Over the rooftop the sun peeks
winking at the day
I am but the most recent benefactor
of solar attentions
the turning earth
providing one lover after another
1
Like so many other times of vacation, we decided to worship at another church in our community. We’ve already done the big-box rock around the clock churches were the beautiful people hang out. We have filed into the pews of some of the big traditional churches in town. Today we wanted to worship in an ordinary congregation in an ordinary building with ordinary people. And we got exactly what we were looking for.
This was a congregation where you couldn’t be anonymous if you wanted to. Go to the big box churches for that and settle down into your theater seat among the crowd. In this ordinary congregation they drafted some little kid to light the candles and average people led the music and worship in a respectable way. The pastor gave a solid sermon. None of it was going to set the world on fire. But there was an unmistakable sense of Christian family. People seemed to know why they were there. And we did, too. It was about worshiping God and how we should be Christians in the world. Mission accomplished.
I think that some day in the not-to-distant future average congregations are going to make a come back. In time, maybe now, maybe later, people are going to catch the drift that there is a difference between a Christian entertainment event and a congregation of real people to worship, serve together and love each other on the way to loving God. Like Cheers, it’s some place where everybody knows your name.
It’s going to happen, I predict, and average congregations should get ready. All they really have to do is welcome people with love and then be about being who they are. People will find them and where they fit. But I’m certain that the more depersonalized the world gets, the more we are consumed by entertainment culture, the more important this will become. And, in the end, people are just going to want their spiritual home to be that, a home, where we are baptized, share the table, learn about God, hug our babies and comfort the grieving. We’ll eat together and try our best to shed some light of the kingdom.
And, just saying, every time I worship on vacation I sense a little more about how “the other half” lives on Sunday morning. The other half would be those who are not ministers or not overly committed lay leaders who are rushing around. I got up, greeted the Sabbath, had my coffee and did my devotional reading. I entered church at a leisurely stroll. We sat and talked and worshiped and had a bite afterwards.
As enjoyable as that was I would call it something like “church lite.” Perhaps that’s just a comparison with my normal. But I think it’s more. I think my experience as a vacation guest is roughly analogous to the regular experience of many, many church folk. And what is that? Pretty minimal, not much expected, fairly non-participatory. I showed up so you could say I was belonging in some manner. But my commitment, my participation was minimal. Actually, it made me hungry for more than lunch. It made me hungry for community, for growing. And if I were one of the lay persons, not the obligated clergy, I would want to get more involved, to feel a part of the family, to find out how my participation matters.
By the way, if you are just doing “church lite” as I just did, why in the world would you complain about coming to worship once a week? I mean, that’s about the lowest commitment level imaginable. A whole hour for God. Wow. Careful, don’t overdo it.
What I liked about my Uncle’s funeral
Posted: June 29, 2012 in UncategorizedTags: Catholic Funerals
My Uncle Don died this week, an uncle on my Father’s side, the husband of my father’s sister. He was in his eighties and had lived a long and good life. In fact, Uncle Don had a serious illness some fifteen years ago and received an extension of his time in this world. He made the best of it; a better grandfather was not to be found.
The funeral took place in the St. James Catholic Church of Liberty, Missouri. Uncle Don was as Catholic as he was Democrat, an common Irish combination. A picture of the sitting pope always graced the wall of his office. It’s still there now.
We began as a mixed religious family, and though perhaps the most common state of affairs now, it was more unusual when religious lines were more rigid. My Grandfather and Grandmother Carson were Protestant and Catholic. And though my Grandfather was a Protestant pretty much by name only, my Grandmother was observant. Their compromise solution was a split household; the girls would be raised Catholic and the boys Protestant. My father was raised in the Disciples of Christ tradition and our family line trickled down from that. My aunt, his sister, was raised in the Catholic Church. And she married a good Catholic boy, my Uncle Don.
The funeral was Catholic, the priest having come to their home for last rites the week before Uncle died. Having witnessed and performed, yes, hundreds of Protestant funerals, it was good to share in this. There is much to commend.
One of the popular practices in many Protestant funerals today is the sharing of eulogies by family and friends. Though some are touching, many are superfluous and exercises in sentimentality. The Catholic church has this right; they program this segment before the service begins, as the procession waits to enter. There is a personal touch by including these tributes but they do not move to center stage. The liturgy itself, the testimony of the church through the ages, is what preoccupies us, as it should.
At the beginning of the entrance procession holy water is sprinkled on the casket and baptism is called to mind. As we are baptized in Christ, so we pass into the great mystery, the waters signing us with grace. Immediately the body is covered with the white Christ shroud – symbolizing that we are clothed in Christ. And that’s how we entered – remembering our baptisms and wrapped in Christ. The flag – because he was a veteran – covered the coffin after leaving the church because inside the sanctuary we know that God, Christ, the Church are universal, not tied to nationality.
