by Erin Littlestar
Easter is a time of rebirth, of reinvention, and forgiveness. For me, that promise was never more significant than this year. I was going through a lot of changes in my life personally and professionally, the most noteworthy of which was that just a few weeks before, I fell in love with a woman for the first time in my life. Having grown up in a very conservative church, I was fairly sure this meant that I was about to be outcast from the Church, if not from the Kingdom of God. So when my, very unknowing, parents visited me for Easter, I brought them to the church that advertised that “all are welcome”, and desperately hoped that included me. I was immediately drawn in by the beauty of the building, then the music, the diversity of people, and the way the dynamic pastor could draw you into a story with his voice. I was intrigued, but still skeptical about the “welcome” I would receive. I had fallen in love with many churches before, only to leave disappointed and broken hearted. I was wary, but I so craved a community of believers, I was willing to take this chance. I came back on my own several times in the following weeks.
I heard about Theology on Tap, and figured any church that had bible study in a bar was worth going to. After one session, I was hooked. As many can attest, those Monday night discussions over beer became my weekly therapy. Each week I was learning more and more about the true nature of God, and reading the Bible as if for the fist time. After I came out to my parents it was even clearer how important this group of Pilgrims was becoming in my life. God was pushing me further and further into this community, and as you accepted me, I was able to accept myself. I was able to accept the love of God, and see myself as a whole and complete person.
I was invited on to the worship planning team, something I figured was only for longtime members and people in the inner clique of the church. I thought perhaps I was the “token new girl”, but before I knew it I was planning and cooking a Homecoming lunch for 75 people. To be honest, I was terrified. I was terrified no one would show up, or that I would somehow screw it up and then I’d be that new girl who ruined Homecoming. But you were gracious, and accepting of the change, and treated me as if I’d been around for ages, as if I was a daughter, a sister, a friend. You allowed me to share my gifts with you in the kitchen, and then in the classroom. Today ends my 3 week series on Food Politics, a subject I am passionate about, but which is not always the most palatable. Factory farms and slaughterhouses are not the sort of thing I was brought up to discuss in polite company, and certainly not at church! But you amazed me again, and filled the classroom and asked questions, and seemed genuinely interested. You welcomed not just the nice, polite parts of me, but also the passionate and controversial parts. You accepted me in as family. You pushed me to use my passion for others, and leap outside my comfort zone. I was enveloped in your welcome, and came out a stronger woman.
So really, this story is about you all. It’s about how you took a risk and welcomed a stranger, and how you changed her life in ways you may not even see. It’s about the power of God to bring you what you need, exactly when you need it. It’s about the humbling experience of receiving true hospitality. And it’s about what comes next- Just as you have welcomed me into this house, so am I now obligated to welcome the next stranger. You’ve given me the power to welcome them to our home. And for that I’ll always be grateful.
Welcome home, sister we’ve just met.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Risk Welcome When It's Least Convenient
by Rob Heppenstall
Reading the stories shared by my fellow Pilgrims over the past few weeks, I am struck by a common theme linking the stories together -- a theme even more specific than the prescribed topic of "risking a deeper welcome." In our reflections on what it means to be welcomed, we have nearly always described circumstances when the welcome was unexpected or took us by surprise because we were foreigners, strangers, or intruders. We've gone from Japanese bathwater to Missionary Baptist worship services, beginning each story uncomfortably as outsiders, yet leaving humbled by unexpected, welcoming embraces. My own story will not stray from this path, I think for good reason. The challenge, though, is to see what sort of risks this welcome encourages me to take:
I was sitting on the bottom bunk, overwhelmed by the emotional cries slowly building outside the bedroom. I did not even know him, but it was quickly evident to me that the man who had just died was immensely important to the community of Bayonnais, Haiti. As someone who was only visiting for a few weeks, it was awkward to be present in such an intimate time of mourning. I was an outsider sitting on the inside of an event that I couldn't possibly fully understand.
When I was invited to attend the funeral, I was surprised. I had only been to two funerals in my lifetime and yet was being asked to attend my third with a community that I had only recently come to know. The funeral itself, however, was not what brought this story to mind. It was rather the event that took place afterwards. Simon, the son of the man who had died unexpectedly, was only a couple of years older than me. He had come home for the funeral and would be around for just a few days until he would leave to finish exams. A few hours after the funeral, Simon and I had been talking (politics and .mp4 players to lighten the mood...) when he invited me to visit his home that evening. I just met this guy, he is grieving the death of his father, and he invites me, a stranger, into his home! I accepted the invitation, but was worried that the rest of the family may find my presence intrusive. Instead, I was warmly welcomed and tutored by Simon and a few other men in the art of dominoes. We played for a few hours, enjoying the light-hearted camaraderie in such a difficult time. In this family's time of great sadness, they were willing to warmly welcome me into their midst. I'm still not quite sure how they did it.
Simon's willingness to welcome me in a time of great inconvenience as well as my own foreignness to the situation brought to mind what some of the circumstances might have been like for some of Christ's early followers. When Jesus sent "the seventy" to prepare the way in the towns to which he'd later travel, Jesus sent them "as lambs in the midst of wolves" (Luke 10). The lambs go out, expecting to be met by ravenous enemies eager to devour them. Although they will undoubtedly meet many "wolves," they will also find those who give them food and shelter. What risks can I take to a better giver of that deep welcome? In what ways and to whom am I a "wolf?" How can I better be the unexpected host to a stranger in my midst? I certainly don't know the complete answers, but for me it will need to start with realizing that welcomes are needed much more often than when it's a convenient time to play host.
