The other victims of depression and suicide

This past August 11 comedian and actor Robin Williams committed suicide.  Most of us were shocked that someone who had such wealth, such an apparently happy family, such a full life would take his own life.  Most of us were shocked that someone who made so many others find joy apparently could not find enough joy within himself to sustain his own life.  Many knew that he battled with depression and with substance abuse, but his suicide came as a surprise to everyone.

Many comments were made in the news and ubiquitously on the internet about the joy his humor brought to their lives.  He had a way with words, with actions, with expressions, with his smile that just made us feel good.  Many expressed their sense of loss at his death.  Many expressed gratitude for his life, and many others expressed a sense of relief that his suffering from depression was now ended, and that he was at peace.

One of the positive things that came from his widely-publicized affliction with depression was the opportunity for people to urge others to seek help if they were battling with that horrible mental illness.  It seemed that the website of the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline was suddenly plainly in view (http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/), and people were urged to call the national 800 number for help:  (800) 273-TALK (273-8255).  I am grateful that such information became so readily available and visible.

Depression is largely an invisible illness.  People who so often seem intelligent, stable, productive, loving, compassionate, insightful, and emotionally "together" often struggle silently and in secret with depression.  If Robin Williams' suicide brought this to our attention, then I am grateful.

However, what was not made visible, and what remained unspoken and unpublished (at least in the press and online) was that there are victims when people commit suicide... beyond just the person who ended their own life.  Family members are affected in ways that are profound, and they are affected for the rest of their lives... and their unique "battle" often is also invisible, with suffering done in secret.

I know.  My Mom took her life when I was 10 years old.  My two older sisters had moved away from home to get married within 6 months of each other.  The one most recently married had written home to say that she had just gotten pregnant.  Mom had been hospitalized at least twice that I remember, with what I much later found out was severe depression.  I cannot begin to imagine even now, and I of course had no method or reason to comprehend when I was only 10, how greatly she must have suffered, how much pain she must have been in for her to conclude that death was preferable.  And I cannot help but think that if she would have been able to see beyond her own pain to see us, the members of her family, she would never have committed suicide.  The pain we suffered was excruciating, and was intense for years.  I still miss the fact that I didn't have my Mom when I was growing up... when I was in plays and concerts in high school... when I was graduated from college... when I was ordained... when I got married... when I had children... when I now have a grandson of my own.  If Mom only could have seen.  But, of course, she couldn't see any of that.  That is the nature of depression... and of many other mental illnesses.

If you are suffering from depression, take a risk.  Reach out.  Call someone: your pastor, a friend, a counselor, or the 800 number above.  If you are someone who lost a family member or close friend to suicide, then you reach out, too.  People care, more than you imagine.

I don't think Jesus was kidding...

"Blessed are the peacemakers," taught Jesus.

I don’t know about you, but to me those words seem sometime to be quaint or naïve at best, anachronistic or irrational at worst.  I mean, could peacemakers have stopped Adolph Hitler?  Could peacemakers stop Boko Haram extremists in Nigeria or Islamic State extremists in Iraq?

 

"Well, but it was a simpler time in Jesus' day," we might be tempted to say?  Really? Rome ruled Israel/Palestine with an iron fist in Jesus' day.  Anarchists and revolutionaries sought whatever means they could find to subvert Roman authority.  Public executions were horrific and commonplace.  Religious extremists encouraged public stonings for those they identified and labeled as "sinners."  People seen as collaborating with Romans were ridiculed and outcast from their communities.  People with leprosy were shunned and isolated, and people with mental illness were labeled as demoniacs.

"Blessed are the peacemakers," taught Jesus.

I confess I don't know what to do with this statement of the Lord's.  It stays with me.  It troubles my conscience.  It echoes in my head when I'm in church meetings that sometimes are less than cordial.  And I confess I don't know how to reconcile what often appears to be a conflict if one works for peace while at the same time advocating for justice.  It reminds me of one time when I was leading a training event for newly-elected ruling elders and deacons.  We were going through the questions for ordination/installation, and got to the seventh question:  "Do you promise to further the peace, unity, and purity of the Church?"  One of the candidates asked, "But what happens if working for the Church's purity disrupts its peace and threatens its unity?"  Good question.  I didn't have an answer then.  I guess I still don't.

