Friday, May 22, 2009
Just an observation
Tonite I attended a special concert by Filip Wojciechowski in the sanctuary of Wieuca Baptist Church. Wojciechowski is a critically acclaimed concert pianist from Poland who has won numerous awards and has offered flawless arrangements of Mozart, Chopin, Gershwin, and others, to audiences on multiple continents. Of the 1,700 pastors from around the country registered for the conference, I was one of about 80 who chose to attend. At the same time, untold millions were tuning in around the world to see the finale of a musical reality show that shall remain nameless. I’m not trying to figure out what became of some 1600 other pastors on a Wednesday night in Atlanta, nor pass judgment about what constitutes musical taste. I’m simply just offering an observation. All I know is that I enjoyed a great musician for about 40 minutes and then I slipped out myself to enjoy an even better sunset and a short walk home.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Out of touch
Maybe I’ve been living in Lilesville too long. I’ve forgotten what it’s like living in a metropolis. I’m in Atlanta for a national preaching conference. My hotel was a great deal on Hotwire. I couldn’t imagine having to pay the special conference price, let alone regular price. Even though the hotel’s undergoing remodeling, everything I’ve needed has been at my fingertips. The fitness center has been amazing, given one presently doesn’t exist in our county. The lectures and seminars have been held between 1 of 3 churches. Each sanctuary seats over 1500 – that’s more than the population of the entire Lilesville region! Yesterday afternoon, during free time, I stopped in a Target near the hotel. Not just any Target, but one located in a multi-level garage. The Target was two floors, complete with elevators, escalators, and even a special escalator for your shopping cart. From block to block, each skyscraper is bigger than the next and upscale eateries galore. Everything is so plush. But who can afford that now? I miss my blinking caution light, long leaf pines, and fresh home-cooked meals. I guess I’m just out of touch.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
A little trash by the roadside
It's hard to preach a text on Sunday if you're not living it. As I worked through 1 John 4 and John 15 last week, I found myself called to spend less time in study and commentary and more time in community bearing fruit. Torn between disciplined study and relational interaction with others, time and again, I opted to find inspiration by living into the text. I was deliberately initiating conversations with folks on the street corner, learning more about gardening and the 81 various soil types in Anson County, and even taking an evening off to spend with my wife on the town. On a whim Saturday morning, we even decided to head to Wadesboro for a Clean Sweep Litter Day. Why not spend time making our county a cleaner place? We could have stayed and done the same on our street, but part of the motivation was to join in the community and interact with other like-minded volunteers that day. Who knows? Perhaps we would even make new friends and contacts? As luck would have it, we were the only ones to show that beautiful spring morning. But, for the next few hours, we (along with the program coordinator) spent the morning filling a handful of giant orange bags along the roadside (and even made a friend in the process). We canvassed the area and picked up everything in sight that didn't naturally belong along the green shoulder. Everything, that is, except for a cracked styrofoam cup. It was obvious and in plain view but, ultimately we decided to leave it. You see, inside a medium-sized, ornately decorated spider had created a home - complete with a large egg sac. Our coordinator was partial to creatures of all kinds and could tell the eggs were ready any day now. It wasn't the best of makeshift homes, but it was a bold attempt and adaption to a world increasingly cluttered by waste and junk.
