Learnings - still! - from the parable of the Prodigal Son

It doesn't appear in the Sunday lectionary readings but once every three years:  4th Sunday in Lent, Year C.  However, the parable of the Lost or Prodigal Son in Luke 15 always has been powerful for me.

Years ago, when I was serving a church in northern Illinois, the church treasurer – a 4^th generation member – stole a little over $120,000 from the church.  (Reading the situation last fall at the United Methodist Church in Marcellus brought back lots of memories for me!)  In the process of working through all of the implications of what happened, one of our church's Mariners groups asked my wife, Caroline, and me to come and talk with them.  They all were of the same generation as the Treasurer. They all had stood up in each others' weddings.  And they were in deep pain.  We talked with them about this parable in Luke 15.  I reminded them that if the Treasurer, like the Prodigal Son, came back to us in repentance, we had to receive him with open arms of welcome and forgiveness.  However, I also talked with them about the fact that we, while not like the Prodigal Son in the parable, were like the elder brother.  Would we be resentful if the "prodigal" returned home, or would we be able to share the joy of God that he had "come to himself" and returned?  It was a tough time for that congregation.

This parable has a depth to it that is profound.  I was reminded of that again this afternoon as I was reading a quote from Henri Nouwen's book, The Return of the Prodigal Son.  Here is what Fr. Nouwen wrote:

"For most of my life, I have struggled to find God, to know God, to love God.  I have tried hard to follow the guidelines of the spiritual life - pray always, work for others, read the Scriptures - and to avoid the many temptations to dissipate myself.  I have failed many times but always have tried again, even when I was close to despair.... It might sound strange, but God wants to find me as much as, if not more than, I want to find God."

I don't know about you, but it always surprises me to think that God longs for me, seeks me out, waits for me to return when I have wandered, and runs to welcome me home, throwing a lavish party that I neither need nor deserve.  I constantly strive to remember that.  This parable helps.

I guess that's why this thing is called "grace."

Fire Stations and Churches

You perhaps read the tragic article last week about the man who died 15 minutes after firefighters in a D.C. station refused to cross the street to help him after they were summoned by his daughter and passersby.  (The CNN article is here).  For five years I was the lead chaplain of a fire department, and this news report both saddened and infuriated me.  I'm sure it's possible that there are firefighters out there who simply are too tired, too jaded, too burned out, or too lazy that would have allowed this to happen... but that would surprise me.  Firefighters by and large are incredibly compassionate, competent, dedicated servants of the community.  I only can imagine that there was some sort of tragic miscommunication or absurd misunderstanding of rules and regulations that led to this incident happening.  My prayers are with the family and friends of the man who died, and also with the fire department there that will have to live with what happened.

The story did make me think, however.  What would have been the scenario if the building had been a church instead of a fire station?  Do people view the church as somewhere they can run to when they or a loved one are in trouble?  Oh, to be sure, they come to us for funerals and for weddings at times.  But what about other times of crisis... or transition... or doubt... or pain... or danger?  Do people see us as a place of help, or refuge, or, as our worship spaces declare, "sanctuary?"  Do people see us Christians as people who are safe enough, or who care enough, or who are responsive enough that they would think to come to us in times of need?  If so, how would we respond?  If not, then how can we continue to carry the name of Christ in our identity as communities and individuals?

And, to take this one step further, is our Presbytery a place where teaching and ruling elders, and church members, feel that they can come?  If so, then thanks be to God!  If not, then what needs to change in our system... and what needs to change in each one of us?

As you can tell, this made me think.  What do you think?

Prayer as a way of life?

Years ago I saw a cartoon... one of those "church chuckles" things.  It showed a pastor in his study at church, kneeling by a sofa, obviously in prayer.  The church secretary walks in, sees the pastor, and says, "Oh, good.  You're not busy."

There are times for me that praying comes as naturally as my breathing... and that's my goal.  There are other times - okay, that's most of the time! - when prayer is not the first, natural, automatic, primary, consistent part of how I spend my day.  St. Paul tells us to "pray always."  I'm sure he doesn't mean that we spend every moment with our eyes closed, head bowed, and hands clasped.  After all, that's sure not how HE spent his days!  What I believe he meant is that we live every moment in communion with God... in contact... in relationship... conscious of the Lord's presence within us, around us, and within others.  And that, after all, is the essence of what prayer is and does, don't you think?

