Talk With the Preacher

I was just going about my business the other day when I heard them for what felt like the very first time.

By them I mean the very familiar words of Paul from Philippians chapter 3 that I am almost certain I won an AWANA badge for memorizing: “Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already been made perfect, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me.”

It happened while I was in staff meeting, smack in the middle of one of my colleagues leading opening devotion while I pretended to listen thoughtfully all the while surreptitiously adding to my already too long to-do list.

Before I could ponder why I was startled by this verse, which was tucked away inside a longer passage, lively discussion about running the race and working hard for spiritual growth ensued among the staff . . . and I got left in the dust. (As they say in the locker room. I think.)

Some people, I know, experience the life of faith as they would the process of training for and running a marathon. I don’t think it’s any coincidence that I don’t as you will never, ever, catch me running anywhere by choice. (Runner’s high? Whatever.) Going to the gym makes me cry. The sight of free weights sends me off in the other direction. Comparing stories about the last 10K you ran? Count me out.

As I heard my colleagues talk about spiritual discipline and working hard to grow in faith I felt a little confused. Faith, to me, is redemptive, life-giving, hopeful . . . well, salvation!  Saved from the way I might do it if I tried to do it my way.

Yup, faith is all those things to me . . . but faith is definitely not sweaty.

I started to wonder: am I the only one who hates to think of faith in the same category as horribly painful memories of eighth grade track and field day? Am I the only one who doesn’t like to think of faith as a constant attempt to run without stopping? Am I the only one who doesn’t run but instead has to be shaken into life-changing realizations, pushed into meaningful growth experiences, and led right to the very edge of the next step?

And as I wondered about whether or not I was spiritually handicapped just because I couldn’t tie my own experience to Paul’s sports metaphor, that’s when the phrase started ringing in my ears, ” . . . for which Christ Jesus took hold of me.”

I got to thinking: maybe it just isn’t the same for all of us, you know what I mean? For God’s sake, if I started “training” for my spiritual marathon, knowing me I’d be running in the exactly wrong direction, anyway.

No, I think sometimes God takes hold of us . . .

. . . like I would take hold of one of my children who really, really needs to look out the window so they won’t miss something amazing as we drive past.

. . . or like I might take hold of their little shoulders if it looked to me like they might run in front of a speeding car.

. . . or like I might gently shake one of them to wake them up in time for school.

God takes hold of me. All the time.

God bless brother Paul, but the image of running doesn’t help me understand my relationship with God. It just calls to mind the truly horrible image of me, tennis shoes slapping on hot asphalt, wiping stinging sweat out of my eyes, trying desperately to catch up to whatever’s just out of reach.

No, I think of God more as One who takes hold of me when I can’t seem to find the right way to go: who takes hold of my mind and births conviction, who takes hold of my conscience and births action, who takes hold of my heart and births new life.

Despite my protestations I confess I do get in the race from time to time. And I guess I will keep “running,” all the while trying my very best to understand and know the God of the Universe. And I’ll rest in the knowledge that, when my side hurts and my mouth is dry and I can’t take even one more step . . . I am taken hold of.

Yes, Christ Jesus takes hold of me.

And, for this I can only pant out: “Thanks be to God!”

I’m sorry to report that it seems we’re fresh out of the Quick Reference Guide to Christian Faith.

In fact, every time someone asks for one I check to see if I can put my hands on a copy but so far, no luck . . . which makes me think it may be out of print.

At least here at Calvary.

I decided to revisit whether or not such a thing exists because I keep having curious conversations with folks who imagine that, when Jesus called his disciples, he passed out crisp new textbooks like the teacher does at school on the first day. You know, the Quick Reference Guide to Christian Faith!

“What does the church believe?” they ask.

(Concurrent internal dialog with myself: “What do you mean ‘the church’? Do you mean the community of Calvary Baptist Church, the worshippers who are so diverse some of them cannot even speak the same language? And, believe about what? This is the very same group that has spent significant time debating the size and layout of the bulletin!”)

