I've caught some grief for not blogging lately. One person emailed me to say my blog "kinda sucks" these days.
As I debated whether or not to get back on the computer today I realized how good it would feel for me to write and tell you all how missed I am. I realized how good it would feel to lead right off with the opening sentence I crafted "I've caught some grief for not blogging lately," as if it had said "I've caught a lot of grief for not blogging lately." But the truth is the only grief I have caught has come from the one person who emailed to say my blog "kinda sucks".
Maybe the most important book I ever read was Henri Nouwen's little book In the Name of Jesus. It is a reflection on the tempations Jesus endured in the wilderness, which Nouwen says are the temptations to be relevant. That is, the temptations to create, perform, and produce so well that we become, in our own minds, singularly indispensable. It is embarrassingly incriminating that in the last year I have written for a publication named - you guessed it - Relevant Magazine.
Blogging has this great way of distorting just how important we really are. We put these words together and they sound good, and sometimes they move us, and then we send them out there and we think, "That's gonna mean something to somebody." We are a lot like those astronomers and what not who beam out Frank Sinatra or the Declaration of Independence into the nethers of space. We'll never know, but it sure is nice to think this might matter to someone in some galaxy far far away.
But closer to home, here in Colchester, with my parishioners, I know things matter. I know I matter. But I don't matter like I wish I mattered or dream I matter on my blog (when it doesn't suck). I matter in the way that the spring birds outside my window matter. I don't know their names. I don't know what their personalities are like. If one were to come and replace another I never would no the difference. But if one were not to come and replace another I certainly would know. I would know through absence. And that absence would be a great heaviness.
I was on the phone with one of the ladies from the church yesterday. She told me, "I want you to know I pray for you every day. I pray for you because you are our leader."
I'm not relevant, in the sense of being special or irreplaceable. I'm relevant because, for these people, I am here. Present. Set apart to have a little time off to go and be near to those who are sick and hurting and disbelieving. Set apart to hold their hand for a little while why they cry.
I know that if I were to leave, I would not be missed. But my hands would.
And that's the difference between blogging and pastoring.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Monday, April 21, 2008
Typical Whiteboy Talk
How else except by becoming a Negro could a white man hope to learn the truth?
John Howard Griffin
Black Like Me
In my response to the Rev. Jeremiah Wright controversy What's Up With Barack's Pastor? I said that blacks and whites read Jesus differently. I then went on to explain what I saw as the differences.
I confess that my comments were grossly stereotyped. In fact, it was precisely that kind of grossly-stereotyped statement that got Barack Obama in hot water when he referred to his own grandmother as "a typical white person" who has sometimes visceral reactions to people of other (darker?) races.
In a helpful post my friend and former professor Mike Broadway noted that he and I, both white, have for whatever reasons entered into this strange world as racial reconcilers. As such, we sometimes feel compelled to translate for white people what black people think. Mike graciously pointed out just how absurd that really is - white people speaking on behalf of black people. I was a little chastened and promised myself to be more careful in public from here on out.
Yet, at the same time, I know that when it's just me and Irie I can say, "Typical black people feel this way," and "Typical white people feel that way," and it is truth. And that, in this highly charged climate of racial politics, is precisely the challenge: public and private discourses.
Of course, these divergent discourses have always been present. There has always been an intra-white language and an intra-black language. These divergent languages developed on the plantation and never fully gone away.
Let me give a case in point. Irie's mom grew up in a conservative Pentecostal home. The Gospel she has heard most of her life is not the hard-edged, politically-charged speech of black liberation. Yet when the whole Rev. Wright thing erupted her surprise was not at his rhetoric - for rhetoric like that has always been present in some aspect in the black community. Rather, the shock for her was that white people heard it. "Oh, no, no, no," she said, "Ya'll not supposed to hear that!"
Ya'll not supposed to hear that because ya'll don't know the language. Ya'll gonna misintepret.
But now we're entering into a new era. We're entering into an era where the language barriers are beginning to be crossed. Mike and I are going back and forth. But more to my point, Barack Obama is. In fact, he was born across the line. His mother was white, and his grandparents were white. Typical white people (typically speaking). And so, (typically speaking) he knows what typical white people typically think. And I bet he talks about it (typically) at home with Michelle all the time.
But there it is again, that private language. He can (typically) talk about it at home, but can't (typically) bring it into the public arena. Or he'll be in big trouble (typically).
Near the end of Black Like Me John Howard Griffin tells about coming back into white America after having temporarily darkened himself and living as a black man in the Deep South. After having been in the black community for something like six weeks he knows what they think. He knows that all the platituding "yes sir" and "no sir" and "us Negros are real happy with our station in life" business was just fear-induced, public speech. It was the exact opposite of how blacks really felt in those pre - civil rights days.
On his first day back into white society he checked himself into a white hotel and was met at the door by a black porter. For six weeks Griffin had been "just a typical Negro" and he now knew how they thought. "[The porter] gave me the smiles, the 'yes, sir - yes, sir.' . . . I felt like saying. 'You're not fooling me,' but now I was back on the other side of the wall."
I'm tired of crossing the wall and then coming back over. I'm ready for the wall to come down.
Old Timers
Yesterday our church hosted a lunch conversation about the history of our church. We invited everyone to bring pictures and other memorabilia to share. Among the really cool things shared:
1. A foot heater. Used in bygone days, the foot heat had a small door that coals could be dropped into. The heater would then be set into the bottom of the sleigh -that's right sleigh - for the ride down to the church. At church you'd get another lump of coal for the return ride.
2. Pew doors. We took the doors off our pews sometime in the 20th century. But one of the pillars of our church and I braved cobwebs, dust, and and who knows what else to retrieve them from the cellar last Wednesday. The pew doors kept the heat in - provided by the foot heater above - and the draft out while parishioners listened to somber sermons from fellas like this unidentified former pastor:
3. A write up about our former pastor Rev. Elgin Bucklin, who led a trip of over a 25 Vermont youths down to Harlem to worship at Abysinnian Baptist Church. This was an extension of Rev. Ritchie Low's (picture below) racial reconciliation project which I wrote about here.
4. Two of our oldest members sat together and shared about their trip with Rev. Low and a few other boys down to Washington to meet President Hoover. That's right, Hoover. Rev. Low took them down to deliver syrup to the president before the Vermont Maple industry got big. Their trip made news in other states - a trip to Washington in 1929 was no small thing - and helped spread the word about Vermont maple. I said I thought our church deserved some of the royalties from all the sales over these last 80 years.
After the old timers had finished reminiscing I paused, walked over and grabbed both of their arms. "Ritchie Low was their pastor," I said, "and I am their pastor." Then I heard someone from another table bring the amen. "That's right," he said.
That's right.