During Lent one year in the last congregation I served as pastor, we decided to offer a service of Morning Prayer every day at 9:00 a.m. in the Chapel at the church.  A handful of people came most days during Lent.  When Lent was over, they asked, "Do we have to stop now?"  I was stunned... ecstatically so!  I don't think I ever had someone come up to me and ask to keep praying together!  So, we decided to keep it going.  Now, after a few months, it generally was only one ruling elder who would meet me in the Chapel at 9:00 a.m. for Morning Prayer, but we did that for several years.  I miss that time.  I miss having someone to pray with.  More than that, though, I miss the spiritual discipline of being accountable to someone else for at least one time each day when I spend moments in prayer, silence, and Scripture reading.  I want to find that structure again.

How about you?  How is prayer for you?  Do you have someone with whom you pray?  Do you have a set time or structure or format for prayer, for silence, for meditation, for devotional reading?

I think we all want to feel centered in our lives:  anchored, solid, focused, balanced, at peace.  I believe we all want to live into that reality about which St. Paul wrote:

"Don't be anxious about anything; rather bring up all of your requests to God in your prayers and petitions, along with giving thanks.  Then the peace of God that exceeds all understanding will keep your hearts and minds safe in Christ Jesus."  (Philippians 4:6-7, Common English Bible)

Maybe a group of folks in our Presbytery would like to begin meeting regularly to pray together.  Maybe such a group or groups already does that!  I trust you'll join me in wanting to find some folks with whom to engage in the practices of the spiritual life.  And in the meantime, keep praying; you, me, our churches, our communities, our world all need it!

Blessings and peace,

Steve

Ordinary Time

I have a deep and abiding appreciation for the liturgical calendar of the Church.  It provides a framework and rhythm for remembering... for remembering God's redeeming and intervening work in human lives and history, for remembering the power and wonder of the Holy Spirit, for remembering to pause and reflect and confess.  And so Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, the Baptism of the Lord, Lent, Holy Week, Easter, and Pentecost provide that ongoing rhythm of faith and life, of worship and prayer within the community of the Church.

But here we are today.  It's just after the first of the Sundays in "Ordinary Time."  For those of you not as familiar with the liturgical year, there are two Ordinary Times during the year:  between the Baptism of the Lord and Ash Wednesday, and between Pentecost and Advent.  Just as our Book of Confessions has the Shorter Catechism and the Larger Catechism, ... (and can anyone tell me why it's "shorter" and "larger," and not "shorter" and "longer," or "smaller" and "larger"?  Inquiring minds want to know!) ... so there is a shorter and longer duration of Ordinary Time every year.  The challenge, at least for me, is that these weeks are so, well, "ordinary."  There's not the anticipation of Advent, the wonder of Christmas, the solemnity of Lent, the joy of Easter, or the celebration of Pentecost.  It's all just "ordinary."

Yet isn't this, too, part of the beauty and wisdom of the liturgical calendar?  These two seasons of the year remind us that God comes to us where we live most all the time - in the routines of life that is ordinary.  To be sure, there are times of joy and celebration and wonder in our lives, just as there are times of pain and grief and even despair.  But most of life for us is lived neither in the heights nor in the depths.  Rather, most of life is, yes, ordinary.

God is with us in the "ordinariness" of life, too.  God is with us when things just go on and on each day.  God is with us when life feels boring.  God is with us in the mundane routines of our lives.  God is still Immanuel.  Christ still suffered with us and for us, and then rose in power for us.  The Spirit still fills us with power and gifts for ministry and witness.

All in the "ordinary" times of our lives.

Blessings and peace,

Steve

Martin Luther King, Jr.

I have two older sisters... like 10 and 13 years older. Although we come from the same birth family, our formative years were spent in societies in the U.S. that were very different.  My sisters were growing up primarily in the 50's; I was growing up primarily in the 60's.  Those were VERY different years in our nation!  It probably should be no surprise, therefore, to hear that my sisters and I have very different political views.  Every now and then, one of them will ask me, "How is it that you turned out so different from us?"  I just smile and say, "The 60's.  Remember?"  Whereas their formative years were shaped by U.S. strength and prosperity in the world, mine were shaped by assassinations, race riots, and Vietnam.

The writings, speeches, and sermons of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. long have had profound impact on my life and my worldview.  The ties that I feel to him probably were made stronger by the fact that he was assassinated on my 17^th birthday:  April 4, 1968.

