Last fall Julie and I were unable to gather with our pastorate because I was leading Alpha on Sunday evenings. I think that schedule was the right decision, BUT we deeply missed our pastorate.
Tonight we got to gather with them again. It was amazingly fun.
It was a small crowd -- just five households represented. We started out with kids upstairs along with adults, watching a video of the "Revelation Song" that included clips from a lot of different Jesus-movies. Powerful worship stuff, just reflecting on the words to the song and watching scenes of Jesus feeding the 5,000, walking on water, raising Lazarus, carrying the cross, etc. One of our leaders encouraged us to watch for names for Jesus, especially for anything that connected to this morning's worship theme of Jesus as the "bright morning star." We watched, then talked, for about 20 minutes.
Then we shared communion. Simple, simple, simple -- Hawaiian honey bread (gluten free wafers for the gluten free crowd) and a glass each of wine and grape juice for dipping (intinction for the liturgists among us). We took some time for prayer after that. The people in our pastorate are aware of the potential that I could be called to Calvary, and so they prayed over us, moving Julie and me to chairs in the middle of the room and then everyone -- kids included -- gathered round to lay hands on and pray over us. Powerful stuff.
Then we ate. We didn't used to do meals for the sake of time management, but somewhere along the way our pastorate leaders decided that it's better to take more time and help people avoid having to scramble to make a meal. Plus we get the full experience of meal fellowship. It's a brilliant decision, except that I ate way too much.
The kids adjourned themselves downstairs after supper and the adults moved into the living room to sit and talk. Just plain ordinary conversation about ordinary things. We moved without effort in and out of specifically Christian topics, and as the evening wore on we talked about some fairly deep heart stuff -- parenting was a big topic tonight.
Julie and I agreed on the way home that we really, really enjoy our pastorate. What a great group of people. What a privilege to be back with them for however long. Great, great stuff.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Sunrise
I have been learning to treasure quiet early mornings.
Seems like for the past several years I have a hard time sleeping past sunrise. I marvel more than a little at my kids who can sleep through an entire morning. Not that I want to sleep my mornings away. They're too precious for that. It's just that if I'm going to get enough sleep, it has to start early.
But the advantage to waking up early is having the quiet house all to myself. Time in scripture, time to stare out the windows and watch the lighting change on the pines -- it's precious. Reading a few verses in the Bible this time of day and then talking with God about it makes a great way to start a day.
When the pace and pressure of change ratchets up, these early mornings become more important than ever. I can tell throughout the day whether I've had a few quiet minutes in the morning or not. It makes a difference!
Seems like for the past several years I have a hard time sleeping past sunrise. I marvel more than a little at my kids who can sleep through an entire morning. Not that I want to sleep my mornings away. They're too precious for that. It's just that if I'm going to get enough sleep, it has to start early.
But the advantage to waking up early is having the quiet house all to myself. Time in scripture, time to stare out the windows and watch the lighting change on the pines -- it's precious. Reading a few verses in the Bible this time of day and then talking with God about it makes a great way to start a day.
When the pace and pressure of change ratchets up, these early mornings become more important than ever. I can tell throughout the day whether I've had a few quiet minutes in the morning or not. It makes a difference!
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Epiphany
One of the names of Jesus is "bright morning star." Recently it was my turn to share a devotion with our staff at Central, and I wrote briefly about this topic, thinking about the home where I grew up and some of the ways I first experienced that bright morning star there, and thinking of what it's like to go back to that place as I did several times last fall. Here's what I wrote:
The fourth step down creaks in the inky black.
I ease around the banister into Mom's kitchen.
It's early -- no glow lights the eastern horizon.
By long memory I leave the lights off, circle the table,
open the cupboard, choose a glass from the third shelf,
run cold water from the tap. The familiar spirits rise
to greet me here, here in Mom's kitchen. Eighteen years
and more she is gone from us. I see her hands in the sink
cleaning dishes by feel, eyes bright out this eastern window.
She loved to stand here, here at the window, looking east
over the cows at their grazing,
over her children's blond heads bobbing across
the creek bottom. Her keen eyes saw
a case of pinkeye in one of the heifers, a hoary woodpecker
at the feeder, a child alone, too long alone, on the creek's bank.