Risk welcome when it's least convenient
Reading the stories shared by my fellow Pilgrims over the past few weeks, I am struck by a common theme linking the stories together -- a theme even more specific than the prescribed topic of "risking a deeper welcome." In our reflections on what it means to be welcomed, we have nearly always described circumstances when the welcome was unexpected or took us by surprise because we were foreigners, strangers, or intruders. We've gone from Japanese bathwater to Missionary Baptist worship services, beginning each story uncomfortably as outsiders, yet leaving humbled by unexpected, welcoming embraces. My own story will not stray from this path, I think for good reason. The challenge, though, is to see what sort of risks this welcome encourages me to take:
I was sitting on the bottom bunk, overwhelmed by the emotional cries slowly building outside the bedroom. I did not even know him, but it was quickly evident to me that the man who had just died was immensely important to the community of Bayonnais, Haiti. As someone who was only visiting for a few weeks, it was awkward to be present in such an intimate time of mourning. I was an outsider sitting on the inside of an event that I couldn't possibly fully understand.
When I was invited to attend the funeral, I was surprised. I had only been to two funerals in my lifetime and yet was being asked to attend my third with a community that I had only recently come to know. The funeral itself, however, was not what brought this story to mind. It was rather the event that took place afterwards. Simon, the son of the man who had died unexpectedly, was only a couple of years older than me. He had come home for the funeral and would be around for just a few days until he would leave to finish exams. A few hours after the funeral, Simon and I had been talking (politics and .mp4 players to lighten the mood...) when he invited me to visit his home that evening. I just met this guy, he is grieving the death of his father, and he invites me, a stranger, into his home! I accepted the invitation, but was worried that the rest of the family may find my presence intrusive. Instead, I was warmly welcomed and tutored by Simon and a few other men in the art of dominoes. We played for a few hours, enjoying the light-hearted camaraderie in such a difficult time. In this family's time of great sadness, they were willing to warmly welcome me into their midst. I'm still not quite sure how they did it.
Simon's willingness to welcome me in a time of great inconvenience as well as my own foreignness to the situation brought to mind what some of the circumstances might have been like for some of Christ's early followers. When Jesus sent "the seventy" to prepare the way in the towns to which he'd later travel, Jesus sent them "as lambs in the midst of wolves" (Luke 10). The lambs go out, expecting to be met by ravenous enemies eager to devour them. Although they will undoubtedly meet many "wolves," they will also find those who give them food and shelter. What risks can I take to a better giver of that deep welcome? In what ways and to whom am I a "wolf?" How can I better be the unexpected host to a stranger in my midst? I certainly don't know the complete answers, but for me it will need to start with realizing that welcomes are needed much more often than when it's a convenient time to play host.
Risk welcome when it's least convenient
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Jesus has not left the building
by David Bailey
When I first met my future wife, who was then an associate pastor of a large Presbyterian church, I wondered whether I was a good enough Christian. I knew all my sins and shortcomings, all my doubts and fears. I had rarely been to church since high school. The word “predestination” made my blood run cold. I believed that to be a good Christian, I should be as pure as the driven snow, free from any fault, practically glowing with the light of the holy spirit. Little did I know that a few short years later, not only would I be married to her with a baby on the way, but that I would be standing on the stage of the church social hall dressed in fake sideburns and an Elvis cape, belting out “Viva Las Vegas.”
Getting up on that stage was not something I did on a lark. It took a lot of twists and turns to get there. I went to church and Sunday school. I joined the choir. I met a couple of other guys who played instruments and wanted to share their gifts with the church. We played hymns and praise songs a few times a year. Eventually we decided to branch out and do a few secular songs, hoping people would forgive us a few sacrileges as long as we hewed closely to the sacred stuff when we were playing in worship. Every time we played in church, I had a little anxiety about how we would be received. Were we serious enough? Were we praising God in the right way? Would they accept us?
It made me think about the Old Testament rules against making an offering to God if you have any defect. From Leviticus 21:16-20:
The Lord spoke to Moses, saying: Speak to Aaron and say: No one of your offspring throughout their generations who has a blemish may approach to offer the food of his God. For no one who has a blemish shall draw near, one who is blind or lame, or one who has a mutilated face or a limb too long, or one who has a broken foot or a broken hand, or a hunchback, or a dwarf, or a man with a blemish in his eyes ….
Well, we all have things that somebody could consider a defect. And we all have things that nobody else knows about us, but that we would consider major defects. And yet, those things don’t seem to bother Jesus at all. He accepted the lepers, the prostitutes, the tax collectors, just as they were, and made it clear that they were all included in God’s kingdom. And even today, he accepts the homeless, the frail, the doubters, and even the bad musicians!
And so, this anecdote makes me think of the two themes of risking a deeper welcome and stewardship. First, we risk a deeper welcome whenever we stand before the church, whether to lead worship, share a prayer concern, or sing in the choir. We can be anxious about it, wondering whether we will be accepted. Or we can relax and remember that we are all children of God and followers of Jesus, the most gracious and accepting host of all. Second, when we are asked to share what we have with the church, we can worry about whether we have anything worth sharing. Or we can remember that God has given us all different gifts and talents – some of us are singers, dancers, poets, painters, counselors, nurses, gardeners, carpenters, weavers, dog trainers, bakers, joggers, jugglers, and clowns. So do not be afraid to let your light shine. Because, maybe the church does not need an Elvis impersonator, but remember:
Jesus has not left the building.
When I first met my future wife, who was then an associate pastor of a large Presbyterian church, I wondered whether I was a good enough Christian. I knew all my sins and shortcomings, all my doubts and fears. I had rarely been to church since high school. The word “predestination” made my blood run cold. I believed that to be a good Christian, I should be as pure as the driven snow, free from any fault, practically glowing with the light of the holy spirit. Little did I know that a few short years later, not only would I be married to her with a baby on the way, but that I would be standing on the stage of the church social hall dressed in fake sideburns and an Elvis cape, belting out “Viva Las Vegas.”