"Blessed are the peacemakers," taught Jesus.

This coming Sunday is recognized in the Church as World Communion Sunday, reminding us of our Lord's prayer that we might all be one, be united, be at peace together.  Although I'm not sure all the ways this could/should be evidenced in the life of the Church and our witness in and to the world, what I know is that I'll be spending some time thinking, praying, reflecting about the need for peace:  in our congregations... in the Presbyterian Church... in the Church across the world... in places rocked by war and violence, whether in Mosul, Iraq or Ferguson, Missouri... in areas where Christians are persecuted... in my own life.

"Blessed are the peacemakers," taught Jesus.

And I don't believe he was kidding.

Thoughts from Two Ordinations

Within a matter of just about one month, our Presbytery will have the opportunity to celebrate the ordination of two individuals, and will have installed them to positions of pastoral leadership in two different congregations.  What a joy!

We talk about people "going into the ministry," "receiving a call," "becoming a Reverend," and many other things.  What does it really mean, though, to be a minister? Do you have to be "ordained" to do it?  Are only ministers "ministers"...what about ruling elders, deacons, Sunday School teachers, educators, health workers, youth leaders, plumbers, etc.?

Over the years I often have appreciated the pithy sayings that I've found in the writings of theologian and author, Frederick Buechner.  Here are some of his thoughts about what a "minister" is...from his wonderful book, Wishful Thinking: A Seeker's ABC (HarperSanFrancisco, 1993):

"There are three basic views (of what a Minister is):

1.     Ministers are Nice People. They preach good sermons, but they're not like those religious fanatics who think they've got to say a prayer every time they pay a call.

2.     Ministers have their heads in the clouds.  If you should ever happen to use bad language in their presence, you apologize.

3.     Ministers are as anachronistic as alchemists or chimney sweeps. Like Tiffany glass or the Queen of England, their function is primarily decorative.

"The first ministers were the twelve disciples... When Jesus sent the twelve out into the world, his instructions were simple. He told them to preach the kingdom of God and to heal (Luke 9:2), with the implication that to do either right was in effect to do both.  Fortunately for the world in general and the church in particular, the ability to do them is not dependent on either moral character or I.Q. To do them in the name of Christ is to be a minister."

Lorrie Cooney and Mario Bolivar didn't become "ministers" when we ordained them as teaching elders.  (Okay, Mario won't "count" until this Thursday afternoon... but you know what I mean.)  We simply recognized the gifts for particular forms of ministry that God already had entrusted to them, and we commissioned them to live out those ministries in Parish, NY and Skaneateles, NY respectively. We Presbyterian and Reformed folks believe the each of us and all of us have been "called" to "ministry," and the symbol of that call was our baptism.  What form(s) our particular ministries have taken are as varied as are each one of us.

Mixed feelings about complicated issues - Ferguson, MO

The shooting death of Ferguson, Missouri teenager Michael Brown has stirred such a mix of reactions and feelings, most all of which have been deep-seated and strong. I posted someone's blog about this on my Facebook page, because I believed that he had some points worth pondering.  I didn't get many reactions to that posting, but the ones I did get were long and passionate... and far from complimentary!

Events like this spark such powerful reactions because they tap into long standing and deeply rooted issues that have divided our nation for generations.  They are issues of race... of privilege... of the use and/or abuse of power... of violence... of public protests... of fear and bigotry.  And in this particular situation in that suburb of St. Louis, there is more than enough bigotry to go around:  bigotry against blacks, especially young, black men, and bigotry against police officers who use deadly force, especially young, white officers who shoot young, black men. This is an event that tears at our society, and that also tears at my heart.  I'm not about to rush to judgment about anything in this situation, because so many facts still are not known.  I am appalled at what seems to be an overreaction on the part of the police officer.  I am saddened at the situations in which law enforcement officers often find themselves and at the snap decisions that they often are called to make.  And I'm angry that yet another young African-American male has fallen victim to a violent death.

