Reflections on the Daily Gospel for Advent, 2009

Luke 21:5-19
When some were speaking about the temple, how it was adorned with beautiful stones and gifts dedicated to God, he said, "As for these things that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down." They asked him, "Teacher, when will this be, and what will be the sign that this is about to take place?" And he said, "Beware that you are not led astray; for many will come in my name and say, 'I am he!' and, 'The time is near!' Do not go after them. "When you hear of wars and insurrections, do not be terrified; for these things must take place first, but the end will not follow immediately."

Then he said to them, "Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be great earthquakes, and in various places famines and plagues; and there will be dreadful portents and great signs from heaven. "But before all this occurs, they will arrest you and persecute you; they will hand you over to synagogues and prisons, and you will be brought before kings and governors because of my name. This will give you an opportunity to testify. So make up your minds not to prepare your defense in advance; for I will give you words and a wisdom that none of your opponents will be able to withstand or contradict. You will be betrayed even by parents and brothers, by relatives and friends; and they will put some of you to death. You will be hated by all because of my name. But not a hair of your head will perish. By your endurance you will gain your souls."

Tummies still pleasantly full, and our minds quietly hazed by the turkey coma, we are jolted to attention as the season of Advent begins. The message is certainly not the one that is captured in the small mountain of department store flyers that fill out the Sunday morning newspaper. It’s difficult to imagine what we might want with a new GPS, cologne gift sets, golf clubs and tennis rackets if earthquakes, famines and plagues are our lot for the near future. Emergency rations, stockpiles of fresh drinking water, and lots of batteries, perhaps. You might make a justification for soft, snuggly stuffed animals to help you make it through long nights of war and insurrection, but Wii’s, if the story is to be believed, are expendable at best.

We know that a part of what we read between the lines of this Gospel for our first furtive steps into the season is the real-life experience of that first century church who took the stories and images from the life of Jesus and fashioned them into a narrative. Times did get terrifying for the generation to follow the One, especially after Nero fiddled away an empire and pacifist Christians seemed a likely patsy for the fall, but that was a long time ago, and Constantine’s sword was fairly effective in forging an unholy alliance that would grow the church into something resembling the first Multinational corporation before too many centuries had passed. From time to time it has been dangerous to claim the faith, and even in the world we share there are corners where a cross around your neck could lead to significant challenges, but if we’re being real, the dreadful portents and great signs that may unfold in the heavens are far more harbingers of the fragile threads of secular promises lost than any reflection of something requiring a defense of our faith. For most of us, believing in Jesus is at worse a quaint reflection of lost innocence. We’ll die of old age long before we might face a sword of religious persecution.

So what to make of it all? I do not pray for any sort of Holy War, but I do wonder if we need to ponder, at least for a few moments, the possibility that the progress of faith is made less on roads of tinsel and bright packages, and more precisely at those moments when we have the most to lose. As I write this, the nation waits for our new President to announce his strategy in the continuing debacle of Iraq, and pundits on both sides are lining up to assure that no matter what he offers will be rejected out of hand. The notion that we might need more American lives put on the line is about as repugnant a thought as you might allow to tarnish your Christmas stars, but it is difficult to deny that the hole we’ve dug for ourselves will demand some filling before we can step out with any kind of dignity. Could it be that the peace we long for will not come in a slow steady arc of “every day in every way we’re getting better and better”? could it be that the princely peace we long for will require loss, and sacrifice, and long suffering?

We live in an age of quick fixes, and so much of the teaching of this One whose birth we await has been burnished and dissected to fit the longing of our hearts for stories that come to a happy ending within an hour’s time, with commercials included. The Gospel reminds us that the coming of the Lord will indeed threaten the lords and ladies who cling to illusions of power in a world gone mad. There is much in this world that longs for salvation that will have to be set aside, wrapped and burned, melted and refashioned if it is to bear the true image of this One who is to come. It will be a fight to bring this child into the world, and once born, it will be a real battle if he is to emerge victorious, which is to say, “crucified, dead, and buried.”

This first Sunday of Advent we are advised that the road before us will demand more of us than we might actually be ready to give. There’s no gentle encouragement in Jesus’ tone—no soothing of our furrowed brow, no quiet whisper in our ear…”Don’t worry, it all looks frightful but cling to me and all will be well”…”You will be hated because of my name!” We do not make the journey like the winning Olympian, wrapped in his flag while the adoring crowd cheers. We make this journey because it is more true than any of the other convenient and comfortable lies we might otherwise embrace. We make this trip because the One who has gone before us has told us it is the only way. “If any would come after me let them deny themselves, take up their cross daily, and follow me.” (Luke 9:23)

Gracious God, we come to this season with visions of sugar plums, voices tuned to Joy, Peace, and Love. We know this is where you lead, but we pray that we might see your promised land where it truly lies, on the far side of our fears and hopes, through trial and terror, beyond, but not apart from the suffering of this world you love and long to save. Still our hearts, and slow our steps, that in the season that stretches out before us we might begin not only to see the One who Comes, but our own deep need for his touch, heart to heart, by the redemption of your precious blood. Amen.

Peublo Pottery

I've been drawn to the black on black pottery since I first saw it on the shelves at Parson's Indian Trading Post in the Wisconsin Dells many years ago. Tucked onto the shleves behind dusty cases filled with arrowheads and sacred pipes, alongside rows of Dells kitsch, my eye was drawn to the shiny black pots inscribed with geometric patterns. It was on my first visit to Santa Fe, scouring the shops along San Francisco Street with Bruce Rigdon, that I got the first inkling that this was not just a pretty object designed to separate tourists from their money. Bruce was in search of a small pot to bring home to his wife as a birthday present, and that day I heard the name of Maria Martinez, though to be honest it did not sink in. The pottery that bore her name was far more expensive than many of the other pieces, and Bruce explained that Maria was one of the finest artists in the genre. She had died in 1980, and her work was valued by collectors. It added up in my mind to "expensive pretty pot."