Getting up on that stage was not something I did on a lark. It took a lot of twists and turns to get there. I went to church and Sunday school. I joined the choir. I met a couple of other guys who played instruments and wanted to share their gifts with the church. We played hymns and praise songs a few times a year. Eventually we decided to branch out and do a few secular songs, hoping people would forgive us a few sacrileges as long as we hewed closely to the sacred stuff when we were playing in worship. Every time we played in church, I had a little anxiety about how we would be received. Were we serious enough? Were we praising God in the right way? Would they accept us?
It made me think about the Old Testament rules against making an offering to God if you have any defect. From Leviticus 21:16-20:
The Lord spoke to Moses, saying: Speak to Aaron and say: No one of your offspring throughout their generations who has a blemish may approach to offer the food of his God. For no one who has a blemish shall draw near, one who is blind or lame, or one who has a mutilated face or a limb too long, or one who has a broken foot or a broken hand, or a hunchback, or a dwarf, or a man with a blemish in his eyes ….
Well, we all have things that somebody could consider a defect. And we all have things that nobody else knows about us, but that we would consider major defects. And yet, those things don’t seem to bother Jesus at all. He accepted the lepers, the prostitutes, the tax collectors, just as they were, and made it clear that they were all included in God’s kingdom. And even today, he accepts the homeless, the frail, the doubters, and even the bad musicians!
And so, this anecdote makes me think of the two themes of risking a deeper welcome and stewardship. First, we risk a deeper welcome whenever we stand before the church, whether to lead worship, share a prayer concern, or sing in the choir. We can be anxious about it, wondering whether we will be accepted. Or we can relax and remember that we are all children of God and followers of Jesus, the most gracious and accepting host of all. Second, when we are asked to share what we have with the church, we can worry about whether we have anything worth sharing. Or we can remember that God has given us all different gifts and talents – some of us are singers, dancers, poets, painters, counselors, nurses, gardeners, carpenters, weavers, dog trainers, bakers, joggers, jugglers, and clowns. So do not be afraid to let your light shine. Because, maybe the church does not need an Elvis impersonator, but remember:
Jesus has not left the building.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Stewardship: A Deeper Connection
by Anne Womeldorf
[Editor's Note: This month we are launching our annual Stewardship Campaign. This year, leaders of the congregation who will be making face to face visits with the entire congregation (often called an “Every Member Canvass”). In this post, Anne Womeldorf reflects on theme our homecoming theme of hospitality related to the last time we did an Every Member Canvass.]
The last time we had an every member canvas, I was nervous. In fact, the very idea makes me nervous. Talking to church people about money. Not really my thing. I’m not the only one, of course. When I steeled myself to make my phone calls, my respondents were as uncomfortable as I. All three hurriedly assured me that they were sending their pledges in right that minute. No need for me to come by. I could practically hear them running to the Post Office.
So, when stewardship plans were announced this year, I thought “here we go again.”
Then, in a recent Sunday morning forum we focused on three stories where money was a theme- familiar stories but in a different context. In the first, Jesus tells the rich young ruler to give all his money to the poor. In the second Zacchaeus, after his encounter with Jesus, vows to give away half of his worldly goods. However, the third was a story I had never associated with stewardship. A woman comes to Jesus shortly before the crucifixion and anoints his head with expensive oil. The disciples complain that the money should have been given to the poor. But Jesus surprises. He says something like, leave her alone, she has done what she could. The poor will always be here, but I will not.
Jesus’ focus was entirely different from mine in my stewardship-visit-phobia. There was no formula. He focused on each person. He looked into each heart and saw each need. So, my view of what stewardship is about has changed. It’s about each of us looking inward and acknowledging that we give out of our own need. Our need for connection, for showing gratitude, our yearning to move, if only a little, closer to a Christ-like life. We give whatever we have to give, but with love and from the heart. It’s only appropriate that we engage each other during this important season.
[Editor's Note: This month we are launching our annual Stewardship Campaign. This year, leaders of the congregation who will be making face to face visits with the entire congregation (often called an “Every Member Canvass”). In this post, Anne Womeldorf reflects on theme our homecoming theme of hospitality related to the last time we did an Every Member Canvass.]
The last time we had an every member canvas, I was nervous. In fact, the very idea makes me nervous. Talking to church people about money. Not really my thing. I’m not the only one, of course. When I steeled myself to make my phone calls, my respondents were as uncomfortable as I. All three hurriedly assured me that they were sending their pledges in right that minute. No need for me to come by. I could practically hear them running to the Post Office.
So, when stewardship plans were announced this year, I thought “here we go again.”
Then, in a recent Sunday morning forum we focused on three stories where money was a theme- familiar stories but in a different context. In the first, Jesus tells the rich young ruler to give all his money to the poor. In the second Zacchaeus, after his encounter with Jesus, vows to give away half of his worldly goods. However, the third was a story I had never associated with stewardship. A woman comes to Jesus shortly before the crucifixion and anoints his head with expensive oil. The disciples complain that the money should have been given to the poor. But Jesus surprises. He says something like, leave her alone, she has done what she could. The poor will always be here, but I will not.
Jesus’ focus was entirely different from mine in my stewardship-visit-phobia. There was no formula. He focused on each person. He looked into each heart and saw each need. So, my view of what stewardship is about has changed. It’s about each of us looking inward and acknowledging that we give out of our own need. Our need for connection, for showing gratitude, our yearning to move, if only a little, closer to a Christ-like life. We give whatever we have to give, but with love and from the heart. It’s only appropriate that we engage each other during this important season.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Perfection is over-rated. Grace gives life.
By Erin Sharp
Like many of you, I have always been a perfectionist. I shouldn’t say “I have been.” It’s more accurate to say that I am and probably always will be. When something doesn’t seem to be working out, I assume that it’s my fault and that I should be able to make it work.
Leaving my call as the pastor to Calvary felt a bit like failure. Despite my frustrations with the particular habits and problems of that congregation, I should have been able to “fix them.” It has been hard for me to accept that I did the best I could and that what I was able to do with God’s help was actually pretty amazing.
