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.

Ash Wednesday return

Lent is back and here is my Ash Wednesday meditation for 2010:

Ash Wednesday meditation 2/17/10
Frederick Buechner has observed that “in many cultures there is an ancient custom of giving a tenth or a tithe of the year’s income to some holy use. For Christians, to observe the 40 days of Lent is to do the same thing with roughly a tenth of each year’s days.”

“After being baptized by John in the river Jordan, Jesus went off alone into the wilderness, where he spent 40 days asking himself the question what it meant to be Jesus. During Lent, Christians are supposed to ask one way or another what it means to be themselves.”

The ashes are an ancient biblical sign of repentance and symbol of mortality reminding us of the brevity and preciousness of this earthly life, that life is short and each day of it is a precious gift of God that should be treated with reverence and care. It is a gift that we don’t take for granted but a gift that we cherish and we know that one day we must give it up and let it go. That is the way of all the earth.

The Lenten journey is, in part, about letting go. Some say Lent is about giving up something, which may be true for some of us. Someone may give up red meat for 40 days, or chocolate or chewing gum or cigarettes or soda. You may give up watching TV one evening a week and spend that time writing a letter or visiting a lonely or sick person instead. You may choose to fast one day a week and donate the money you save to World Hunger. You may give up looking at other people’s worst points and look for the good in others. You may give up playing on the internet for hours every day and use that time for the love of God and the good of other people.

Some of us would prefer to take something on than to give something up. That is fine if you would like to add another hour of prayer time or Bible study or service or some other spiritual discipline. If you just can’t bring yourself to give something up but would prefer to take on something, be sure to take on something that is holy.

Lent is not just about giving something up but about letting something go. The Lenten journey recalls when Jesus resolutely set his face toward Jerusalem and what he knew awaited him there. We follow the steps of Jesus to the cross, which was the ultimate letting-go. We need to let go as well. What do you need to let go of?

Maybe you need to let go of an old anger or pain that you feel is yours, you are entitled to it, but now is the time to let it go.

Maybe you need to let go of some guilt, or regret, or remorse, let go of the inability to forgive yourself for something you have done or something that might have been. The cock has crowed; let it go.

Maybe you need to let go of some pet sin that has a grip on you but you have been in such denial that you do not even realize the power it has over you. To repent means to let it go.

Maybe you need to finally let go of your need to control others – your parents, your children, your friends, someone who is not behaving the way you want them to and you just cannot resist the desire to fix them. Let it go.

Maybe you need to let go of some relationship that is not healthy, not good for you. It is ok. Let it go.

Some of us will have to let go of a loved one who has passed away since last year’s Lent. A man in our church this week has had to begin the process of letting go and saying goodbyes to his wife of 62 years. This takes time. Even for Jesus, letting go was a process. That is why the 40 days.

And even as we begin the process of letting go, Jesus reminds us that you may need to let go of your very life so you can find it again. “You must find your life by losing it.” If you are still holding back, grasping, clutching, holding on, you may never be able to receive the great life God has for you.

Repentance means turning. It means turning away from anything that has become for us more important than God, our idols. It also means turning from our preoccupations with self and turning toward sincere love of God and neighbor. It can mean letting go of our lesser gods and our wasteful preoccupations and laying hold of something better!

When my father lay dying ten years ago this year, and it was clear that his illness had all but overtaken him, the hospice chaplain offered my mother this counsel: there will come a time that you will need to go to him and say, “It’s all right. We will be alright. It’s ok to let go.” This will help him in his own letting go and will make his journey easier. What do you need to let go of tonight, and in this Lenten season?

The Hitchhiker

Jesus is six feet ten inches tall. No exaggeration. Six feet ten, really. And black as the ace of spades. I know because I talked to him today.

He called the church this morning and asked for me by name. He had found my name in the telephone directory at the Best Western where he had spent the night.

His story began typically enough, with a rather long uninterrupted narrative that began at a prison in Texas and had a hopeful ending somewhere near Springfield, Missouri with a stop at Conway in between. Through the years it has become all too familiar: someone wants to tell me their life story before getting around to telling me what they want. But before my cynicism could set in completely, I found myself actually listening to his story.

Sure enough he had been incarcerated somewhere in Texas, where he had met some folk who were involved in the Emmaus/Kairos community. He had made a turn in his life and was trying to get back to Missouri where he wanted to attempt to reconcile with his wife. He told me he had made some bad mistakes and wanted to first show her that he was the man she had married, the man she loved, a man who wanted to get it right this time.

My caller’s name was Mike, and I later learned his wife’s name was Mary. Someone at a Church of Christ in North Little Rock had gotten Mike as far as Conway, and he had managed to get a room at Best Western for the night. Now all he wanted was a ride to Greenbrier, just a few miles north of here, and from there he would continue hitchhiking on up through Clinton, Harrison, and on into Missouri. Now I was a little surprised and I asked him to tell me again: so you just want a ride to Greenbrier? Yes, that was it.