1. A foot heater. Used in bygone days, the foot heat had a small door that coals could be dropped into. The heater would then be set into the bottom of the sleigh -that's right sleigh - for the ride down to the church. At church you'd get another lump of coal for the return ride.
2. Pew doors. We took the doors off our pews sometime in the 20th century. But one of the pillars of our church and I braved cobwebs, dust, and and who knows what else to retrieve them from the cellar last Wednesday. The pew doors kept the heat in - provided by the foot heater above - and the draft out while parishioners listened to somber sermons from fellas like this unidentified former pastor:
3. A write up about our former pastor Rev. Elgin Bucklin, who led a trip of over a 25 Vermont youths down to Harlem to worship at Abysinnian Baptist Church. This was an extension of Rev. Ritchie Low's (picture below) racial reconciliation project which I wrote about here.
4. Two of our oldest members sat together and shared about their trip with Rev. Low and a few other boys down to Washington to meet President Hoover. That's right, Hoover. Rev. Low took them down to deliver syrup to the president before the Vermont Maple industry got big. Their trip made news in other states - a trip to Washington in 1929 was no small thing - and helped spread the word about Vermont maple. I said I thought our church deserved some of the royalties from all the sales over these last 80 years.After the old timers had finished reminiscing I paused, walked over and grabbed both of their arms. "Ritchie Low was their pastor," I said, "and I am their pastor." Then I heard someone from another table bring the amen. "That's right," he said.
That's right.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Casting Out Demons
Because it is Spring I have had a sudden impulsive urge to clean out the snow room and the closets, and get rid of stuff I don't want.
It started off really easy. I walked out onto our front porch took a look around and decided I didn't want any of the junk that had piled up all winter. In one fell swoop I got rid of a whole rat-nest of unwanted stuff. No qualms, easy as pie. I was a man on a mission.
Of course, the junk I was getting rid of was all Gabby's. (How do one year olds already have junk anyway?)
After doing the do on Gabby's junk I decided to take a look at my own. I pulled out an old tie I haven't worn since 7th grade or so. And then I found a couple of winter coats people had shoveled off on me. They made it sound like they were looking after me - "You're a Vermonter now, afterall, you need to stay warm" - but the truth is they were just looking for an easy goodbye. Kind of like finding a nice home for the puppy who keeps eating petunias. One of the coats bordered on the ridiculous. It was a kind of long, buckskin, muff-collared, Buffalo Bill meets Macy Gray, trench. In order to pull off wearing this in public you have to sport either a six-shooter or an afro. I sport neither, so saying goodbye was pretty easy.
But then last night I was digging through my closet and I pulled out this little urban hipster jacket I bought from Gap a few years back. I thought to myself, "Ryon you have not worn this coat in at least four years. You need to give it away." And then, suddenly my belly and my shoulders began to tingle. Another voice appeared. "But it's still a good coat. And when the weather is right you might still wear it. In fact, you could wear it tomorrow, it's going to be so nice."
I think I get it. That coat represents something to me. It represents some part of me that hasn't died yet. Some part of me that still wants to walk aimlessly around 48th and 8th, smoking cigarettes and reciting Dylan lyrics. And that little tingle in my belly was that part of me saying, "No, please, I'm not ready to go yet." If I may be so bold as to use Biblical language, it was a demon in search of a body. A demon that screamed at me like legion. "Please," he begged, "don't send me off into the abyss."
This morning I cast that demon out. I threw him over a yellow metal cliff. I heard him him from outside. He was drowning in a sea of old ladies' sweaters and old men's flannel. They'll soon be buried together in a place called Goodwill.
And I feel clean.
It started off really easy. I walked out onto our front porch took a look around and decided I didn't want any of the junk that had piled up all winter. In one fell swoop I got rid of a whole rat-nest of unwanted stuff. No qualms, easy as pie. I was a man on a mission.
Of course, the junk I was getting rid of was all Gabby's. (How do one year olds already have junk anyway?)
After doing the do on Gabby's junk I decided to take a look at my own. I pulled out an old tie I haven't worn since 7th grade or so. And then I found a couple of winter coats people had shoveled off on me. They made it sound like they were looking after me - "You're a Vermonter now, afterall, you need to stay warm" - but the truth is they were just looking for an easy goodbye. Kind of like finding a nice home for the puppy who keeps eating petunias. One of the coats bordered on the ridiculous. It was a kind of long, buckskin, muff-collared, Buffalo Bill meets Macy Gray, trench. In order to pull off wearing this in public you have to sport either a six-shooter or an afro. I sport neither, so saying goodbye was pretty easy.
But then last night I was digging through my closet and I pulled out this little urban hipster jacket I bought from Gap a few years back. I thought to myself, "Ryon you have not worn this coat in at least four years. You need to give it away." And then, suddenly my belly and my shoulders began to tingle. Another voice appeared. "But it's still a good coat. And when the weather is right you might still wear it. In fact, you could wear it tomorrow, it's going to be so nice."
I think I get it. That coat represents something to me. It represents some part of me that hasn't died yet. Some part of me that still wants to walk aimlessly around 48th and 8th, smoking cigarettes and reciting Dylan lyrics. And that little tingle in my belly was that part of me saying, "No, please, I'm not ready to go yet." If I may be so bold as to use Biblical language, it was a demon in search of a body. A demon that screamed at me like legion. "Please," he begged, "don't send me off into the abyss."
This morning I cast that demon out. I threw him over a yellow metal cliff. I heard him him from outside. He was drowning in a sea of old ladies' sweaters and old men's flannel. They'll soon be buried together in a place called Goodwill.
And I feel clean.
Monday, April 14, 2008
With Amplification
The deacons at my church gave me some feedback the other day with a performance evaluation. All was well. I especially appreciated a very personal and encouraging letter. It's good to be in this together. What Paul called "partners in the Gospel."
One thing I want to share though. In the section where my preaching was evaluated there was a comment that said, "occasionally, with amplification." Nice euphemism, ladies and gents.
In my defense:
"What I tell you in the dark, speak in the daylight; what is whispered in your ear, shout from the rooftops."
One thing I want to share though. In the section where my preaching was evaluated there was a comment that said, "occasionally, with amplification." Nice euphemism, ladies and gents.
In my defense:
"What I tell you in the dark, speak in the daylight; what is whispered in your ear, shout from the rooftops."
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Change of Heart?
My former Baptist Studies professor and friend Curtis Freeman has an interesting article in the Journal of Southern Religion about former pastor of First Baptist Church Dallas, Texas W.A. Criswell's 1968 flip flop on this issue of racial segregation. Freeman questions the sincerity of Criswell's change, and argues that politically "pragmatic concessions" were no less instrumental in the reversal than was true religious conversion.