At the time I left Calvary, I was preparing to give birth to Iona, our first child. Now, I am steeped in feminist theology. Images of God as the Mother of Life, Wisdom-Sophia, and “the one in whom we live and move and have our being” have inspired and strengthened me for all of my adult life. So I had expected that in pregnancy I would feel competent and powerful, absolutely in control and ready to be the perfect earth mother. Yet, what I was feeling was overwhelmed, tired and annoyed by a dozen strange and uncomfortable things that my body was doing in conjunction with this pregnancy. I was not feeling empowered. I felt vulnerable and like I had no control over my body anymore, especially given other health concerns I already had. But I knew my brain still worked. I had new GRE scores to prove it.
So, when I headed back to school, six months pregnant, of course I expected that I would not only get top grades but become a therapist extraordinaire within a short period of time. After all, I’d been a helping professional of sorts for years. All I needed was to learn and apply the methods and techniques I’d be learning in the Marriage and Therapy program. That should be a snap! I finished the first semester’s course work three days before Iona was born. I got excellent grades.
And then I gave birth, and I was reminded that control is just an illusion. Things didn’t go according to my birth plan. Iona was jaundiced and had a broken clavicle. Before my baby took her first breath, I was a bad mother. Even breastfeeding, that amazing sacrament of motherhood, was beyond either me or Iona. With all the pressure these days to nurse, I thought I was a miserable failure. Gradually, I grieved the loss of the earth-mother and moved on. Iona seemed just fine, growing and getting more interactive every day. So I let go, enjoyed my beautiful daughter and made peace with doing the best I could. Or so I thought. Really, I just refocused my drive for perfection.
I still had school. I’d be perfect there. And of course, I have been!
Then this fall, I started working in the family therapy clinic with clients. Suddenly, I realized that I had no idea which techniques to use with them. Now, my supervisor is the most mysterious and academic of all the supervisors. She’s from Argentina, and admits to coming from an authoritarian culture. I think she often reins herself in, choosing to be gentle rather than being naturally so. Of course, I wanted to impress her as she stood behind the one-way mirror.
After two clinic days spent stressed and uptight, wanting to “do it right,” the old pastor side of me realized that all my concern about technique, impressing the supervisor, and being the perfect therapist were getting in the way of actually connecting with my clients. I was welcoming my clients, receptive to them, but I wasn’t letting their story take priority over clever analysis. I decided to let go and forget about the supervisor behind the one-way mirror. I let go of self-consciousness and fell into listening. . .being curious. . .being attentive to how my clients were making meaning of their lives.
And I discovered how much love I have for them! Two of my clients are women separated from their spouses, for different reasons. They are both moms. They struggle. They worry about their children. They’re wrestling with their identity. Neither of them is trying to break the glass ceiling. They don’t even think about the ceiling. They’re just trying to do their best and make it on their own. They aren’t perfect. But they are loveable just the way they are.
I’m not perfect. But I love them. And in the process I found love for myself.
The technical side of therapy is gradually coming along. I’m not the super-therapist that I want to be. But I’m okay with that. . . . Perfection is over-rated. Grace gives life.
Like many of you, I have always been a perfectionist. I shouldn’t say “I have been.” It’s more accurate to say that I am and probably always will be. When something doesn’t seem to be working out, I assume that it’s my fault and that I should be able to make it work.
Leaving my call as the pastor to Calvary felt a bit like failure. Despite my frustrations with the particular habits and problems of that congregation, I should have been able to “fix them.” It has been hard for me to accept that I did the best I could and that what I was able to do with God’s help was actually pretty amazing.
At the time I left Calvary, I was preparing to give birth to Iona, our first child. Now, I am steeped in feminist theology. Images of God as the Mother of Life, Wisdom-Sophia, and “the one in whom we live and move and have our being” have inspired and strengthened me for all of my adult life. So I had expected that in pregnancy I would feel competent and powerful, absolutely in control and ready to be the perfect earth mother. Yet, what I was feeling was overwhelmed, tired and annoyed by a dozen strange and uncomfortable things that my body was doing in conjunction with this pregnancy. I was not feeling empowered. I felt vulnerable and like I had no control over my body anymore, especially given other health concerns I already had. But I knew my brain still worked. I had new GRE scores to prove it.
So, when I headed back to school, six months pregnant, of course I expected that I would not only get top grades but become a therapist extraordinaire within a short period of time. After all, I’d been a helping professional of sorts for years. All I needed was to learn and apply the methods and techniques I’d be learning in the Marriage and Therapy program. That should be a snap! I finished the first semester’s course work three days before Iona was born. I got excellent grades.
And then I gave birth, and I was reminded that control is just an illusion. Things didn’t go according to my birth plan. Iona was jaundiced and had a broken clavicle. Before my baby took her first breath, I was a bad mother. Even breastfeeding, that amazing sacrament of motherhood, was beyond either me or Iona. With all the pressure these days to nurse, I thought I was a miserable failure. Gradually, I grieved the loss of the earth-mother and moved on. Iona seemed just fine, growing and getting more interactive every day. So I let go, enjoyed my beautiful daughter and made peace with doing the best I could. Or so I thought. Really, I just refocused my drive for perfection.
I still had school. I’d be perfect there. And of course, I have been!
Then this fall, I started working in the family therapy clinic with clients. Suddenly, I realized that I had no idea which techniques to use with them. Now, my supervisor is the most mysterious and academic of all the supervisors. She’s from Argentina, and admits to coming from an authoritarian culture. I think she often reins herself in, choosing to be gentle rather than being naturally so. Of course, I wanted to impress her as she stood behind the one-way mirror.
After two clinic days spent stressed and uptight, wanting to “do it right,” the old pastor side of me realized that all my concern about technique, impressing the supervisor, and being the perfect therapist were getting in the way of actually connecting with my clients. I was welcoming my clients, receptive to them, but I wasn’t letting their story take priority over clever analysis. I decided to let go and forget about the supervisor behind the one-way mirror. I let go of self-consciousness and fell into listening. . .being curious. . .being attentive to how my clients were making meaning of their lives.