But this time to Santa Fe, with a little more time to explore beyond the old city of Santa Fe, I had the opportunity to learn more. We were headed back from Los Alamos (a posting for another day!) and had our eyes open for a peublo that we might be able to knock around in a bit, to taste a little bit of the modern Native American culture after climbing about in the ruins of their ancestors at Bandalier National Monument. Denise had read about San Ildefonso, and when we saw the sign, it seemed worth the detour.

We arrived at a little bit before four in the afternoon, and at the museum and cultural center I saw those familiar pieces of pottery, and the name of Maria Montoya Martinez, and the pieces started to link together. The pueblo was closed to visitors at 5, and so we had to decide whether it was worth the investment for so short a time. A few of the shops might still be open, the woman behind the counter said,and our flight left early enough the next day that we knew it was now or never. Plunking down our money, we got a map and started on our way.

The streets and common areas were mostly deserted, and a beautiful church commanded the center of the scene. Valenti-Hein vacations tend to be drawn to cemeteries, and at the front of the church was a quiet place of repose for former residents of the village, with crosses, mounds, and colorful carvings. We made our way around the corner, and into one of the shops that was open...more a room off the kitchen of the artist than a studio, really. And there, on the table, six or seven pieces, several a deep orange-red, and the rest black.

The gentle man in attendance encouraged us to look. They were to be fired the next day, if we wanted to come back and see. The reddish orange pots were the color of the clay, and the black would be created by firing the pots with horse manure. He showed us the piece of obsidian that was used to laboriously buff the pots to their high gloss, and explained how the designs, that looked like bas relief, were drawn on with a fresh slurry of clay, painting in what to my eye was the background.

It was after I got home that I started to scratch the itch of my curiosity. The pottery, it seems, was first discovered in archeological digs in the early part of the 20th century. Edgar Lee Hewitt, a professor of archeology, had found shards of black on black pottery dating to the neolithic era. Hewitt wanted to reconstruct the pottery for a museum exhibition, and heard about San Ildefenso and the artists who worked there. He brought them the challenge--to not only create the pots, but to try to understand how neolithic people could have acomplished such fine artistry.

Enter Maria Martinez, at the time a young potter who spent the rest of her life trying to understand and recreate the work of her ancient ancestors. She knew about the red clay, and her traditions had preserved the cave-like geometric drawings, but how is it that such a fine luster, and a deep black color were archieved before the alchemy of modern pottery?

Smoke was the obvious answer, but it took years of experimentation to find the right temperatures and mixture of heat and manure to fire the pot just so. The neolithic dating gave away the most likely process of burnishing the pots to their lush gloss: stone on stone! And so, for hours on end the pots were rubbed stone on stone, then set into fires banked with manure in order to produce what the Native people of the pueblos had done before recorded time.

So, it seems, my new little pot is a resurrection story of sorts...an art that grew in the villages tucked into the valleys beneath those dwellings I had crouched into earlier in the day. Stone against stone produced the luster that caught the archeologist's eyes, and a modern artist working away in a modest pueblo while not thirty miles away some of the greatest scientific minds in the world were gathered in Los Alamos working their own alchemy with atoms and isotopes in order to unleash a devastation on the face of the earth that would end the war with a force that would for a generation threaten to end the planet.

Why is it striking to me that the critical ingredient was horse manure? That it was out of a smouldering fire, smoking away on the remains of the horse's day, that such beauty would emerge? That at the same time that Western science was unleashing unconcievable devastation, Maria Martinez and her husband were squatting around the fire behind their pueblo in order to bring back to this earth the pottery of a forgotten age?

We live in a world of contrasts, I decided as I unwrapped that black pot I brought safe home--a world in which beauty is the result of hard labor, saving all the parts, smothering the fire with manure, laying fresh slurry in delicate lines that end up looking like the background.

Such, I suppose, is our lives: shaped and shined, colored by what we might otherwise bury and avoid. In its simplest beauty we find ourselves really only trying to reclaim the traditions lost as we stumbled into "modernity" with a ferocity and pride that really can consume us.

If I head back to New Mexico, I'm not sure I want to see Los Alamos again, but trust me, I will want to see San Ildefenso. I might even spring for the photography permit, and I suppose if I really wanted to be the best steward of my gifts, I would make the investment in one of those pots, still rubbed and fired as they were thousands of years ago. Maybe it's in the sheen of that black on black pottery that we learn the most about our humanness.

Minding the Gap

With a traditional church potluck to send me on my way I waded into the Post-Memorial phase of my life on October 25. What better way to mark such a transition than to spend three days in Santa Fe with Thomas Moore....no, not the Thomas Moore of Henry VIII, but the contemporary writer/post-Jungian/mystic known for many books including Care of the Soul. It was an intriguing mental journey into shadows and archetypes, drifting past many themes that have been so much a part of my personal spiritual journey for these past four years. It's pretty nice to be able to do it in Santa Fe, as well, albeit the weather in Wisconsin was much nicer than in New Mexico for most of the days we were there, but the sun shone bright as Denise and I had the opportunity to crawl around the cliffs of Bandelier National Monument, and I climbed into the darkness of the Kiva at the top of the climb at the end of the trail.

Shadows figure prominently in Jung's thought, and for Moore, too. As I wrestled with what to make of the rich mythological imagery that Moore uses to illustrate his understanding of the soul's journey, I realized how much of my personal journey for oh these long years has been a wrestling with shadows, mostly to the end of keeping them in the dark. "Be perfect, even as your father in heaven is perfect" is without a doubt one of the most troubling sayings of Jesus in my book, and it has brought me to my knees more than once. In the last few years it is a saying that has been illumined by the story of Jacob, preparing to be reunited with his brother Esau, who spent the night on the far side of the Jabok, wrestling with an angel. You remember how Jacob fought all through the darkness, until that sneaky angel touched his hip and dislocated it, leaving Jacob holding on for his life, but still pleading for his blessing. He got it--but he limped away.