A few thoughts:
1. Given the public examination of Barack Obama's relationship with Rev. Jeremiah Wright's controversial statements I thought it was interesting to read how the most famous member of First Baptist Dallas responded to his own pastor's racially-charged rhetoric. Criswell told a crowd at the 1956 South Carolina evangelism conference, “Why the NAACP has got those East Texans on the run so much that they dare not pronounce the word chigger any longer. It has to be cheegro.” Billy Graham distanced himself from his pastor's comments saying, “My Pastor and I have never seen eye to eye on the race question.” Interesting.
2. Freeman shares how conservative Baptist theologian Russell Moore believes that what fundamentally changed race relations in the South was not theological liberalism but rather the troubled conscience of conservative evangelical Christianity. Moore is quoted as saying, “It is to our own shame that we ignored our own doctrines to advance racial pride. And it is to our further shame that, in so many cases, we needed theological liberals to remind us of what we said we believed.” I think Moore is absolutely right in that there had to be at some point a critical mass of conservatives who finally saw the light. But that doesn't necessarily mean the conservative Southern establishment should be credited with ending segregation. It only means it should be acknowledged for no longer being hypocritical. It is those who had the courage to call the South out in its hypocrisy that deserve to be called prophets.
3. And most important, Criswell's change of heart. When, I have to wonder, are we ever truly converted? I think of Peter. He had a vision from God. As clear as day, nothing and no one was to be unclean. And then while in the midst of the dream there was a knock downstairs and the Gentiles appeared. This was not something he could doubt. No mere coincidence. But, Peter wavered. For a long time he went back and forth depending on who he was with and how hot the kitchen heat was. And yet, we remember him today as the one who cracked the vessel.
According to Freeman in 1972 Criswell reflected on his 1968 public endorsement of integregation and admitted it was not at the time whole hearted. “My soul and attitude may not have changed, but my public statements did,” Criswell said. So, I wonder to myself right now, What is change? His soul and attitude did not change, but his public statements did. That was not nothing. In fact, I think it was very significant. It was the way we all change usually I think. Piecemeal. Bit-by-bit at their appointed times.
And we are still changing . . .
Thursday, April 03, 2008
King's Last Speech
Martin Luther King, Jr. preached his last sermon 40 years ago today. By the end of the next day he would be dead.
If you have never seen or heard or read it, you need to watch this clip. The clip is short, real short, but incredibly powerful. Eerily powerful.
Watch it. Listen to the words. Let them get into your bones. And let them give those bones life.
We ain't seen the Promised Land yet.
But we will.
If you have never seen or heard or read it, you need to watch this clip. The clip is short, real short, but incredibly powerful. Eerily powerful.
Watch it. Listen to the words. Let them get into your bones. And let them give those bones life.
We ain't seen the Promised Land yet.
But we will.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Practicing our Faith
I want to share with you a brief audio clip from Andy Root's work with the Faithful Practices Project at Princeton Theological Seminary.
In his work Root reflects upon relational youth ministry and makes a distinction between "instrumental" relationships between ministers and young people which are always in the end about something else other than the relationship (a come to Jesus talk) and the kind of relational ministry which embodies the Gospel in its substantive practices (like showing up after a kid's parent has just been sent to the pokie).
The difference is not one uses words and the other doesn't (for as Paul says, how can they know if they haven't heard). Rather, the distinction is between doing something that gets us into a place to do what we really want to do versus doing something all along the way. What I mean by this is practice - something constitutively embedded within our encounters with each other that both points toward and is the Kingdom of God.
In other words (and this is for the grown ups) it ain't about getting people to the 10:30 service. Instead, its about the substance of our encounters with each other as we live out our lives together - including the substance of the worshiping we do together at 10:30.
When I say substance I mean the "What is" of the relationship between and among us. Another way of saying that is "character".
And we certainly have a few of those running around . . .
In his work Root reflects upon relational youth ministry and makes a distinction between "instrumental" relationships between ministers and young people which are always in the end about something else other than the relationship (a come to Jesus talk) and the kind of relational ministry which embodies the Gospel in its substantive practices (like showing up after a kid's parent has just been sent to the pokie).
The difference is not one uses words and the other doesn't (for as Paul says, how can they know if they haven't heard). Rather, the distinction is between doing something that gets us into a place to do what we really want to do versus doing something all along the way. What I mean by this is practice - something constitutively embedded within our encounters with each other that both points toward and is the Kingdom of God.
In other words (and this is for the grown ups) it ain't about getting people to the 10:30 service. Instead, its about the substance of our encounters with each other as we live out our lives together - including the substance of the worshiping we do together at 10:30.
When I say substance I mean the "What is" of the relationship between and among us. Another way of saying that is "character".
And we certainly have a few of those running around . . .
The Boys of LHS Part VI
I grew up relatively well off. We weren't rich but we definitely weren't poor either. Bottom line, we had a pool.The pool was, of course, not enough. And neither was the Chevy stepside with the 350 under the hood. And neither was making the Varsity football team my sophomore year. It was all good. Cool. Exactly what I wanted, but not enough.
[Young Life enters stage right with Gospel in mouth]: "In every of us, there is a God-shaped vacuum. And it can be filled by nothing and no one else but God."
It was a classic example of Maslow's Hierachy. I had all my physical needs met, but I still needed spiritual actualization. Jesus brought that. It was the Gospel truth.
When I started doing ministry with the boys of LHS I simply assumed the Maslovian framework. It was good for me and so it must be good for them. But there was one nuance. Whereas my physical needs had been met, that wasn't necessarily the case with the boys of LHS. So I started doing things. With the aid of Lubbock Young Life I was able to help them out with money for a burger. And maybe some money for shoes. We picked up most of their cost for camp. I was earning the right to be heard.
But here is the thing that I am wrestling with. Doesn't it seem a little silly to and self-defeating to take a kid and give something to him or her only to then turn around and say, "And by the way, that thing I just gave you - it ain't what you're really looking for. What you're looking for can't be met with a burger or new shoes or a trip to camp. You've got a God-shaped hole in your heart and . . ."
Suddenly I'm wondering. Maybe the Gospel wasn't just the message at the end of all that "earning the right to be heard" medium. Maybe the Gospel was wrapped up in the medium itself. Maybe the Gospel was the time we shared together over a burger - even when I got USED by them just like the patronizing white boy would. "Price, take us out to Burger King, Price," one kid used to say over and over.
What I'm getting at is the idea that maybe the Gospel isn't really the cherry on top of Maslow's Hierarchy, but is instead, some kind of fabulous relationship with God and each other that breaks forth across all of life, cutting across the false and dualistic distinctions between physical and spiritual needs.
Maybe I'm saying that the Gospel is really the inbreaking of what Jesus called the Kingdom of God into everything - from the shoes on up.
