Pastoral Thought--February 24

Who do you talk to, or who do you approach, when there is a tremendous pain in your life? 

This is both a theological and sociological question to consider. Likewise, it is also a hard question to answer concisely because there is no formula that we can rely upon in those moments fully. Sometimes the person (or persons) who we trust the most are unable to be present with us in a meaningful way in our time of need. It is not that they do not love us or support us, but somehow we feel that they do not understand—or worse—that they cannot understand us. 

So we remain silent. . . distant. . . alone. . . and we suffer. . . And yet what I believe we need the most in those moments is community and not isolation.

When we consider that question, I wonder if God intended it to be this way? I wonder if when God placed humanity in the Garden of Eden that we were intended to be alone when we suffer? Of course I am being a bit sarcastic. But do we not practice this posture often? We think that "No one understands my tremendous pain.” Therefore that pain is not shared and we remain isolated. The pain has nowhere to go but deeper into our hearts and poisoning our souls all the more. We isolate. We retreat from community. And again, this is not how God created us to live and work together. 

I once read the following story that I want to share with you: 

There was once a local church where God was active and at work. The church prospered. Membership grew and the leaders felt blessed by the scope of ministry. As the cliche goes, all was well from 10,000 feet, but something was wrong in the church that no one knew. 

Each week the person responsible for counting the money at the church was skimming off the top. They pocketed $20 here and $10 there because their family was struggling financially. One of the members of the family lost their job so providing food was becoming harder and harder each month. In desperation this individual turned to the church and saw an opportunity. Who would ever notice a few dollars each week missing when there were thousands in each week’s collection plate? . . . (Now I am not condoning this behavior, stay with the story). 

The individual responsible kept a close record of their actions and planned to repay the church when they got back on their feet. One day a job would come and they could repay the money they took a little faster than when they took it. But that day did not come. . . weeks became months. . . months turned into years. The book where this person kept their records grew and grew and so did their anxiety. 

Finally in a moment of desperation they took a little more money. Crossing state lines they went to a casino. The plan was to parlay the money they took into a series of "fast win.” They could pay the money back quicker if they won thousands of dollars playing cards and the slot machines. But casinos are successful for a reason—you don’t often win large sums of money there. 

This person lost more money. . . a lot more money. 

Week after week they took more money from their church and week after week they lost all of it. Of course there were 'little wins’ here and there. But not enough to fix the problem or stem the tide. Week after week the hole became bigger. Hundred of dollars that they were skimmed became thousands. . . then it became tens of thousands. . . ultimately it turned into hundreds of thousands. This was a problem of desperation and the story does not have a happy ending.  

But let’s suspend judgment for a moment about this person. I don’t want to comment on them personally. Instead their question makes we wonder: What would have happened if this person went to their local community, to their friends, their church they day that times became too hard and they were honest? What would have happened if they just asked for help and trusted the people who they love to help them? 

I have been desperate before as I know that you have as well. We have all been there. What keeps us from turning to each other, being honest, and caring? 

Who do we turn to in our time of tremendous pain? It could be the Body of Christ. . . 

Blessings 

Rev. Derek

Pastoral Thought--February 23

Is God silent? That is a question that many have pondered. . . 

In Lent it can feel like a question whose answer is a combination of affirmation and resignation. We can hear the response to this question in this way: “Yes God is silent at times,” and those words can cause us to bow our heads in resignation. Our self-awareness as Christians provides the perspective that God is not a magical genie who comes when called every time but we wish that we could feel God with us at every moment of life. When we don’t the temptation is to wonder if we have failed as Christians. 

For when we wonder about God’s silence or stillness in our time of need, we are considering more deeply whether God values us enough to listen? We ask questions like: do we possess enough value to merit God’s movement in our lives? Are we worth God speaking to us? 

Are our issues, our struggles, our inability to pray, our inability to commune with God, our struggles to grow in our faith walk, a direct representation that God is far off from us? . . . God is not listening to us . . . Not answering us . . . Not caring for our hearts.

Now of course we do not agree with that sentiment, publicly. I am sure that as you read those words in your heart you affirmed that God hears you when you pray. You might have even remembered a passage of scripture that says that God listens to His children when we cry out. Likely you also affirmed, just as vehemently, that God loves you enough to not only send Jesus to die for your sins, but God loves you enough to hear your silent cries. God’s love abounds. . . at least in our minds.  