The nature of the liturgy was not performative; something shared to entertain those present. Rather, it was expected that the liturgy was participatory. This took place musically as a cantor helped us with the responses. The scripture lessons drove us toward the historic confessions of the church. We were surrounded with words and actions that tied us to the faith of millions through the centuries.
I have grown weary of the “worship lite” of much Protestant worship and funerals. “Where is the beef?” That’s a good question for Protestants. And the “beef” is not really to be found in some home run sermon, as though we’re going to preach the dearly departed into heaven. No, the people of God, or guests of the people of God who know nothing of this except through attending a random funeral or wedding, should gather for real and hear the authentic sounds of their faith. It is at such times that we, the baptized, should remember what it is wraps us like a blanket and carries us on the wings of a great song and prayer.
It’s upon us, it’s been upon us, and it will only get worse: The Election Season.
This is the season of smoke and mirrors, of deception and bearing false witness, of false characterizations and illusions.
If the television is on, and I try to have it on less and less, the remote has to be near at hand so that I can mute political attack ads as quickly as possible. It matters not the party or super pack or terrorist politicos who sponsor it; the tripe is all the same.
Witness the repeated alarmist words of characterization, the labels, the spin, the distortion, the video out of context, the out and out lies and rewriting of history. The money, the tons and tons of money, makes it all worse (thank you, misguided supreme court). And in the end, the close race isn’t even about the figure heads out front. It’s about a divided nation, terribly, tragically divided.
The days of statesmanship are gone. The days of grand compromise for the common good are gone. The days of taking a stand – even against the currents of your own party – are gone. For if you do, if you exhibit the slightest bit of independent thinking, integrity, and courage to speak the unpopular thing, you will be deposed by your “base.” It is the demise of truth of we are witnessing. The two-party system is irreparably broken, with nothing to take its place.
Is there another way forward? This … one … is … not … working.
And … three more on the stack for this summer’s reading:
Psychological Biblical Criticism by Andrew Kille. Using the insights of psychology is not a new enterprise in Biblical studies, but Kille starts to make it into its own genre.
A Heart Afire is Zalman Schachter-Shalomi’s classic collection of stories from the early Hasidic masters. Familiar names like the Ba’al Shem Tov are scattered across its pages.
Speaking of the Ba’al Shem Tov, Menachem Kallus has gathered together guidance for the contemplative life from the Ba’al Shem and his circle in his Pillar of Prayer.
So much to read, so little time!
Many people have a summer reading list and it is populated by all manner of genres. There is the flop-eared beach novel, a technical tome, a work from the NY Times best seller list, or a selection just reviewed on the radio program. For me, the direction of my reading changes from year to year. I might be interested in asome particular scholarly slant, an area I want to understand more deeply. Recommendations are good, especially from people I think might have similar interests. When some people I know say, “You’ve got to read this,” I generally do. At least I skim the interesting ones passed my way. And of course my reading cues on my own fascinations of the moment.
So the Summer 2012 list goes something like this:
11/22/63 by Stephen King. I’m almost through it. It came highly recommended by a friend.
Idylls of the King by Alfred Lord Tennyson. This is an oldie but goodie. The extended saga poem tells the Arthur legend. I caught a snippet of the last quatrain and wanted to read the whole thing. I’m in the first chapter.
Two books come out of the mystical Jewish tradition:
All Breathing Life is by Zalman Schachter-Shalomi and is a reflective piece on poetry and prayer.
The Poetry of the Kabbalah by Peter Cole is more of an analytical approach to the poetic structure of the most esoteric of the Jewish mystical writings.
What Money Can’t Buy is Michael Sandel’s moral analysis of markets. The Harvard professor of government pushes on the limits of any economic system.
A Short History of Nearly Everything is Bill Bryson’s tour of the universe which explores everything from the cosmos, earth, new science, environmental perils and our human destiny. It’s ten years old now; call me tardy.
Happy reading, fellow book worms, adventurists, escapists. It’s all good.
Yesterday I enjoyed a genealogical excursion with a friend. We traveled to family stomping grounds where history was stored. And part of that was residing in a particular cemetery.
One of the challenges of rural cemeteries is the lack of clear records. In the major operations in the city you generally find charts and grids showing burials. It is relatively easy to do a search of who is buried where. Not in the country. In those graveyards – community or family plots – it is more a matter of tradition. The knowledge is passed down from person to person, often in oral tradition.