Dad has followed her away, too, now,
and the taut wire fences and Herefords are tended
by other hands -- my brother's hands. Out the east window --
if it was day -- you could see Dad's lawn chair, where he sat
in the evenings, sat long looking out over the bottomland,
over the creek, over the herd, over Uncle Jim's fields and woods,
over the eastern horizon, watching the twilight descend.
I stand at the sink in the dark drinking cold water. I remember.
It is dark here. One bright star rises above Jim's woods in the east.
It is Venus, I know, a planet of poisonous gas and oppressive heat.
But here I stand in the chill dark, and I choose not to know astrophysics.
To me it is the morning star rising in the dark
Rising to foretell the dawn. I stand in the dark, but light
is not far off. My gaze wanders left, north, dark, downward
to the knot of yard lights from houses a mile away
clustered like flies around the church steeple; lit, but dim
in the ground fog. In my mind's eye I can see the spot,
can pick it out of the dark there like a laser pointer
there, south of the sanctuary where they lie next to each other
under the sandy soil. The coffins went into the ground just so --
each time I made sure. Not because I am superstitious but
because when life falls apart, when death rises up to
swallow you whole, there are only a few details you can control.
They lie there in the earth, feet to the east, as the
undertaker told me once, so at Christ's return they can sit up
and greet him. But I am not superstitious and
I don't believe the resurrection is about posture.
I look back to the morning star. A glow is forming
along the horizon, as though that star at its rising
drags day up out of darkness; the sun of righteousness
will soon rise, and it will fill the sky with light.
Here it is still dark. But the brightest and best
of the stars of the morning is bit by bit
dawning on my darkness, and my darkness will not overcome it.
One last swallow and silently I place the glass
in the tangle of dishes. I turn. My eyes are now used to the dark
and I can pick out table, chairs, and the bottom step.
I climb the stairs to hope for another hour's sleep.
First, one glance over my shoulder: I see the bright morning star
hanging higher now, rising like hope, rising like the memory
of things yet to come, rising in anticipation
of reunions on a sparkling shore.
The fourth step down creaks in the inky black.
I ease around the banister into Mom's kitchen.
It's early -- no glow lights the eastern horizon.
By long memory I leave the lights off, circle the table,
open the cupboard, choose a glass from the third shelf,
run cold water from the tap. The familiar spirits rise
to greet me here, here in Mom's kitchen. Eighteen years
and more she is gone from us. I see her hands in the sink
cleaning dishes by feel, eyes bright out this eastern window.
She loved to stand here, here at the window, looking east
over the cows at their grazing,
over her children's blond heads bobbing across
the creek bottom. Her keen eyes saw
a case of pinkeye in one of the heifers, a hoary woodpecker
at the feeder, a child alone, too long alone, on the creek's bank.
Dad has followed her away, too, now,
and the taut wire fences and Herefords are tended
by other hands -- my brother's hands. Out the east window --
if it was day -- you could see Dad's lawn chair, where he sat
in the evenings, sat long looking out over the bottomland,
over the creek, over the herd, over Uncle Jim's fields and woods,
over the eastern horizon, watching the twilight descend.
I stand at the sink in the dark drinking cold water. I remember.
It is dark here. One bright star rises above Jim's woods in the east.
It is Venus, I know, a planet of poisonous gas and oppressive heat.
But here I stand in the chill dark, and I choose not to know astrophysics.
To me it is the morning star rising in the dark
Rising to foretell the dawn. I stand in the dark, but light
is not far off. My gaze wanders left, north, dark, downward
to the knot of yard lights from houses a mile away
clustered like flies around the church steeple; lit, but dim
in the ground fog. In my mind's eye I can see the spot,
can pick it out of the dark there like a laser pointer
there, south of the sanctuary where they lie next to each other
under the sandy soil. The coffins went into the ground just so --
each time I made sure. Not because I am superstitious but
because when life falls apart, when death rises up to
swallow you whole, there are only a few details you can control.
