sweet boys and all the same hopes we had before, perhaps more refined.
You don't want something like this to happen, but when we come through it, there will be a savor to life we did not have before, if only because we realize that since you're always under a threat, you may as well get the best revenge-- living well.
It's the dilemma I mean when I say it's not enough to have cancer. And it's not enough to have the things that come with it-- feeling badly, feeling tired. Even those are bearable. And you can even handle how you've been robbed. Melissa wants nothing more than to be a mom, to take care of John and Joe. But when you have been beaten and robbed, it is too much to be needled by things that those of us who are well just take in stride.
And even when you can hear that graft-versus-host disease is a good thing, an expected thing-- such that if you don't develop it, they will introduce more of the donor's stem cells to cause it-- it still gnaws at you that just as you were feeling better, you had to go back to the place where you were radiated and poisoned, where you spent many painful and bitter days.
It strikes me that a lot of people don't like this kind of talk, as if somehow in all this there is some lesson on patient endurance. And yet, it is in the very pain and frustration that the presence of God is found. So if I say something negative or angry, it is not a sign of losing faith or hope (read the Psalms is all I can say).
About ten years ago, I wrote a country song with the awkward title, “Merle Haggard, I Wish I Didn't Know What Your Songs Were All About.” The function of country music (real country music) or the Blues is mostly to realize that someone else has been where you are, or even worse. You can't fix what happened to them, they can't fix what happened to you, but you share. You can never underestimate the power of solidarity. It shouldn't surprise us that God came to us in Jesus; after that, you can't doubt that He knows. He knows.
Sometimes there's nothing to say. You just sit with the person who is suffering. Sometimes you have to know when you can venture some word of encouragement, some word to keep things in perspective. And then you have to know when to keep quiet. And yet, both say something. And sometimes God shows you something. In the half-awake half-asleep time this morning, I started out bitter, all the things robbed from us. It was really focusing on how for four months now, closer to five, Melissa has been separated from us, from me. There she was, in the hospital bed. There I was on the uncomfortable bed/chair. But then, it hit me. I was there with her. She is still here. And even though the Evil One's threats are dire, he has yet to make good on them. And even so, we were still there together. It sounds like madness or some half-awake delirium, but I started chuckling. Even though we get stretched to the breaking point, we're still here, still have two sweet boys and all the same hopes we had before, perhaps more refined.
You don't want something like this to happen, but when we come through it, there will be a savor to life we did not have before, if only because we realize that since you're always under a threat, you may as well get the best revenge-- living well.
Tekna-logy 2
Saturday night it was just me and the boys. One of those first cool nights. I love Fall, and can't wait for those times when you have to break out a light jacket. Anyway, we had spent some time just being outside in the cool air.
We walked up and down the driveway, John wanting us to get exercise, Joe wanting to wave at cars. On one of the trips back up, John spotted a patch of clover. The boys looked down and remembered what i had told them about perhaps the greatest evangelist, St. Patrick, who used the clover to describe the mystery of the Trinity; three leaves, one plant. You can't separate them and still have clover. Neither can clover be clover without the three parts. There's a good lesson for the church: almost every problem the mainline churches face have to do with not understanding or adequately respecting the Trinity. But I digress. John and Joe each told about “Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”
Then John blew me away. “Let's pray. Thank you Heavenly Father for clover and trees and grass. Make mommy all better. Amen.”
Later that night, we were all sitting at the bar in the kitchen. I was writing in my journal and the boys were coloring pictures. They asked me what I was doing and I tried to explain the idea of a journal to them. As they were coloring, I realized that they were pretty much doing the same thing, drawing what was important to them, what made them laugh, or what stuck out. John was drawing “everything what's in the sky” (he talks like a British working man for some reason...) Joseph was drawing the pool. More specifically, “a big splash,” one of their favorite things. I throw them way up in the air and they make huge waves. Well, Joe had drawn John making a big splash, and his picture of John was revealing. A few months ago, I learned an interesting perspective when I saw the pictures they took. It makes you realize, kids live in a big world. We adults generally take pictures on the level. These the boys took were skewed, either obviously coming from someone short, or not centered. They really live in a foreign world! (Thus John's insistence that at Daddy School, the fathers must sit in the little kid chairs...) Joe's version of John was very sweet. There are some legs sticking down from a big head with big eyes. If you know John, you know that he has a large head and very large sweet eyes. It was a moment where you could catch a slight glimpse of how Joe perceives John, maybe the most important person in his world. I remember my mom used to tell me that my brother was the person most closely related to me. That stuck with me, and I guess I unconsciously share that with John and Joe. Or maybe it just happens. They eat together, play together, and sleep together. One day, you know, such times end. They say you have to become an adult. But does anyone really want to? It comes at the price of loneliness and alienation. No wonder Jesus said you have to receive the Kingdom like a little child would receive it.
We walked up and down the driveway, John wanting us to get exercise, Joe wanting to wave at cars. On one of the trips back up, John spotted a patch of clover. The boys looked down and remembered what i had told them about perhaps the greatest evangelist, St. Patrick, who used the clover to describe the mystery of the Trinity; three leaves, one plant. You can't separate them and still have clover. Neither can clover be clover without the three parts. There's a good lesson for the church: almost every problem the mainline churches face have to do with not understanding or adequately respecting the Trinity. But I digress. John and Joe each told about “Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”
Then John blew me away. “Let's pray. Thank you Heavenly Father for clover and trees and grass. Make mommy all better. Amen.”
Later that night, we were all sitting at the bar in the kitchen. I was writing in my journal and the boys were coloring pictures. They asked me what I was doing and I tried to explain the idea of a journal to them. As they were coloring, I realized that they were pretty much doing the same thing, drawing what was important to them, what made them laugh, or what stuck out. John was drawing “everything what's in the sky” (he talks like a British working man for some reason...) Joseph was drawing the pool. More specifically, “a big splash,” one of their favorite things. I throw them way up in the air and they make huge waves. Well, Joe had drawn John making a big splash, and his picture of John was revealing. A few months ago, I learned an interesting perspective when I saw the pictures they took. It makes you realize, kids live in a big world. We adults generally take pictures on the level. These the boys took were skewed, either obviously coming from someone short, or not centered. They really live in a foreign world! (Thus John's insistence that at Daddy School, the fathers must sit in the little kid chairs...) Joe's version of John was very sweet. There are some legs sticking down from a big head with big eyes. If you know John, you know that he has a large head and very large sweet eyes. It was a moment where you could catch a slight glimpse of how Joe perceives John, maybe the most important person in his world. I remember my mom used to tell me that my brother was the person most closely related to me. That stuck with me, and I guess I unconsciously share that with John and Joe. Or maybe it just happens. They eat together, play together, and sleep together. One day, you know, such times end. They say you have to become an adult. But does anyone really want to? It comes at the price of loneliness and alienation. No wonder Jesus said you have to receive the Kingdom like a little child would receive it.
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