A Day to Re-Member

Our worship service went long on Sunday. Again. Instead of raising my hands, pronouncing the blessing, and telling people to "Go in Peace to love and serve the Lord"at 10:45 as I had planned, it didn't happen until 10:54. It was only nine minutes. Okay, maybe eleven. Not that long in the grand scheme of things. But I still hate it when that happens.

It's not, of course, that I'm opposed to worshipping God. Personally, I've come to look forward to weekly times of worship. I find an hour and twenty-four (okay, twenty-six) minutes of praise, prayer, and reflection quite tolerable--even enjoyable. (That's not something I would have said in the days of my youth when I spent much of the worship service calculating the lenght of each song and prayer so that I could have an accurate countdown to the final "Amen").

Even so, as a worship planner and leader, I get nervous when a service goes long. I'll be sitting there in the front row anxiously checking my watch, sneaking glances around at the congregation, thinking about the Sunday School teachers who have rooms to prepare, the older folks who need to catch a bus to get home in time for lunch, the visitors who might wonder why the preacher talks so long or we sing so many songs.

That being said, it should be acknowledged that there are many Christian traditions--both in the United States and around the globe--that would have been astounded by the brevity of Sunday's service. (Only an hour and twenty-four minutes?! Imagine that!) Sunday morning, in between glances at my watch, I couldn't help but think of a story I heard about one of those congregations.*

I can no longer recall all the details, but the story goes that a Presbyterian from a predominantly white congregation in the Midwest attended a black church in the South one Sunday. The Presbyterian took in the service with wide eyes. The dancing in the isles, the impromptu riffs on the organ that punctuated the preachers point, the shouts of "Amen" and "Hallelujah" from those standing around him--none of those things were a part of his normally reverant and mildly exubarant worship experience. But perhaps the most astounding thing to this Presbyterian was the length of the service. Two hours in and the preacher had yet to begin his sermon. Three hours in and he wondered if he'd be out in time for lunch.

After the postlude, when one of his fellow worshippers asked him what he thought, the Presbyterian straightened his tie and, with uncharacteristic bluntness, declared: "I just don't understand why we had to go so long! " That's when one of elders in the group smiled, reached out and touched his Brother on the shoulder, and gently explained: "All week, people puttin' us down. They tell us we ain't worth a thing. Tell us we're no good. So Sunday, we come to church and we worship so that we can learn to see the straight again. It takes a long time to learn to see straight. Takes a long time to be assured that we're worth something, that we are children of God. That we are loved by him..."

I like that story because I think it helps see the gift of active Sabbath observance. As I tried to say on Sunday, many of us come to church every week feeling like we haven't accomplished enough well enough. We feel dehumanized, worthless, degraded after busy weeks working, producing, consuming. We are taken apart by the messages we've heard all weak from others--or even ourselves. But when we practice Sabbath, we remember God and his grace. And when we remember God and his grace, we are re-membered. That is, we are put back together, made whole, renewed.

And when I look at it that way, it seems like going a few minutes "long" isn't all that bad. Sure, it can be a little inconvenient for everyone (even preachers). But what a gift to come into God's presence and take some time to re-member!

*This was a story I had considered including in my sermon but (perhaps ironically) cut for the sake of time.

Sin 101

I've given myself the assignment of preaching on the 10 Commandments this fall. I've covered #1 (or at least preached a sermon on it) already--but just ran across another good bit from NT Wrigth that I wish I could have included somehow. It's good fodder for thinking about the 1st Command, but also our approach to the rest of them:

When we begin with creation, and with God as creator, we can see clearly that the frequently repeated warnings about sin and death, referred to as axiomatic by Paul, are not arbitrary, as though God were simply a tyrant inventing odd laws and losing his temper with those who flouted them, but structural: humans were made to function in particular ways, with worship of the creator as the central feature, and those who turn away from that worship—that is, the whole human race, with a single exception—are thereby opting to seek life where it is not to be found, which is another way of saying that they are courting their own decay and death. That is to say, with the entire Jewish tradition, that the basic sin is idolatry, the worship of that which is not in fact the living creator God.(NT Wright, Paul, pg. 35)

Providence on the Side of the Road

"Cynthia's down! Cynthia's Down!"

The cry came from my tandem partner, Barb, and it meant exactly what it sounded like. Our fellow cyclist, Cynthia, had crashed while going 20+ mph on a stretch of I-76. She lay on the side of the road with her cracked helmet, holding a throbbing wrist, complaining about a pain in her thigh that would later be identified as a fractured pelvis.

Later, after Cynthia had been carted away the ambulance and as we continued to ride somberly toward our final destination, another cyclist commented that it was amazing to see how God was, once again, at work on their tour. "It wasn't just coincidence," he said. "It was providence. It was a 'God thing.'"

I'll admit, I've never really liked the phrase, "God thing." And any time people start talking about the providence of God in a messy situation, I start to get nervous. After all, if they're going to credit God for what went right in a bad situation, are they going to give him credit for what went wrong, too? Isn't there something wrong with that picture?

I don't have the answers to all those questions. But as I continued to reflect on what happened--and what didn't happen--with Cynthia's accident, I had to admit that my riding partner was right. Some how, some way, God was at work.

