100 Feet Away

I had a small tug of war going on in my head on Sunday. Part of me wanted to return to the fellowship of the class I was so familiar and offer a card of Thanksgiving for their friendship, but the other part of me wanted to continue on the journey of discovering the wide variety of worship communities available in such a large city. I finally had to make a decision and forge ahead because time wouldn’t allow for both. Mystery prevailed over comfort.

When I arrived at the location, the church bells were ringing one of my favorite hymns, “This Is My Song.” And I thought, yes, this is where I should be today. The church was stately with bells, red-bricked exterior, and a tall, white steeple, but I never even ventured inside. The service I attended was out of doors, as it is every week, with a group who has little intention of making the 100 foot walk towards an open door into the church. The congregation has adapted their schedule, meeting location and expectations to meet the needs of the small, diverse group. As a result there is a very real, combined, rich community. This would not be an ideal setting for those who have trouble concentrating. There was a lot of activity in the brisk morning air, and the random roar of jet engines as part of a flight-path overhead from a nearby airport caused conversations to pause until voices could be heard without yelling. Regardless of the impediments the group was genuinely happy to be together.

I was greeted almost immediately by one of the youngest of the brood, running up to meet me, covered from head to toe all in black, with such a genuine gentle countenance that made my heart melt and I reached out and touched her head. There was a lot to absorb in the initial evaluation. A small circle of adults gathered around a chimenea to dispel the chill of the morning; instead of incense, the aroma of wood-burning smoke followed the breeze. Like all congregations, there are those whose gifts are hospitality, service, sage experience, listening, and a few with the knack of creating disruptions. :-)

There was an elderly member who spent his entire time, rooted near the circle with eyes closed, but still very present. Every so often someone would reach over and softly brush an arm to recognize the importance of his presence. Another was looking for extra snacks and someone made it easier to share by placing his own leftovers at their level. One of the smallest, dressed smartly in a lined fuzzy vest, was embraced and picked up to share the warmth and softness of an open lap. There was another who simply wanted to be noticed and happily went along once an acknowledgement had been made. There were one or two flurries of over-zealous play, but there was an expected level of accepted behavior and any one of the adults took the time to quiet the participants whether it was one of their own or not. Likewise, there was generous praise and admiration shared universally.

There wasn’t an official call to worship, no music, candles or readings, but a mutual understanding of practice as the majority joined the circle. The pastor shared some antidotes both personal and historical; he shared a conversation more than gave a sermon. Heads nodded in understandings and appreciation of points made. While it wasn’t a traditional service the pastor made no pretense at disguising the message of Christ’s place as Lord in his life and his hope for those around the circle to realize the same relationship available for their lives.

This service happened to mark the end of a relationship as the pastor is following a call out of state and many offered their appreciation of this unique ministry that he fostered and groomed. They jokingly chided whether he should put this ministry on his resume at all because the concept is so hard to explain. It was an easy one for me to accept, but I’m a dog lover.

The worship service took place in the church’s dog park which is open, and visited frequently and with gratitude by those in the neighborhood. The dogs are not expected to sit as part of the service; they come and go, running, sniffing, playing, and occasionally resting. The ministry team realized there was a community that could be served and who could also offer blessings in return if they only walked 100 feet to meet them where they were. It was joy to discover this ministry.

What is 100 feet away right now?

This is my song, O God of all the nations,
a song of peace for lands afar and mine;
this is my home, the country where my heart is;
here are my hopes, my dreams, my holy shrine:
but other hearts in other lands are beating
with hopes and dreams as true and high as mine.

My country's skies are bluer than the ocean,
and sunlight beams on cloverleaf and pine;
but other lands have sunlight too, and clover,
and skies are everywhere as blue as mine:
O hear my song, thou God of all the nations,
a song of peace for their land and for mine.

