Living word by word

Kid theology

Our Epiphany celebration at ECLC's Bonfire service  (OK, 11th day of Christmas. . .but we had to do it on Wendesday) was a blast!  Fifty people, including at least a dozen royalty, showed up to journey with the Magi to the Christ Child.

One of the things that always amazes me when you engage children in this kind of interactive worship is how readily they offer their theological perspectives and answers. Some of my favorites from Wednesday:

At the end of dinner we passed out king's cake, with the forewarning that some surprises lay therein to remind us of the occasion. I confess, I struggled a bit with this, largely because I did not have the energy to bake my own cake that day (I have since been diagnosed with pneumonia, but  that's another story).  If this were France or Italy, one might find a small baby Jesus (too hard to find), a coin (too chokeable) or a dried bean (too likely to crack a tooth).  Not wanting to put in anything potentially toxic, I went for small wax birthday candles in a couple slices, simply slid in from underneath.

After all had partaken I asked who had found surprises, and "why would there be a little candle in your cake?" I  was just thinking Jesus' birthday here, but Paavo burst out with confidence, " Because Jesus is the light of our lives!!"   Amen.

Later we went downstairs to write our hopes and dreams for the new year on pieces of paper. Trying to prepare the children for the act of burning them in our mini-bonfire, Dawn explained that burning things was an ancient way of sending ones prayers up to God.  This message seemed fairly well accepted at the time (my daughter LOVED this idea). . .but more on that later.

Then we proceeded to gather up our "gifts for the baby Jesus," namely items for Lutheran World Relief Health kits that had been collected. The kids were invited to take an item as we journeyed to the manger and give it to baby Jesus.   One boy almost immediately had trouble with this idea.  He came to me nearly in tears, holding up his toothbrush.

"How are we supposed to give these to Jesus?  We can't even SEE Jesus!"

I think this boy was bright enough to accept my fumbling explanation about "giving to the least of these."

Finally we did make it to the fire, and the manger. Toothbrushes and soap and towels were piled on top of the baby Jesus, and prayers were thrown into the fire.  One three-year-old was NOT happy about the fire plan though. Why?

She wanted to give her prayer to Jesus, of course.

If I could at least get another sermon out of it. . .

            The Sunday after Thanksgiving I preached about Josiah, and the years leading up to the Babylonian exile. It was one of those sermons which was not coming together until life presented a good metaphor: namely that our refrigerator stopped working.

            The weird part about this particular appliance death is that  we didn’t realize it all at once. There were several weeks in November where I was throwing out a lot of food, scratching my head about how quickly certain leftovers had gone bad, wondering whether I really had bought that milk just 2 days ago. Things were a little stinky, but I  figured we hadn’t kept up with our CSA vegetables.  I chalked it up to busy-ness – after all, I had preached seven sermons in a period of fifteen days. There were  two funerals, lots of hospital calls and countless meetings. I figured it was just me.

            But the Tuesday before Thanksgiving I got out the butter and realized it wasn’t that hard. I stuck my hand in the unit and realized it wasn’t really that cold in there.. The lights were on, the fan was running, but it was not doing a refrigerator’s job: keeping the food from going   bad.

            So that was a metaphor for the kingdom of Judah living without awareness of the law, and the grief and hope that accompanied the discovery of the scroll in the temple. Bad news: things were even more rotten than they realized. Good news: there WAS a better way.

            Sometimes life’s most annoying events are sermon metaphors come down from heaven. But now, we’re in the third week of Advent and, yes, I’m still waiting. Still waiting for a !@#@$#$ repairman to get out here and fix our compressor.  Hopefulness and resolute patience has given way to frustration and befuddlement. I want to make cookies! I want to drink milk that hasn’t first frozen on the back porch! What’s the hold-up?

            Last night we finally got an answer: in between ordering the part and now, the repair company went out of business. This is actually the second time this has happened to us in 2011:  this summer we waited for weeks  for a washing machine repairman to return, and were eventually told by the next company we called that the guy had given up the business.

            Now I know there’s an Advent metaphor here. The question is, can anything get me a Christmas Eve sermon?

Nikky Finney's 2011 National Book Award in Poetry acceptance speech

Only a poet could accept an award so artfully. Get out your Kleenex.

Check out this video on YouTube:

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Occupy movement meets religious history

My friend Dan Mackanan has some great insights into how the Occupy movement fits into the tradition of prophetic encounter.