So it was as we searched for one of the family members of my friend. Records were not to be found. The only answer was walking the grounds, moving from stone to stone, many of which had been polished smooth by the sandpaper of time, erasing the names and dates once carved into them.
After an hour of wandering and looking we were preparing to depart, mission unaccomplished. But just then a pick up truck pulled up and a man in a feed cap got out. “You look like you’re looking for somebody.” We were. His name was Jimmy and he mowed the cemetery.
“Yes,” my friend said, “we’re looking for Kirkpatrick. We understand they are buried here but can’t find them.”
“Oh, yeah, I know right where they are.” He walked us right to the stone and pointed. “Here you are.”
Sure enough, it was. The cameras came out and we celebrated. But how did Jimmy remember?
“You know, one time a delivery truck came through town with Kirkpatrick on the side, and I wondered where they were from. And so every time I mowed around this stone I wondered if they were somehow kin, those buried here and the company on the truck.”
And that’s how the man who stopped because people looked like they were looking led us exactly to the spot, because he remembered a delivery truck that reminded him of a grave the mower buzzed by.
That’s how it works, of course. There are the billion connections buzzing around us like lawn mowers in summer. And the present and the past are one, right along with the strangers passing by and, yes, passing away.
No, it’s not a sports conference. It’s a condensed list – of the ways one harms the relationship with God or with neighbor.
The one that comes to mind today is found in a recent court case. Ryan Ferguson was falsely accused by Charles Erickson of the murder of a Columbia Tribune editor in 2005. The newspaper custodian joined the fray with false testimony.
This sent Ferguson to prison for a crime he did not commit. This April, both Erickson and the custodian changed their tune. They admitted they were lying. Ferguson was vindicated.
The commandment, of course, is to not bear false witness against your neighbor. Why? Because your self-interested lies harm the innocent. It happens all the time, of course, a repeating drama. Which is why it’s in the Big Ten.
It’s that important.
It was a good old summertime family reunion. Everyone was there. The kids played in the park while the men cooked up their animals on the grill. The table was strewn with baked beans, slaw, potato salad, chips, fruit, brownies and all the rest.
Then it came time for family photos. These are the posed shots of various family “lines” within the larger family. I got nominated to take the pictures because there wasn’t anyone else on hand who could operate a point and shoot automatic. Let’s see, is everyone in the picture? Heads chopped off? Well then, it probably will do. That’s my level.
At the close of one family shoot, an older gentleman steps forward and I think he’s going to shake my hand, thank me for snapping the pics. But no. Instead, he puts a little religious tract into my hand. His wife says, “Well, honey, I think he’s a minister.” That, it soon appears, is not enough. “Of what church,” he asks, honing in on the salvation issue at hand. “Well, the Christian Church,” I retort cheerfully. His expression does not change. That, I guess, is not the right answer. “You know,” I continue, “a church of Christians, you know, Jesus people.” His expression softens, I suppose with mention of the “J” word. I place it back in his hand as I say, “So I won’t need this tract because I’m already on the team.” But the tract was like a boomerang and headed back to me, tucked in my shirt pocket with a gentle pat, like you’d pat a baby to sleep. “Then just keep it. You’ll know when the time is right to use it on someone.” That ended that.
1. I can’t think of a tract that could be more disgusting and reprehensible than the one he gave me. I threw it in the trash to make sure no unsuspecting soul accidentally picked it up and was turned away from the Christian faith one more time, given the opportunity to paint all Christians as fringe lunatics one more time.
2. I can’t think of a more ineffective way to attempt to communicate the gospel than this, to push a pre-fab comic-scaled story of salvation into a stranger’s hand. No, sharing our faith is about love, genuine relationships, sharing story and being a real human being with another, not finding conquests for your program.
Wake up, church. Tract religion is not working. It never did, really. Especially when crammed into the hand of your family reunion designated amateur photographer. Just have another hot dog, really.
I’m really not sure that it was conscious, this synchronized movement on the part of mother and daughter. The outdoor summer concert had just begun when I spied them, perched on a short wall just adjacent to the stage. The mother, bent with age and hair white as cotton, sat beside her middle aged daughter.
Slowly and surely their bodies began to sway to the tempo, rhythm and accents. Like the Hasidim rocking before the Western Wall in Jerusalem they leaned to and fro in tiny, imperceptible movements, like fledglings in the nest, waiting for a worm, a tidbit from the parent birds.
Was it the power of suggestion that, as I discretely watched them, some musical voyeur, I started swaying as well? And what if that is the point, this side to side dance through time, a waltz of the generations, floating on no more than an eighth note here and a quarter note there?
vitalwholeness 