First of all, there was Sarah. At the moment Cynthia went down, she was being passed by a car with two folks who were heading back to Massachusetts after a few weeks of vacationing out west. They immediately pulled over and one of them one of them (Sarah) just "happened" to be an EMT. Not bad timing, if I don't say so myself!

And then there was what could have happened--but didn't. Cynthia could have fallen into traffic--but she didn't. And she could have taken out the two cyclists who were riding behind her--but she didn't. Things could have been so much worse than a fractured pelvis and a prematurely ended bike tour. But they weren't.

Perhaps--in a world that is broken and fractured by sin and its consequences, in a world that is far from imperfect--that's how God's providence works. No, he doesn't remove all obstacles (or crash inducing litter!) from our paths. He doesn't make us invincible. But God--in his providence*--does make it so that things aren't as bad as they could be. And though God doesn't give us a Teflon coating that causes all the garbage of life to slide right off , He does--in his providence--give us the grace to make it through.

*In our tradition, this has often been attributed to the function of "Common Grace" and what John Calvin (I believe) referred to as "the universal work of the Holy Spirit.

The Brilliance of Bicycles

Two years ago this August, Jill and I found ourselves standing in the rain along side a nearly abandoned country road in Ontario, Canada. Our tandem bicycle--along with the bags of camping gear we were depending on to keep us sheltered, fed, and clothed for our two week bicycle tour--was laying in the ditch along side of the road.

The bike had already taken us over a hundred miles that day (108, if I recall correctly), but we knew that it wasn't going to take us any further--at least not without a little help. Due to on unfortunate set of circumstances (involving the previously mentioned rain, a metal grate on bridge, and some bad advice) our rear tire was damaged beyond our ability to repair it. And so we stood on the side of the road, looking at our wounded bicycle wondering what to do--and where to go--next.

We didn't have to wonder for long. It was only ten--maybe twenty minutes--before a man (whose name I've sadly forgotten) in a Chevy Silverado pickup pulled unto the shoulder next to us. "Where you folks from?" Before we could answer, he went on, "You look like you could use a little help." We seized the opening and explained our precarious situation. And before we could ask him what we really wanted (Did he know of any towns nearby that had a bike shop? Could he help us get there? Or at least a campground nearby), he tugged at his beard and said: "Well, I happen to own a marina in the next town up. I'd be happy to have you stay with me for the night. Then tomorrow morning we'll see about that tire."

So that's what we did. We loaded our gear into the back of his truck and a half hour later we had not only met his wife, we'd also met another woman (also a complete stranger) who offered us the exclusive use of her camper--warm shower, stove, clean sheets and all. For a couple of dirty, worn out bikers, she was a Godsend!

The thing that always strikes me about that story--and the others we have like it--is the way people treat you when you're on a bicycle. There's something about people on bikes--especially people on bikes who have clearly traveled a long way using nothing but their own horsepower--that breaks down the barriers that are usually erected between strangers. Maybe it's the funny outfits. But for some reason, when people see a couple of strangers roll in on their bicycles, they seem much more prone to let their guard down and strike up a conversation. And therein lies the brilliance of bicycles. And the brilliance of the Sea to Sea Bike Tour.

I'll admit, I wouldn't always have characterized Sea to Sea as "brilliant." In fact, I'll confess to being rather cynical about it all. That's not to say I don't like the idea of a cross country ride. I do. In fact, it's something I've personally wanted to do for a long time. So as a cyclist, I always thought it was a great idea. I was not convinced, however, that the tour was really going to be all that effective in pricking any one's conscience about issues of poverty, or that it would do much (besides raise a fair chunk of money from people who might give it any way) to "stop the cycle of poverty."

But that changed yesterday. Yesterday, I had the privilege of riding along with the tour for a day . I pedaled the tandem (this time with a biking buddy from my youth, Barb) from Denver to Fort Morgan. And a long the way, I was reminded of what I had learned on the tours Jill and I have done--when you're on a bike, people want to talk to you. In coffee shops and campgrounds, I got to see my riding companions speak with complete strangers. And not just about the route, or the weather, or the other mundane details of their days. But about things that matter. They got to talk about why they were doing this crazy ride from Seattle to Jersey city. They got to talk about poverty.

I know there will probably be debates about how effective this tour is in doing anything about poverty (although the 2 million bucks they've raised so far should but some of that to rest) or if all the riders should just sell their bikes and feed a hungry family with the proceeds (who of us couldn't stand to sell something?). But I'm convinced. When I got to see the bikers in action--chatting it up with locals and nudging them to think about issues that ought to be of concern to us all--I recognized how tremendously valuable this tour is. It takes a lot to move people to action on atrocities we all grow too easily accustomed to, but it seems that this grass-roots, one-on-one bicycle tour is a fine--perhaps even brilliant--start.

**Want to donate? Click here.**

Let the Little Children Come

I spent the better part of the last two days helping to lead a mini-retreat for kids who are interested in professing their faith. Among the many gems I overheard was this one from a fourth grade boy:

"I think God is like a bird flying through the sky not giving up on others
because if he did he couldn't fly."

Good Books

I don't often recommend books to others. However, I just finished up Timothy Keller's latest, The Reason for God , and can't help myself. Read this book. Whether you're just curious about the Christianity, a committed believer, or somewhere in between, take some time to ponder what Keller has to say. You won't regret it.

Prayer

Stumbled across this old comic recently and was reminded of the parables we've been studying from Luke 11 and Luke 18.