To Have and To Hold

We have quite a collection of Bibles: NRSV, Jewish Study, Parallel, CEV, NIV, Illustrated, Annotated Study with Apocrypha, Amplified, Spanish-English, The Message, and sometimes more than one of the same verision! Bearing in mind we don’t have to prepare sermons or make a living parsing discrete details from the scriptures, and considering the benefits of Bible Gateway and Oremus offering instant variations on the Internet, it really makes my assortment seem excessive. But I’m stubborn about wanting a Bible to hold in my hands, not an e-reader, not a netbook, but a real book with pages and substance.

There is one Bible to which I return over and over, which was a gift, not even one that I chose for myself. I like its study notes; I really like the tabs that help me find those challenging books like Habakkuk, Philemon, or Amos. With its leather cover it lays open easily and even has my name embossed on front. But what makes this one my favorite is that stuck within random pages are photos, poems, clipped sections of a bulletin, lyrics to a song, bookmarks, and even cartoons. In an uncharacteristic mood to organize, I looked through to see if I should decrease the amount of keepsakes. There was a photo of Margaret paddling her canoe at the women’s retreat, a photo of Royanne talking, a photo of hundreds of Origami cranes hanging above a communion table, a photo of Evan in his Marine dress blues with Spencer, the lyrics to “Screen Door”… Instead of taking things out, I found things to add: A graphic of a whirling Dervish, a birthday card with a remembrance from Anne, lyrics sang with my chicks, a bookmark with a star, and a piece of cloth from Advent.

I love this version of the Bible; written and unwritten, the message is love.

Novenita

As a general rule, candles are not welcome in our home because of a bad development some years ago, but there are so many positive emotions that the light and warmth and scent of a candle exude that it's hard not to bring one out from time to time. And on a morning where thunderstorms caused a brief shutdown of power, it seemed like the fitting time to just leave the lights, TV and computer off and turn the heart on. I had a few thoughts to unwind so I pulled out an old candle holder with nine small candles. A novena is a prayer or devotion that is said for nine successive days, but since I usually lack that perseverance, I thought I would modify the concept with my nine candles and assigned a concern, a person, or a desire for discernment to each candle. As I lifted my prayer and lit the candle one by one, there was a marked difference in the immediacy of their lighting. Some jumped to life at first touch of another flame; some remained stagnant. Imagination jumped into gear to explain the mystery. Just because these candles had not been used in over ten years was a minor player on this stage, NO, I had given these candles a duty and the ease or difficulty of their lighting MUST be a sign or a message of the condition of each particular prayer. But I was intent that each candle would light, so I took the time to straighten the wick, scraped off residue that may have acted as a barrier, and eventually got each one to burn, though still rather unevenly. A few even went out and it was easy again to look for a hidden message of the state of the recipient assigned to that particular candle, but another round of clearing of the wick resulted in all burning successfully and strong.

It's easy to shake our heads and wonder at the simple ideas and superstitions of days gone by from our modern, scientific, fact-driven culture, but in truth we are not so removed as we explain away our own small occurrences and mysteries and as we try to find answers that can't be found on the internet or in a book, but must instead be answered from within. And while yes, I know I was a bit dramatic in assessing the state of each candle, it is also true that some of those candles that had difficulty lighting were indeed the people or concerns in my life that need a little extra tending and work. And the ones that jumped to life were people or joys that indeed are full of vitality and strength. Whether or not there is more than coincidence this morning I won't dwell... excessively, but instead I will rejoice in the light that each candle burns richly and that each prayer is heard.

In looking through the camera’s lens at different angles of the candles, the view from above showed little difference in the height or width of the flame, and instead shows simply the center of the source. This week I'll try to focus more on each source of my prayer and tend where repairs are needed.

Oregon Tales

While we were in Oregon we didn’t make it to a church, but instead on that Sunday made a pilgrimage to a building that houses some of our favorite objects. Ever since we read about this Portland attraction, we knew that we had to find our way there and had little doubt we would leave empty-handed.

You don’t have to walk too far through our front door before coming face-to-face with our collection. They are found in places of honor, on the dining room table, on the end table, on shelves, beside the bed, near the stove, stored in closets and even in the bathroom. I don’t think there is a room that is void of these items.