This was not quite like the other calls, which usually end with a request for money or gas or a bus ticket or another motel room for the night. Quickly I told Mike I could get him to Greenbrier. After I clarified where he was I told him I would pick him up in fifteen minutes. I told him what kind of car to look for and he told me I could not miss him, saying he was six feet ten and would be standing right there in the parking lot.

After I hung up I realized what I had done. I had agreed to pick up a hitchhiker, sight unseen, and give him a ride in my car. Before leaving the office I took my credit cards out of my wallet, gave my secretary my license plate number and told her if she did not hear from me by ten thirty she was to call the police. On a cognitive level I realized the risk I was taking but on a spiritual level I knew it was ok. I am very intuitive that way. I was going to pick up Mike and take him to Greenbrier.

When I turned in to the Best Western parking lot I could see Mike standing there and instantly knew I had made the right choice. There he was, all six foot ten of him, with his canvas jacket and his bag which probably contained all his remaining belongings. He was a big gentle man. As he got in my car I told him he would probably need to push the seat back, to which he said, “I’ve heard that before!” And no doubt he had, many times.

In our telephone conversation I had learned that Mike knew a bit about religion and about churches. This much became obvious in just a few minutes. On our ride he told me that he had read a lot in prison and he was quite conversant about matters of faith. He asked me where I was from, where I went to school, and how long I had been in Arkansas. This was a little unusual because I am always the one who gets the other person talking. Mike and I made very easy conversation, and in just a few minutes we were in Greenbrier and found a place where he was ready to stop. In a very short time I had told Mike all about the places I had lived and served in the ministry, my widowhood and the blessing of my second marriage, and about some things he might watch out for further up the road. We discussed race and religion. I told him about an old friend of mine who was a Church of Christ pastor and how we loved to engage in friendly arguments about religious topics. He asked me about a town north of here that is notorious for its inhospitality to black people, and I apologetically told him he should be careful there. He assured me he had friends there and would be fine, to which I agreed. Then he shared with me that racism, as he put it, was a two-edged sword, that his wife was white and she had experienced it from the other direction. I gained some understanding from what he shared.

When we stopped I gave Mike a water bottle with our church logo on it and a little cash from my pocket. I wished him good luck on his journey and getting back in touch with his wife. He asked me to pray for them, and repeated her name, Mary. I said I will pray for you, Mike and Mary. He shook my hand, got out of the car and said, thank you for treating me the way Christ would have. I called my secretary on my cellphone and told her I was safe and on my way back to the office. As I was driving back I could not help the feeling that I had been with Jesus, who today was six feet ten inches tall and black. He had a small bag of his possessions, a plastic bag of food, and a couple of books.

Frederick Buechner said there is a treasure from God every day if we just look for it. Perhaps at the end of each day we should look back and find the treasure. My treasure for this day was giving Mike a ride, which at first I hesitated to do. What an opportunity I would have missed. An opportunity to “be Christ” for another human being and, in turn for him to “be Christ” for me.

"My Father Was a Wandering Aramean..."

“My father was a wandering Aramean…”

“Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.” Matthew 8:20

“In my Father’s house are many dwelling places; if it were not so I would have told you.” John 14:2

“We have a house from God,…not made by human hands.” II Corinthians 5:1

“Live your lives as strangers here in reverent fear.” I Peter 1:17

“They knew they were looking for a homeland of their own…” Hebrews 11:14

Friday, March 13, 2009

I woke up at 5:30 this morning on Friday which is my day off. Wouldn’t you know it -- on my personal Sabbath when I can sleep late without guilt it happens that I wake up at 5:30 in the morning! The reason I woke up this particular Sabbath is because I had my “home” dream. This is a dream which has appeared in my sleep from time to time and I have come to recognize it.

In this dream there is a house, a house which is my house and has been from the beginning. Its features are reminiscent of the Buchanan family place, an ante bellum mini-mansion which still stands on a few acres of ground just two long blocks from the town square in Brandon, Mississippi. The house was built by my great-grandfather, one in a long line of Buchanan men named William. It was started in 1860 and was finished after the War. It has tall ceilings with wood floors and a fireplace in every room. There is a massive wooden staircase in the center of the entry which leads to the four symmetrical bedrooms upstairs. Out back there is the old smokehouse and the detached kitchen, along with an old well and a gazebo. There is a running spring down in the woods about two hundred yards behind the house, and there are huge old magnolia trees surrounded by luxurious flower gardens in front.