Maybe.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Ontologically Speaking
Yesterday I was sitting with a group of pastors I gather with weekly to study and reflect upon our upcoming Sunday sermons. At the end of our discussion about Jesus and Thomas and the meaning of bodily resurrection things turned to politics. Everyone began bantering about the 2008 presidential election. Being that my tummy was beginning to growl I saw the drift into presidential politics as my curtain call. I stood up and said something like, "Well, all I know is none of these three candidates is our savior."
It was a pious statement that no respectable Christian could disagree with. But I have to confess there was more than just pretty talk about Jesus in my words. What I was really saying is that all three of these candidates, Clinton, McCain, and Obama, share something that our savior never had - a will to presidential power.
Then this morning I moused over to Ethicsdaily.com and read Miguel De La Torre's scathing critique of these three. In his article "What Do Obama, Clinton and McCain All Have In Common?" De La Torre says that there is no substantive difference between any of the three respective candidates because they each are each operating under a philosophical framework which is in the end classist.
But the really interesting, and I think fundamentally incorrect, thing De La Torre says about the candidates is that they are each "ontologically white males."
Excuse me?
Two things.
First, if in 2008 we can now speak of ontologies of gender and race in such a way as they are completely severed from both sex, race, color, and ethnicity, then I want to suggest that we should not speak about them at all because they have essentially lost all natural meaning.
Secondly, if we can now play so fast and lose with gender and race, then why is the white male exceptional? Why is the white male reserved as the cipher for "pro-empire" "global neoliberalism"?
Apparently the more things change, the more they stay the same.
It was a pious statement that no respectable Christian could disagree with. But I have to confess there was more than just pretty talk about Jesus in my words. What I was really saying is that all three of these candidates, Clinton, McCain, and Obama, share something that our savior never had - a will to presidential power.
Then this morning I moused over to Ethicsdaily.com and read Miguel De La Torre's scathing critique of these three. In his article "What Do Obama, Clinton and McCain All Have In Common?" De La Torre says that there is no substantive difference between any of the three respective candidates because they each are each operating under a philosophical framework which is in the end classist.
But the really interesting, and I think fundamentally incorrect, thing De La Torre says about the candidates is that they are each "ontologically white males."
Excuse me?
Two things.
First, if in 2008 we can now speak of ontologies of gender and race in such a way as they are completely severed from both sex, race, color, and ethnicity, then I want to suggest that we should not speak about them at all because they have essentially lost all natural meaning.
Secondly, if we can now play so fast and lose with gender and race, then why is the white male exceptional? Why is the white male reserved as the cipher for "pro-empire" "global neoliberalism"?
Apparently the more things change, the more they stay the same.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
earth as it is in heaven
My friend and former teacher Mike Broadway has just responded to my post about Rev. Jeremiah Wright on his own blog earth as it is in heaven.
The truest thing I can say about Mike is that he is a real Christian. He has been a living witness to what Christ has done to destroy the barrier between the races for several decades now. He and Chris Rice have taught me how to speak about race as white men.
So here's the quote I want to share with you. It says everything I feel and describes what I am coming to realize is one of my most important callings in this Gospel life:
Mike goes on to desribe the impossibility of the task.
Here also is Mike's full reflection.
The truest thing I can say about Mike is that he is a real Christian. He has been a living witness to what Christ has done to destroy the barrier between the races for several decades now. He and Chris Rice have taught me how to speak about race as white men.
So here's the quote I want to share with you. It says everything I feel and describes what I am coming to realize is one of my most important callings in this Gospel life:
[Ryon] and I find ourselves in an unusual situation for white baptist ministers. We get called on to be mediators of black life for whites who wonder, marvel, and puzzle about race. We know we are not up to the task.
Mike goes on to desribe the impossibility of the task.
Here also is Mike's full reflection.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Funny Stuff
As the pastor of a small church I felt in on the joke.
As a pastor who loves coffee I felt like the butt of the joke.
As a pastor in the 21st century I felt like whatever is being said here ought to be discussed.
Thanks to reallivepreacher and Caffeinated Thoughts for the spot.
As a pastor who loves coffee I felt like the butt of the joke.
As a pastor in the 21st century I felt like whatever is being said here ought to be discussed.
Thanks to reallivepreacher and Caffeinated Thoughts for the spot.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
What's Up with Barack's Pastor?: An Easter Meditation
I was up talking on the phone with my dad until 12:15 am on Wednesday morning. We talked about father son things — cars, the weather, and our predictions for the NCAAs. Then, about half way through, the conversation turned serious. Dad asked, “So what’s up with Barack’s pastor?”
Dad was asking me because I am a minister and married to a black woman. He thought maybe I might have some special insight into why Sen. Obama would consider a polarizing preacher like the Rev. Jeremiah Wright a sound spiritual mentor. I could hear the earnestness in Dad’s voice. He is in a new place. Since he now has a black daughter-in-law and a biracial grandchild he knows that he now has something at stake when race moves from the periphery into the center of public dialogue, as it now has in the 2008 presidential campaign. For Dad the questions being raised are more important and more personal than ever.
He isn’t alone. For the first time in our nation’s history we may very well see a black person elected to the Oval Office. That has white people all across America asking the same thing my dad is asking. What’s up with Barack’s pastor?
The religious left (including Rev. Wright himself) has defended Rev. Wright’s preaching by locating it within the prophetic black rhetorical tradition. They argue that whites standing outside the culture and ethos of the black community — and especially the black church — simply cannot understand the sociology at work in the black pulpit and should, therefore, refrain from criticizing it. Certainly Rev. Wright’s jeremiadic voice does belong inside a long and venerable tradition of black preachers speaking from and for people on the margins. But the idea that words coming out of this prophetic place are somehow beyond critique is flat wrong and ought to be exposed for what it really is — nothing more than a sociologically dressed up version of, “It’s a black thing . . . you wouldn’t understand.”
On the other side is the response not being offered in any of America’s newspapers but certainly present at many of its dinner tables. This response is only one word, but that one word says a lot about where we are with race in 2008. “Figures.” A lot of whites hear the charged rhetoric coming from Rev. Wright’s pulpit and they receive it as confirmation of all their suspicions about black people, Barack Obama included. In other words, “I totally understand . . . it’s a black thing.”
Well, it is most certainly a black thing. And it is a white thing also. Out of their very divergent historical experiences blacks and whites tend to read and interpret history differently. A case in point: Thomas Jefferson. Whites see Jefferson as a great hero and champion of democracy. Blacks, on the other hand, often see Jefferson as a man who never could quite shake the mindset of a master in order to live up to his ideals. Jefferson is an excellent case study, but I want to suggest that at the heart of this whole thing are divergent and in some ways mutually exclusive interpretations of another historical figure: Jesus. That’s right, I’m suggesting this whole thing is a Christological problem. In other words, it’s a black thing and it’s a white thing, but it is also most definitely a Jesus thing.