Yet right now what tears at my heart the most is what two families are going through. Michael Brown's family buried their son earlier today.  I've lost both my parents, all of my grandparents, all of my aunts and uncles, some of my cousins, and my first grandchild.  Plus I've walked with families for almost four decades as I've been the pastor of people who are going "through the valley of the shadow of death."  I am no stranger to death and grief.  Still, I can't imagine losing one of my sons, AND having that death be in the crosshairs of an entire nation!  Darren Wilson is 28 years old.  His parents divorced when he was 3; his mom died when he was in high school.  He was a member of the police department in the small town of Jennings, MO where things were so bad between white officers and black residents that the entire police department was disbanded.  No matter the reasons behind his decision to shoot Michael Brown, I can't imagine what Darren Wilson must be feeling, living with the knowledge of what he did, and realizing that the nation and the world knows that he shot and killed a teenage boy; it will follow him the rest of his life.

There are serious, systemic, and deep issues about race and poverty and justice that are being raised, and we who are followers of Jesus Christ must not shrink away from asking difficult questions and having difficult conversations about these matters.  Yet let us not lose sight that these questions and conversations are not just about abstract principles or philosophical constructs.  Real people are in pain this day.  Grief and regrets are tearing at the hearts of some of God's beloved children this day.

Peace and justice often seem to be at odds with each other, and yet we Christians are called to stand for both and to be lights to a dark, pain-filled, fearful, divided world.  Let us walk and speak and act carefully and prayerfully, compassionately and intentionally as we journey through our world.

The closing prayer in today's service of Morning Prayer from our Book of Common Worship offers words that are helpful as I walk this road:

"As you cause the sun to rise, O God,

bring the light of Christ to dawn in our souls

and dispel all darkness.

Give us grace to reflect Christ's glory;

and let his love show in our deeds,

his peace shine in our words,

and his healing in our touch,

that all may give him praise, now and forever."

This prayer comes around at the end of every Monday morning service of Daily Prayer. I think I need to pray it more often than that, though.  Want to join me?

Belonging

I've long said that the Presbyterian Church's Book of Confessions is the best least-read book in the Church!  It is a part of the Constitution of our denomination - Part One, no less - and all people ordained in the ordered ministries of the Church (deacons, ruling elders, teaching elders) are asked to vow that we will "be instructed and led by those confessions as you lead the people of God."  But, really, how many people have read all of the confessions?

There are 11 historical confessions, with a 12th one being proposed.  The current ones come from three different eras of the Church's history:

Early Church

·      Nicene Creed - from A.D. 325 and following

·      Apostles' Creed - 2nd-9th centuries

Reformation Era

·      Scots Confession (1560, Scotland)

·      Heidelberg Catechism (1563, Germany)

·      Second Helvetic Confession (1566, Switzerland)

·      Westminster Confession of Faith (1647, England), and its related items:

o   Shorter Catechism

o   Larger Catechism

Contemporary Era

·      Theological Declaration of Barmen (1934, Germany)

·      Confession of 1967 (1967, United Stated)

·      Brief Statement of Faith (1991, United States)

It truly would be worth your time perusing this treasure of theology and faith, seeing how the Church through the ages tried to respond faithfully to serving Christ in particular times and situations.

I remember when the Brief Statement of Faith was proposed for adoption.  This came out of the reunion in 1983 of the "northern" and "southern" streams of the Presbyterian Church who had split in 1861 at the start of the Civil War.  (It only took us 122 years to put that behind us!)  I remember when I opened the document and read the very first line:  "In life and in death we belong to God."  I was with some folks in our church at the time who had gathered to read and consider this document.  I read that first line, stopped, looked at the group, and said, "Let's take an offering and go home; there's nothing else to say after this.  It says it all!"

The writers of the Brief Statement began their document by hearkening back to the answer to the first question in the Heidelberg Catechism of the 16th century.  The question asks, "What is your only comfort in life and in death?"  The answer begins with these words:  "That I belong--body and soul, in life and in death--not to myself but to my faithful Savior, Jesus Christ..."