And I discovered how much love I have for them! Two of my clients are women separated from their spouses, for different reasons. They are both moms. They struggle. They worry about their children. They’re wrestling with their identity. Neither of them is trying to break the glass ceiling. They don’t even think about the ceiling. They’re just trying to do their best and make it on their own. They aren’t perfect. But they are loveable just the way they are.
I’m not perfect. But I love them. And in the process I found love for myself.
The technical side of therapy is gradually coming along. I’m not the super-therapist that I want to be. But I’m okay with that. . . . Perfection is over-rated. Grace gives life.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Radical hospitality revealed in feeling uncomfortable
by Marilyn Johns
Part of my work, and the reason you haven’t seen me much this fall, is that I travel to a wide variety of Christian churches to preach, teach, and meet the members of these small congregations. Recently, I visited an African-American Missionary Baptist church in North Carolina. I’ve preached in African-American churches before, but they were United Methodist, or Presbyterian, or even American Baptist – mainline denominations. Missionary Baptist was a church unfamiliar to me, and I was plenty worried that I wouldn’t live up to their idea of worship.
Now, I’m a Presbyterian. In preparing a sermon, I read and reread the passage, look to some commentaries for ideas, and await direction from the Holy Spirit as to what I should say to the particular church I’m visiting. Then I write the sermon. In the Missionary Baptist church, the notion of “writing a sermon” is completely foreign. In their worship service, the first hour is filled with singing and praising and prayer and preparation for the Spirit to visit them right then. There is no bulletin. There is no written sermon. The preacher preaches on what the Spirit has given him (not usually her) to say at that moment. When I asked the pastor ahead of time how long he normally preaches, his response was, “Until it’s time to stop.” It’s a very different way of preaching from the typical 18-minute, “three points, a poem, and a prayer” sermon we Presbyterians are used to.
I know my limitations, and I know something about the need for authenticity. So rather than try to be something I’m not, I prepared my sermon and preached it from the text. Worship was different than I experience at Pilgrims or most other mainline churches. I was stepping way outside my comfort zone. Even as I preached, I was sure everyone was bored with this fairly low-key, not terribly emotional proclamation. But then I realized they were willing to step outside of their comfort zone too. They listened, they appreciated, they were gracious – one person even asked me for a copy of the text! The people in the Missionary Baptist church opened themselves up to hearing God in an unfamiliar way, even though it wasn’t their preferred style, because that is what true welcome is.
Radical hospitality revealed in feeling uncomfortable
Part of my work, and the reason you haven’t seen me much this fall, is that I travel to a wide variety of Christian churches to preach, teach, and meet the members of these small congregations. Recently, I visited an African-American Missionary Baptist church in North Carolina. I’ve preached in African-American churches before, but they were United Methodist, or Presbyterian, or even American Baptist – mainline denominations. Missionary Baptist was a church unfamiliar to me, and I was plenty worried that I wouldn’t live up to their idea of worship.
Now, I’m a Presbyterian. In preparing a sermon, I read and reread the passage, look to some commentaries for ideas, and await direction from the Holy Spirit as to what I should say to the particular church I’m visiting. Then I write the sermon. In the Missionary Baptist church, the notion of “writing a sermon” is completely foreign. In their worship service, the first hour is filled with singing and praising and prayer and preparation for the Spirit to visit them right then. There is no bulletin. There is no written sermon. The preacher preaches on what the Spirit has given him (not usually her) to say at that moment. When I asked the pastor ahead of time how long he normally preaches, his response was, “Until it’s time to stop.” It’s a very different way of preaching from the typical 18-minute, “three points, a poem, and a prayer” sermon we Presbyterians are used to.
I know my limitations, and I know something about the need for authenticity. So rather than try to be something I’m not, I prepared my sermon and preached it from the text. Worship was different than I experience at Pilgrims or most other mainline churches. I was stepping way outside my comfort zone. Even as I preached, I was sure everyone was bored with this fairly low-key, not terribly emotional proclamation. But then I realized they were willing to step outside of their comfort zone too. They listened, they appreciated, they were gracious – one person even asked me for a copy of the text! The people in the Missionary Baptist church opened themselves up to hearing God in an unfamiliar way, even though it wasn’t their preferred style, because that is what true welcome is.
Radical hospitality revealed in feeling uncomfortable
Unknown foreign relatives reveal a brother
by Mitch Fulton
All of my life I had heard stories about my Welsh grandmother and how she had emigrated from Wales as a small child with her parents. As she had died before I was born, the stories of this exotic part of my family always intrigued me. Unlike the other sides of my family who had been in the U.S. for generations, my Welsh side of the family was relatively new to America and they spoke this almost impenetrable language of Welsh, lovingly referred to by the Welsh as the language of heaven. When I went off to Kalamazoo College in the late 70s one of the key parts of the curriculum was foreign study in your junior year. There was no established exchange program with the University of Wales so if I wanted to study in Wales I had to make it happen on my own, by applying and being accepted to the University for a full academic year. I was determined to make this happen and to re-discover my roots. Alex Haley’s book and the TV miniseries, “Roots”, had both recently impacted my life and I wanted to have a similar experience.
My University application was accepted at the very last moment and I contacted my grandmother’s first cousin in upstate New York who had been the only link between my Welsh-American relatives and the cousins in the old country. She dutifully provided me with my relatives contact information complete with little biographic notes about the cousins. I quickly wrote to several of the cousins (the ones that seemed to have children that might be close to my age) and told them of my plans, promising to make contact with them once I arrived. Off I went in September of 1978, deciding to live in the one Welsh speaking dormitory so I could immerse myself in the language and hopefully learn this very odd Celtic language.