Blacks and whites read Jesus differently. Rev. Wright is black and his congregation is largely (and unashamedly) black. So when he reads about Jesus he reads about a man of color born into and killed by the cruel forces of a racist empire. That’s true and ought to be preached.
When most white Americans, like my dad, think of Jesus they think of the man who died an atoning death for their individual sins. Jesus was a great Jewish leader whose teachings show us how to live morally exemplary lives. That’s true and ought to be preached also.
It is difficult, however, to see why a religious teacher concerned primarily with making nice guys out of meanies would have raised the eyebrows of the powers that be. I just can’t buy that. On the other hand, it is equally difficult to believe that a radical revolutionary bent liberating his people from oppression by any means necessary would have gone to the cross without putting up a fight.
Perhaps it is more than just ironic that this whole debate would surface just before Easter. Two-thousand years after his death we are still asking what the early witnesses of Jesus’ ministry asked. “Who is this man?”
Who this man is to us still matters.
And, in 2008, who this man is to others matters more than ever also.
Dad was asking me because I am a minister and married to a black woman. He thought maybe I might have some special insight into why Sen. Obama would consider a polarizing preacher like the Rev. Jeremiah Wright a sound spiritual mentor. I could hear the earnestness in Dad’s voice. He is in a new place. Since he now has a black daughter-in-law and a biracial grandchild he knows that he now has something at stake when race moves from the periphery into the center of public dialogue, as it now has in the 2008 presidential campaign. For Dad the questions being raised are more important and more personal than ever.
He isn’t alone. For the first time in our nation’s history we may very well see a black person elected to the Oval Office. That has white people all across America asking the same thing my dad is asking. What’s up with Barack’s pastor?
The religious left (including Rev. Wright himself) has defended Rev. Wright’s preaching by locating it within the prophetic black rhetorical tradition. They argue that whites standing outside the culture and ethos of the black community — and especially the black church — simply cannot understand the sociology at work in the black pulpit and should, therefore, refrain from criticizing it. Certainly Rev. Wright’s jeremiadic voice does belong inside a long and venerable tradition of black preachers speaking from and for people on the margins. But the idea that words coming out of this prophetic place are somehow beyond critique is flat wrong and ought to be exposed for what it really is — nothing more than a sociologically dressed up version of, “It’s a black thing . . . you wouldn’t understand.”
On the other side is the response not being offered in any of America’s newspapers but certainly present at many of its dinner tables. This response is only one word, but that one word says a lot about where we are with race in 2008. “Figures.” A lot of whites hear the charged rhetoric coming from Rev. Wright’s pulpit and they receive it as confirmation of all their suspicions about black people, Barack Obama included. In other words, “I totally understand . . . it’s a black thing.”
Well, it is most certainly a black thing. And it is a white thing also. Out of their very divergent historical experiences blacks and whites tend to read and interpret history differently. A case in point: Thomas Jefferson. Whites see Jefferson as a great hero and champion of democracy. Blacks, on the other hand, often see Jefferson as a man who never could quite shake the mindset of a master in order to live up to his ideals. Jefferson is an excellent case study, but I want to suggest that at the heart of this whole thing are divergent and in some ways mutually exclusive interpretations of another historical figure: Jesus. That’s right, I’m suggesting this whole thing is a Christological problem. In other words, it’s a black thing and it’s a white thing, but it is also most definitely a Jesus thing.
Blacks and whites read Jesus differently. Rev. Wright is black and his congregation is largely (and unashamedly) black. So when he reads about Jesus he reads about a man of color born into and killed by the cruel forces of a racist empire. That’s true and ought to be preached.
When most white Americans, like my dad, think of Jesus they think of the man who died an atoning death for their individual sins. Jesus was a great Jewish leader whose teachings show us how to live morally exemplary lives. That’s true and ought to be preached also.
It is difficult, however, to see why a religious teacher concerned primarily with making nice guys out of meanies would have raised the eyebrows of the powers that be. I just can’t buy that. On the other hand, it is equally difficult to believe that a radical revolutionary bent liberating his people from oppression by any means necessary would have gone to the cross without putting up a fight.
Perhaps it is more than just ironic that this whole debate would surface just before Easter. Two-thousand years after his death we are still asking what the early witnesses of Jesus’ ministry asked. “Who is this man?”
Who this man is to us still matters.
And, in 2008, who this man is to others matters more than ever also.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Katrina Relief Urban Project Part II
Intervarsity is partnering with a local church in St. Bernard's Parish that housed us and coordinated all of our work. Adullam Christian Fellowship is a storefront church founded in 1996 by Pastor Randy Millet and his wife Jill. It is definitely not the kind of church I would usually want to attend. But it was definitely the kind of church I needed to attend last week. Again, I said the word "powerful" keeps coming to mind and that is what I see at Adullam - a power-filled ministry.
If you have ever seen the movie The Apostle with Robert Duvall then you might have a clue as to the kind of preacher and pastor Pastor Randy is. I can't really say that Pastor Randy had a sermon prepared the Sunday we attended his church. But I can say that he had a word from God. That is to say, he preached.
He preached life into what is otherwise a dead community. St. Bernard's was washed completely away by Katrina and Adullam Christian Fellowship lost 9 out of 10 of its membership to displacement after the storm. (In fact, Pastor Randy's mother-in-law was one of the ones who lost their lives in one of those nursing homes.) But I gotta say that Pastor Randy is literally preaching St. Bernard's back into existence. What were once dead bones are now alive again and that little church is becoming an incubator for the Gospel, not only in the New Orleans, but across the world. Mark it down.
So what did I learn? Pastor Randy runs with folks like Benny Hinn and a bunch of other church movers like that. Not the kind of guy I would have chosen to bring a bunch of skeptical college students out to see. I was thinking, "O man, I'm gonna have to do a lot of explaining." But man, there was something very very real about what was going on in worship and I looked up and about half the students who came with us were dancing in the aisles by the end of the service. And those who weren't dancing basically said, "Hey, it wasn't me, but I really appreciated being a part of it all."
St. Bernard's Parish ain't gonna come back to life by boring exegesis. But it is gonna come back - it is coming back - by the proclamation of a Jesus who is alive and wants dead bones to dance.
If you have ever seen the movie The Apostle with Robert Duvall then you might have a clue as to the kind of preacher and pastor Pastor Randy is. I can't really say that Pastor Randy had a sermon prepared the Sunday we attended his church. But I can say that he had a word from God. That is to say, he preached.