People sometimes ask why I'm a Presbyterian, why I still am involved in a Church that struggles so much with so many things, why I cling to an institution that is right on the cusp of having to learn to do things in very new and different ways and is not sure how do to that.  I have lots of answers to that, but one of the primary reasons is that the Presbyterian Church restores my faith... not my faith in the Church as such, but my faith in the God who, above all else, astoundingly has faith in me... and in us all... and even in the Body of Christ.  Our Church sometimes still professes loudly and clearly, through the noise and din of a chaotic world:  "In life and in death we belong to God."

Let's take an offering and go home.  Nothing else needs to be said.

Models for Prayer - historical and new

How do you pray?  Do you have a set place or places in which you pray?  Do you have a set time or two each day that you pray?  Do you use a specified form for your prayers, or do you pray what's on your heart and mind at the moment, or do you use some combination of the two?

There are a multitude of models for prayer.  Some of these are:

1.     The monastic model - Monks and nuns observe eight traditional "hours" (periods) of prayer during the day when they gather together.

2.     William Law - An 18th century English clergyperson, Law adapted the monastic model for individual use, suggesting that times of prayer each day should focus on different things:

a.     praise and thanksgiving

b.     humility

c.     intercession

d.     grace for resignation to God's will

e.     self-examination (confession)

f.      meditation upon death

3.     Dietrich Bonhoeffer - This 20th century German theologian suggested that we spend time each day in meditation upon a portion of Scripture and its meaning for us in that moment, prayer for strength and guidance and spiritual growth, and prayers for others.

4.     The Jesus Prayer - Used mainly in the Eastern Orthodox tradition of the Church, the Jesus Prayer is a model for trying to attain St. Paul's injunction to "be constant in prayer." (Rom. 12:12)  It consists of a constant repetition in the heart of the simple prayer, "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner."

5.     Silence - In the 46th Psalm, we read the words, "Be still, and know that I am God."  The early Desert Fathers and Mothers -- those spiritual leaders of the Church during the early centuries of the Christian Era -- valued being silent before God above most everything else.  One of those leaders, Abba Arsenius, once said, "I have often repented of having spoken, but seldom of having remained silent."

6.     Spiritual Direction - The art of spiritual direction is an ancient discipline of spirituality in the Church.  It is the practice of putting yourself under the direction of someone more experienced in the Faith, more experienced in prayer, more experienced in life in the Spirit.

7.     Use of Prayer Books or other Devotional Books - Sometimes it helps to have words to guide and inspire our prayers, because sometimes we simply have no words to pray, and sometimes such guides remind us of other things and people for which to pray.

In the last couple of weeks, I've experienced yet another way to pray... a kind of prayer only possible with 21st century social media and technology.  Two different groups have invited people to join on Twitter for a time of prayer together.  The host sends a tweet that opens the time in prayer, and then suggests in a new tweet a subject around which to gather our prayers, and people may either pray on their own or reply with a tweet of something for which they'd like those gathered in cyberspace to pray.  After a set amount of time, the host tweets a closing prayer.  I don't know how to explain it, and I know it sounds pretty "out there," and I didn't think I would like it, but it works.  I wouldn't want that to be my only discipline of prayer, but it was a new, refreshing way to be with others in prayer in a very real and intentional way.

So, back to the beginning... How do you pray?  Do you join regularly during the week with others to pray?  Do you follow a particular form for your prayers?  I'd love to hear something of the spiritual discipline that you follow, and, with your permission, I'd love to share some of your responses.

A place at the Table?

In my article last week, I mentioned that I was reading a book by Simon Wiesenthal, entitled The Sunflower.  His book consists of two parts.  The first is a long story he relates about a troubling experience he had while in a concentration camp during World War II.  Of course, all such experiences surely had to have been "troubling," which is an adjective that falls exponentially short to describe things I cannot begin to understand but that we dare not ever forget.  However, Wiesenthal shares his experience of having been out of the camp one day on a work detail when a hospital nurse called him into the room of a patient that seemed obviously close to death. After bringing him into the room, she nodded toward the patient, and then abruptly left, closing the door on her way out.  He went over and sat in the chair next to the bed.