Today, two big meetings are taking place as we move forward locally with a United Methodist global initiative to help folks move out of generational poverty. There's a lot of excitement building about this and yet there are many who still have a hard time coming alongside or coming to terms with why such an effort is needed. I, myself, find it ironic that the Circles model we are launching and funding, sounds exactly like what the Church is supposed to be. However, the little styrofoam cup we left by the roadside and the storyline to the new movie The Soloist, have been eye-opening reminders that it's hard to do something about poverty if you're not living it. As we go forward, guided by the Spirit, we must be keenly aware that what we may perceive as the solution or the ideal standard, is not always what's best for someone living it. Sometimes the best or most important thing we can do is just to be a friend. Sure, I want a world free of roadside garbage. But Saturday, it seemed to be okay to leave a little trash by the roadside. I was just glad to be a friend to a fellow creature. And after all, that's what thousands of folks desperately need anyway - a friend. I hope we can do that with this initiative and I'm thankful this model seems to value that. I hope you'll consider learning more. And, if you're looking to take in a movie this week, why not give The Soloist a try. It's not the best film ever, but it's a great story (and the scene of the Lord's prayer voiced-over a view of an LA community was extraordinarily moving). http://www.wnccumc.org/chs/PovertyInitiative2.htm
http://www.movethemountain.org/
Today, two big meetings are taking place as we move forward locally with a United Methodist global initiative to help folks move out of generational poverty. There's a lot of excitement building about this and yet there are many who still have a hard time coming alongside or coming to terms with why such an effort is needed. I, myself, find it ironic that the Circles model we are launching and funding, sounds exactly like what the Church is supposed to be. However, the little styrofoam cup we left by the roadside and the storyline to the new movie The Soloist, have been eye-opening reminders that it's hard to do something about poverty if you're not living it. As we go forward, guided by the Spirit, we must be keenly aware that what we may perceive as the solution or the ideal standard, is not always what's best for someone living it. Sometimes the best or most important thing we can do is just to be a friend. Sure, I want a world free of roadside garbage. But Saturday, it seemed to be okay to leave a little trash by the roadside. I was just glad to be a friend to a fellow creature. And after all, that's what thousands of folks desperately need anyway - a friend. I hope we can do that with this initiative and I'm thankful this model seems to value that. I hope you'll consider learning more. And, if you're looking to take in a movie this week, why not give The Soloist a try. It's not the best film ever, but it's a great story (and the scene of the Lord's prayer voiced-over a view of an LA community was extraordinarily moving). http://www.wnccumc.org/chs/PovertyInitiative2.htm
http://www.movethemountain.org/
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Howell's Reflections on Psalm 23
It's not often I would quote something full text. And I'm not one of those huge followers of James Howell. However, knowing Psalm 23 is dear to so many, I thought this might be the best avenue to share these thoughtful words offered by Rev. Howell (a fellow colleague and elder in the WNC Conference). May you discover this Psalm speaking to you in a fresh way this week.
--------------------------------------------
The 23rd Psalm is a perennial favorite.
And yet for all its familiarity, there may be some nuances to the Psalm we have missed, some reflections scholars might share to deepen our sense of the most comforting words ever composed.
Consider one four letter word in verse four: thou. The second-person pronoun "thou" is old English, a relic from the 1611 King James Version. The vast majority of the time we prefer modern translations of the Bible – but Christians cling to a 400 year old translation of Psalm 23. Why is this? Could it be that elevated language, words with some lineage and dignity, are appropriate to the grandeur, the majesty, the immeasurable grace of God who is indeed our shepherd?
And here is a fascinating item: James Limburg points out that, in the original Hebrew of Psalm 23, there are exactly twenty six words before and after, "Thou art with me."1 Perhaps the poet was boldly declaring that God being with us is at the very center of our lives.
God is with us. We are not alone down here. The whole Gospel is that God is with us. Jesus was called "Emmanuel," which means "God with us." John Wesley's dying words were, "The best of all is, God is with us." God doesn't shelter us from trouble. God doesn't magically manipulate everything to suit us. But the glorious with is unassailable, unchangeable, the only fact that matters.
This marvelous news draws our attention again to the Thou. For the first three verses of the Psalm, God is spoken of in the third person: "The Lord is my shepherd... he leads me... he restores my soul." But with the Thou, the third person shifts to second person: "for Thou art with me, thy rod... thou preparest a table..." Instead of talking about God, the Psalmist begins to talk to God; instead of God in the head, God is a friend in the heart. A conversation happens, a relationship grows. This is faith, the only true comfort.
If we genuinely and in the marrow of our being believe that God is with us, then the only logical consequence would be, "I shall not want.
"We've read it, uttered it, delighted in it: but have we thought about it? Or lived it out in reality? I shall not want? Our whole life is about wanting: I want, I shop, I look, and when I have it, I want new stuff. In our consumer culture, I shall want, I shall always want. I shall never stop all my wanting because the mall entices me with ever new, shiny, unnecessary objects, and I am instructed from childhood on to want--and not merely to want, but to have.
I shall not want? "The Lord is my shepherd." If the Lord is the shepherd, then I am a sheep, and the reason sheep need a shepherd is simple: sheep nibble themselves lost.