I arrived in Bangor, North Wales and settled into the dorm and made contact with my relatives. That first weekend, one of my cousins arrived with her husband in tow and offered to whisk me away to their home for the weekend. They had a son a couple of years younger than I, but he didn’t come with them to meet me. My cousin, Eirlys, seemed like a very nice woman and was on the Board of Regents for the University. So after we met at the dorm, she took it upon herself to address the students that were milling about the lobby of the dorm in Welsh. I didn’t understand anything other than my name but I soon learned that she was explaining who I was and why I was there and to treat me well. Needless to say I was beyond embarrassed and wished she had not decided to do that sort of an introduction.
Fortunately we left shortly thereafter and I didn’t have to dwell on my embarrassment for too long. We arrived at their home in about a half an hour and I met my cousin Jonathan for the first time. His first words to me were, “We don’t have any peanut butter in the house and I thought you’d be wearing cowboy boots.” That sort of odd encounter led to a great and life-long friendship. We were together almost every weekend that year either at his parents’ home or at the dorm. We took many train trips to London, Chester and Liverpool. I met his high school friends and he met my new College friends and we discovered that we really liked each other. Like me he was an only child and craved a family experience with someone he could really relate too. Our brotherhood has endured over the years and we have remained close and in each others’ lives for the past thirty years. He and his wife immigrated to Canada about 17 years ago. At the time that they emigrated his mother told me that he did so to be closer to me. The deep hospitality that I experienced with these unknown relatives enriched my life in a way that I could never have anticipated. I felt blessed at the time because I knew I was realizing my dream but I could not have seen how the Spirit was revealing not just a brother but a complete second family. While it is true that we were related to one another, we started that year as total strangers and ended it as a true family.
“Unknown foreign relatives reveal a brother.”
All of my life I had heard stories about my Welsh grandmother and how she had emigrated from Wales as a small child with her parents. As she had died before I was born, the stories of this exotic part of my family always intrigued me. Unlike the other sides of my family who had been in the U.S. for generations, my Welsh side of the family was relatively new to America and they spoke this almost impenetrable language of Welsh, lovingly referred to by the Welsh as the language of heaven. When I went off to Kalamazoo College in the late 70s one of the key parts of the curriculum was foreign study in your junior year. There was no established exchange program with the University of Wales so if I wanted to study in Wales I had to make it happen on my own, by applying and being accepted to the University for a full academic year. I was determined to make this happen and to re-discover my roots. Alex Haley’s book and the TV miniseries, “Roots”, had both recently impacted my life and I wanted to have a similar experience.
My University application was accepted at the very last moment and I contacted my grandmother’s first cousin in upstate New York who had been the only link between my Welsh-American relatives and the cousins in the old country. She dutifully provided me with my relatives contact information complete with little biographic notes about the cousins. I quickly wrote to several of the cousins (the ones that seemed to have children that might be close to my age) and told them of my plans, promising to make contact with them once I arrived. Off I went in September of 1978, deciding to live in the one Welsh speaking dormitory so I could immerse myself in the language and hopefully learn this very odd Celtic language.
I arrived in Bangor, North Wales and settled into the dorm and made contact with my relatives. That first weekend, one of my cousins arrived with her husband in tow and offered to whisk me away to their home for the weekend. They had a son a couple of years younger than I, but he didn’t come with them to meet me. My cousin, Eirlys, seemed like a very nice woman and was on the Board of Regents for the University. So after we met at the dorm, she took it upon herself to address the students that were milling about the lobby of the dorm in Welsh. I didn’t understand anything other than my name but I soon learned that she was explaining who I was and why I was there and to treat me well. Needless to say I was beyond embarrassed and wished she had not decided to do that sort of an introduction.
Fortunately we left shortly thereafter and I didn’t have to dwell on my embarrassment for too long. We arrived at their home in about a half an hour and I met my cousin Jonathan for the first time. His first words to me were, “We don’t have any peanut butter in the house and I thought you’d be wearing cowboy boots.” That sort of odd encounter led to a great and life-long friendship. We were together almost every weekend that year either at his parents’ home or at the dorm. We took many train trips to London, Chester and Liverpool. I met his high school friends and he met my new College friends and we discovered that we really liked each other. Like me he was an only child and craved a family experience with someone he could really relate too. Our brotherhood has endured over the years and we have remained close and in each others’ lives for the past thirty years. He and his wife immigrated to Canada about 17 years ago. At the time that they emigrated his mother told me that he did so to be closer to me. The deep hospitality that I experienced with these unknown relatives enriched my life in a way that I could never have anticipated. I felt blessed at the time because I knew I was realizing my dream but I could not have seen how the Spirit was revealing not just a brother but a complete second family. While it is true that we were related to one another, we started that year as total strangers and ended it as a true family.
“Unknown foreign relatives reveal a brother.”
Finally, sharing host family's bathwater: bliss!
by Dan Knowlton
When I first traveled to Japan, there was much to learn, and four different and confusing generational variances of a foreign language in which to learn them. I was a junior in college then, and despite two years of studying classroom Japanese, the thick Kyoto accents of my host family stood like a wall between us. My host grandmother never spoke above a mumble while my host nieces and nephews spoke in shrill voices and little kid slang. My host mother formed words at a dizzying pace using mostly local dialect phrases while my host father mostly smiled and nodded. I had one host brother whose attempted English was like a new language of its own, and two host sisters who giggled every time I attempted Japanese. Yet, this was my family. This was my home for one year, my window into a wholly new country and culture.