The patient's face was bandaged, and he had other serious injuries, but he could speak.  He began to do just that, and what came out over the next several hours was a confession.  The man knew he was dying, and he spoke of so many terrible atrocities that he and his SS comrades had committed against Jews.  After an excruciatingly painful litany of his crimes, he concluded his talk with Wiesenthal by saying this:

"I know that what I have told you is terrible.  In the long nights while I have been waiting for death, time and time again I have longed to talk about it to a Jew and beg forgiveness from him.  Only I didn't know whether there were any Jews left... I know that what I am asking is almost too much for you, but without your answer I cannot die in peace."

Wiesenthal then writes:

"Two men who had never known each other had been brought together for a few hours by Fate.  One asks the other for help. But the other was himself helpless and able to do nothing for him... I stood up and looked in his direction... At last I made up my mind and, without a word, I left the room."

The rest of the first part of the book is Wiesenthal's wrestling - both while in the camp and for the remainder of his life - with his refusal to offer words of forgiveness or consolation to the dying SS officer.  The second part of the book contains thoughts of 32 scholars, Jews and Christians alike, who were asked to offer their reflections on the ethical dilemma posed by Wiesenthal.  It is a fascinating, albeit troubling, book.  It cuts to the core of issues of forgiveness, confession, grace, repentance, reconciliation, evil, God.

One author's response, however, struck me in such a way that I am going to be spending some time reflecting and prayerfully meditating on it.  Christopher Hollis was a professor, an intelligence officer in the RAF during World War II, and later a Roman Catholic bishop in England. He ends his brief thoughts about this dilemma by sharing this story:

"According to an old medieval legend, the Apostles assembled together in heaven to recelebrate the Last Supper.  There was one place vacant, until through the door Judas came in, and Christ rose and kissed him and said, 'we have waited for thee.'"

I don't know what I might have done in Simon Wiesenthal's position in that hospital room.  I can't judge the merits or the shortcomings of his response to the SS officer.  And I'm in awed silence myself at Hollis' two-sentence story.  What I know is that forgiveness is not always easy for me... although it's always been easier for me to grant forgiveness to others than to accept forgiveness for myself.  What I know is that I want to more readily offer grace to those who stand in need of it, and that I want more and more to be willing to accept the grace that Christ offers to me again and again.  I long to be able to imagine myself in the story being willing to enter the room that was pictured, to welcome the Lord's kiss, and to dare to believe that the empty chair at the Table was being held for me.

Thoughts across a backyard fence

There is a wonderful couple who live in the house behind us.  Even over the short period of the past nine months that we've lived in our home, they've become friends.  In the past two weeks, Shirley has shared two things with me, inviting me to read them.  One was an article in the magazine, The Hidden Child.  This semi-annual journal publishes stories about some of the Jewish children during the Holocaust, and the families who hid them from the Nazis.  The article she asked me to read was entitled, "Do We Always Have to Forgive," written by Rabbi Leo Michel Abrami, who was himself a "hidden child" in Normandy, and is now teaching at the Jewish Studies Institute in Phoenix, AZ.  In his article he shared a bit of a story related from the experiences of Simon Wiesenthal.  This was the tie, naturally, to the book that Shirley also invited me to read, which was Wiesenthal's work, The Sunflower.  Both works led me to ponder further my own thoughts about sin, forgiveness, repentance, and reconciliation.  Both works affirmed the traditional Jewish teaching on forgiveness, which, briefly, is this: "...the Talmudic Sages held that God absolves all of our sins against Him, but not the offenses committed against our fellow human beings, until we have sought reconciliation with them and made peace with them.  (Why?)  It is because only those who have been wronged can forgive."  I affirm the Sages' wisdom and beliefs about forgiveness.

However, I believe there is something more... at least one other element to the whole, complex issue of forgiveness.  I believe that when someone has wronged me, I need to offer them forgiveness so that I can move past the hurt and anger I feel, and then move on.  If I hold on to unforgiveness, it usually does not affect the person who wronged me, and therefore only affects me.

From my perspective, when I forgive someone it does not mean that I've forgotten, nor does it mean that I think everything is now okay.  For me, forgiveness is one part of the process of reconciliation, but reconciliation can take place only if the one who committed the wrong asks for forgiveness and demonstrates some degree of repentance.  In other words, reconciliation is a two-way street; both parties have a role to play in sincerity if reconciliation is to be even a possibility. However, forgiveness is one-way; I offer it as a way of opening the door to the other person, but also as a way for me to let go of feelings that otherwise could become all-consuming.