He preached life into what is otherwise a dead community. St. Bernard's was washed completely away by Katrina and Adullam Christian Fellowship lost 9 out of 10 of its membership to displacement after the storm. (In fact, Pastor Randy's mother-in-law was one of the ones who lost their lives in one of those nursing homes.) But I gotta say that Pastor Randy is literally preaching St. Bernard's back into existence. What were once dead bones are now alive again and that little church is becoming an incubator for the Gospel, not only in the New Orleans, but across the world. Mark it down.
So what did I learn? Pastor Randy runs with folks like Benny Hinn and a bunch of other church movers like that. Not the kind of guy I would have chosen to bring a bunch of skeptical college students out to see. I was thinking, "O man, I'm gonna have to do a lot of explaining." But man, there was something very very real about what was going on in worship and I looked up and about half the students who came with us were dancing in the aisles by the end of the service. And those who weren't dancing basically said, "Hey, it wasn't me, but I really appreciated being a part of it all."
St. Bernard's Parish ain't gonna come back to life by boring exegesis. But it is gonna come back - it is coming back - by the proclamation of a Jesus who is alive and wants dead bones to dance.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Katrina Relief Urban Project Part I
I rolled in from my trip to New Orleans early Sunday morning. When I talk about the trip the word that keeps coming out is "powerful." God is doing powerful things in New Orleans. And God is doing powerful things in the lives of the 150 or so college students who I went down there with. I would even say God is doing something powerful in my own life as a result of this trip.Being that it is Holy Week and I have three services to prep for I am not going to try and put all my reflections into one single narrative form. I just don't have it in me.
But I do want to share a few key points. I'll do this in a series so as to give us all a break.
First, the devastation. It has been nearly three years since Katrina hit and most of the 9th Ward and St. Bernard's Parish, where we served, still look like they did two or three months after the storm. Most of the debris has been moved and most houses have by now been gutted, but very few have been repaired. It looks like a neutron bomb exploded, leaving something like 50,000 hulled out homes. Those among our group of 150 or so who had been down to help with relief before said it was somewhat disheartening to return for a second or third time and see so little progress. The initial waves of volunteers who responded early on have substantially diminished since 2005. Ergo, so has the rate of progress.
One image from all this was particularly poignant.
Most buildings still have the numbers spray painted on them right after the storm. There is the date and time that the building was searched, along with how many animals were found dead. At the bottom very prominently is the number of dead people found inside. All the buildings I saw had zero as that final number. I suspect most buildings where dead were found have by now been either repainted or completely demolished. So now when you walk by you just see block after block of zeroes. None dead inside; but no one alive.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
The Boys of LHS Part V
On the first day of junior high I walked into my first class, Competitive Athletics - soon to be known as "C.A." I scanned the gymn and found a tall black kid with a high, Arsenio Hall fade up top. He was probably six foot at the time, but the fade gave him another two inches at least. He was by far the most athletic looking kid in the place, so I decided it would be strategic for me to get to know him. I sat down with a nod, waited for about five unassuming minutes to pass in silence, then introduced myself.
Elton Jones had just moved to Lubbock from Louisiana. He talked with an acute cajun accent that was hard for my West Texas ears to catch up with. I would soon discover that he not only looked like a good athlete, but was one. I had chosen wisely. Elton would be not only my first, but also my best friend in junior high.
Over the next three years we spent the night at each others' houses nearly every week. We shot baskets, went on trips, smoked Swisher Sweets, drank Kool-Aid (man, that Kool-Aid), threw eggs at passing cars, won three or four city championships, and "macked on" girls together. He was "Big E" and I was "Little P". And together we were a dynamic duo.
As we passed from junior high into high school, however, something happened to Elton and I. Elton started hanging around more with other black kids. I would invite him to do something, but he would have other plans. Then, when I got a truck and started giving Elton rides home from football practice, he was less grateful than I thought he should be. I can't really say things happened consciously, they just began to feel different. We remained friends, but we grew cooler and less trusting of one another.
I tried to make sense of why Elton and I were drifting apart. I had no language of my own to describe what was happening so I borrowed my father's language. It was a language that he had borrowed from someone else as well. It was the language white people always ended up using when blacks disappointed them. "Elton was a good black," I thought, "but he is becoming a N-Word."
To be completely fortright I am just now beginning to wrestle with the meaning of that word in my life. What does it mean for me, my family, and my work as an agent of reconciliation? All I can say is that I long for a day when there will be a great cleansing. Come, Lord Jesus.
But do not miss the real story. The expletive at the end of my statement was just a symptom of a much deeper force at work. Elton and I were actually being initiated into the cult of racialized manhood. He was undergoing his socialization into blackness, which meant he was beginning to question and take exception to the fact that all the white kids had trucks and all the black kids were left to bum rides. I, on the other hand, was being socialized into whiteness and thus assuming my mantle as one authorized to say who was a "good black" and who wasn't. In my characterization at the time, Elton was the only one who was changing. The reality, however, was that we were both undergoing a change. I was entering into a world of white privilege and he was entering into a world of black anger. In other words, we were both entering into a world fallen.
When I loaded the bus with the boys of LHS we brought that fallen world with us. At sixteen or seventeen their eyes had been opened for long enough to know that a chasm existed between us. And at 21 I was no longer naively expecting them to fall over themselves thanking me for the opportunity to just get out of Lubbock. We all knew that suspiscion and mistrust had boarded the bus with us.
And that is why camp is so important - not only for blacks and white, but for all people. Camp digs you up out of the crusty, hardened earth and replants you in new soil. That means that no matter how strong and invulnerable you were at home, at camp you are in jeopardy of dying.
I've seen it happen. I've seen tough kids, I mean mean dudes, melt to tears when faced with that first faithful step over the rappelling ledge. And I've also seen geeky kids become heroes when they get chosen to act out all of Hamlet in two minutes or less. But the best is when everybody - black ghetto kids and white suburbanites - by the nondiscriminating call of the square dance.
That's when you know that camp is working its magic - when everyone is all turned around in some giant Gordian knot. And that's when the camp speaker has it so easy. She just steps onto the stage and says, "You know, life is like that. We're all turned around in one giant mess. And there ain't not a one of us who knows enough to get out. And so we pray to God for help."
I think that is what happened between me and the boys of LHS. Only it was the horses and not the square dancing that did it.
Young Life has this cool way of keeping everything you are doing a secret. You know that like everybody else you are going to rappel, and you know you are going to do a ropes course, and you know you are going to drive go-carts, and you know you are going to ride horses. But when you are going to do that is a total mystery right up until go time. And it was go time with the horses that everyone was dreading.
We were dreading the horses because the horses - we were pretty sure - we could not control. And control is everything isn't it? Control is what this whole white versus black manhood thing is about anyways. We even said it outright when I was a kid. We would say so-and-so was a great coach because he could "handle the blacks." And when "good blacks" rejected being handled? Well, you already know what we said then.
