Yikes

As those of you who study the calender in the "Weekly" closely know, I've been in Grand Rapids the past few days. Some of you may wonder what I'm actually doing here (besides enjoying the fabulous West Michigan Weather--Rain, drizzle, rain, drizzle, clouds, drizzle repeat...). So I'll tell you...

Today I spent my time today (Thurs) with a dozen other preachers speaking with Scott Hoezee, the directer for the Center for Excellence in Preaching (CEP). The main topic was how to make the Center's website more user friendly and useful. This discussion was the primary reason the CEP flew me out to Grand Rapids. It was a good day--I met some great folks, got to talk about preaching (which I love), and I'm excited to see what changes are going to come at the CEP in the (near?) future.

The other perk of the trip was that I got to take in a preaching conference yesterday (Wed). The theme of the conference was "Preaching, Pain, and Pastoral Identity" (sounds like fun, doesn't it?!). It was primarily structured around Paul's experiences in ministry (particularly, but not exclusively, with the church in Corinth). The point was to draw analogies between what Paul experienced in ministry (and how he handled it) and what we can expect to experience in ministry (and how to handle it). If you know anything about Paul's ministry, you'll know that "encouraging" or "cheery" might be the wrong word to describe the topic at hand.

Throughout his letters, Paul doesn't hesitate to talk about the great suffering he has endured for the gospel. Paul endured shipwrecks and beatings, slander and imprisonment. And here's the thing--he expects all those who follow Christ to endure something of the same (not just leaders in the church!)

There are probably a lot of different reasons for that. But the main one is simple--that pattern of cross shaped living is one that Christ laid out for us. He suffered, and so shall we. If you read Paul, or Peter, or Jesus himself, it's hard to come to any other conclusion.*

That's a tough sell. It's not exactly "seeker friendly" to tell people who want to follow Jesus to shoulder a cross. It'd be a lot easier to think that Jesus calls us to a life that is comfortable, a life where all our problems are washed away with our sins, a life of "success."

But Jesus doesn't do that. He calls us to die (and rise!) daily. So here's the question: What does that look like in our lives? Chances are that most of us won't give up our life itslef at thius point. But what will we give up? Food for thought...


*"It is clear that since God leads those he loves by way of trials, the more he loves them, the more difficult the way will be." (St. Teresa of Avila)

Back to Basics

Last Sunday morning, I met for the first time with our "Foundations" class at church. It's a new class and is designed people who are new(er) to First Church, are curious about what we believe and who we are, and perhaps might even want to become members some day (if they're not already). The basic idea is to start broad (with what it means to be "Christian"), narrow down a little (what it means to be a "Reformed" Christian) and then narrow down even more (what it means to be a part of "First" Christian Reformed Church. That's the basic outline, but I'm developing the particulars as we go. That meant that last Saturday afternoon, I was sitting in my office, trying to discern what is at the core of the Christian faith--what people absolutely have to know--in 4o minutes or less.

Well, I thought it would be relatively easy. After all, I (like many folks at First) have been a Christian all my life, attended Christian day school and college, and spent the last four years of my life studying at a very good seminary. I have been blessed with a toolbox full of resources that should have made my task a simple one. It should have been easy.

But it wasn't. I sat there in my office, drumming my pencil against a legal pad, wondering what I should say. I started and stopped. Started and stopped. Drank some coffee. Started and stopped. Got some candy from Sandie's office. Started and stopped. It was turning out to be a much more difficult task than I anticipated.

I was reflecting on why that was so this week. There are probably a lot of reasons, but one stood out--that toolbox full of resources. It was a blessing, yes, but it was also my curse (if you'll allow me to paraphrase Spiderman). I had a million things to say. But I had nothing to say. With so much information floating around my brain, I was oddly paralyzed by the thought that I would leave something out or miss some crucial detail, or perhaps that I would lead my class astray by failing to explain the mystery of the Trinity or the many facets of Christ's atonement. I was overwhelmed by the possible complexities of what should have been a simple task.

I suspect that I'm not the only one who has this. Perhaps many of us feel that way when we try to talk to our neighbors or children about Christ. Because so many of us have been given so much knowledge. And while that's wonderful, I wonder if it overwhelms us and causes us to forget the true simplicity of our message.