Let me offer an example.  A congregation I served had a treasurer who stole a little over $120,000 from the church.  He was a 4th-generation member of the church, and most of his family and friends were very active in the church.  I was asked by a couples' group in the church to talk with them about their hurt and anger and sense of betrayal by this man who had been a valued member of that group for some 40 years.  In the process of our conversation, I talked about what I see as the difference between reconciliation and forgiveness.  As a Christian, I do believe that I have a responsibility to forgive someone who comes to me and asks for my forgiveness for some wrong they have done to me.  As a Christian group, we had a responsibility to forgive that man if he came and asked, demonstrating a sense of culpability, contriteness, and repentance.  However, I told them that whether or not he ever came to us in that way (he never did, by the way), we had to get to the point where we could forgive him in our hearts, because otherwise the hurt and anger would eat away at us.  We had to forgive him, whether or not he asked, because we needed to be able to be healed and to move on.

It is not an easy thing, this whole business of sin, repentance, confession, forgiveness, reconciliation.  But isn't this part of the heart of that most familiar of prayers, the Prayer that Jesus taught us?  Weekly (maybe even daily!) we pray that God will "forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us."  May God help us to embody that Prayer

Lessons from the Civil War, or War of Northern Aggression, or Recent Unpleasantness, or...

Our daughter--in-law lent us book a while ago, and I've slowly been working my way through it.  It really is a fascinating read.  It's written by Pulitzer-prize winning author Tony Horowitz.  The book is titled, Confederates in the Attic: Dispatches from the Unfinished Civil  

War.  

 As a student of history, there were many things in the book that I already knew.  It still is an astoundingly sobering fact to me that more Americans were killed in the War Between the States than in the totals put together from all of the other wars in which we have been involved!  But Horowitz wrote many things that were new to me.

 

He wrote that many southerners feel that the Civil War amounted to little more than a continuation of the long-standing conflicts between the English and the Celtic peoples; the north was settled predominantly by English immigrants, the south by Scots and Irish.

 

He wrote that the War is still so vivid to so many people in the south because of casualties and immigration patterns.  To quote:

"Roughly half of modern-day white Southerners descended from Confederates, and one in four Southern men of military age died in the War.  For Yankee men, the death rate was about one in ten, and waves of post-War immigration left a far lower ratio of Northerners with blood ties to the conflict."

 

Those were new things to me, and I'm still pondering those ideas.  But Horowitz also wrote about one particular town that he came across in the sojourn - really, in the pilgrimage - he took through the South.  He told the story about the small town of Fitzgerald, Georgia.  It is the county seat of Ben Hill County in south-central Georgia, and in 2012 had a population of 9,048.  Some of the streets in this village are named Grant, Sherman, and Sheridan, and others are named Lee, Jackson, Longstreet, and Bragg.  In other words, many of the streets are named after both Union and Confederate generals.  The town was developed by a Midwestern newspaper editor, Philander Fitzgerald, in 1895.  He had been a drummer boy for the Union army, and, in the midst of a severe drought in the early 1890's in the Midwest, concocted the idea of starting "a soldier's colony in the Southland and get all those old boys away from the bitter winters and drought."  He approached the governor of Georgia at the time, a Confederate veteran, and the two began to share the dream of a town that could be a place of refuge from the bitterness that still existed about the War.  Cautiously, the town planned its first veterans' parades, scheduling two of them: one for Union vets, the other for Confederates.  But when the band started playing, veterans of both armies "spontaneously joined and marched through the town together.  Thereafter, they merged to form Battalion One of the Blue and Gray, and celebrated their reconciliation annually."

 

Just imagine... After the tremendous bitterness and the losses inflicted during that dreadful time in our nation's history, people in this little village in southern Georgia, located less than 15 miles from the spot where President Jefferson Davis was captured on May 10, 1865, simply decided to put it all behind them, and to march - together - into a new future!