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Best Kids' books for the holidays

I felt compelled to share my favorite kids' books with the parents and grandparents of my congregation this year. There's too much schlocky Christmas stuff out there to wade through, and so many wonderful alternatives. Many of these I've featured before:

P:         Especially for young kids (ages 0-5)

A:        Animal Stories

C:         Traditional carols, illustrated

T:         Biblical text, illustrated

L:         Legends

G:        Giving stories

O:        Good for older children (6-12)

An Angel Came to Nazareth, by Anthony Knott, ill. by Maggie Kneen. Formal illustrations tell the biblical story while the text asks, “who is the greatest?” You can guess the answer. T

Angela and the Baby Jesus, by Frank McCourt, ill. by ---- Gorgeously illustrated, the text by the late author of Angela's Ashes (yes, it's that Angela, as a little girl) is an amusing and suprisingly touching story of forgiveness and giving. G, O

The Animal's Christmas  Carol. By Helen Ward. The traditional Carol of the Animals, from the sheep to the bees, gorgeously and luminously illustrated. P, A

The Best Christmas Pageant Ever by Barbara Robinson. A chapter book that became an instant classic in the 1970's, this is a great family read-aloud that will make parents and kids alike laugh and cry, for different reasons. Don’t settle for the picture book. Get the full text.  G, O

Christmas Day in the Morning, by Pearl Buck. This old-fashioned story of a boy's search for the perfect Christmas gift for his hard-working father is the antidote to our consumer age. Not to be missed! G, O

The First Christmas. Luke's Christmas story, illustrated with classical art from the London Gallery.  A lovely way to make the story come alive for little ones, or to inspire conversation about what it was "really" like with older kids. T

 Go Tell It on the Mountain. By Debbie Trafton O’Neale. Young kids love this traditional spiritual, and this book will help them connect words of  the song with the biblical story. T, C

Good King Wenceslas

John M. Neale, ill. Tim Ladwig. Dynamic illustrations bring out the winter cold.

OR  Christopher Manson, ill. Woodcut-style art and medieval looking text.

This traditional carol about a Bohemian saint lends itself to great illustrations. Buy a book, assign parts in the family, and sing it together on the day after Christmas (the Feast of Stephen). C, G

Holidays Around the World: Celebrate Christmas, by Deborah Heiligman. National Geographic. This photographic series on holidays around the world offers a "just the facts" description of how Christmas is observed on every continent, with photos like only National Geographic can do. (Check out the Easter one as well) O

Humphrey’s First Christmas by Carol Heyer.: Humphrey is a young camel who is missing his favorite blanket on the journey to Bethlehem. Great illustrations and a touching conclusion. P, A, G

The Legend of the Poinsettia, by Tomie dePaola. The celebrated illustrator tells the traditional Mexican story of the poinsettia. L

The Miracle of St. Nicholas, by Gloria Whelan. Not  about the saint, or about Santa.  After a generation of suppression, a Russian village isn't sure they can worship as they used to. Christmas is a minor player in this story about true worship residing in the heart of a community. L, O

The Nativity, ill. by Julie Vivas. The biblical story is made real with decidedly unpious illustrations. Mary never looked so pregnant. T

Three Wise Women.  By Mary Hoffman. Three women from different continents each bring their gifts to the Christ child. A  modern-day legend with lovely pictures. L,  O, G

We Three Kings, ill. by Spirin Genady. A Russian illustrator makes the words of this carol come alive with exotic animals and lavish angels. The seraphs in the front and back will make you look at Isaiah 6 again. C, A

Who is Coming to Our House?  This lovely rhyming book features various stable animals announcing the role they will play preparing for the coming guests. The littlest ones on your list will enjoy the illustrations and rhythm P, A

 

 

 

All Saints

One of the saints of our congregation died peacefully yesterday on November 1. The month of remembrance of all the faithful departed has thus began with the passing of this particular brother in Christ, a tall, deep-voiced poet who read Psalm 22 every year at our Maundy Thursday liturgy and could always be found with a twinkle in his eye.

Last week I attended a hymn sing in memory of Paul Manz, the great Lutheran organist and cantor. His son read a quote of C.S. Lewis that seems especially appropriate for this time of gathering with the living to ponder eternity and our own places in it:

It may be possible for each to think too much of his own potential glory hereafter; it is hardly possible for him to think too often or too deeply about that of his neighbour. . . . .the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. . .  .Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbour is the holiest object presented to your senses. (The Weight of Glory, p. 9)

Coaching has to be sense-ible

            My ears perked up when I heard that Atul Gawande – my favorite surgeon/writer – has a piece in the New Yorker this week about coaching for professionals. You can read the whole thing on line here.

            Gawande’s piece skillfully  lays out the benefits and barriers to coaching for professionals – people whose skills are already at a certain level but who want to keep learning and improving. As someone who is (almost) mid-40’s, doing complex work that few people fully understand, I could relate at nearly every turn as he described the desire to improve.  I was pleased that he names not only athletes,  but also  musicians (who are, after all small-muscle athletes)  as examples of the ways that an outside set of eyes and ears can be invaluable to someone who already knows their business but knows they can also get better. It doesn’t matter how many people are watching what you do; if the only feedback you get is “Nice sermon, pastor,” you’ll never know the real impact of your work, or what you could be doing differently. Hearing someone comment on your use of silence,  your body language, or your pacing, however, makes a world of difference.