Out loud, of course, I say what I believe we believe here: that we are people in the process of being transformed by the redemptive message of the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

But for some questioners, it seems, that answer just doesn’t seem to cut it.  So . . . I ask for clarification (hoping beyond hope that I don’t get any questions on the finer points of Karl Barth’s doctrine of God since I can’t quite recall at this moment), starting to suspect that I’ve met another seeker looking for . . . a Quick Reference Guide to Christian Faith.

But often I hear this next question: “No, no! I mean rules for my life. Like, what does the church believe about abortion . . . or other religions . . . or homosexuality?”

Sighing with relief that I have not unwittingly walked into a discussion of Systematic Theology, I usually respond with what I know to be “the rules” of the Gospel: love God, love each other.

And then I explain again that the Quick Reference Guide to Christian Faith is not available at this church. Instead, I think we have something I guess you could call the Slow Reference Guide to Christian Faith.

The Slow Reference Guide to Christian Faith is, sadly, not a list. Rather, it’s an invitation to a process of transformation as you experience meaningful relationship with Jesus Christ, join your life to the community here at Calvary, wrestle with the biblical text, and engage in messy community with others who share the path on this journey of faith.

In fact, it’s very likely that cracking open the Slow Reference Guide to Christian Faith will not be a neatly outlined, several-step process; alas, the Slow Reference Guide to Christian Faith doesn’t fit neatly into the back of my NIV Study Bible (with zipper case).

Nope, faith is a whole experience of investing your life, listening for the voice of God, trying new expressions of old ideas, adding new faces and languages and ideas to your image of the family of faith, reading the ancient text and finding new and life-giving revelations, experiencing in the deepest part of who you are that God loves you . . . and, really, loves the whole world.

So many gifted, educated, professional people in this city who would never, ever accept chewed up and already-digested direction in any other area of their lives want the church of Jesus Christ to cough up a quick reference guide they can check in with every once in awhile, just to make sure they are following the rules.

But there are no quick reference guides here. Only this: an invitation to embark on relationship with the God of the universe; to welcome all kinds of scary experiences: to run into people who are different; to ask hard questions and learn hard and utterly redemptive answers; to doubt and explore, think and wonder, love and, most certainly, be loved, even if we don’t get it right all the time.

Sometimes I see faces fall with disappointment: can’t there be one place in all of life where the answers are easy? “It’s too hard,” some say. “I need a Quick Reference Guide to Christian Faith.”

And as I watch them go, I imagine the Rich Young Ruler and the words of the Gospel of Mark: “and when he heard this he was shocked and went away grieving . . . .”

I swear, I want to call out to just come on and take the next step along with me . . . as we walk together, I say, neither of us will be able to see what’s up around the bend, of course. We only know that together we’re on the grandest adventure life has to offer, the adventure Jesus offered over and over again, starting that very day on the lake when the Quick Reference Guide to Christian Faith must have fallen overboard and instead, Jesus held out his hand and invited, “follow me . . . .”

I don’t want to complain . . . but I will anyway.

I have had such a time with the sermon this week. I know it’s in there somewhere, but it is refusing to make its way to the paper this week. At least so far. I guess it’s a good thing that Sunday comes no matter what, so something has to appear somewhere, sometime before 11 am on Sunday morning.

I hate to disenchant all of you who thought preachers wrote their sermons six months in advance.

So today, instead of trying to write, I’d like to point out . . . in my defense . . . two small relevant details.

First, this is kind of an anomaly. I’m usually finished with the sermon by this time in the week. Okay, maybe not DONE done, but certainly mostly done (note for context: this was written last Friday, but I got you, didn’t I?  Sermon done on Tuesday . . . now, that’s funny!). Not that this fact helps the current situation, but I felt compelled to include it here before I bring out the big guns.

The second, and main reason my sermon is not getting done at this moment is this: as of last week Hannah has taken up the oboe.