But here we were with the horses and not one of us knew how to handle them. And because we were all out of our element - planted in new dirt - we didn't feel the pressure to lead on like we weren't scared.
So that's how it happened. It happened with a giant admission that we were afraid of not being in control. And the admission came from a young kid named Duck (Duck is the third guy from the left in the photo shamelessly cribbed from Glenn Austell) in a prayer he volunteered to give on the last night of camp.
It was evident that this kid had been to church. He brought out a giant bass voice from somewhere deep inside his chest. "Lo-ord," he started off, "we thank you for all thy many blessings. . ." I just wasn't ready for this. I had to bury my head into my pillow to keep from laughing. I heard snickers from all across the bunk beds. But funny as it was, there was no doubting the fact that this kid was a preacher. "And we are grateful for this Young Life camp, Frontier Ranch, a great blessing to us all." "And we are thankful for our leaders bringing us to this wonderful place in the Colorado Mountains. We are glad to get out of Lubbock."
The prayer went on. I quit laughing and began to pray along silently. Then, after several minutes, at the tail end came the word from God.
"And Lo-ord," Duck concluded, "if we ride horses tomorrow, I just pray I don't get a crazy one. Amen."
It was out of our control. It was in God's hands now.
Elton Jones had just moved to Lubbock from Louisiana. He talked with an acute cajun accent that was hard for my West Texas ears to catch up with. I would soon discover that he not only looked like a good athlete, but was one. I had chosen wisely. Elton would be not only my first, but also my best friend in junior high.
Over the next three years we spent the night at each others' houses nearly every week. We shot baskets, went on trips, smoked Swisher Sweets, drank Kool-Aid (man, that Kool-Aid), threw eggs at passing cars, won three or four city championships, and "macked on" girls together. He was "Big E" and I was "Little P". And together we were a dynamic duo.
As we passed from junior high into high school, however, something happened to Elton and I. Elton started hanging around more with other black kids. I would invite him to do something, but he would have other plans. Then, when I got a truck and started giving Elton rides home from football practice, he was less grateful than I thought he should be. I can't really say things happened consciously, they just began to feel different. We remained friends, but we grew cooler and less trusting of one another.
I tried to make sense of why Elton and I were drifting apart. I had no language of my own to describe what was happening so I borrowed my father's language. It was a language that he had borrowed from someone else as well. It was the language white people always ended up using when blacks disappointed them. "Elton was a good black," I thought, "but he is becoming a N-Word."
To be completely fortright I am just now beginning to wrestle with the meaning of that word in my life. What does it mean for me, my family, and my work as an agent of reconciliation? All I can say is that I long for a day when there will be a great cleansing. Come, Lord Jesus.
But do not miss the real story. The expletive at the end of my statement was just a symptom of a much deeper force at work. Elton and I were actually being initiated into the cult of racialized manhood. He was undergoing his socialization into blackness, which meant he was beginning to question and take exception to the fact that all the white kids had trucks and all the black kids were left to bum rides. I, on the other hand, was being socialized into whiteness and thus assuming my mantle as one authorized to say who was a "good black" and who wasn't. In my characterization at the time, Elton was the only one who was changing. The reality, however, was that we were both undergoing a change. I was entering into a world of white privilege and he was entering into a world of black anger. In other words, we were both entering into a world fallen.
When I loaded the bus with the boys of LHS we brought that fallen world with us. At sixteen or seventeen their eyes had been opened for long enough to know that a chasm existed between us. And at 21 I was no longer naively expecting them to fall over themselves thanking me for the opportunity to just get out of Lubbock. We all knew that suspiscion and mistrust had boarded the bus with us.
And that is why camp is so important - not only for blacks and white, but for all people. Camp digs you up out of the crusty, hardened earth and replants you in new soil. That means that no matter how strong and invulnerable you were at home, at camp you are in jeopardy of dying.
I've seen it happen. I've seen tough kids, I mean mean dudes, melt to tears when faced with that first faithful step over the rappelling ledge. And I've also seen geeky kids become heroes when they get chosen to act out all of Hamlet in two minutes or less. But the best is when everybody - black ghetto kids and white suburbanites - by the nondiscriminating call of the square dance.
That's when you know that camp is working its magic - when everyone is all turned around in some giant Gordian knot. And that's when the camp speaker has it so easy. She just steps onto the stage and says, "You know, life is like that. We're all turned around in one giant mess. And there ain't not a one of us who knows enough to get out. And so we pray to God for help."
I think that is what happened between me and the boys of LHS. Only it was the horses and not the square dancing that did it. Young Life has this cool way of keeping everything you are doing a secret. You know that like everybody else you are going to rappel, and you know you are going to do a ropes course, and you know you are going to drive go-carts, and you know you are going to ride horses. But when you are going to do that is a total mystery right up until go time. And it was go time with the horses that everyone was dreading.
We were dreading the horses because the horses - we were pretty sure - we could not control. And control is everything isn't it? Control is what this whole white versus black manhood thing is about anyways. We even said it outright when I was a kid. We would say so-and-so was a great coach because he could "handle the blacks." And when "good blacks" rejected being handled? Well, you already know what we said then.
But here we were with the horses and not one of us knew how to handle them. And because we were all out of our element - planted in new dirt - we didn't feel the pressure to lead on like we weren't scared.
So that's how it happened. It happened with a giant admission that we were afraid of not being in control. And the admission came from a young kid named Duck (Duck is the third guy from the left in the photo shamelessly cribbed from Glenn Austell) in a prayer he volunteered to give on the last night of camp.
It was evident that this kid had been to church. He brought out a giant bass voice from somewhere deep inside his chest. "Lo-ord," he started off, "we thank you for all thy many blessings. . ." I just wasn't ready for this. I had to bury my head into my pillow to keep from laughing. I heard snickers from all across the bunk beds. But funny as it was, there was no doubting the fact that this kid was a preacher. "And we are grateful for this Young Life camp, Frontier Ranch, a great blessing to us all." "And we are thankful for our leaders bringing us to this wonderful place in the Colorado Mountains. We are glad to get out of Lubbock."
The prayer went on. I quit laughing and began to pray along silently. Then, after several minutes, at the tail end came the word from God.
"And Lo-ord," Duck concluded, "if we ride horses tomorrow, I just pray I don't get a crazy one. Amen."
It was out of our control. It was in God's hands now.
Journaling
A couple of weeks ago a fairly well known evangelical leader came to the mega-church in town. He is somebody I have known of for a long time. Theologically and socially conservative, but also understanding of the fact that the post-Christian culture we live in should not be expected to accomodate Christianity.