And yet, each of us knows a time when God appeared silent when we needed His guidance. We needed God’s hand to lead us onward; God’s finger to point us in the right path. Yet that guidance seemed far off and missing.  

If you have wondered if God is silent as we walk through Lent together, then I offer you the words of Charles Spurgeon. In his morning devotional, Morning by Morning, he wrote these words for us: 

"No promise is of private interpretation. Whatever God has said to any one saint, he has said to all. When he opens a well for one, it is that all may drink. When he openeth a granary-door to give out food, there may be some one starving man who is the occasion of its being opened, but all hungry saints may come and feed too. Whether he gave the word to Abraham or to Moses, matters not, O believer; he has given it to thee as one of the covenanted seed. There is not a high blessing too lofty for thee, nor a wide mercy too extensive for thee. Lift up now thine eyes to the north and to the south, to the east and to the west, for all this is thine. Climb to Pisgah’s top, and view the utmost limit of the divine promise, for the land is all thine own. There is not a brook of living water of which thou mayst not drink. If the land floweth with milk and honey, eat the honey and drink the milk, for both are thine."

The immenseness of God. The provision of God. The voice of God. They are active and working for you. Yes it can feel like God is silent when we need His presence the most. But when those times come, and we know that they will, can Sprugeon’s words remind us that heavenly provision is all around us? Can we remember that no matter how cold the winter gets, or how cold and dry our hearts feel, or how separate we might be from each other physically, God’s blessings are numerous and abundant?

Is God silent? I suspect that depends on your frame of reference. . .

Blessings

Rev. Derek

Pastoral Thought--February 22

As I said in worship recently, the time-length of Lent provides us an opportunity to not only reflect on our sinful choices, but we also find time in Lent to begin practicing our faith differently. 

For some that practice might include ‘giving something up for Lent.” Others will take time in this season to be mindful of their sins and resolve to live differently—as best as they can. Still other Christians that I know will just silently walk through Lent thinking about how much God loves us. They reflect on the suffering Messiah and quietly give thanks to God. All of these responses and choices are right and appropriate. 

We do not practice a faith that is “one-size” fits all. God did not create the relationship with humanity to be mirrored exactly in the in each individual. Our faith is personal. Our walk with God is as unique as it is personal and intimate. Simply because I as a pastor choose to walk through Lent in one way does not mean that you as the congregation must walk in the same way. These 40 days provide us ample time and space to practice and live our faith accordingly. 

But regardless of how you personally live in Lent, there is a beginning, there is a middle, to our faith walk. You cannot shortcut the work of growing your faith because you and God are on a well-worn path together. . .

In his book, The Road Less Travelled, psychiatrist M. Scott Peck observes: 

"There are many people I know who possess a vision of [personal] evolution yet seem to lack the will for it. They want, and believe it is possible, to skip over the discipline, to find an easy shortcut to sainthood. Often they attempt to attain it by simply imitating the superficialities of saints, retiring to the desert or taking up carpentry. Some even believe that by such imitation they have really become saints and prophets, and are unable to acknowledge that they are still children and face the painful fact that they must start at the beginning and go through the middle."

The timing of Lent provides us the opportunity to follow Peck’s words and advice. We do not have to rush through the season as we might in Advent. Instead, we can walk slower. . . more deliberately. . . with God. In this way we do not further our agenda only, but as we walk with God, we grow and we learn. 

I wonder if this week you can find some space, or locate a practice, or adopt a mindset, that you and God make uniquely yours? 

We are in a relationship that is personal, intimate, and special with God. That relationship is referenced about on the pages of the scriptures. When we take time to "be with" God in this way, we can find that we are no longer living alone in Lent, but we join together with the saints of the church to observe a holy Lent. 

Blessings

Rev. Derek

Pastoral Thought--February 18

We are exactly one day into our Lenten journey. Lent is a long season. While Advent is four glorious weeks of carols, candles, and the expectation of a the Newborn King, Lent is different. . . Lent is longer. . . It is six weeks instead of the quicker four of Advent. There are no Christmas trees or lights to brighten our hearts today. This is Lent, and Lent begins in the winter. The season will end as spring arrives. We will move from darker colder days to ones filled with more sunshine; more warm breezes that chase away the cold.  