Sheep are not brilliant creatures, and we cannot be flattered that the Psalm thinks of us as sheep. Leave a sheep without a shepherd, and he nibbles a bit of grass here, wanders over there for some more, sees a patch just past that rock; and before you know it the sheep is lost, or has fallen into a ravine, or been devoured by a wolf.
The Hebrew original is perhaps better translated, "I shall lack nothing," or "I shall lack no good thing." What do I lack? Well, I lack an iPhone or a house at the coast. I lack a fully-funded pension and I lack... We can fill in the blank endlessly.
But it is more to ask "What do I lack?" in the sense of "What really matters that I do not have?" What, at the hour of death, would I dare not lack? The answers aren't iPhones or vacation houses. Jesus spoke with the rich young ruler (Luke 18:18-30), who claimed to be good, and had plenty of stuff. What did Jesus say? "One thing you still lack."
We don't lack lots of things: we lack just one. The one thing we lack is intimacy with God. The one and only thing that can cause us to say, "I shall not want," or "I lack no good thing," is God. Nothing else. Just the Lord who is a good shepherd to his sheep.
God is our satisfaction. God is good enough. Or, to be truer, God exceeds whatever we may think we desire.
If "Thou art with me" is the focal point of the Psalm, and if "I shall not want" is the beginning of a new life of being satisfied with God, then the end of our life with God is this: "I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever."
Why do we want stuff like iPhones and vacation homes? Is it sheer coveting? I don't think so. We want communication devices because we long to connect. We want a house, or a better house, because no matter how far we travel, no matter how happy or sad our nuclear family might have been, we carry inside a yearning for home. In our mobile society, we may be clueless about where that might be, or if it really exists. But we still want, above all else, to go home.
Perhaps T.S. Eliot was right: "The end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time."2 Or consider this: if you are lucky, you have fond memories of summertime junkets to the home of your grandparents. For me, it was a house that is factually small, but as a child it was large in love, in special treats, in cousins and fun. It was another home, one without problems or homework or chores, a special place of a more unconditional kind of love.
Does God give us such places in our memory so that we will learn to desire the home for which God destines us when this life is over?
Isaac Watts often recast Psalms into slightly different language. His metric version of the 23rd Psalm is eloquent, elegant, and moving: "The sure provisions of my God attend me all my days; O may Your House be my abode, and all my work be praise. There would I find a settled rest, while others go and come; no more a stranger or a guest, but like a child at home."
Like a child at home. Yes, some children bear the misfortune of a home that is more warfare than peace, more division than love. But the fact that we recoil at the idea of any child anywhere not enjoying peace and love at home is evidence that God has wired into our hearts a keen sense of a proper destiny, which looks like me as a boy at my grandmother's table or on my grandfather's lap.
Various happenings in our life strike us as urgent. They make us anxious, or perhaps we have some fun or face trials. But it is all a preparation for a grand homecoming, when we will "find a settled rest... no more a stranger or a guest, but like a child at home." Or as the Psalmist sang, "And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever" (23:6).
---------------------
1James Limburg, Psalms (Westminster John Knox Press, 2000).
2T. S. Eliot, "Little Gidding" in Four Quartets, 1943.
--------------------------------------------
The 23rd Psalm is a perennial favorite.
And yet for all its familiarity, there may be some nuances to the Psalm we have missed, some reflections scholars might share to deepen our sense of the most comforting words ever composed.
Consider one four letter word in verse four: thou. The second-person pronoun "thou" is old English, a relic from the 1611 King James Version. The vast majority of the time we prefer modern translations of the Bible – but Christians cling to a 400 year old translation of Psalm 23. Why is this? Could it be that elevated language, words with some lineage and dignity, are appropriate to the grandeur, the majesty, the immeasurable grace of God who is indeed our shepherd?
And here is a fascinating item: James Limburg points out that, in the original Hebrew of Psalm 23, there are exactly twenty six words before and after, "Thou art with me."1 Perhaps the poet was boldly declaring that God being with us is at the very center of our lives.
God is with us. We are not alone down here. The whole Gospel is that God is with us. Jesus was called "Emmanuel," which means "God with us." John Wesley's dying words were, "The best of all is, God is with us." God doesn't shelter us from trouble. God doesn't magically manipulate everything to suit us. But the glorious with is unassailable, unchangeable, the only fact that matters.
This marvelous news draws our attention again to the Thou. For the first three verses of the Psalm, God is spoken of in the third person: "The Lord is my shepherd... he leads me... he restores my soul." But with the Thou, the third person shifts to second person: "for Thou art with me, thy rod... thou preparest a table..." Instead of talking about God, the Psalmist begins to talk to God; instead of God in the head, God is a friend in the heart. A conversation happens, a relationship grows. This is faith, the only true comfort.
If we genuinely and in the marrow of our being believe that God is with us, then the only logical consequence would be, "I shall not want.
"We've read it, uttered it, delighted in it: but have we thought about it? Or lived it out in reality? I shall not want? Our whole life is about wanting: I want, I shop, I look, and when I have it, I want new stuff. In our consumer culture, I shall want, I shall always want. I shall never stop all my wanting because the mall entices me with ever new, shiny, unnecessary objects, and I am instructed from childhood on to want--and not merely to want, but to have.
I shall not want? "The Lord is my shepherd." If the Lord is the shepherd, then I am a sheep, and the reason sheep need a shepherd is simple: sheep nibble themselves lost.
Sheep are not brilliant creatures, and we cannot be flattered that the Psalm thinks of us as sheep. Leave a sheep without a shepherd, and he nibbles a bit of grass here, wanders over there for some more, sees a patch just past that rock; and before you know it the sheep is lost, or has fallen into a ravine, or been devoured by a wolf.
The Hebrew original is perhaps better translated, "I shall lack nothing," or "I shall lack no good thing." What do I lack? Well, I lack an iPhone or a house at the coast. I lack a fully-funded pension and I lack... We can fill in the blank endlessly.
But it is more to ask "What do I lack?" in the sense of "What really matters that I do not have?" What, at the hour of death, would I dare not lack? The answers aren't iPhones or vacation houses. Jesus spoke with the rich young ruler (Luke 18:18-30), who claimed to be good, and had plenty of stuff. What did Jesus say? "One thing you still lack."
We don't lack lots of things: we lack just one. The one thing we lack is intimacy with God. The one and only thing that can cause us to say, "I shall not want," or "I lack no good thing," is God. Nothing else. Just the Lord who is a good shepherd to his sheep.
God is our satisfaction. God is good enough. Or, to be truer, God exceeds whatever we may think we desire.
If "Thou art with me" is the focal point of the Psalm, and if "I shall not want" is the beginning of a new life of being satisfied with God, then the end of our life with God is this: "I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever."
Why do we want stuff like iPhones and vacation homes? Is it sheer coveting? I don't think so. We want communication devices because we long to connect. We want a house, or a better house, because no matter how far we travel, no matter how happy or sad our nuclear family might have been, we carry inside a yearning for home. In our mobile society, we may be clueless about where that might be, or if it really exists. But we still want, above all else, to go home.
Perhaps T.S. Eliot was right: "The end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time."2 Or consider this: if you are lucky, you have fond memories of summertime junkets to the home of your grandparents. For me, it was a house that is factually small, but as a child it was large in love, in special treats, in cousins and fun. It was another home, one without problems or homework or chores, a special place of a more unconditional kind of love.
Does God give us such places in our memory so that we will learn to desire the home for which God destines us when this life is over?
Isaac Watts often recast Psalms into slightly different language. His metric version of the 23rd Psalm is eloquent, elegant, and moving: "The sure provisions of my God attend me all my days; O may Your House be my abode, and all my work be praise. There would I find a settled rest, while others go and come; no more a stranger or a guest, but like a child at home."
Like a child at home. Yes, some children bear the misfortune of a home that is more warfare than peace, more division than love. But the fact that we recoil at the idea of any child anywhere not enjoying peace and love at home is evidence that God has wired into our hearts a keen sense of a proper destiny, which looks like me as a boy at my grandmother's table or on my grandfather's lap.
Various happenings in our life strike us as urgent. They make us anxious, or perhaps we have some fun or face trials. But it is all a preparation for a grand homecoming, when we will "find a settled rest... no more a stranger or a guest, but like a child at home." Or as the Psalmist sang, "And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever" (23:6).
---------------------
1James Limburg, Psalms (Westminster John Knox Press, 2000).
2T. S. Eliot, "Little Gidding" in Four Quartets, 1943.
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