We rode the train to downtown Portland, but the vast majority of the commuters exited at the Saturday Market and the riverside parks. We continued deeper into the city, map in hand. Considering the reputation and size of our destination (it covers an entire city block), it has a pretty plain entrance with unremarkable furnishings, but when you walk inside, and are handed a map, there was almost a Pavlov’s dog reaction and we walked instinctively forward. We synchronized our watches, leaving each to our own discoveries. Even though I was miles from home, I was surrounded by familiar names and trusted companions. One by one they greeted me: Rohr, Wiederkehr, Rupp, Nouwen, Bell, Foster, Yancy, Kushner, Chittister, Tolstoy, Kidd, Peterson…, offering their suggestions and revisiting old memories.

In the end, we left Powell’s Book Store with a surprisingly restrained book bag, limiting ourselves to three books each. I brought home The Sacred Way, Monk Habits for Everyday People: Benedictine Spirituality for Protestants and Pictures from a Mediaeval Bible. The last one published in 1961, has selected folk art woodcuts that illustrated the Cologne Bible. It isn’t a book that would normally be on the shelf in our major bookstores. In the age of the internet, I probably could have saved a few dollars, but there’s something about leafing through a book and choosing random pages to preview that I haven’t quite found paralleled on an electronic reader. There’s that common perception if you own the books, you have mastered the knowledge. However I may have more books than brain cells, but I’m willing to share!

• Woodcutting depicting David watching Bathsheba “washing herself”
  

• Asking me why I keep the Offices is like asking me why I go to church. One, granted is a place of bricks and mortar, but the other is a chapel of the heart…. The Offices open to me four times a day and call me to remember who owns time and why it is, as a part of creation. All that means really is that four times a day the watchmaker and I have conversation about the clock and my place as a nano-second in it. (The Sacred Way)

  One Benedictine might approach another and ask, “Is that you?” And the one climbing the ladder of humility might answer, “Not yet, but someday.” (Monk Habits for Everyday People)

The Home Place

In the movie Hook the pirates cheered the young runaway Jack during a baseball game. But instead of the placards reading “Home Run Jack,” they mistakenly put up cards in order to read “Run Home Jack!” Instead of diverting Jack’s attention and trying to make Jack feel comfortable, the pirates unknowingly instilled an immediate question of wondering about his decision and the home he left. Even after they corrected the order of the sign, the questions initiated for Jack were unstoppable.

There are of course questions and consequences about putting some space between one’s self and the home church. It’s hard to change weekly habits and routine, hard to know the level of objectivity to abide, and hard to share this strange calm without making it seem personal.

I was trying to get caught up with some emails and as the words typed readily, they read back a second later with a sense of clarity and affirmation: “I believe I'm in the right place - being no place.” Those words might seem sad and lonely to some, but they can also be encouraging and challenging; prompting exploration and testing practices and status quo.

In the Wizard of Oz one of the classic scenes is Judy Garland clicking her heels together and offering the lesson and wish: “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.” These words whisked Judy Garland back to her bedroom in Kansas and all that she knew and loved. But similar to the movie “Hook,” it’s as if the cards have been dropped and as I pick them up a new message reads: “Home is like no place there.”

The questions are unstoppable, but I am home.

Accord-ion-to-who

I had a hard time finding anyone who could muster the same enthusiasm I had to attend a Polka Mass. They couldn’t understand my fascination and I couldn’t understand why no one was asking “Can we carpool?” Maybe they just didn’t understand. I tried to explain, Polka Mass – it’s basically singing hymns to polka tunes!!!! Make sense? Are you ready now????

Not willing to be thwarted, I went on my own.

It was just as joyful as imagined with accordion, fiddle, piano and brass oompahing the familiar tunes with grace-filled words matching the rhythm. The morning was made all the more dear, in my heart, by their own humble unfamiliarity with the service, sweetened with a generous dose of good-natured understanding and humor. It seemed to fit the mood perfectly singing “Joyful we gather. This is God’s welcoming place…” to the tune of Beer Barrel Polka. How can one keep from smiling and keep singing long after leaving the sanctuary?

