Living in to Mystery

This morning I was reading a bit from Eugene Peterson's The Unnecessary Pastor: Rediscovering the Call. It's a book sort of co-written with Marva Dawn, an interesting and a little excentric writer who has a deep concern for the worship and spiritual life of the church. The chapter I am mucking my way through is an adaptation of a previous essay by Peterson on Paul's letter to the Romans. It's chock full of insights about Paul's relation to Scripture, mystery, language and community.

I'm not quite half-way through, but was set up by his reflections on Paul's use of Scripture--not as a text to be used but as a source to be submitted to. "A neccesary pastor" he writes, "seks to control scripture, wilding it for his or her own ends. An unnecessary pastor find a home and a country within Scriptures and is shaped by them." It's a terrific thought as I find myself dipping deep into Philippians for an adult Bible study at Lakeside.

But that was only the toss of the ball leading to a service ace for Peterson as he turned to mystery. His point is that modern rational minds think of mystery as a riddle to be solved--that the greatest human response to mystery is to dissolve it. But Peterson wants us to re-think it all: mystery not as the darkness to be cast out, but as a light to be entered. Here's the sentence (slightly edited!):

In the presence of mystery "we are not in a position to control anything, to predict of manage, to pose as aouthorities, to as we say, 'master the subject.' But it does leave much room for worship, for there is no worship where there is no mystery."

There is no worship where there is no mystery! Think about how much the trends of worship are precisely to reduce and eliminate mystery--to make the "Christian life" accessible. Preaching should be practical, apply to our daily lives, transparent. Music should be happy and light and hummable. But of course it's true that if there is not some sort of mystery at the middle of it all, whatever it is that we are doing is not worship at all, but management, control, "mastering" in Peterson's words. I felt it last week as I tried to preach on that wild and wooly part of the Sermon on the Mount where Jesus admonishes his listeners to "be perfect." And every bone in my body was screaming to find some way to figure it out--"dumb it down" in Marva Dawn's words.

Think of the classic examples of worship: Isaiah in the Temple, the shepherds at the stable, or for that matter Peter and James and John at Jesus' feet at the Transfiguration. We're all Peter, wanting to build tents to contain the moment, yet the truly human response is to fall on your knees and tremble.

When's the last time you trembled in church--went weak at the knees and felt your eyes get moist? It does happen some times, doesn't it? For me it so often as to do with music. "Will you come and follow me?" "Lord, you have come to the lakeshore..." "Precious Lord, take my hand...." Sometimes it is in prayer, when I just feel myself lifted up in a way that turns me. I wonder what would happen if we started each Sunday morning, not asking "I wonder what I will learn that I can take home and apply," but "just for a moment, Lord, let me stand in the mystery of your presence"?

There is no worship where there is no mystery. And likewise, when all the mystery has been drained and tamed, there's very little room for worship.

Keeping the Dream Alive...

Martin Luther King Day Celebration in Storm Lake, IA….co-hosted by the Buena Vista University Student Diversity Center and the Middle School…potluck at 5:00, program at 6:30. Sounded promising. I found my way to the un-used grade school that was the location at. There were about 8 BV students playing in the kitchen and a ragtag assembly of about 10 people looking warily at each other. The potluck was hotdogs, potato salad, sloppy joe (made-rites in Iowa!) and the tuna noodle hotdish I brought—closest I could come to soul food! This could so easily have been a complete bust, but my first conversation was with an old farmer who had been a garbage collector for 14 years before his back gave out. Words came hard to him. But it registered…it was for such as these that King came to Memphis there for to die. He told me about the drive-in theater that used to be on the East side of the lake, and how his dad talked about carrying music cases for Lawrence Welk when he came to play at the Cobblestone. Welk didn’t tip them with money...he gave them chewing gum with his name and picture on the logo.

Fairly sure this conversation had run its course I made my way to the gaggle of students in the kitchen. One recognized me from the community orientation for new students and my coming to the college chapel services a couple of times. Strained introductions led to some laughter and time to eat. There were word searches of MLKing related things, and the party got started. The kids loosened up and I suppose I did, too. There was a lot of laughter. Most were from Chicago, and we started talking about places we loved to eat..Ribs and Bibs in Hyde Park! There was an argument as to whether Chicago was North or South of Storm Lake and I won with proof from my Android cell phone! These were kids who were as out of place as I was, but so comfortable with each other and in their own skins. For one brief shining moment there was a Camelot of community!

6:25 we pulled up the tables, stacked the chairs, and the 20 of us straggled to the auditorium for the program—a 10 minute PowerPoint featuring the writing of middle school kids who didn’t show up and one BV student doing a 5 minute original “spoken art” peace….meaning a poem without rhyme or meter, but from the heart, and cheered lustily by her friends. The coordinator walked awkwardly back to the podium. “I said it was a short program. Thanks for coming and don’t forget your t-shirt.” I took a large, thanked them all for coming and went back out into the night with about four tablespoons of tuna noodle left in a cold dish. The strangest thing was I could not get myself to be cynical about it. Just wonder. Could King have imagined 45 years ago that Storm Lake Iowa would be 30% minority, and that to mark his birthday the oddest assortment of god’s creatures would assemble for hot dogs, made-rites and tuna noodle and spoken art in his honor, with one retired garbage collector fumbling for words, a little nervous, but welcome nevertheless?

…the news from Storm Lake!