My first breakthrough didn't come in direct communication. It happened in the bathtub. Japanese people love their baths, and a family's bathing order and etiquette is of utmost importance. As an American, I was accustomed to taking quick showers, and I did this in lieu of sitting in my host family's tub for my first several weeks in Japan. Then, one night, my host mother walked me into their spacious bathroom and explained how to heat and soak in the bathwater. Because they clean up before soaking in the bath, the whole family shares the same tub of water, one by one, in order to conserve water and energy. The father in the family almost always goes first, while the water is at its warmest, cleanest state. But that night, I was invited to soak first. From then on, I almost always took a dip in the family bath before heading to bed, whether I was the first one in or the last one out. That welcoming into the family's daily routine brought me into their lives in a close and personal way, and I finally felt that, in the midst of a new and strange place, I had found a home.
Sharing my host family’s bathwater and many more welcoming experiences from friends and strangers opened me up to a whole new culture and taught me much about myself. I learned that, in the midst of a confusing place where even the most basic events felt different and new, I could still feel at home with a little bit of patience, confidence, and faith. I learned to seek out those new experiences and friendships that might not be comfortable at first, but would teach me something new. Best of all, I learned that even halfway across the world, you can find strangers who will welcome you into their home and become family. I still remember my last day in Kyoto, holding my hand up to the taxi's glass window while my host mother placed her hand over mine, with farewell tears in her eyes.
Finally, sharing host family's bathwater: bliss!
When I first traveled to Japan, there was much to learn, and four different and confusing generational variances of a foreign language in which to learn them. I was a junior in college then, and despite two years of studying classroom Japanese, the thick Kyoto accents of my host family stood like a wall between us. My host grandmother never spoke above a mumble while my host nieces and nephews spoke in shrill voices and little kid slang. My host mother formed words at a dizzying pace using mostly local dialect phrases while my host father mostly smiled and nodded. I had one host brother whose attempted English was like a new language of its own, and two host sisters who giggled every time I attempted Japanese. Yet, this was my family. This was my home for one year, my window into a wholly new country and culture.
My first breakthrough didn't come in direct communication. It happened in the bathtub. Japanese people love their baths, and a family's bathing order and etiquette is of utmost importance. As an American, I was accustomed to taking quick showers, and I did this in lieu of sitting in my host family's tub for my first several weeks in Japan. Then, one night, my host mother walked me into their spacious bathroom and explained how to heat and soak in the bathwater. Because they clean up before soaking in the bath, the whole family shares the same tub of water, one by one, in order to conserve water and energy. The father in the family almost always goes first, while the water is at its warmest, cleanest state. But that night, I was invited to soak first. From then on, I almost always took a dip in the family bath before heading to bed, whether I was the first one in or the last one out. That welcoming into the family's daily routine brought me into their lives in a close and personal way, and I finally felt that, in the midst of a new and strange place, I had found a home.
Sharing my host family’s bathwater and many more welcoming experiences from friends and strangers opened me up to a whole new culture and taught me much about myself. I learned that, in the midst of a confusing place where even the most basic events felt different and new, I could still feel at home with a little bit of patience, confidence, and faith. I learned to seek out those new experiences and friendships that might not be comfortable at first, but would teach me something new. Best of all, I learned that even halfway across the world, you can find strangers who will welcome you into their home and become family. I still remember my last day in Kyoto, holding my hand up to the taxi's glass window while my host mother placed her hand over mine, with farewell tears in her eyes.
Finally, sharing host family's bathwater: bliss!
Late night children’s welcome, flowers included
By Hillary Walters
My boyfriend Matt and I had the chance to travel to India in January 2008 to work with BIRDS, an organization our church in Portland, OR has an ongoing relationship with. After meeting in Hyderabad, India, our team of four volunteers traveled by jeep across bumpy Indian roads before arriving at the facility that would be our home for four weeks. Balancing jetlag and culture shock, we’d spent seven hours on the road before arriving at the BIRDS facility. Exhausted from the travels, and fighting to keep my eyes open, I expected we would each be quietly shown to our rooms for a night of deep rest.
As our jeep pulled up alongside the curb of the main lodging facility, it appeared that a crowd stood outside in the dark. As we emerged from the vehicle, the crowd became individual faces of beaming children. Organized in orderly rows below a banner that boasted our names and a welcome message, the group of 100 orphans that lived at BIRDS greeted us in unison with a prepared message that rang like out like a song. Following the greeting, our group of four received hand woven flower leis, and were surrounded by gangs of children that reached out to touch our hands and practice their well-polished English phrases.
The genuine joy and exuberance the children demonstrated upon our arrival deeply touched me. How long had they stood outside in the dark awaiting our arrival? How much time had been spent weaving the beautiful flower petals placed around our necks? I was floored that these youth, who knew nothing about us, could be so giddy to have us in their presence. Didn’t they have games they’d rather be playing? Or nails they’d rather be painting? Or music they’d rather be listening to? It was clear that in that moment, these children desired nothing else than to welcome four strangers into their midst and shower their eagerness upon them.
The image of the children greeting us that first night in India stays with me. The welcome drew us immediately into the BIRDS community, where revolutionary things were, and are, being accomplished by a humble Indian man from the nation’s lowest caste. The children’s welcome preceded many more acts of overwhelming hospitality, including parades before church services and banners with our pictures on them strewn across the small towns we visited.
Reflecting on the welcome we received in India, the children’s smiles bring me warmth, and they challenge me, in this season of Risking a Deeper Welcome, to joyfully look for opportunities to welcome strangers into the communities I’m apart of. While I never mind extending a verbal hello, do I ever demonstrate the same giddiness the children showed for me? Knowing how good it feels to be so warmly received and welcomed into a new place, how can I live that model in my own life?
Late night children’s welcome, flowers included.
My boyfriend Matt and I had the chance to travel to India in January 2008 to work with BIRDS, an organization our church in Portland, OR has an ongoing relationship with. After meeting in Hyderabad, India, our team of four volunteers traveled by jeep across bumpy Indian roads before arriving at the facility that would be our home for four weeks. Balancing jetlag and culture shock, we’d spent seven hours on the road before arriving at the BIRDS facility. Exhausted from the travels, and fighting to keep my eyes open, I expected we would each be quietly shown to our rooms for a night of deep rest.