I now firmly and unequivocally believe that I am constitutionally unable to hear the Spirit of God when all evidence would lead you to believe that a cow is dying a slow and painful death in the middle of the living room (just adjacent to where I am writing).

Ultimately, I completely support musical development in our family, but up until this point it has not affected my ability to sermon-write.

I try to go into another room-and find you can hear this special sound through the walls.

I try to go outside on the porch with the dog, but his ears pick up the strains and he starts howling along.

I even take the laptop out to the car and tried to write, but it seems that special whine/howl is now firmly imprinted on the soft tissue of my brain and I cannot think coherently about anything except why we ever thought it was a good idea for Hannah to take the instrumental music elective this year in the first place.

Thus I maintain that this is certainly reason enough for me to send my regrets Sunday morning, don’t you?  Surely someone could stand up and say: “Jeremiah wrote a poetic treatise on the anger of God.  Please open your Bibles and discuss amongst yourselves.”

Yes, I think that might be the way to go, because I imagine by then I’ll be lying in bed, hopefully under heavy sedation, with earplugs firmly in place and a cold washcloth on my forehead.

I’ll keep you posted.

(Update: Sermon written and preached.  Hannah is still working on perfecting the oboe.)

Unfortunately, a murder took place in my office today.  (No, not a church member, silly!)

Well, I think the actual murder took place out at the dumpster, but the apprehension of the victim did, in fact, occur in my office.

We noticed just this week that we’ve been sharing our office with a four-legged creature of the rodent variety. Apparently, pastoral intern Jackie was here late working the other night trying to make a dent in the long list of assignments she’s gotten from her slave-driving mentor pastor (me!). Once Jackie got down off the desk she reported the sighting, which led our church administrator Paul to acquire sticky traps-you know the kind that catch the mouse so he can’t move?

The outrage among certain nature-loving members of our staff (okay, Mary, director of membership and missions) was loud and strident.

“We should be loving and accepting all of God’s creatures (blah, blah, blah)!”

I listened carefully and skillfully tried to shift the direction of the conversation by inquiring whether or not Mary had used this opportunity to think outside the box in matters relating to membership: for example, had she considered using some of that super sticky glue on the pews (to try to raise our retention rate for visitors, of course)?

Unfortunately, that approach did not work, and for the last 48 hours I have received several scathing emails on the subject of terrorism toward rodents and its incompatibility with Christian faith.

Then, just today, Mary and I were in a meeting in my office. I believe it was right after I asked for her thoughts on the morale of the staff when she screamed and jumped up on the couch.

(I personally was thinking that morale was really good around here, so her reaction took me by surprise.)

After she shrieked for awhile I finally heard the word “mouse” and joined her up on the furniture. We then carefully came down and ascertained the mouse was hiding behind my large hardback volume of Friedrick Schliermacher’s Systematic Theology in the bookcase.

(I’m thinking there’s a joke for this but nothing is coming to mind at the moment.)

Anyway, as usual, Paul swooped in to save the day wielding two of his sticky traps. He placed one on the floor on each side of the bookcase and tried to startle the mouse (supposing, I guess, that no mouse would be brave enough to climb out the front of the shelf-over Schliermacher.  He was right).

And that’s when the apprehension occurred. He tried to get away, poor baby, but the traps worked as they were supposed to and Paul carried him (or her) to his cruel fate near the dumpster.

Needless to say, Mary in her typical “fight-for-all-things-that-are-right” approach to life is horrified by the inhumane activities going on in the office.  For me, well, I just took a few deep breaths, resolved never to pick up Systematic Theology ever again and got back to work.

That’s what I did, that is, until I received the following via email, from Mary, whose morale, it seems, has been significantly damaged by this experience: “What is our bereavement policy? I’m going to need to take some days of mourning off.”

Last night as I anxiously stood next to the washing machine peering dimly through the laundry room overhead lighting trying to decide whether or not “handwash” was the same as “gentle cycle,” I mused over the fact that I am totally and completely surrounded by overachieving, Type A perfectionist colleagues.