Shadows, it seems, never go away, at least not in a three-dimensional world. You wrestle, and stuggle, and limp away, but the depth and truth of a soul is not measured by the shadow's vanquish, but by its marks, carried, and forgotten only at great peril. So, yes, I bought Moore's book, and yes, I asked him to sign it for me, and yes, I have the requisite picture of me and him smiling at a camera. And in the book I read more about his understanding of those critical archtypes that shape our soul...Mother, Father, Child...and the disturbing possibility that the telos of this existence is not to wrestle yourself free from your past, but to find the ways in which shadow and light, good and troubling, gentle and hard, are woven of steel cords in order to provide the skeleton on which God's image is hung in mortals. You cannot run from your past, it seems, but if you carry it gently with you, maybe you can make some peace with it.

Darkness and light, gardens of good and evil all growing like wheat and tares, are not the fault of human nature, but the nature of human fault. As we closed out the seminar, we did the unthinkably oogly, holding hands and sharing how what we'd experienced in these past days might filter into our lives, and I found myself thinking of that voice that fills the stations in London as trains come and go: "Mind the Gap." That, it seems to me, is the work of the next months for me, and I find myself wondering if it is not a part of what the church needs to wrestle with as it continues to limp into the 21st century. It's in the shadows, the gaps, the nights of wrestling that our true identity will begin to emerge.

Four years silence is long enough

four years ago I wandered back into ministry after a sabbatical, and hit the ground running in the 21st century church. two years later, I hit a wall, and the two years since have been a time to try to weave some sense back into it all. the journey is taking a wild new turn now, so maybe its time to break the silence and invte your reflections through my own on just how God IS calling us to be the church in this fractured world.

I'll have time on my hands at the end of October, as 13 1/2 years of ministry comes to an end there. wish me luck...not just in a soft landing in the transition, but in finding some orderly way to reflect on it all, what it means for me, what it means for that church on the corner of college and meade, what it means in the larger picture of God's work in this world that we know and love as the church.

Want an Assignment?

Another part of what I'm about in these weeks (see further down to understand that "another")is looking at other congregations that are similar to MPC that seem to be "getting it".

Interesting fact #1 is that congregations of the size of MPC (both in terms of membership and attendance) are pretty rare in the PCUSA, and when you add the factor of the church's commitment to mission as witnessed by its support of denominational ministry, the number shrinks considerably. I've come up with 14-16 churches that meet MPC on that matrix of membership and mission giving.

So here's an assignment for any who might like! Most of those churches have websites. If you choose to accept it, look them up, rummage around, and then in one way or another, let us know what you think! This is similar to the church visits that the Sabbatical team is about, but it lets you come along from the comfort of your computer screen--so click away, and let us know your impressions:

First Presbyterian Church, Stamford, CT

www.fishchurch.org

First Presbyterian Church, Cedar Rapids, IA

www.fpccr.org

Blacksburg Presbyterian Church, Blacksburg, VA

www.blacksburgpres.org

Wallingford Presbyterian Church, Wallingford, PA

www.wallingfordpres.org

St. Philip Presbyterian Church, Houston, TX

www.saintphilip.net

Troy Presbyterian Church, Troy, OH

www.fpctroy.org

First Presbyterian Church, Tupelo, MS

www.fpctup.org

Immanuel Presbyterian Church, Milwaukee, WI

www.immanuelwi.org

First Presbyterian Church, Decatur, IL

www.firstpresdecatur.org

First Presbyterian Church, Greer, SC

www.greerfpc.org

Danville Presbyterian Church, Danville, KY

www.presbydan.org

First Presbyterian Church, Hartsville, SC

www.firstpreshart.org

Government Street Presbyterian Church, Mobile, AL

www.gspcmobile.org

Happy hunting!

Rounding the Post

Sorry it's been so long since posting--this sabbatical has now entered a very different phase, as the meeting of wonderful and exotic places and welcoming and delightful people has given way to a parade of ideas, as I've "read around" in things I think might move me along the larger project of how we're called to be the Church of Jesus Christ.

Jeremy Begbie continues to exercise the greatest influence on my mind right now, in his book, "Theology, Music and Time." This is a VERY dense book, which makes posting on it something of a challenge--talking about it assumes a level of competence with the ideas that I'm not sure I can claim! Suffice it to say you're glad THIS was not one of the books I suggested to the congregation--unless you're interested in an immersion in music theory and practice in the 20th century and its theological implications.

But, I'll try! The idea that rings through the book for me is that one of the things in this 21st century world that surrounds us that is most out of whack is the way in which we understand and dwell in time. Simply put, we live in a world in which time is understood to be a scarce commodity--worth fighting for and trying to hoard. Begbie argues that music gives us a way into understanding that from a theological perspective, time is neither a commodity nor scarce. It is, rather, a gift which enfolds us, and encircles us, and gives us the space within which we can live our lives in the presence of God.

Boy, THAT needs more working out! But the way it's been processed in my little brain is that maybe one of the most important things the church has to offer the world around is a DIFFERENT way of being in time: one that is GRACIOUS; one that understands that the time that the clock can measure is, in the end, the most trivial kind of time there is--a way of being in time that does not view others as a threat, but as a gift (listen, here, for overtones of the questions of hospitality and community that started this dance!)

I think of the powerful image that Frederick Bueckner invokes in his autobiographical remembrance of the day his father took his own life, and how, in an instant, time was transformed for him--from an endless and open presence to "hanging on as the horse charges toward the end."

What would a church look like that truly understood its ministry in the world as a ministry of "taking time for each other"? Discipleship, community, commitment, and yes, surrender, become important criteria.....I dunno--just thinking!