I remember reading his August 1963 Letter from Birmingham Jail to the pastoral leaders in that community.  It persuasively - at least to me! - laid out his defense for coming to Birmingham to participate in the demonstrations that were taking place.  More than that, though, Dr. King laid out his eloquently and passionately worded belief that "Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere."  He accurately pointed out to his ministerial brothers (they were all men at that time, of course), that "History is the long and tragic story of the fact that privileged groups seldom give up their privileges voluntarily."

How do we honor such a profound legacy as the one Dr. King left to us?  Surely setting aside one day is something, albeit minimal.  And the inspired idea of making King's birthday holiday into a National Day of Service is a huge step in the right direction.  Ultimately, of course, it comes down to each of us... as well as to all of us.  What kinds of things are we willing to do to stand for peace and justice?  How will others know of our strong Reformed heritage of working for societal good and for the welfare of those most helpless and in need?  How do we demonstrate our embrace of all people as children of God, those for whom Christ lived and died?

Profound questions, yes?  And profound questions always call for definitive, intentional, demonstrative, and profound answers.

Blessings and peace,

Steve

Epiphany

Today, January 6, is Epiphany.  In Church tradition, this is the day in which we remember the visit of the Magi to the Christ Child.  It is the day we remember that a light in the sky led them to the Light of the World.  Coming from a non-Jewish tradition, they recognized the Messiah - the Chosen One - who had come into the world.

To be honest, Epiphany wasn't on my radar as I was growing up.  I might have heard the word before I got to seminary, but I can't swear to that.  Over the years, however, this holiday has become increasingly significant for me and for my family.  First, this is the day we traditionally take down our Christmas tree.  Oh, I know that's counter-cultural to leave it up this long, but we always have tried to observe and honor the fact that Christmas for the Church really is a 12-day celebration.  So, now that Christmas is officially over, our tree comes down.  (In fact, my wife,

Caroline, is packing up the ornaments as I finish writing this!  Thankfully, she really does love doing that.  God bless her; I love that woman!)  Second, we closed the Christmas holiday season with a Twelfth Night Party at our home last night.  Family, friends, and neighbors graciously responded to the invitation to spend part of an evening together, sharing good food and even better company with each other.  Epiphany is the marker for the 12th night, or Epiphany Eve if you will.

Epiphany often gets me thinking about what gifts I bring to Christ... where and how I recognize his presence in the world and in my life... or where and how I miss seeing the light that he brings to me and to others.

Long ago I bookmarked a webpage that offers a daily devotional from the Christian community in Iona, off the coast of Scotland.  Recently, this was in the day's offering for reflection and prayer:

"Lord of the excluded, open my ears to those I would prefer not to hear;

open my life to those I would prefer not to know;

open my heart to those I would prefer not to love;

and so open my eyes to see where I exclude you."

As I begin this new year, my prayer is that I may be ever more attentive to the presence of Jesus... lest I somehow exclude him.

Blessings and peace,

Steve

In the flesh

Two years ago I missed Advent completely.  I had serious complications following a surgical procedure early that November, and I was out of commission for two months. There is so much I learned during that time - about grace, about receiving pastoral care from the congregation I served as pastor, about humility, about human frailty, about vulnerability, and so much more!

During my recuperation during those weeks, several passages of Scripture became important to me... along with many prayers that came from a number of different sources.  One verse, however, struck me in a more profound way than it ever had before.  It was a verse that I had read countless times before.  It was a verse that I had read in Christmas Eve worship services for years and years.  It's not that it wasn't meaningful before this time, but it struck a chord deeper within me than ever before.

The verse reminded me to what extreme God was willing to go to love me.  The verse reminded me that God in Christ - Immanuel - truly was, as the earliest Church Councils affirmed, not only fully divine, but also fully human.  Perhaps I simply had taken Jesus' humanity for granted.  But during those weeks, as I prayed and meditated during my physical rehab and exercises, the fact that Jesus was human - had a body just like mine, experienced joy and sorrow just like me, felt elation and pain just like me - touched my soul and gave me hope.

The verse?  It's the one we know by heart... which you'll hear or read or (I hope) think about tomorrow sometime:  "And the Word became flesh, and dwelt among us."  May Jesus, born of Mary, fill your heart, your mind, and your body this day... all days.

Blessings and peace,

Steve