I know this, of course, mainly from all these years of intense personal introspection (the sparks of recognition fly all over staff meeting), but I was reminded again of how many people around me share this characteristic yesterday when all of us on the staff were recruited to participate in the annual “Laundering of the Choir Robes.”

The Laundering of the Choir Robes, for those of you who don’t know, is a radical and ground-breaking Calvary tradition put in place with the coming of our beloved Director of Music, Cheryl Branham, almost two years ago (Cheryl’s wearing the pink shirt in this very cute picture of our program staff on retreat last week). Very quickly after we met her we knew and have been reminded ever since that dirt and disorder are OUT OF THE QUESTION for Dr. Branham. (Which means she is frequently running around pulling her hair out around here.)

At the top of her list were the choir robes, which hadn’t been washed since . . . well, let’s not go there, please.

When Cheryl got her hands on those robes they were mended, washed, fabric-softened and hung within an inch of their lives that first year . . . and the next year . . . and, as this year starts up again . . . well, you guessed it.

Up until this year I have successfully managed to avoid participating in The Laundering of the Choir Robes through various means of avoidance. This year, however, with the 2007-2008 Calvary Choir season about to open this coming Sunday, we were down to the wire. Discussing the problem in staff meeting led to Cheryl’s ah-ha! moment, when she looked around and realized that many members of our staff find themselves in possession of a washing machine and dryer.

And this is how I came to find myself carrying 8 choir robes into the house, tightly clutching a piece of paper Cheryl told me gave directions.  I remember when she gave me the paper thinking with confusion, “directions?,” but true realization of the depths of our staff personality disord . . . uh, types, came when I stood over the washing machine and glanced down just to check if there was anything special I needed to know.

I kid you not, this is what the paper read:

LAUNDERING RECOMMENDATIONS
CBC CHOIR ROBES AND STOLES

PLEASE-
1. Launder robes and stoles separately, just in case the colors run
2. Be sure zippers are fully zipped, not open–an open zipper can rip fabrics
3. Spot-treat stole neckline and any visible spots or stains on the robes
4. Be sure to dissolve detergent in the bottom of the wash tub as it fills with water, then place the piece in the tub
5. Use warm water and gentle cycle to wash
6. Fabric softener is recommended in the rinse to help relax wrinkles
7. Please use low heat to dry, with a softener sheet
8. Remove piece from dryer while still slightly damp and hang to complete drying
9. Stoles require pressing with a warm iron

THANK YOU FOR HELPING US KEEP IT CLEAN IN SANCTUARY CHOIR!

Well.

I read this list and, along with wondering what else they need to do to “keep it clean in sanctuary choir,” my Type-A personality roared to life.   My thoughts as I stood there included but were not limited to: “What if the zipper WAS zipped and then it got UN-zipped and ripped the fabric and I got in trouble for not following directions??!?” “What if I miss a spot??” “And what if I treat a spot but it doesn’t come out?” “Dissolve? Does that take any special skills? “If liquid fabric softener is recommended and used in the wash, do you ALSO use a fabric softener sheet in the dryer? And, can you fabric-soften something too much?”

Well, you get the picture.

I was overwhelmed, and this feeling was not aleviated by the passing comment of my husband: “Hey Amy, in case you didn’t know, this is an iron.”

(Thoughts here edited out for younger and/or more pious readers.)

I got the choir robes in the washer, finally. Don’t tell Cheryl, but I couldn’t find any fabric softener, liquid or sheet, anywhere. And, since I went to bed and left the damp-hanging task of the final load to my unfailingly helpful self-appointed King of All Things Laundry-Related husband, I cannot guarantee that #8 was followed to the full extent of the direction.

But I can say the robes are clean.

And now I think it’s time to return to some serious personal introspection.

And take Cheryl (and a few other members of the Calvary staff!) with me.