            My own experience with so-called coaching in recent years, however, has been the very opposite of the sort of well-trained attention a professional coach might give. “Coaching” is now used as a catch-all for all kinds of relationships that lack a key element of coaching –namely physical presence. If you’re a writer, an editor can be just about anywhere. But if you’re an executive, a preacher, a teacher, or a musician, your coach has to be in the room to provide any meaningful feedback. They need to see how you’re standing, hear the inflections in your voice, and sense the response of the people around you. Too much of what is called “coaching” is really just untrained low-cost therapy – listening to you self-report about the way you see how things are going. If you’re a leader, that’s not the perspective you need.

            Probably my worst experience with so-called coaching came through my health plan. Like everybody else in health care, our pension plan is trying to turn attention toward prevention – a laudable move. We were offered “health coaching” over the phone with someone assigned to us through Mayo Clinic’s wellness program.  It sounded like a good idea, since I wasn’t making any headway by just reading more about good nutrition and stress control.

            So I signed up and was scheduled with a “coach.”  At the assigned time, I got a call from a person who asked minimal questions about me and my life, but launched into mechanically using my first name in every sentence. It was obvious she was reading from a script,  the way a telemarketer does. Every statement I made was repeated back and then followed with a survey-like question. “You say you want to eat more fruits and vegetables, is that correct Pamela?”  “Pamela, on a scale of 1 to 10, how confident are you that you can achieve this goal?”  It went on like this for 15 minutes, at which point I wanted to throw the phone across the room. What really irritated me was that I’d agreed  to this torture. That and the fact that I really couldn’t blame the young woman on the line, who was probably some nice 22 year old with a college degree who now found herself stuck in a cubicle, staring at a computer screen and talking to strangers in exactly the way she’d been trained to do.

            Granted, I don’t know what the alternative is, in the context of health,  short of having someone read my food diary and observe me in my kitchen every evening. But let’s not call it coaching, because what I experienced in that phone call was not coaching. It was low-cost pep talk, at best. But I don’t want a pep talk from someone who sounds like she could just as easily be reserving a rental car for me on my next trip to Chicago.

            So, yes, please, let’s have coaches. But let’s not pretend that this is a low-cost , low-relationship, low-risk affair. Real coaches have a lifetime of experience. Real coaches have license to be bossy, irritating, and in-your-face because their success actually depends on your success. And to be coached, I have to be willing to let someone actually see me do what I do. It’s worth a lot to have someone pay that kind of attention to your work, and it ought to be worth a lot to the institutions we serve to have genuine improvement and struggling and learning. I hope my surgeon has a coach. And I hope that someone out there might care enough to have their pastor be coached as well.

 

 

Fall bounty

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Stuff we are reluctant to say (but still, unfortunately, have to)

Carol Howard Merritt at Tribal Church has a great post about "post-evangelical women" and the challenges of moving into leadership even when your new church circles officially welcome women's leadership. While I don't think of myself as a PEW, those of us raised in the Lutheran Church -Missouri Synod can certainly relate -- especially #5 about finding our voice and women's reluctance to self-promote.  This post absolutely resonated with my years as a mission developer hanging out mostly with (post-)evangelicals.

Fewer and fewer denominations have policies that exclude women from leadership, but more subtle forms of sexism, unfortunately, are still very much alive --  even in church circles where women have been ordained for over thirty or more years. We're doing better with gender than we are with race or GLBT issues, but no, Virginia, we have not yet fully unleashed women's leadership gifts in the church.

I could give examples, but that begins to look like finger-pointing. And honestly, I've never found a way to write about such things without sounding whiny. Because, truth is, I benefit far more from being white, middle-class and straight than I am disadvantaged because of my gender.

 

In our bodies. . .

"9/11 lives on in our bodies. . ."

That was the line that struck me the most hearing Krista Tippett's broadcast near Ground Zero today.  Serene Jones, President of Union Theological Seminary, talked about the ways in which that day is still with us in unconscious ways, ways that we sense but can't articulate or even fully access.

It encapsulated for me why I haven't felt the need to go to 9/11 memorial events or even read very much about the anniversary this year. Partly, I'm weary of the political posturing and faux patriotism that always seems to hover around the media's coverage. Partly I am more concerned about the famine in Africa and the climate crisis. But mostly I feel that I don't need to re-visit that day in order to know how it has impacted my life or my country.

When 9/11 happened, I was 28 weeks pregnant with our first child. I knew instantly that her world would be irrevocably shaped by this event. I remember vividly the silence when commercial planes stopped flying overhead, and the fear I felt when I heard what must have been military planes in the succeeding days.

I know 9/11 impacted my body, and therefore the child in my womb. Katie was born month early, and I've heard that premature birth rates were up that year across the country. The day after she was born, a plane crashed in New York City, and the news frenzy started all over again.  But by then my horizon had changed. It was not about now, but about the future, about the kind of world we want our children to live in: a world of love or of fear, a world of wonder or of suspicion.  I still carry those tensions in my body, and pray that my life will work them out for her sake.