 

Wouldn't it be refreshing if even a small group of Republicans and Democrats simply decided to move beyond partisan politics and join together to forge a new way forward?  Wouldn't it be redeeming if even a small group of anti-abortion and pro-choice individuals could move beyond their impassioned rhetoric and see how they might work together in a new direction?  Wouldn't it be a sign of hope if some of the Shiite and Sunni Muslims throughout the Middle East could move forward in peace, holding on to the many things about their faith that unite them rather than going to war over the things that divide them?  Wouldn't it be a sign to the world if the Christian Church could stop our bickering over... fill-in-the-blank... marriage, ordination, property, denominational loyalty or denominational desertion, etc., etc., and instead find ways to forge partnerships in mission and service, in compassion and peace, in justice and grace that would be a fulfillment of Jesus' prayer that his followers be united?

 

I think that when I get discouraged about the many signs of division and hurt, of conflicts and fights in our world and in our society, I'll remember the folks in Fitzgerald, Georgia, who one day, long ago, simply decided that, in that place deep in the heart of Dixie, they would move forward together.

A conundrum about weddings

I remember very clearly one interview I had with a Pastor Nominating Committee years ago.  We had been in conversations for a couple of months, and we were getting serious.  We had a Saturday morning time set aside to make a final discernment together.  I regretted having to call them a few days before that time to tell them I had to reschedule our interview, since a member of the congregation I was serving had just died, and the funeral had been set for Saturday morning.  (I was not far from the PNC's church, so rescheduling was fairly easily accomplished... thankfully.)  We agreed to meet on Saturday afternoon.

When I got to the church the committee was already gathered.  After some informal visiting, we prayed together, and then began our discussion.  Someone asked me how the funeral went... which I always find to be an interesting, if not a little peculiar, question.  I vividly remember looking at this person, and then at the rest of the committee, and saying, "You ought to know this about me.  Most times I would rather do a funeral than a wedding any day.  At least in a funeral, the focus is clearly on God and our need for God's presence in our circumstances.  In many weddings, the focus is on the dress, the tuxes, who's standing next to whom, where to sit family so no one is offended... in other words, almost anything except a clear focus on God and our need for God in that circumstance!"  There was a marked pause, and then folks slowly started to shake their heads in understanding and agreement.  "I can see that," said one.  (By the way, they ended up inviting me to candidate, and I ended up serving as the pastor of that congregation for eight years.  So, they clearly weren't too shocked at my comment.)

To be sure, there are weddings that are an absolute joy to be a part of, and I am grateful for times when I have been invited to be a part of such a celebration of covenantal love.  But then there are "those" weddings... where family members can hardly keep good manners, where everyone is distracted by things (like clothes and who stands where) that really don't make one bit of difference in the long run, where my mention of God almost seems an inconvenient interruption in the events of the day for people.

Over the years, I've come up with an easy solution... but one I doubt if I'll ever see... although one never knows.  I believe that our Presbyterian Book of Order ensnares us in an inescapable conundrum in the first two sentences in the section on marriage (W-4.9000 for those "inquiring minds" among readers).  Here is what it says:  "Marriage is a gift God has given to all humankind for the well-being of the entire human family.  Marriage is a civil contract between a woman and a man."

Now, the Church is going to be wrestling once again at this year's General Assembly in two weeks, focusing on the second sentence above... but focusing on the last six words of that sentence.  I contend that it is the first five words that present us with our dilemma... or at least with the dilemma I have felt over the years.  I'd welcome a day to come where the Church no longer is in the "business" of overseeing "civil contracts" between people in a marriage.  We Presbyterians believe strongly - even vehemently at times - in the separation of Church and State.  Yet here we continue to put ministers at weddings in the position of functioning as an official at a State ceremony, having to sign a State-issued marriage license.  It would be cleaner, in my opinion, and would solve all sorts of dilemmas, if we just declared that we were getting out of the wedding business as a Church!  If people want to be married, then go to the State and have a civil ceremony to satisfy the legalities of a marriage relationship.  But then, if the couple wants to proclaim and give witness to the importance that their faith in God has for their marriage, that is when you would come to the Church.  Then is when there would be a joy-filled worship service, clearly focusing on God as the source of all love and the one who blesses our covenant relationships.