As our jeep pulled up alongside the curb of the main lodging facility, it appeared that a crowd stood outside in the dark. As we emerged from the vehicle, the crowd became individual faces of beaming children. Organized in orderly rows below a banner that boasted our names and a welcome message, the group of 100 orphans that lived at BIRDS greeted us in unison with a prepared message that rang like out like a song. Following the greeting, our group of four received hand woven flower leis, and were surrounded by gangs of children that reached out to touch our hands and practice their well-polished English phrases.
The genuine joy and exuberance the children demonstrated upon our arrival deeply touched me. How long had they stood outside in the dark awaiting our arrival? How much time had been spent weaving the beautiful flower petals placed around our necks? I was floored that these youth, who knew nothing about us, could be so giddy to have us in their presence. Didn’t they have games they’d rather be playing? Or nails they’d rather be painting? Or music they’d rather be listening to? It was clear that in that moment, these children desired nothing else than to welcome four strangers into their midst and shower their eagerness upon them.
The image of the children greeting us that first night in India stays with me. The welcome drew us immediately into the BIRDS community, where revolutionary things were, and are, being accomplished by a humble Indian man from the nation’s lowest caste. The children’s welcome preceded many more acts of overwhelming hospitality, including parades before church services and banners with our pictures on them strewn across the small towns we visited.
Reflecting on the welcome we received in India, the children’s smiles bring me warmth, and they challenge me, in this season of Risking a Deeper Welcome, to joyfully look for opportunities to welcome strangers into the communities I’m apart of. While I never mind extending a verbal hello, do I ever demonstrate the same giddiness the children showed for me? Knowing how good it feels to be so warmly received and welcomed into a new place, how can I live that model in my own life?
Late night children’s welcome, flowers included.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Massage Therapy. Bodies call to me.
by Mary Ester
I’m pretty sure when Ashley asked me to do a story about Risking a Deeper Welcome, she didn’t expect a story that would be about muscles. About bones. About the body.
But that is what my story is about. This wonderful vehicle that God has given us: the body. And how it calls me to risk a deeper welcome.
As most of you know, a few years ago I trained as a massage therapist. That was certainly a risk. Who would have thought a linear thinking, get-the-job-done kind of gal like me would do something - literally – so touchy feely.
But for years massage therapy called me. I can’t explain. But I simply could not shake it. And I am glad I finally listened.
First of all, every day I was at school I was forced to risk a deeper welcome with my classmates. We were from all backgrounds. All ages. All sizes. Races. There were fellow students who were in the military. There was a lobbyist. A waitress. A physical therapist. Analysts. You name it, we had it.
And the glue that held us together was the body. It challenged us, it confounded us, it delighted us, it scared us. But most of all it made us listen. Despite our varied backgrounds, what I think connected us was our desire to provide respite and to help heal.
Not to fix, mind you, we were told over and over that we cannot fix anyone. And that the person on the table is a partner in the healing process. And if that’s true then there is communication. And where there is communication there is risk.
Our instructors would say over and over – stop and sink. They were talking about sinking into the muscle, but it was more about communicating. It meant stop and sink into the moment. Listen to what is the muscle telling you. And for me that is personally one of my biggest challenges in life. To not want to rush off to the next thing because maybe what’s happening right now is uncomfortable. Stopping and sinking - not rushing over a muscle or a conversation is what allows a deeper welcome.
So every time someone gets on the table I guess I can invite a deeper welcome. And I maybe that’s why massage therapy called to me for so long. I needed help doing that. So I am grateful that I get to welcome a person to my table. I have the privilege of stopping and sinking into the muscle, into the moment, into a deeper welcome.
Massage Therapy. Bodies call to me.
I’m pretty sure when Ashley asked me to do a story about Risking a Deeper Welcome, she didn’t expect a story that would be about muscles. About bones. About the body.
But that is what my story is about. This wonderful vehicle that God has given us: the body. And how it calls me to risk a deeper welcome.
As most of you know, a few years ago I trained as a massage therapist. That was certainly a risk. Who would have thought a linear thinking, get-the-job-done kind of gal like me would do something - literally – so touchy feely.
But for years massage therapy called me. I can’t explain. But I simply could not shake it. And I am glad I finally listened.
First of all, every day I was at school I was forced to risk a deeper welcome with my classmates. We were from all backgrounds. All ages. All sizes. Races. There were fellow students who were in the military. There was a lobbyist. A waitress. A physical therapist. Analysts. You name it, we had it.
And the glue that held us together was the body. It challenged us, it confounded us, it delighted us, it scared us. But most of all it made us listen. Despite our varied backgrounds, what I think connected us was our desire to provide respite and to help heal.
Not to fix, mind you, we were told over and over that we cannot fix anyone. And that the person on the table is a partner in the healing process. And if that’s true then there is communication. And where there is communication there is risk.
Our instructors would say over and over – stop and sink. They were talking about sinking into the muscle, but it was more about communicating. It meant stop and sink into the moment. Listen to what is the muscle telling you. And for me that is personally one of my biggest challenges in life. To not want to rush off to the next thing because maybe what’s happening right now is uncomfortable. Stopping and sinking - not rushing over a muscle or a conversation is what allows a deeper welcome.
So every time someone gets on the table I guess I can invite a deeper welcome. And I maybe that’s why massage therapy called to me for so long. I needed help doing that. So I am grateful that I get to welcome a person to my table. I have the privilege of stopping and sinking into the muscle, into the moment, into a deeper welcome.
Massage Therapy. Bodies call to me.
Risking a Deeper Welcome
"Risking a Deeper Welcome" is the 2009 Homecoming theme for Church of the Pilgrims. Through out the season, we are inviting members and friends to write "six-word stories" about experiences of life-giving hospitality. The model for the six-word story come from Hemingway: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." In this case, we also asked our writers to give us the "back story" as well.
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