Freedom's Just Another Word

A week has passed since last post, and it's been a week of regaining bearings, catching up, and relaxing a bit, as well. The major journeys of this time apart are now past, and the next 6-7 weeks are intended to be a time to think, read, and put the many pieces of this jigsaw into some sort of order.

We all, of course, celebrated the 4th of July--Independence Day--and I had at least in the corner of my mind the delightful Bobby who chided us outside the parliament building "if you all hadn't been so uppity there in Boston, YOU could be part of this, too!"

I found myself thinking about St. Augustine, and his understanding of the truest form of human freedom being nothing more or less than conforming our human will to the will of God. That, of course, is about the opposite of what I suspect the common definition of freedom was among those who celebrated the 4th (and the 2nd, and the 3rd, and the 5th!) thinking that freedom 1. Is my ability to do what I want, and 2. If God has any place in this, it should be in shifting the world around so that what I want is a little easier for me.

Am I being to cynical, or has freedom become, in Janice Joplin's words, "nothing left to lose"? A hammer with which we can shape the world to the form of our choosing? It's Florence, and the Medicis who come to mind now, and the amazing collections of the Vatican Museum. So much of what is now for us a true treasure of art was assembled in order to assert a particular order on the world around them. Freedom--if it was an important word at the time--was the ability to control the forces in the world in your favor.

But what might it mean if our deepest and fullest freedom comes when we give ourselves over to God and find ourselves in a community of shared value in which each person's first responsibility is to look after the other?

The thought that crossed my mind as I watched skyrockets burst in the night sky is that this community of shared value would really be a perpetual motion machine--no fuse to light, no time at which the last shell would burst and we'd all go home. If I'm concerned for my neighbor, and my neighbor's concerned for me, there's ALWAYS a light on! And if, as Jesus insisted, my neighbor is only and always the one whose need is present to me, then this community of shared value (done correctly) is always growing, moving, shifting its focus beyond itself, as well. Its boundaries cannot be fixed by doctrines, or theological positions, but only by the OTHER, and specifically, that Other's deep need.

Alexis de Tocquville said that the thing that made this nation unique (this was back in the 1800's) was its combination of fierce individualism and deeply held civic responsibility. Many commentators on de Tocquville in the past ten years have noted that the fierce individualism is doing just fine, but we seem to be losing that sense of civic responsibility. I still see enough signs of hope and promise to be skeptical of their conclusions, but I see what makes them wonder. Freedom, unbounded, as Augustine understood, is just another form of slavery, and far more destructive, because you end up a slave to your own shifting appetites and desires.

So, happy 4th! Let freedom RING!

And a little something from me.....

The last four days were spent in Santa Fe and the annual conference of the Pastor Theologian program. These are always incredible events, with major powerhouse speakers and lots of time for conversation and reflection. I met for the third time a man by the name of Jeremy Begbie, who has done some wonderful thinking on the ways in which music allows us and assists us in thinking and living our faith. One of his critical insights is that because of the way the modern world works around us, we tend to think in a more or less linear way--one thought follows another, and we get confused when there's more than one thought that fills a given space (the best example, the Christian doctrine of the Trinity--how can God be three in one, how can Jesus be human AND divine at the same time.)

Music, Jeremy suggests, gives you a way to think about three things, four things, and number of things at the same time, each existing together without eradicating the other, or merging into some different thing. So, while yellow and red on canvas either obscure each other r create orange, a c/e/g/c played together on a piano make a c major chord with each note present to all the rest.

Okay, it's getting a little heady, but it enforces something I've been thinking about since Iona: how much music shapes the way in which we learn/practice/articulate our faith. It also got me to thinking about the "paradigm" of church, and whether the goal is not to choose one or another, but to search for the "harmonics" of the many churches any one congregation might be at any given moment. Just as God is One in the Many, the Body of Christ is most faithful when its finding not "the one true way to be in this world" but ALL the diverse and wonderful ways in which, together, we witness to the harmony God intends for this creation.

Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch

Below is a summary of the Sabbatical Team's visit to the Marshfield Church, forwarded to me by Jim Bowman (THANKS JIM!) a quick shot on the things going on on the home front. I'd be curious if anyone who's flitting through has and reflections on the now 2 completed sessions with Prof. Irizarry from Mccormick?