As I said, I'm not going to hold my breath on this one, but I do think that wedding ceremonies then really could be services of the worship of God, asking the Lord to bless this already-married couple and their relationship, giving public witness to the joys, responsibilities, and blessings of what it means to the Church and to our society to live together in a covenant relationship.

Who knows?  I might be surprised some day... and it would be a surprise that I would surely welcome.

So What's an unConference?

If you follow along on our Presbytery's Facebook page or Twitter feed you'll have noticed that I spent the first part of last week at what was called UNCO14.  I wrote about that a bit in this space last Monday, but, now that I've experienced it, I'd like to share some more.

Rather than being focused on one particular speaker or one particular theme, an unConference is simply a gathering of folks from across the country who come together with a passion for Christ and for the Church to talk about issues that are of burning importance.  It is a time to share dreams, to express fears, to envision new things, to discover new resources, to draw upon the experiences of folks from around the Church.  And there were not just Presbyterians there!  Folks from the United Church of Christ, the United Methodist Church, the American Baptist Church, the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America, and the Episcopal Church attended... as well as an independent, charismatic pastor who is leading a new church development with her husband, and a Unitarian Universalist pastor.  It was a rich and diverse mix.

When we gathered together, we worshiped, and then we were invited to go and write on a large piece of paper whatever it was that was most pressing for us that we'd like to explore with others.  The result looked like this...

The group's conveners then suggested how some of those topics might be grouped together for discussion, and we spent most of the next two days in small groups exploring new ways to be, and to do, Church.  It was exciting to be in a place that encouraged the free-flow of dreams and conversations.  Over the five years that UNCO's have been being held, a total of twenty new ministries have been started!

This time got me wondering about our own Presbytery.  What would it look like if we gathered for an unMeeting?  We've decided to limit our formal, stated meetings to two a year, with the hopes that other gatherings would spring up.  That hasn't happened yet, but what about doing something like this?  What would it feel like to gather together with no set docket, no motions to make and second, no business to do?  What might the Holy Spirit birth within us if we simply gathered to dream and envision, to pray with and support one another, to explore new ways in which Christ might be calling us to share the Gospel?  And if we did something like this, what would you write on the paper; what would you most like to explore with others?

Those of us who are ordained to the ministries of the Church have vowed to serve the people with "energy, intelligence, imagination, and love."  All of us have dreams about what we'd like to experience in the Church.  Would you be willing to share your dream with others and explore where God might be leading us all?  It's worth considering, don't you think?

Busy-ness and praying?

St. Paul called us to "pray always," or "pray without ceasing."  The Orthodox tradition of the Jesus Prayer as a guide for praying continually is helpful, but I don't always remember to use that.  (If you are not familiar with that particular spiritual tradition among our Orthodox brothers and sisters, and if you'd like to know more, just holler; I'd love to talk with folks about that.)  So living into an attitude of prayer is something that I continue to find myself needing more and more.  It's ironic, isn't it, to think that finding/making time for prayer is something that a "Church person" needs to do more of?  And yet I confess it freely... knowing that I am most assuredly not alone in this need.

Whether working in and for the Church, or working somewhere else, or going to school, or living into retirement, most all of us have busy lives filled with too many things, too many appointment, too many worries, too many distractions from the spiritual life.  In his wonderful and challenging book, The Contemplative Pastor, Eugene Peterson wrote these words.  Now, he was writing to pastors, but I think it applies to most all of us.

"It takes time to develop a life of prayer: set-aside, disciplined, deliberate time. It isn't accomplished on the run... I know I can't be busy and pray at the same time.  I can be active and pray; I can work and pray; but I cannot be busy and pray.  I cannot be inwardly rushed, distracted, or dispersed.  In order to pray I have to be paying more attention to God than to what people are saying to me; to God than to my clamoring ego."

I'm going to be working again to make the time to pray... even, or perhaps especially, as I work.  Work and prayer are not mutually exclusive; quite the contrary.  The key, I believe, is being consciously aware of God's presence within us, working through us, in the lives of others we meet, in the splendor of creation.  Care to join in this endeavor?