In my dream I came over for a visit, and I met the present owner of the house whom I later realized was me. He gave me the grand tour and I was delighted at how he had restored the house and was caring for it. Then we sat and reminisced; he showed me a little book of history that had been written by one of those unknown Southern country writers who really knew how to tell a story. There were a number of preachers in the little book, some of whom I vaguely recognized. After our brief visit I took my leave and thanked my host for his hospitality. That is when I woke up and realized the reason for my dream on this day.

John Wesley once told his preachers, “Do not stay too long in one place,” or something like that. We still hear Wesley’s words in our ordination service. It was one of his maxims. I have been here in this place for seven years, a fairly long sojourn for an itinerant United Methodist pastor. Prior to coming here I was at the last place for eight years and probably could have stayed for another eight but God moved me on.

The house I live in now I bought seven years ago at the age of forty-eight, and other than a small lake house it is the only house I have ever bought. It is the only house of my own that I have lived in since becoming an adult. Being in my fifties and living in my own house for the first time has had a profound affect on me. I like it. The last two places where I have lived I have been there long enough to almost forget that I signed on to be an itinerant minister.

When I preached my mother’s funeral service last September I noted how important her home was to her. She had never lived outside of Jackson, Mississippi until moving here just three years before she died. The words of Jesus were particularly comforting for the time: “In my Father’s house are many dwelling places.” Jesus of course was speaking to a homeless Church, before there were church buildings, committees, or budgets. He was speaking to the first generation of Christians, and to me. The itinerant ministry is an adventure in homelessness, but in the heart of God I am always at home.

Laudete Omnes Gentes

*LAUDETE OMNES GENTES
Begin softly with a gradual crescendo through the 4th repetition, then decrescendo in like manner...

Sing praises, all you peoples!
Sing praises to the Lord;
Sing praises, all you peoples!
Sing praises to the Lord.

Funny how a song or a fleeting image can take us back to places we have been. This song takes me back to the little community of Taize' in 2003. “Sing praises, all you peoples! Sing praises to the Lord.” In the orange and yellow glow I can see the “church” at Taize’ and can lift my voice with perhaps a thousand pilgrims from France, Germany, Switzerland, the Netherlands, USA, and many other places. I can see the white-robed brothers processing in and can hear the cantor’s voice behind me as he reads the psalm. On my knees I grunt audibly as I try to fold my legs under the angular little wooden kneeling stool. I look around to see if anyone is watching, and of course they aren’t.

Recently I was reading once again Robert Benson’s book Living Prayer which tells of his first visit to Alabama’s Camp Sumatanga for the Academy for Spiritual Formation. As I read his description of the landscape I could almost see myself there again. It was like hearing an old song fraught with laughter and tears and signs of change.

When Robert first visited Sumatanga he wondered aloud how in the world he wound up there. “This isn’t the Promised Land, for Pete’s sake, it’s Alabama.”

Eventually he heard the Lord telling him, “You promised to follow wherever I might take you, and this is where we go next. You are here because the road leads here.”

We are here because the road leads here, and the Lord is with us. Praise the Lord.

“Sing praises, all you peoples!
Sing praises to the Lord;
Sing praises, all you peoples!
Sing praises to the Lord.”

Lenten Metanoia: a Change of Heart

It's about time I got back to my blog. It's been too long.
Maybe I will start back in slowly, like dipping one's toe in the water before diving in. Lent is a time that is ripe for new beginnings, so I will start at the beginning with my favorite mentor Henri Nouwen:

"Jesus does not respond to our worry-filled way of living by saying that we should not be busy with worldly affairs. He does not try to pull us away from the many events, activities, and people that make up our lives. He does not tell us that what we do is unimportant, valueless, or useless. Nor does he suggest that we should withdraw from our involvements and live quiet, restful lives removed from the struggles of the world.

Jesus’ response to our worry-filled lives is quite different. He asks us to shift the point of gravity, to relocate the center of our attention, to change our priorities. Jesus wants us to move from the ’‘many things” to the ”one necessary thing.” It is important for us to realize that Jesus in no way wants us to leave our many-faceted world. Rather, he wants us to live in it, but firmly rooted in the center of all things. Jesus does not speak about a change of activities, a change in contacts, or even a change of pace. He speaks about a change of heart. This change of heart makes everything different, even while everything appears to remain the same. This is the meaning of “Set your hearts on his kingdom first…and all these other things will be given you as well.” What counts is where our hearts are. When we worry, we have our hearts in the wrong place. Jesus asks us to move our hearts to the center, where all other things fall into place." ---Henri J.M. Nouwen, Making All Things New: An Invitation to the Spiritual Life

I've been working on a Benedictine retreat for this fall based on The Sacred Way by Tony Jones. Will post progress reports I promise.
In the meantime have a most blessed Lent.
Yours in Christ,
Rev