Visit to First Presbyterian Church
Marshfield, WI
The Sabbatical steering team visited First Presbyterian Church in Marshfield, WI on Sunday, June 6, 2005. The purpose is to understand the role that First Presbyterian seeks to play in the 21st century.
We attended their worship service and then met with Pastor Scott Marrese-Wheeler and five members of the congregation. We asked these questions and listened to their responses:
Q: Do you have a mission statement? How do you see yourself living it?
A: The mission statement, printed in the bulletin in both English and Spanish, follows:
First Presbyterian Church, Marshfield, Wisconsin seeks to welcome all to join us on our journey of faith, denying no one, based upon his or her particular human condition, participation in the life of the church. We want to be a safe place, a sanctuary where people are accepted, included, and cared for as they are. We will be agents of God's transforming power, aligning ourselves with the Holy Spirit as we pray, worship, learn, share fellowship and serve together. By attending to the love of Jesus Christ in our midst, we discover a deepening faith that makes a difference in our lives. As a community based on God's love, we strive to be of service to our neighbors and to the world.
In the past, First Presbyterian was known as the "doctors and professionals church". Three years ago, the mission statement was updated. The congregation wanted to reach out to its community and welcome gays, lesbians, and others. Because of this policy, a group of Spanish-speaking Presbyterians came to the church.
Issues exist within the congregation and the members do not always seek unanimous agreement on these issues. The church is a broad-based umbrella. Members are "works in progress". If they cannot reach consensus, they "agree to disagree". Pastor Scott believes that new people join because the church is living its mission.
Q: How does your congregation equip its members to live out their mission?
A: Members learn through their involvement in activities. To pursue peacemaking, for example, the church sponsored a peace conference. They conducted a survey with questions like: What do you think of when you think of peace? They held a workshop on peaceful parenting. The congregation read the book "The Future of Peace" and brought in its author to clarify peace issues. Muslims from the community were included in these events.
Q: How is your church shaped by the world around it?
A: Visits from mission people from countries like Zimbabwe affect the congregation. Through standing committees and a book group, members develop their own thinking.
Q: How does your congregation determine whom to reach out to? How do you reach out to them?
A: The congregation takes advantage of opportunities that come their way. For example, one family invited its Spanish-speaking neighbors to join the family for Thanksgiving dinner. Because the group was too large for the family's home, the dinner was moved to the church. More people were invited and ultimately 75 attended. The church expects this dinner to become an annual event.
Q: Describe your congregation’s assets: physical, human, financial, intangible.
A: They congregation moved into a new building two years ago. It is a very important asset. It is handicapped accessible and the cost is $3 million. The sanctuary holds 250 people. There is a large narthex with only one exit. Members believe that the narthex causes people to talk immediately after leaving the service. The building also includes a gym that serves as a fellowship hall. The members believe that the congregation would not be growing if they had remained in the old building.
Q: What role does budget play in determining whom you reach out to?
A: Budget is a concern. For the first time in several years, the church began 2005 with a balanced budget.
Q: What is holding your congregation back from doing more?
A: "Only fear may hold us back. The Spirit will take us forward if we are willing to risk. Risks don't even seem like "risks" after you are in that mode."

Midpoint Musings

Sorry it's been so long since the last post. I could give you excuses, but basically, life moves faster on the road than I thought.

Yes, we are back in the US, after our course side-tracked a little and we ended up in London rather than Geneva---more on that another day. Father's Day was transit back from Paris to Chicago, with Lisa's kind boyfriend greeting us (and her!) at the airport, a drive back through Milwaukee, and what a wonderful feeling at about 10:00 p.m. to turn into River Drive.

I will NEED the next two months to put thoughts together after these last four weeks, but for right now, I'm off to a Pastor Theologian event. It's hard to believe we've made it to the midpoint of this sabbatical journey. While on the flight home, I found myself pondering John Brigg's very thoughtful comment on the nature of community, and surrender, and it provided quite a meditation point for me. How hard is it, in this world in which SELF is the center of the universe (do you recall George Carlin's bit on how we went from Life magazine to People to Self?) to talk about our core meanings arising when we give UP ourselves, and surrender to the most basic unit of human being not being ME, but WE. It reminded me of how much I miss John and Suzanne as a part of our congregation's life!

So, there WILL be more postings--I PROMISE--on the rest of the trip. There's more to say about hospitality and Lisa's wonderful host family, the combination of religion and power, seen from the Papal residence in Avignon, and how narrative structures our existence while skipping from mass at St. Martin's in the Field to the British Library to track 8 3/4 at the train station in London and wet walks to the zoo where Harry Potter freed the snake (or whatever it was that Harry Potter did at the London Zoo!) But right now I've got to get my bearings a little, sort out some of the financial stuff, and ENJOY being HOME!

Thanks to all of you for tracking this journey--and know from what's been said above that I TRULY enjoy your comments and feedback.

Chuck

Riomaggiori and the Train to France

The towns of Cinque Terra were wonderful change of pace—no museums, no churches, but spectacular views of the Mediterranean and village after village chiseled into the cliffs that rise mightily out of the water. The towns were, to me, a witness to the indomitable human spirit. There are paths that link one town to the next, and along and aside them are carefully tended groves of grapevines and olive trees. I cannot imagine how hard people worked to make those terraces, and then, year in and year out, care for those vines, and tend those branches, to bring their fruit to market. The sea is gorgeous, but the boats are small, and you see in pictures how the winds and waves can create truly treacherous conditions. Tourists may come now, and sip a fine glass of wine, enjoy a delicious dinner of the freshest fish imaginable, but our ease lies on top of the immense labor of generations.

Cooking School—how simple, and wonderful

A half day’s cooking class at a villa about a half-hour outside of Florence proved to be a highlight of the journey. With another family from Alabama, we made pasta with pesto sauce, bruschetta with tomato and eggplant, and herbed chicken with olives---oh, and something called “chocolatissimo!” Complimented with a good white wine, and topped off with my one and only taste of Grappa, it made for a pretty happy time!

The curious thing about it, for me, was that there was nothing particularly complex about anything we did. They were simple ingredients—flour, eggs, eggplant, tomatoes—though they were as fresh as the morning’s market (it’s worth thinking about what we lose by having the choices our supermarkets make available 24/7/365—eggs with yokes so bright yellow that they’re almost orange, and basil and thyme that are straight from the garden to the kitchen with an aroma I think I can still smell). But as these simple, fresh ingredients were combined in a mindful and patient way, they create a feast.

I wondered what would happen to my life if ALL my eating were so mindful and care-full? One of the things that’s Hard to adjust to in Italy is a daily schedule that takes a good 1 ½ to 2 hours for a lunch break—a far cry from the 15 to 20 minutes we too often take to ”drive through” and then wolf down a burger and fries at our desks or at a stoplight.

One of the things you notice as you tour the various monasteries is that the refectory in each place is dominated by a painting of the Last Supper on one wall. The monks, it seemed, understood that EVERY meal was an extension of the Lord’s Table (remember how peeved Paul was to learn that some in CORINTH?? Were eating their meals before the community’s worship began?)

On a very practical level, I wondered what it would do to the life of a community like Memorial if were ate, regularly, in this mindful—dare I say spiritual—way? It’s why, I think, potluck suppers are such high points of our common life, but what if such a pattern of eating were not an exceptional event in our life, but (as our Book of Order’s Directory of Worship suggests) gathering at the Table were understood to be integral to, and not an exceptional act of worship? Maybe, in some deep way, we ARE what—or at least HOW—we eat.