Another difference between Lent and Advent is the spiritual practice that we are invited into during each season. 

Advent is the season of Love, Joy, Peace, and Hope. We light candles symbolic of each theme. . . But Lent is introspective. It is reflection-based. In Lent we are invited to confess our sins before God. A holy Lent involves recognizing all of our sins—the hidden and the public. We leave none of them out when we approach God during Lent. For each sin is another reason why Jesus went to the cross for us. Lent asks us to confess those sins openly to God in response. While we will receive grace in the act of confession, Lent reminds us often that “we are dust and to dust we shall return.” 

But as I think about the difference between the seasons I wonder about the difference and how we asked by God to live differently?

What do we do when the challenges of Lent strips away the joy of our faith? How do we find room in our hearts for joy and service when the overwhelming sentiment in Lent is a combination between wishing winter was over and being downcast because of our sin? How does joy spring up within our souls when our hearts feel as cold and brittle as the snow that gently falls outside of my office window this afternoon? 

The struggle is real—but so is the offer from God in response. 

Sam Storms once said, “Joy is not necessarily the absence of suffering, it is the presence of God.”  

While that is indeed a simple sentence that we can remember and consider, it is also profound. For neither Lent or Advent are more or less ‘joyful.” No, they both present us with the opportunity to gather ourselves around God and grow. As we gather around God, as we abide with Him, joy springs up from within. Our souls almost leap because we feel God with us. 

Even as we meditate upon our sins and our short-comings, we find that God is welcoming us home. God invites us to take what we think is a season of separation and joy-stripping and turn it into an opportunity grow closer to the God who will sacrifice so much for us in six short weeks. 

I don’t know specifically if you are feeling that practicing joy is becoming harder as Lent begins. But if it is, I wonder how Sam’s quote from above might help re-oreint our minds and lives? I wonder if joy is indeed a Lenten practice?

Blessings

Rev. Derek 

Pastoral Thought--February 17

Today is Ash Wednesday; the beginning of Lent. Christians from around the globe will pause in their day and they will remember their sins. For some, ashes will be administered to the forehead as a mark of our ‘baptism into death.’ Others will witness this action and it will be meaningful for them also. 

Although we are aware of how the story ends on Easter morning, tonight we are contrite, humble, and introspective. We do not rush too quickly toward the miracle of the Empty Tomb, tonight. We abide in this moment. It might feel like we are walking through a dark, thick, wilderness that has no obvious escape—but that is not true. God is with us as we begin this season. That knowledge, and that presence, changes us as we journey.

N.T. Wright in an article entitled, The Way and the Wilderness, reminds us to that part of our Christian walk occurs in the wilderness. He writes: 

"You are never far from the wilderness when you’re in the Promised Land. Just a few miles to the south, or south-east, or to the north-east across the Jordan, and you’re out in the desert. . . When you’re in Jerusalem, the wilderness is just over the next hill. . . . Christian writers of all sorts, throughout the centuries, have insisted that at some stage, perhaps at several stages, we shall be called to travel through the wilderness [with God]: 

In order to arrive at what you do not know

You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.

In order to possess what you do not possess

You must go by the way of dispossession.

In order to arrive at what you are not

You must go through the way in which you are not."

The wilderness comes in many shapes and sizes—some predictable and some personal. Some of these manifestation are easy to recognize and some are veiled from our hearts because we are not ready for them. But each step and moment in the wilderness invite us to walk with God and learn from God. In those lessons we leave aside what we value, or what we elevate, and we allow the Savior space to teach us the mysteries that we cannot understand—or mysteries that we are not yet able to understand. They can be mysteries that are too complex and yet grounded in God’s love.

All of this comes together on Ash Wednesday. 

I hope today that you will find some space to dwell closely with God and learn from God. I wonder what lessons God will teach you as you walk through the wilderness of Lent? 

Blessings

Rev. Derek

Pastoral Thought--February 16

As I was preparing the sanctuary for Ash Wednesday’s worship service, I was reminded of the words of Mary Oliver. As Lent begins tomorrow, the poet reminds us about the power of presence and the power of the moment. Her words can provide a transition point for us as our journey to Calvary begins again as the Body of Christ. . . 

In her poem entitled “The Poet Dreams of the Mountains,” she wrote: 

Sometimes I grow weary of the days, with all their fits and starts.
I want to climb some old gray mountain, slowly, taking
the rest of my lifetime to do it, resting often, sleeping
under the pines or, above them, on the unclothed rocks.
I want to see how many stars are still in the sky
that we have smothered for years now, a century at least.
I want to look back at everything, forgiving it all,
and peaceful, knowing the last thing there is to know.
All that urgency! Not what the earth is about!
How silent the trees, their poetry being of themselves only.
I want to take slow steps, and think appropriate thoughts.
In ten thousand years, maybe, a piece of the mountain will fall.

This morning it was so still in the sanctuary that it felt like a practice of ‘resting often.’ The heater purred along as I walked around the worship space carrying the paraments to the communion table and gathering the unused bulletins to recycle. Each item that I moved carried its own sound. . . candles bumping on the pulpit, the smooth slide of fabric on the communion table, the sound that a ladder makes when extended and then stood upon. Even the sound the smooth purple silk made on the large wooden cross as the drape was hung, it was moment of worship that transcended the task itself. 

It was a moment of peace.

Mary’s poem reminds me about the urgency of "the now” that we confront as the church. The frantic pace of the news, of politics and policies, spins like a tornado and that can make it hard to focus on what is foundational, what is unmovable. It can be hard to practice peace when the world from which we come is so hectic. It is hard to find a transcendent moment when tasks pile up and commitments abound. It is hard to notice the beauty of God’s creation when our eyes cannot focus on the gifts that God presents us each day. 

Up on the mountain the reality of the world is still in view for us. But on that mountain there is also the possibility that we can commune with our Creator in a personal way. Up on this mountain we and God can commune together and I can begin Lent differently. 

I wonder, what Mary Oliver’s word say to you? I wonder where are the places, or the moments, where you can find space to ‘rest often’ and be with God? 

Blessings

Rev. Derek  

Pastoral Thought--February 15

On Friday afternoon I heard a story retold to me and I wonder if you have heard it before. . . 

The story is about the golden buddha. 

In Thailand there was once a small village that was home to the golden buddha. It was a famous statue. People came from all around to marvel at it. They came to pray before it an. The local residents were proud of it and felt blessed by the visitors who came to their small village. But, as happens sometimes, invaders from another land threatened the country. They were coming. War was inevitable and the villagers were anxious. 

They were anxious because they worried that the invaders would destroy and carry off the buddha which was made of gold. The treasurer would be lost.  

So a local citizen came up with an idea: let’s hide it! They agreed to pack mud and stones on the golden buddha. They would hide it in plain sight from the invaders. The whole community gathered together and worked to pack mud and rocks onto the buddha until it looked like every other buddha in the country. Satisfied they returned to their homes to wait. . . The invasion continued. The village was overrun. 

When the army walked past the buddha they noticed it. They noticed its size and its location in the center of the town. But other than that, it was not special—in their eyes. So they left and moved on. Years past and the buddha stayed hidden safely under the mud and rocks. It stayed that way until everyone forgot that they had a golden buddha sitting before them.  .  . no one remembered that which was special. 

One day a monk sat down next to the ‘ordinary’ buddha to pray. As he stood to leave his hand slipped and chipped off some of the mud revealing the gold that was underneath! He ran around the village shouting that the buddha was made of gold. The townspeople gathered around the buddha shocked at what he was saying. When the villagers gathered around the buddha, they saw a little bit of yellowish-gold shinning and they wondered what lived beneath the veil of mud and clay? So, they got to work, scraping and cleaning the buddha until they gold was unmasked. 

What was beautiful sat right before their eyes. . . if they had the vision to see it. 

This story made me wonder about the light of Christ that shines inside of us? We know that each of us is made in the image and likeness of God, but can we see that light in each other? The more that I thought the more I wondered where are the places, or the times, that we cover the wonderful light of Jesus that lives in us with our own mud and clay? We may have hidden the light of God because it was necessary. . . We were wounded and needed time to rest. But in the act of covering the light that lives in us, did we forget how special, how beautiful, how fearfully and wonderfully we were made? 

I hope that as Lent begins again this week, you will remember the beauty of God that lives in you. It is a beauty and a light that caused Jesus to willingly suffer for you. It is a light that shines in the darkness. . . 

Blessings

Rev. Derek