I thought the guy was worth going to hear and I wanted to encourage some folks from my congregation to go with me. So I googled his name to get a bio that I could email around. The google turned up the most ridiculously absurd. Right in the top five of search results was this: "So-and-so also encourages a dangerous New Age practice - something called journaling."
Suddenly I was imagining some fundamentalist cavemen sitting around in leopard skins. "So-and-so also encourages a dangerous New Age practice - something called writing."
I tell you.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
"Other Diversity"
Ethicsdaily is carrying an op-ed by Gary Nelson about the New Baptist Covenant. Nelson has written the most insightful article I have seen yet. It is a friendly yet much needed critique of the old paradigm on which the New Baptist Covenant celebration was built.
It is a worthwhile read even for those who don't care anything about Baptist life because it lays out the central issues which are defining the church today. The core issue is this: the next generation of Baptists are the now generation of Baptists and unfortunately they were for the most part left off the ticket in Atlanta. The broader implication is that church just can't be done the way we've been doing it. This includes the way we have formulated language like Conservative or Progressive or Evangelical or Mainline. The point being that when I talk with clergy friends my age they say, "Well, I serve a Mainline church. But I'm an Evangelical. But, I mean, I am socially progressive. But, well, I'm also conservative when it comes to issues like sex and violence on TV."
See, the old wine skins are about to pop. And it's going to get messy. And the blood of Christ is going to be everywhere.
As an aside, Ethicsdaily would do well to listen to what Nelson is saying. Younger, postmodern Baptists do not define ourselves by what we are against - ie, the Southern Baptist Convention. Rather, we define ourselves by a common passion for authentic life with Jesus and with others. And most of us could find that in a Southern Baptist Church, or an Episcopal Church, or a United Church, or the bar down the street.
It is a worthwhile read even for those who don't care anything about Baptist life because it lays out the central issues which are defining the church today. The core issue is this: the next generation of Baptists are the now generation of Baptists and unfortunately they were for the most part left off the ticket in Atlanta. The broader implication is that church just can't be done the way we've been doing it. This includes the way we have formulated language like Conservative or Progressive or Evangelical or Mainline. The point being that when I talk with clergy friends my age they say, "Well, I serve a Mainline church. But I'm an Evangelical. But, I mean, I am socially progressive. But, well, I'm also conservative when it comes to issues like sex and violence on TV."
See, the old wine skins are about to pop. And it's going to get messy. And the blood of Christ is going to be everywhere.
As an aside, Ethicsdaily would do well to listen to what Nelson is saying. Younger, postmodern Baptists do not define ourselves by what we are against - ie, the Southern Baptist Convention. Rather, we define ourselves by a common passion for authentic life with Jesus and with others. And most of us could find that in a Southern Baptist Church, or an Episcopal Church, or a United Church, or the bar down the street.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Baptist Blogger
Yesterday the Burlington Free Press ran an article about me and this blog. To be honest, I haven't even read it yet. I just haven't been able to bring myself to do it.
There are something like 80 million blogs out there. I learned that in a Times article yesterday that talked about some of the "ultimate blogs" that are out there. I was not surprised that Fromthewilderness was left off the ultimate list.
That's probably why I haven't read the Free Press article here. Because there is no story. Nothing sexy. Certainly nothing that would be described as ultimate. I mean, my pictures aren't even in focus.
A pastor friend of mine called me to rib me about the whole thing. I told him how creepy I was feeling and that I couldn't even bring myself to read the article. He went into compassionate pastor mode. "Well, it was pretty innocuous," he said. "Yes," I said, "and that is the point. Blessed are the innocuous was not a beatitude."
Look, for some reason I am writing this thing. And, for some reason you are reading it. And so it is what it is. Not sexy. Not ultimate. But a gift. To me and I hope to you too.
Ryon
There are something like 80 million blogs out there. I learned that in a Times article yesterday that talked about some of the "ultimate blogs" that are out there. I was not surprised that Fromthewilderness was left off the ultimate list.
That's probably why I haven't read the Free Press article here. Because there is no story. Nothing sexy. Certainly nothing that would be described as ultimate. I mean, my pictures aren't even in focus.
A pastor friend of mine called me to rib me about the whole thing. I told him how creepy I was feeling and that I couldn't even bring myself to read the article. He went into compassionate pastor mode. "Well, it was pretty innocuous," he said. "Yes," I said, "and that is the point. Blessed are the innocuous was not a beatitude."
Look, for some reason I am writing this thing. And, for some reason you are reading it. And so it is what it is. Not sexy. Not ultimate. But a gift. To me and I hope to you too.
Ryon
Monday, February 18, 2008
The Laying on of Hands
Yesterday we celebrated the calling of two new deacons at our church.
I have participated in a lot of laying on of hands ceremonies over the years and for the most part pretty much considered the whole thing as a merely symbolic act. We Baptists are inherently skeptical of rites and ceremony. That's why we have "ordinances" instead of "sacraments". Because we would rather be safe than sorry, we tend to stay well clear of what we see as a fine line between holy acts and "empty rituals".
But yesterday, as I held my hands upon the shoulders of our new deacons, I realized that my hands were more than just outward symbols of an inward blessing. I was literally trying to bless these two with my hands. The best way I can describe what I was feeling is to remember the movie Ghost, when that Patrick Sweazy character was trying to learn how to move things with his mind. The trick, he was learning, was to put all of one's self into the object.
That's what I was doing yesterday. I looked up and realized that my fingers were buried into flesh, and all of my physical and spiritual being - heart, and soul, and mind, - was surging through these 10 points of contact. I was trying literally to squeeze the Holy Spirit out of my fingertips into these new deacons.
And, I believe, the whole apostolic communion of saints, were squeezing with me.
Blessings.
I have participated in a lot of laying on of hands ceremonies over the years and for the most part pretty much considered the whole thing as a merely symbolic act. We Baptists are inherently skeptical of rites and ceremony. That's why we have "ordinances" instead of "sacraments". Because we would rather be safe than sorry, we tend to stay well clear of what we see as a fine line between holy acts and "empty rituals".
But yesterday, as I held my hands upon the shoulders of our new deacons, I realized that my hands were more than just outward symbols of an inward blessing. I was literally trying to bless these two with my hands. The best way I can describe what I was feeling is to remember the movie Ghost, when that Patrick Sweazy character was trying to learn how to move things with his mind. The trick, he was learning, was to put all of one's self into the object.
That's what I was doing yesterday. I looked up and realized that my fingers were buried into flesh, and all of my physical and spiritual being - heart, and soul, and mind, - was surging through these 10 points of contact. I was trying literally to squeeze the Holy Spirit out of my fingertips into these new deacons.
And, I believe, the whole apostolic communion of saints, were squeezing with me.
Blessings.
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