Day 40 or so…Florence, Medicis and a Humble Monk

Florence is the cradle of the renaissance whose fruits were so magnificently born in the halls of the Vatican museum, and the next stop of our sojourn. The city of the Medicis, it had the great good fortune of emerging from the plagues of the late 14th century in relative health, and thanks to the banking genius and penchant for collecting the very best of anything they could, it became the locus for a cultural transformation that would alter the fabric of Western culture.

As Denise’s friend likes to say, you can’t swing a cat in Florence without hitting a fresco. Our first stop was the gorgeous baptistery that stands next to Florence’s famed Duomo, or Cathedral. Its immense dome is completely covered with golden mosaic that bears the obvious influence of the Eastern Church. As I sat beneath them, and then in our tour of the next day learned of the banking prowess of the Medicis, and the way in which tiled floors were made to look like Persian rugs, I was struck by the immense influence that what we would recognize as Eastern Orthodox traditions had on what came to be known as the Western renaissance. Many of the texts which were “recovered” in this time, which allowed science to flourish, had been kept in safe keeping by Muslims as well as monks. The moral of the story: the way in which we carve up our world is sometimes too convenient, and tells the tale of only one facet in a diamond. The richness of who we are owes a great deal to those whom we suppose to have conquered, and our debt is great to those who might otherwise be considered more “primitive” than us.

Making your way from one Medici palace to the next, one cathedral to another built by their patronage, you begin to wonder what it was that drove these people. Were they such pious folk that they simply couldn’t help but spend their next fortune on another church, or was the church one more of the things from antiquity they collected just to be able to say it was theirs? Did they have any idea as they were bringing together the incredible resources of Florence, they would create a treasury that would last long after their power had faded? The elder de Medici, in return for his patronage of San Marco, had the largest cell in the monastery, but there’s no particular reason to believe that it was ever used as a place of prayerful contemplation. It’s much more likely to have been the secure place in which the most sensitive of his business dealings might have been accomplished, sequestered from the public eye.

If the monks had their way, much of the collection people come from around the world to see today would have been consumed in Savanarola’s “bonfire of the vanities,” but power and piety being such as they were in the 15th Century, it was Savanarola who was consumed, instead, and his quiet brother, Fra Angelica’s mystical paintings are what endure.

I need to give more thought to what the implications are for the church and world in which we now live. Clearly, the arts have taken their own path, and no longer rely on the patronage of the church, nor in general use religious imagery as their major palate for subjects. The simplest observation is that if there still is something that can be talked about as Western Culture, its roots are firmly planted in the soil of the church, but it was a church very different from one we might recognize today, in that it was a central pillar in the power structures of the day. It WAS a matter of life or death as to how you stood in relation to the church, and not a matter of taking your family down the street to a church whose teachings were more amenable to your way of thinking.

It’s a double-edged sword. The institutional church clearly is less central to life in our times, and as a result plays a far smaller role in shaping the surrounding culture. We find ourselves, more often, shaping our culture to the world (as when the football schedules are the first thing on the church calendar, and we search for music forms that are “more attractive” or “accessible” to those who were not raised in the church. But does that more marginal role allow us to be truer to the central calling of Christianity? To be more “Christ-like”? If the church no longer needs to be the bearer of the entire cultural legacy of the surrounding world, might we instead be better placed to clothe the naked, feed the poor, bring justice and mercy to a world in deep pain?

Day 36 continued...yet again

I don’t suppose I’ve ever had as deep a sense of history as in Rome. The Vatican gives way to the prison of Marmartinum, where tradition says St. Peter baptized St. Martin—the self-same St. Martin who then becomes the compatriot of St. Columbo in Iona. But even that gives way to the ancient gods of Rome, and Romulus.

Touring the Vatican museum you cannot help but see how deeply our civilization is embedded in Christianity, and Christianity, in turn, is a product of this Greco-Roman culture whose roots stretch back well before Christendom. Perhaps the most thought provoking art to my eye came in the papal rooms, which were painted by Rafael. The story is that Michelangelo and Rafael were locked in competition as one executed the masterpiece of the Sistine Chapel while the other worked in what would have been thought to have been the private residence of the Pope. Our guide explained the magnificent murals in what would have been the Pope’s “signature” room—the place where these most significant acts of his papacy would have been accomplished. Two walls dominate: one showing the history of theology in a single fresco, the facing wall with the greatest philosophers and scientists. The middle wall would have been where the Pope himself sat, surrounded by the virtues. In a single room, there is literally a universe with the church it’s final interpreter and arbiter.

To stand in the Sistine Chapel is not only to look up on the most amazing achievement of Renaissance art, but to contemplate a history of succession, intrigue, and great piety mixed with the basest of political motives. It was not more than two months ago that this room was filled with the cardinals who elected Benedict XVI, in a process that dates back longer than any Presbytery. It is an awesome experience.

But it all comes at a certain price, doesn’t it? Our Sunday excursion began at the Coliseum—the Lambeau Field of its day. If ever I complain about the violence that colors our American society, I’ll be reminded of the bloodthirsty scenes that cry out from those rocks. Fifty animals slain in a day, and that was the “warm up act” for gladiators who would fight to the death, or the condemned (which at one time meant the Christians) who would be helplessly thrown into the amphitheater to be gored and killed while the crowds cheered.

Praise God that we’ve found forms of entertainment that don’t require such horrifying spectacle, but I did, for just a moment, wonder why I was so intrigued when the American military mounted Operation Shock and Awe, and I was glued to the television set while bunker busters and 2 ton bombs leveled cities, but didn’t seem to count those killed or wounded unless they were members of the US Military. Beneath every civil society, it seems, there is a pulse of blood thirst. May God have mercy on us….

day 36 continued

One of the objectives of our time in Sicily was to experience and reflect on the nature of “family” as we met those relations of Denise’s family who remained in the first quarter of the last Century when a part of the family gave hugs and promises, and made their way to a land of new promise.