They lie there in the earth, feet to the east, as the
undertaker told me once, so at Christ's return they can sit up
and greet him. But I am not superstitious and
I don't believe the resurrection is about posture.
I look back to the morning star. A glow is forming
along the horizon, as though that star at its rising
drags day up out of darkness; the sun of righteousness
will soon rise, and it will fill the sky with light.
Here it is still dark. But the brightest and best
of the stars of the morning is bit by bit
dawning on my darkness, and my darkness will not overcome it.
One last swallow and silently I place the glass
in the tangle of dishes. I turn. My eyes are now used to the dark
and I can pick out table, chairs, and the bottom step.
I climb the stairs to hope for another hour's sleep.
First, one glance over my shoulder: I see the bright morning star
hanging higher now, rising like hope, rising like the memory
of things yet to come, rising in anticipation
of reunions on a sparkling shore.
Monday, December 30, 2013
The Household of God
I have been thinking lately about the nature of the church. It's not hard to make that leap during Christmas as we think about what the incarnation means. What does it mean that God has become Emmanuel, Jesus-in-the-flesh, God with us? Then, make a short leap with me to Jesus' words to his followers -- "As the Father has sent me, so I send you" and think about what it means that the church has become incarnate, or as Paul writes in First Corinthians, "the body of Christ." What does it mean that the church is a physical body called into the world?
To help in some of that pondering, I have been reading Lesslie Newbigin's lectures assembled into a book entitled, The Household of God. Of course, I highly recommend it. Warning, however, that you should read slowly and frequently go back to repeat a paragraph or a page. It's dense stuff, though not hard to understand if you take your time.
Here's a sample worth pondering:
To help in some of that pondering, I have been reading Lesslie Newbigin's lectures assembled into a book entitled, The Household of God. Of course, I highly recommend it. Warning, however, that you should read slowly and frequently go back to repeat a paragraph or a page. It's dense stuff, though not hard to understand if you take your time.
Here's a sample worth pondering:
"... the life of the new man in Christ is both a reality now given, and a reality whose completeness awaits the day of Christ's return. In this time 'between the times' we are made one in him by the Spirit -- and the Spirit is the spirit of promise, the earnest, the foretaste of the completed victory of God. It is the mark of human life 'after the flesh', that is human life in its separation from God, that it seeks to have its fullness in itself as a present possession. It is the mark of life after the Spirit that it looks always to God in dependence and hope. It longs for the day of God's victory and places all its confidence in that. Under the conditions of the flesh, the victory of God is known only as defeat. The sign of the Cross is the sign under which the Church must ever live in the flesh. When the Church, in the flesh, under the conditions of this present age, claims to have in itself the completeness of God's victory and therefore to be incapable of sin, it becomes precisely 'of the flesh' -- carnal. The true mark of the Church's life in the flesh is the mark of the Cross, of life through death, of 'bearing about in the body the dying of Jesus, that the life also of Jesus may be manifested in our body' (II Cor. 4:10)."
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Merry Christmas!
Dear friends,
We are at the top of the slide -- about to leap onto the slope and go screaming downhill into Christmas! What I mean is, I am sitting in my office at Central in a shepherd's costume (wrinkled and fastened with a safety pin in the best tradition of Sunday School Christmas programs through the years) and in twenty minutes, we'll start the first of five Christmas worship services here.
I pray that wherever you are, you are keenly aware of the love God has for you that caused him to come in Jesus so you might know him, so that you might live with him. May his presence transform your life and brighten your soul, not just at Christmas but for Jesus' sake, throughout the year!
Jeff
We are at the top of the slide -- about to leap onto the slope and go screaming downhill into Christmas! What I mean is, I am sitting in my office at Central in a shepherd's costume (wrinkled and fastened with a safety pin in the best tradition of Sunday School Christmas programs through the years) and in twenty minutes, we'll start the first of five Christmas worship services here.
I pray that wherever you are, you are keenly aware of the love God has for you that caused him to come in Jesus so you might know him, so that you might live with him. May his presence transform your life and brighten your soul, not just at Christmas but for Jesus' sake, throughout the year!
Jeff
Friday, December 20, 2013
Getting ready for Christmas
I had a lot of fun this morning re-reading this set of Christmas meditations. If you are looking for a way to prepare for Jesus' birthday, I encourage you to take some time in the next few days and read through them. You can also get to the same document by clicking on the link to the right that says "Twelve Meditations for Christmas." Enjoy!
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Incarnation
"And the Word (Christ) became flesh (human, incarnate) and tabernacled (fixed His tent of flesh, lived awhile) among us; and we [actually] saw His glory (His honor, His majesty), such glory as an only begotten son receives from his father, full of grace (favor, loving-kindness) and truth." (John 1:14, Amplified Bible)
There is an idea floating around in the church that God is spiritual. We think this is a biblical idea because the Bible in fact says "God is Spirit." Jesus himself said this (see John 4). But what we mean by "spirit" might be quite different from what Jesus meant by the term. When we talk about spirits, we usually mean a Caspar the Friendly Ghost kind of spirit that can float through walls and is more than a little translucent. We use "spiritual" in a way that is somehow the opposite of "physical." This is NOT what the Bible means by "spiritual" -- so when the Bible says "God is Spirit" it is not talking about a lack of a physical body.
We should not be surprised, then, at Christmas. Jesus' birth into humble, physical circumstances is not surprising in the sense that it's strange for God to become physical. God has been doing exactly that throughout the Bible.
Think of the Garden of Eden, for example, where the Lord God came walking (not floating) in the garden in the cool of the day to enjoy fellowship with Adam and Eve. Or think of Abraham's three visitors, one at least of whom seems to be God in some sense. I'm quite sure Jacob experienced God as a physical reality when he wrestled with him on the north bank of the Jabbok. God was at least physical enough to throw Jacob's hip permanently out of joint. Moses experienced a real bush, and a real fire.
Maybe the burning bush is a good illustration. What Moses experienced was real enough -- physical enough. But the burning bush was not bound by the conventional laws of physicality. According to the normal, physical laws of The Way Things Are, the bush should have been consumed. It was this failure of fire to act in normal, physical ways that first drew Moses to the conflagration in the first place.
In a similar way, God's "Spirit" nature does not prevent him from being physical; rather, God's spiritual nature means he is not bound by the conventional expectations of physicality. So when Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego are thrown into the fiery furnace, King Nebuchadnezzar sees a fourth person is walking in the flames with them, and by his presence with them they are protected from the conventional physical laws that people in infernos have to burn up.
This Advent season it is worth setting aside some time to ponder the Incarnation -- that doctrine that says Jesus is God in human flesh, God in the physical stuff of his creation. This is not the first time God moves into the physical realm, as we've demonstrated. Instead, it is biblical to say that God is constantly getting physical (apologies to Olivia Newton-John) with his creation.
So in Jesus, the Word becomes flesh and pitches his tent (love that translation) among us. We see throughout Jesus' life that he is completely physical, but he is not bound by the conventions of physicality. Instead, he is the ultimate Spirit-filled person. The Spirit of God filling Jesus doesn't make him less physical in any way. He breaks bread, sleeps in a boat, drinks water, touches people, draws in the sand. In each of these activities he is acting beyond the simple limitations of physicality.
Christmas is the grand celebration of the Incarnation, of Jesus-in-the-flesh, but it doesn't end there. God insists on getting physical by pouring out his Spirit into Jesus' followers. Pentecost is the great physical multiplication of God, as the Spirit fills the church. Thus it is no contradiction when Paul writes, "Now you are the body of Christ ..." (see 1 Corinthians 12). God continues to get physical.
Someday, the Bible says, God's essence, God's Spirit, God's self will inhabit all of creation, and none of the physical world will be subject to the limits of physicality, of entropy, of sin and death. Instead, the creation will be made new and it will become "a land in which righteousness is at home" (see 2 Peter 3).
This is a big idea to cram into one holiday. But as you're enjoying the physicality of Christmas -- the tree, the presents, the food, the drink, the embraces, the lights and the smells -- don't think God is somehow above it all, outside it all. Instead he is in the midst of it, closer than your taste buds.
There is an idea floating around in the church that God is spiritual. We think this is a biblical idea because the Bible in fact says "God is Spirit." Jesus himself said this (see John 4). But what we mean by "spirit" might be quite different from what Jesus meant by the term. When we talk about spirits, we usually mean a Caspar the Friendly Ghost kind of spirit that can float through walls and is more than a little translucent. We use "spiritual" in a way that is somehow the opposite of "physical." This is NOT what the Bible means by "spiritual" -- so when the Bible says "God is Spirit" it is not talking about a lack of a physical body.
We should not be surprised, then, at Christmas. Jesus' birth into humble, physical circumstances is not surprising in the sense that it's strange for God to become physical. God has been doing exactly that throughout the Bible.
Think of the Garden of Eden, for example, where the Lord God came walking (not floating) in the garden in the cool of the day to enjoy fellowship with Adam and Eve. Or think of Abraham's three visitors, one at least of whom seems to be God in some sense. I'm quite sure Jacob experienced God as a physical reality when he wrestled with him on the north bank of the Jabbok. God was at least physical enough to throw Jacob's hip permanently out of joint. Moses experienced a real bush, and a real fire.
Maybe the burning bush is a good illustration. What Moses experienced was real enough -- physical enough. But the burning bush was not bound by the conventional laws of physicality. According to the normal, physical laws of The Way Things Are, the bush should have been consumed. It was this failure of fire to act in normal, physical ways that first drew Moses to the conflagration in the first place.
In a similar way, God's "Spirit" nature does not prevent him from being physical; rather, God's spiritual nature means he is not bound by the conventional expectations of physicality. So when Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego are thrown into the fiery furnace, King Nebuchadnezzar sees a fourth person is walking in the flames with them, and by his presence with them they are protected from the conventional physical laws that people in infernos have to burn up.
This Advent season it is worth setting aside some time to ponder the Incarnation -- that doctrine that says Jesus is God in human flesh, God in the physical stuff of his creation. This is not the first time God moves into the physical realm, as we've demonstrated. Instead, it is biblical to say that God is constantly getting physical (apologies to Olivia Newton-John) with his creation.
So in Jesus, the Word becomes flesh and pitches his tent (love that translation) among us. We see throughout Jesus' life that he is completely physical, but he is not bound by the conventions of physicality. Instead, he is the ultimate Spirit-filled person. The Spirit of God filling Jesus doesn't make him less physical in any way. He breaks bread, sleeps in a boat, drinks water, touches people, draws in the sand. In each of these activities he is acting beyond the simple limitations of physicality.
Christmas is the grand celebration of the Incarnation, of Jesus-in-the-flesh, but it doesn't end there. God insists on getting physical by pouring out his Spirit into Jesus' followers. Pentecost is the great physical multiplication of God, as the Spirit fills the church. Thus it is no contradiction when Paul writes, "Now you are the body of Christ ..." (see 1 Corinthians 12). God continues to get physical.
Someday, the Bible says, God's essence, God's Spirit, God's self will inhabit all of creation, and none of the physical world will be subject to the limits of physicality, of entropy, of sin and death. Instead, the creation will be made new and it will become "a land in which righteousness is at home" (see 2 Peter 3).
This is a big idea to cram into one holiday. But as you're enjoying the physicality of Christmas -- the tree, the presents, the food, the drink, the embraces, the lights and the smells -- don't think God is somehow above it all, outside it all. Instead he is in the midst of it, closer than your taste buds.
Monday, December 9, 2013
Shame, vulnerability, and courage
If you heard my sermon at Central on Sunday (or if you didn't) I referred to an NPR program, "On Being", that I had heard on the way to church that morning. Here's a link to that program. The interview was with Brene Brown, and it's worth an hour of your life to listen to it. Especially if you're a parent. Or some other kind of human. Well worth your while.
Friday, December 6, 2013
One of those weeks
Do you ever have one of those weeks? Not the kind where everything goes wrong. I've had those, too, and they're lousy. Sorry about that.
No, I mean one of those weeks where you're almost TOO alive. Where things keep engaging your heart, where you have to deal with reality straight up over and over again from a whole bunch of different directions, and you feel every nerve ending in your soul like you're really, actually alive. Emotions run raw from the highest heights to the lowest lows. Beauty breaks out of the skies without warning and breaks your heart open. Music floats into your relationships. Tears flow from what you thought was going to be a polite sob into that ugly crying that no one wants to see. You laugh like a maniac just for the sheer joy of it. You dangle in the wind and writhe in pain waiting for resolution as if you were wrapped up in duct tape. You sit by the fire and enjoy languid sips of good conversation and hot, delicious coffee like velvet. You burn your tongue not enough to really hurt, just enough so that you taste everything at a new level. You look your own death in the face and realize it's not happening today, so you're joyously alive.
It's been one of those weeks.
It kind of hurts, in a really good way, like a serious core workout. And maybe that's what it is.
No, I mean one of those weeks where you're almost TOO alive. Where things keep engaging your heart, where you have to deal with reality straight up over and over again from a whole bunch of different directions, and you feel every nerve ending in your soul like you're really, actually alive. Emotions run raw from the highest heights to the lowest lows. Beauty breaks out of the skies without warning and breaks your heart open. Music floats into your relationships. Tears flow from what you thought was going to be a polite sob into that ugly crying that no one wants to see. You laugh like a maniac just for the sheer joy of it. You dangle in the wind and writhe in pain waiting for resolution as if you were wrapped up in duct tape. You sit by the fire and enjoy languid sips of good conversation and hot, delicious coffee like velvet. You burn your tongue not enough to really hurt, just enough so that you taste everything at a new level. You look your own death in the face and realize it's not happening today, so you're joyously alive.
It's been one of those weeks.
It kind of hurts, in a really good way, like a serious core workout. And maybe that's what it is.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Advent
It's December 2nd as I write this, and there's a new dusting of snow on the ground outside my office, with considerably more in the forecast. I think we may be headed into winter, right on schedule.
It's also the second day of Advent, when we focus on the coming of Jesus -- remembering his coming two thousand years ago (give or take), anticipating his coming to bring all of history to completion, and -- most immediate -- his coming into our own hearts and lives.
I encourage you to use these days of Advent, between now and Christmas Day, to focus intentionally on Jesus' coming. Here is an excellent blog post that provides an easy-to-use format for families or groups of friends to celebrate a weekly ritual of scripture reading, candle lighting, and song.
Or, if you prefer, you can use this selection of scripture readings that includes the birth narratives of Jesus as part of anticipating his coming. This might be a better choice if you are just doing this as an individual, but it's up to you. I highly recommend, even if you're just doing these readings as an individual, that you light an "advent candle" (better yet, and advent wreath) while you focus on these meditations.
In any case, Advent is a great time to hunker down into the dark and quiet, more meditative days of December. While we try so hard to put up lights and get our shopping done, it's worth setting aside a few moments each day to let your body, mind, and spirit be reflective and quiet, abiding with Jesus in the growing darkness, relishing his presence as the Light of the World.
It's also the second day of Advent, when we focus on the coming of Jesus -- remembering his coming two thousand years ago (give or take), anticipating his coming to bring all of history to completion, and -- most immediate -- his coming into our own hearts and lives.
I encourage you to use these days of Advent, between now and Christmas Day, to focus intentionally on Jesus' coming. Here is an excellent blog post that provides an easy-to-use format for families or groups of friends to celebrate a weekly ritual of scripture reading, candle lighting, and song.
Or, if you prefer, you can use this selection of scripture readings that includes the birth narratives of Jesus as part of anticipating his coming. This might be a better choice if you are just doing this as an individual, but it's up to you. I highly recommend, even if you're just doing these readings as an individual, that you light an "advent candle" (better yet, and advent wreath) while you focus on these meditations.
In any case, Advent is a great time to hunker down into the dark and quiet, more meditative days of December. While we try so hard to put up lights and get our shopping done, it's worth setting aside a few moments each day to let your body, mind, and spirit be reflective and quiet, abiding with Jesus in the growing darkness, relishing his presence as the Light of the World.
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