I’ve never claimed to be an expert at espionage, so I’ve been rather puzzled by the fact that recent events have proven hilariously funny to my children. The long and short of it is this: I am a terrible stalker.

I just hate to be sub-par at any task I take on, but I would like to point out that there’s probably a reason (or three or maybe even four) that I am in a profession where I try to get people to pay attention to me. I really don’t need anybody to speculate about what that reason might be (thank you very much) but, whatever it is, I’m thinking it may be the explanation for recent failed attempts at stalking my children.

Last week was the first week of school with all the accompanying drama. Because we’re in a transitional time waiting for our house project to be finished, we’re living with friends outside the kids’ school district.

(As an aside: quite a lot might be written about why it is that I have 3½ degrees from institutions of higher learning and I still could not, for the life of me, figure out how my children might possibly get a school bus home in the afternoons . . . but that’s a whole other issue.)

Because of the transportation tangle it was finally concluded that the children could meet up after their respective schools dismissed, walk to a city bus stop, ride one bus a few stops, exit said bus to cross the street, wait for and board another city bus, ride it for two stops and walk home.

On the first day of school I met them all at the assigned rendezvous. All four of us trudged up the hill to the bus stop and sat in the baking sun for 30 minutes until the bus came. Fumbling for change, we all got on, paid our fares (all four, one at a time), requested transfers and rode to the appropriate stop. We then disembarked the bus, carefully crossed the street and waited another 30 minutes for a second bus . . . rode it, got off at our home stop and walked home. Whew!

All the way home I quizzed the kids, over and over . . . which number bus? What time? Which stop? What do you do if you forget to get on? What do you do if you forget to get off? Do we talk to strangers? You know, all those pressing questions.

But even after all that, I couldn’t sleep thinking about what might happen. How could my vulnerable little angels possibly manage on their own at their young ages (9, 10, 13)??!? They are so little . . . and making them take a city bus is such a lame mother thing to do. What if they couldn’t remember which bus to take? What if they met a mean bus driver? What if . . . you know, all those thoughts.

So I decided right then and there that I’d let them think they were riding the bus on their own Tuesday . . . but I’d park on a side street to watch. You know, just to make sure everything went well.

4:15 p.m. Tuesday saw me on their tail. (Or would that be tails?) Anyway, parked across the street from the bus stop, dark sunglasses in place I watched from afar as Hannah did her best to annoy her brothers with snotty comments and they did their best to injure her enough to hurt but not enough to get in trouble.

In other words, they were behaving totally normally, not a hint of worry anywhere that I could see.

They paused this behavior briefly to board the bus when it arrived, which was my cue to speed off to the transfer stop to resume my stalking. Again, I parked on a side street, donned the dark glasses and peered at them from behind the sermon notes I was reading. Hannah was still harassing. The boys were still itching to punch her . . . things were so normal, in fact, that I kept looking for any sign of anxiety, insecurity, fear. There were none that I could see.

Feeling rather reassured that all my worrying was in vain, I went back to studying for the sermon.

Suddenly I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, Sammy standing at the sidewalk’s edge, hand shading his eyes, peering directly at me. I slid down in the seat and raised my folder, but when I peeked out from around it I could see that Sammy was now joined in his scrutiny by Hannah, who was pointing. They were calling Hayden over and I was sinking lower into my seat just as the bus arrived.

Once they were safely on I started the engine and sped toward home. I barely made it in the door when the kids got in themselves.

After a few introductory scornful comments (”Hey Mom, don’t you have anything better to do than to follow us around?”) Hayden marched to the telephone, dialed his Dad at work and proclaimed: “Hey Dad, guess what? Mom is the lamest spy EVER!”

So I’m thinking I’ll put off espionage training for now and stick with sermon prep. If they were smart enough to uncover even my stealth spying, well, it seems to me they can probably handle the bus themselves, after all.

I was on vacation!  Give me a break!

The condo construction is coming along.  Please forgive the lighting of these, as we were there at night and did not know how to turn on the lights . . . .