Sicily is a BEAUTIFUL land, with rolling hills covered with grapevines, orange groves and olive trees. We had the chance to take in the view outside the gates of the house in which Denise’s great-grandmother was born, to stop briefly in the beautiful church in which several generations would have been baptized, married and mourned. For them, it would have meant several months journey to a land they would not even have seen in photographs. It’s difficult to imagine how one could come to such a choice, but choose they did—to at least MY great good fortune!

We greeted several folk who could only be characterized as shirt tale relations, but were welcomed as received AS family. Eating pizza in the street café on our first night, or near midnight in the family pizzeria in Calmonici on our last, you see how fiercely and proudly these family ties are guarded and valued. It would be very easy to sentimentalize the relationships and the lives we found in these days, but I think it’s fair to say that what might have separated folk by the better part of a century, several lines on a family tree, and thousands of miles, melted away when dissolved in the medium of “la famiglia”. Even a middle aged American with German heritage felt right at home—wanted, welcomed, made to feel like “one of us!”

day 36, i think!

It’s been quite some time since I’ve been able to write—sorry to those who have been following, but apparently, internet access is harder in Rome than in Sicily. Who’d have thought it! Since last checking in we’ve been to Ribera, Agrigento, and Calamonici—the ancestral home of Denise’s father, and then overnight on the train to Rome.

What have I learned? How much time have you got? Let’s start with some basics. The best of travel plans don’t always work out. We knew that one of the challenges was going to be getting Lisa to the various places we were going to be along the way, while getting her back to Aix in time for her exams. What you cannot control for are late planes, train strikes, and what I’ve come to think about as the human aspects of travel. There are many things you could say about the process, but most are not appropriate for a blog that’s rated “G”! Once the steam settles, and you get over the frustration, however, you come to realize how often while traveling you are dependent on the kindness of strangers—maybe the ticket agent who listens to your story and sympathizes, or the veteran train traveler who assures you that those seats are, indeed, your seats, and the people in them will have to move! It’s harder to be assertive when you don’t speak the language!

So, Agrigento, and some of the finest ancient ruins in the world was one of our first stops. Huge temple ruins mark a place where Greek civilizations thrived at about the same time as the late Kingdoms of Israel. Massive structures were built without the aid of our modern building equipment (though you do see the remains of a rudimentary crane). All of it, eventually, came to naught, stones from magnificent temples were carried away to make homes for people who looked upon the former gods as oddities.

From the time of those “old rocks” as Gabi affectionately called them, three or four other major civilizations have influenced the Sicilian culture—Arabs, Spanish, Roman, and North African. There are memorials to those who died in WWII, and still traces of the bombing that even a place as remote as Southern Sicily was subject to. One thinks of the preacher in Ecclesiastes---vanity of vanities, all is vanity!

Then, if you’re looking down as you make your way along the path, you notice colony after colony of ants, toiling away as, I have to assume, they have since those ancient Greeks gathered in the dawn’s light to offer their sacrifices within the great temples, and then when the Moors and Muslims, and Christians traded blows. I thought of standing at the foot of the great Sequoias in California—trees that had stood in the same place since the time of Jesus—and wondering just who this world “belongs” to. Maybe more than anything, that we are most certainly sojourners at best on this good earth. We may build things we think will endure for al the ages, but it’s the ants who will be there when everything is said and done!

Take a breath, go to the tap and draw a cold, clean glass of water, and ponder that!

Day 28 - Community and Hospitality

It came as something of a shock to think that with the Sunday that’s about to dawn, we will be ¼ of the way through this time of sabbatical. The past days have been mostly travel punctuated with truly wonderful opportunities. Leaving Iona, I made my way to Edinburgh, and a delightful evening with Syd Graham (who sends his best wishes to all!)

Included in our time was attendance in the closing session of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland. This is a church that is steeped in tradition, which fairly oozes out on such occasions. The meeting begins with the Moderator’s silent bows to those gathered, and ends with a speech by the Moderator and the Lord High Commissioner—the Queen’s representative who is carefully located in a chair above and behind the Moderator, where he can observe the proceedings, but participates only in the form of this closing speech.

The evening includes recognition of all the retiring clergy, and all those who have been ordained in the last year. There is a real sense of the continuity of this church’s life.

Through a wonderful dinner with Syd we talked about his long experience with the Iona Community. I think the most striking part of the conversation was a distinction that came clear in my mind between community and hospitality. Community, as I’ve noted in previous posts, is hard work, and requires people to give of themselves in ways that are not quite natural in this world we live in. But hospitality is a different gift—it requires a mindfulness to those who ar eon the fringes, who perhaps don’t share your core values, or agree with you, but are present to you nonetheless. I was reminded of the definition of true community as the place where you find yourself across the table from the person you’d least like to share a meal with. Hospitality requires us to look beyond ourselves, and to welcome the stranger, which I KNOW, but don’t always treat as an angel unawares.

It got me to thinking about the life of our congregation, and wondering if there are times when our community makes us less hospitable than perhaps we should. I recall a conversation with one of you about the odd fact that we can have good, meaningful interaction with the Islamic Society, but it’s hard for us to talk with fundamentalist or evangelical Christians. I realize that one reason I find that table of fellowship uncomfortable is that I’m thinking of it as a place of community, and grieve the fact that we are so often so far apart on what I think are core values in my faith. But what, I wonder, would it mean to look at these conversations as opportunities for hospitality, instead—welcoming without judgment the one who is your neighbor.

Of course, the guest has different expectations to the brother or sister in community, too. But it seems worth thinking about to me.

Day 24: pilgrimage and healing

Two interesting events since last I wrote--a pilgrimage around the island (about a six hour walk covering 7 miles, with much boggy peat to which I lost my shoe once!) and in the evening a service of prayers for healing.

The pilgrimage around the island is structured to help you think about the reasons that brought you to Iona. For me, it was mostly a quiet walk, trying to understand what it is about this place that has, for years, provided inspiration to folk who are as committed to community and social justice as any I've ever met. I've been reading the story of the beginnings of the community, and George MacLeod, who really was the energizing force. For those of you who don't know the story, it was his vision to bring a group of unemployed laborers and a group of seminarians, hoping that in their interactions as they worked together on rebuilding the common areas in this ancient site, the pastors would gain a better understanding of the challenges of social ministry.

At the core of what Iona does is a deep commitment to building community, but it's sort of interesting that the way to build community is to take people OUT of the ones they're in. The roots of the monastic orders seem to lie not far below the surface--a close community of brothers, who had to forsake their secular lives in order to be a part, but then carried their work back into the world.

What does this have to say about the challenges of building a church community in the 21st century? I think the core of it for me is the notion of commitment. We try so hard to make church membership as easy as possible, but in the end, I wonder if we do both ourselves and our new members a favor? How do you craft the sort of commitment I see among those who work at the Abbey-leaving their lives for 1-3 years, in order to invest in this vision? Community demands commitment, and we seem to live in a world in which my commitment to just about anything is defined in terms of what it can give me today.

The healing service--again, an amazing experience of worship, which was forged on the assumption that these were people who were deeply committed to each other, and to the work they shared. They are VERY clear that it is not a 'healing service' but a 'service of prayer for healing'. They do it, they say, because people around the world have asked for their prayers. The core of the service is a time in which those who desire some sort of healing--body, mind or soul-kneel in a circle, while three members of the community stand inside, and anyone who wished stands outside, and lays on hands. It ends up looking like our ordination service, but open to any and all.

I wonder if its something that would help us to enact our own sense of community at MPC--an a natural extention of the Deacon's and Prayer Chain ministries. Would members of the church be sufficiently committed to COME to such a service once a week--once a month?

The moral of the story for today: community is hard work, and requires REAL commitment. And if you step in the wrong spot in a boggy hollow, be ready to dig out your boot!

Thanks to those who've added their comments....how about you?

Day 22 - Worship, Silence and Community

Hello, all--##Yes, there IS an Iona, and I'm On it! It's really quite a journey to get here, and the further you get, the more surreal it seems, until finally you're crossing on the last ferry, with the Abbey and ruins on the shore ahead, with the small village ready to welcome you.

Worship is central to the life at the Abbey, and on Sunday, that meant three very different services for me. The communion service at the Abbey started things off, with wonderful singing, and a very good sermon by the Warden of the Community. 45 in all are taking part in the seminar I'm in on Spirituality of the Highlands and Islands, mostly from England but a smattering from the US and other parts of Europe.

At noon I led the Parish church in worship (Syd Graham's congregation.) About 25-30 good souls, and an intrepid organist (85 years old, but heart and wit of someone half his age--he SO clearly loved what he was doing, and was beloved by the congregation. No one under 40 in the crowd, but they wanted to know what I would have said, where I do have a time for children, and so Ralph was able to come to Iona, too! They were all most gracious, but you'd have to ask them for yourselves for an honest evaluation of their guest preacher!

Perhaps the most interesting service, for me personally, was the evening "quiet service". Mostly silence, with gospel reading, and the encouragement to search for God 'inside'. We were welcome to stay for as long as we liked. I found myself captivated by the closing words: the 'nunc diminus' (Lord, now let your servant depart in peace.) and stayed on til all were gone. What I discovered is that the silence of a congregation praying is VERY different from the silence of an empty Abbey. It was MOST interesting. The community is SO vital, even when you are, for all practical purposes, doing nothing but BEING together.

Following I went for a walk through the cemetery (the sun sets at about 10:00!) amid stones for ancient monks and nuns, several for unknown sailors, and one for 'Wee Neil, aged 3' I was reminded of my friend Bob from Minnesota, who thought every church really needed a cemetery outside its windows to remind us of the arc of our lives.

So, much experienced, much to process. But go to the far corner of the earth, and the inn down the road will probably have an internet connection!

Thanks, Lucy and Richard, for adding your thoughts. I know others of you are lurking out there. Feel free to join in!

Chuck

Day 20--the Adventure Begins!

So we made it through "Wheels up" and I'm writing from a cybercafe in Glasgow, waiting for the train which will eventually lead to Iona. The trip was spent preparing my sermon for Syd Graham's parish on Iona tomorrow and reading a very interesting piece I tracked from Syd's lead by the Church of Scotland on their vision for the church in the 21st century. A few comments come quickly-

1. The Church of Scotland was and is the established church, which presents it with some unique challenges, but the language they use is very similar to the vocabulary that MPC will be tracing in their studies during this time--right down to Lauren Mead!

2. The report can be boiled down to two words the roll of the church in the world in the 21st century is to FOLLOW CHRIST. As is so often the case, "application" is much more difficult than "explanation" but the document (a report by a special commission on review and reform) spells out very nicely the "core calling" of the church

The calling is PERSONAL, LOCAL, sacrificial, RADICAL, GLOBAL, ESCHATOLOGICAL (it has to do with God's reign breaking upon us and DOXOLOGICAL (the church exists by the grace of God FOR the glory of God.) A very helpful summary!

3. The document recommends "that the church recover the lost art of Christian friendship. This lost art is not about being a friendly church, but makes friends beyond "those that salute you." It notes that true Christian friendship is about commitment to each other and openness to each other.

Wonderful thoughts to lead me to a week of reflection at iona.

Thanks, friends, for following my journey. Met me know what YOU think!