I suppose some could find it inappropriate because of the association with alcohol and rowdiness. There used to be a common argument that many of our traditional hymns were actually tavern songs adapted to teach biblical stories and truths. Now the theory is that neither Wesley nor Luther relied on secular tunes to enable their congregations to learn the hymns. So it’s hard to defend polka music using that case. But share “Glory be to the Lord, You reign in glory at the right hand of God. Peace on earth. Peace to all…” with the tune of Hoop Dee Do and it is exaltation!

Perhaps some might frown on the frivolity in worship. Every now and then, if a worship service experiences a generous expression of “freedom,” my husband and I like to mischievously mimic a favorite pastor chastising with his Scottish brogue “This is a worship service!” But as wanderers, what better affirmation of faith than to sing in confidence: “I know that my Redeemer lives, what joy this sentence gives. He lives triumphant from the grave, eternally to save. He lives, He lives, He lives, He lives, Christ Jesus lives today…” (tune: Happy Wanderer)

I know I have a different mind. I think differently, I react differently, and I’m moved differently. No rebuke of my peculiar thinking should be charged against the parental units or the church family. I’m just a mutineer without a ship, so the brain has been the dupe! But next year, I’ll keep my eyes open for the sign in front of the church, so that while the accordion plays a tune called Lichtenstein Polka I can join with the angel choirs singing “Holy, Holy, Holy Lord….”

Accord-ion to some, that's worship!

Words to Our Savior Polka Mass are copyrighted by Our Savior Lutheran Church, Mesquite, Texas

Church, Literally

Now that it's my journeying summer, I'm often asked, "Where have you been going to church?"

The Sunday School passage looked at the verses where poor Nicodemus is trying to understand what he has just been told, “…No one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again.” (John 3:3) Then, as if saying it a second time will be make it more clear if it is said with more urgency (and probably a tad louder) 5Jesus answered, "I tell you the truth, no one can enter the kingdom of God unless he is born of water and the Spirit. 6Flesh gives birth to flesh, but the Spirit gives birth to spirit. 7You should not be surprised at my saying, 'You must be born again.' 8The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit."

9"How can this be?" Nicodemus asked again…. I would have asked - I still ask! Of course I might not even be that articulate. I would probably say something like, "Huh?" Seems like the perfect response! Born again??? What do you do with statements like that? I get a kind of sadness when people take things too literally, often from the Bible, but time after time, that’s my first response when trying to read scripture. How many times do I have to read the commentaries, the annotations, the cliff notes, or the big cartoonish text balloon with arrows pointing to difficult text, “Read before tearing out hair in frustration” before I lose the immediate impulse to address the question literally? Again and again, Nicodemus and I return to ask, “How can this be?” Why can’t people just say what they mean?

At Faith on Tap we reflected on the music of the Dave Matthews Band. Even with an introduction sharing some of Dave Matthews life story, when the song “Bartender” was played our first response was, “obviously just another example of looking for the right answers in all the wrong places.” Clearly there can be nothing redeeming happening in a bar. One has to wonder who picks theses songs for a Christian study anyway. Then with a little help the scales fall from the eyes and you wonder how you missed the message hiding there, in plain view!

Bartender please
Fill my glass for me
With the wine you gave Jesus, that set him free
after three days in the ground

I'm on bended knees,
Oh, Bartender, please
I'm on bended knees
Father, please

"Where are you going to church?" Over the weekend I participated in fellowship with Garland, worshipped at Preston Hollow, reflected with Faith on Tap, downloaded the audio sermon from Mars Hill, read the daily reflections of Richard Rohr, and shared gifts with Camp Gilmont. That's the church where I am going, the same one we've all been attending, one without walls so the wind can blow as it pleases.

John 3: 8 The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit."