St. Columba: A New Narrative for Our Time

The United Methodist General Conference 2012 is now in the books as of Star Wars Day, May the 4th. Time will tell what, if anything, was accomplished to help the UMC not just survive but move forward into the 21^st century.  Faithful, hard-working delegates are returning weary, exhausted, discouraged, and wondering if any good will come of this 10 day, 10 million dollar quadrennial meeting of the people called United Methodists.  This year’s General Conference was confusing, contentious, and not resulting in the large scale re-thinking, re-structuring and renewal many had hoped for.  One person suggested a motion to remove Reason from the Wesleyan quadrilateral (our theological heritage).  Perhaps this might not be such a bad idea.  What we need is not a more convincing argument but a new narrative, a new vision. 

 

Right now I am preparing for a doctor of ministry class in Celtic spirituality.  Part of that involves reading about notable Celtic saints who lived in Ireland, Scotland, Wales, and other parts of the British Isles.  Among them is St. Columba of the 6^th century, whose life story could be an instructive new narrative for the United Methodist Church and for most every Christian.

Columba’s life was one of great passion and vision.  Born in the northern part of Ireland, he spent the first part of his life preaching the gospel and planting new communities of faith – reportedly 41 in 41 years – which became centers of prayer, evangelism, learning, and spiritual life. 

Columba’s heroic story was interrupted by an unfortunate series of events.  He was a great lover of poetry, and especially the Psalms, and was delighted when he came upon a copy of St. Martin’s Psalter in the hands of one Finnian of Molville.  He was so enamored with it that he secretly made himself a copy of it, which was apparently not an acceptable thing to do.  When this was discovered, Finnian brought him before the Irish king who made him return the copy (this may have been the first copyright case in history).  Instead of accepting the king’s verdict, Columba raised a small army and attacked the king’s forces.  Columba’s army won the battle, but his uprising against the king was seen as an abuse of power and his beloved Ireland sent him into exile to a cold, windy, damp and barren island off the coast of Scotland called Iona.

St. Columba could have sat and pouted on the small island for the rest of his days, but instead he sought a new vision for his life and ministry.  From that renewed vision he founded a monastic community that became a center for spiritual life and sent forth missionaries to evangelize Scotland and even Europe.  The Iona community is well known all over the world today as a community of justice and hospitality.

What does this have to do with the United Methodist Church, or with one’s personal life?  It’s not hard to connect the dots.  St. Columba’s story begins with passion and purpose, building faith communities and making disciples.  Then something else set in: possessiveness, power, conflict, confusion, chaos.  People guarding their turf.  Many of the conversations at General Conference centered around the subjects of power and turf – who gets to keep it, whom do we trust with it, how do we take it away.  

The next step for St. Columba was exile, a word that Walter Brueggemann and others have aptly used to describe the current reality of the mainline church.  But exile does not have to mean death.  Out of exile came repentance, humility, and a new vision for mission and ministry. 

St. Columba was not perfect, he made mistakes, but he also made a difference.  He never stopped being a visionary and he never gave up being sustained by prayer, simplicity, work, and study.  He knew when he was standing on holy ground, and he knew the value of community.

There are sure to be many observations, evaluations, and reflections offered as General Conference 2012 begins to sink in.  I am praying that some of this reflection may result in a deepening of prayer, repentance, and humility, out of which can come a new narrative theology, a renewed vision for mission and ministry in the world, and a new commitment to building vibrant, robust communities of faith.

Old Songs Sung Badly: Three Metaphors for the Church

Sunday, April 29, 2012 was an unforgettable day for me, as a parent and as a United Methodist pastor. It was the day my daughter Liz and her husband Eric were commissioned as global missionaries at the United Methodist General Conference in Tampa. I was moved to tears when she and Eric, along with 21 other new missionaries and 17 deaconesses and home missioners were gathered into the center of the General Conference floor and blessed. The article on the event from United Methodist News Service can be accessed here: http://www.umc.org/site/apps/nlnet/content3.aspx?c=lwL4KnN1LtH&b=8057055&ct=11735473

I flew in to Tampa on Saturday the day before the service and checked in to the KOA campground in nearby St. Petersburg. That is how I roll: A tiny log cabin can be rented for less than the price of a motel room and I get to have a real cabin all to myself. I took my pillow, my Maasai blanket, all my possibles and I was happy. It was right on the bay: views of water and mangroves and squirrels playing at my feet. Low-flying pelicans trailed my car as I drove across the causeway. A man cast a minnow seine in the canal in hopeful preparation for a morning’s fishing. Palm trees and palmettos waved a greeting to me.

That Saturday night we all went to supper with Eric’s cousin who lives on the far-east side of sprawling Tampa. It was a fitting celebration, complete with barbecue, sweets, strong coffee, love and laughter. In the course of conversation, Eric’s aunt asked me how I felt as a parent of a God-sent missionary, a pregnant daughter who will deliver her baby here in the States and then return to Tanzania. There was only one honest response. I said, “Mixed.” I could have said more but when I am in strange company I am a man of few words.

Immediately she knew what I meant. Of course I will miss Liz and Eric as they go back to Africa taking my grandson with them. But I went to on express to her that I was almost overcome with pride and joy to see God’s hand on their lives and their faithful response. I rejoice because at 25 they are so much smarter than I was at their age. If you believe in God then you must believe God has a claim on your life, and if you really love God then your life is not your own. You belong to God. This is the way they feel. In fact, that is the way every missionary I know feels. Our God is a Sending God, which would be the theme of the commissioning service the following day.

On Sunday morning I woke up early, got dressed and went to the nearby diner for a hearty breakfast, after which I drove to the nearest United Methodist church for worship. As a pastor who preaches 50 Sundays a year, this was a rare luxury. It’s like a chef getting to sit down and eat a meal you didn’t have to cook. I was prepared to be a regular worshiper in a local congregation and was looking forward to it.

As I entered the church, I found a large modern sanctuary that would easily accommodate 400 people. They had state-of-the-art electronics, with projection capability fore and aft and all the goodies. As the service started I looked around and noticed there were no more than 40 people in the room, and at age 57 I was among the youngest of the lot. We had an “old fashioned hymn-sing,” in which the audience (I use that word intentionally) selected some favorite old hymns which we sang very badly. This set the tone for a very underwhelming, low key worship service which was more heartbreaking than hopeful.

Later that afternoon I had a reserved seat at the Palma Ceia United Methodist Church in Tampa where the commissioning took place. There was standing room only, and the service was broadcast to the overflow in the fellowship hall. The pipe organ sounded like thunder, and the people were singing with joy in their hearts and at the top of their lungs. Now that was a worship service.

Mentally and emotionally I was almost overwhelmed by the contrast between the two services I had attended: the earlier one that was in a 1950’s maintenance mode, not having much to celebrate, and the afternoon service that was alive with passion and purpose. I rolled this over in my mind for the rest of the day as I prepared to experience worship for a third time that day, later that evening at the floor of General Conference.

The General Conference session of Sunday evening was to be a celebration of historic milestones and important work of United Methodist ministries around the globe. The session did not start until 7 p.m. and was supposed to last until about 9, with the blessing of the new class of missionaries coming at the end. They met for two hours ahead of time in rehearsal. I had my camera and arrived early to get the best seating spot. It would be long, especially for my pregnant daughter Liz, but promised to be a fitting climax to a long journey of preparation and an unforgettable send-off by a Sending God and a Sending Church.

As the service proceeded it became quickly apparent that all the reports and videos would never fit within the 2 hours allotted, not even close. It was a study in poor conference planning. All the reports were quite wonderful and deserving of attention, but many of them could have been spread out within the 2 week time period of General Conference, punctuating the dry and contentious business with reminders of why they all were there. Instead, it was after 10:45 that night, almost 4 hours after they started, when the missionaries were finally sent out to the floor and received the blessing of the body. By that time, unfortunately, about half of the delegates and guests had given up in exhaustion and missed what should have been a rousing climax of the day. When I looked at my Twitter feed I saw where one person tweeted, “I hope this is not a metaphor for the missionaries’ lived experience.”

So, 3 worship events in 1 day, any or all of which could be a metaphor for the United Methodist Church. The day began in a large, nearly empty sanctuary which featured old songs sung badly. It ended at a General Conference event that was so laden with trying to do a thousand things poorly planned that there was little time or energy left for the One Thing that should have been primary. Between these two was a celebration of faith and obedience with historic significance reaching all the way back to the church at Antioch, where the Holy Spirit led the church to lay hands on Paul and Barnabas and send them out into the world with the Good News. This is the one that gives me hope for the Church.