I was talking with the other members of the staff about this in our meeting on Tuesday. What would you have said, I asked? One of them (it was a woman, if that narrows it down) responded by telling a story about a time she was in some far off place and was talking to a man she had never met before. She too, felt overwhelmed by all that she could say. But then, she said, she felt a gentle nudging of the Holy Spirit. "Just tell him that God loves him and wants to have a relationship with him."

It seemed simple. Unsophisticated. Maybe even childish. But she listened. She said the words. And the man started to weep.

Maybe it is that simple. God wants to have a relationship with us. In Jesus, God makes that relationship possible. And now we belong, body and soul, in life and in death, to him.



So: comments? Am I the only one? what are other roadblocks to clearly articulating our faith? (I have a few ideas, but I'd love for folks to comment...)

Likin' Hikin'

Today a few of our "Young Adults Group" (Yes, we need a better name...) went for a hike. Sorry, I still can't remember the name of the place (Near Boulder and the "Center for Atmospheric Research"). But all you folks (young or less young) who stayed home to take naps missed out. Here are a few pics:

Rachel E: On The Prowl For an Art Project

Eric B: Auditioning for Gideon's Army

The Gang: Taking a Break

The Ladies: Terrified of the Ever Ferocious Daisy?

(Jill S., Kim Z., Rachel E., Lynn R., Amanda F.)

Kim Z: Holding an Enormous Piece of Pizza. Really.

Rachel E: Shocked? Appalled? Horrified?

Kim Z: Not so much...

Poem For Sunday

I (and probably 1300 other preachers) made brief reference to this John Updike classic this morning. Here it is in full:

Seven Stanzas at Easter
Make no mistake: if He rose at all
it was as His body;
if the cells’ dissolution did not reverse, the molecules
reknit, the amino acids rekindle,
the Church will fall.

It was not as the flowers,
each soft Spring recurrent;
it was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled
eyes of the eleven apostles;
it was as His flesh: ours.

The same hinged thumbs and toes,
the same valved heart
that–pierced–died, withered, paused, and then
regathered out of enduring Might
new strength to enclose.

Let us not mock God with metaphor,
analogy, sidestepping, transcendence;
making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the
faded credulity of earlier ages:
let us walk through the door.

The stone is rolled back, not papier-mâché,
not a stone in a story,
but the vast rock of materiality that in the slow
grinding of time will eclipse for each of us
the wide light of day.

And if we will have an angel at the tomb,
make it a real angel,
weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair,
opaque in the dawn light, robed in real linen
spun on a definite loom.

Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
for our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are
embarrassed by the miracle,
and crushed by remonstrance.

–John Updike (1932- )

Friday Poetry

Cross

On my chest this Friday afternoon,
the elegant small signature
of violent death
swings as I walk, gold tapping my
deep heart, telling me I was there.
(I did not mean to do it; I did
not know.) I slump under the weight
of it; my pulse
echoes the beat of hammers.
--Luci Shaw

Then Again...

It probably goes without saying, but in every sermon I write, I make choices. A lot of choices. One of the choices I have to make when preaching a story from Scripture--like the one I preached last week from Luke 14:12-24--is which characters we, as listeners, ought to identify with. In this story from Luke, the choice was between two basic groups: the prominent Pharisees playing host to Jesus or the poor, the crippled, and the lame who were left out in the cold. I chose the Pharisees.

I hope that those of you who heard the sermon understood the choice: the Pharisees with whom Jesus is dining in this passage have prestige, they have power, they have their acts together. They were the up and up in their society who turned their backs on the down and out. And so I chose to identify us with them, because by the world's standards, most of us at First Church are fairly well to do, we are people of power and influence, people who appear to have our acts together. Again, by the world's standards.

But perhaps we might hear this text a little differently if we chose a different standard--the standard of the Kingdom of God. Because it seems to me that by Kingdom Standards, all of us at First Church have a lot more in common with that other group in the text--with the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind.

By Kingdom standards, all of us are people who arrive at the banquet by grace alone. By Kingdom standards, all of us are people who are broken and dirtied, people who are dependent on God for everything we need, people who can never hope to repay the One who invites us to the dinner to have fellowship with him. By Kingdom standards, all of us are people who receive an invitation to dine with Jesus in the Kingdom of God--not because we are so pious, powerful, or polished--but because God, in his grace, went prowling through the back alley's and country lanes and dragged our poor, pitiful selves in from the cold so that we could party with him for eternity.

I'd like to think that if we remember the way God's grace levels the playing field, we who are guests at Christ's Great Supper will be more prone to reciprocate the "heavenly hospitality" that has been shown to us.