Written by Gradye Parsons
Each month the Stated Clerk of the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) and the Moderator or Vice Moderator of the 220th General Assembly write a column of general interest for the church-at-large.
We need to start planning now. We have only 10 years till it is the 800th anniversary of the Nativity Scene. Tradition has it that Saint Francis started the custom upon returning from Bethlehem in 1223. He staged a Nativity Scene in a cave with live animals and people. It went viral and became the thing to do at your cathedral, chapel or palace. At some point statues were substituted for the characters. Then people made smaller versions and the crèche industry was born.
It was initially a desperate idea. How could we engage our middle school youth in good “ole” VBS? We realized that all of these youth were participants in the school band program. So our wild idea was to have them form a band led by our choir director.
The first Sunday they accompanied a hymn was, well, painful. The hymn took twice as long to sing and it was hard to determine if they were all playing the same one. But they were determined to get better. The youth recruited friends to fill out the band. They practiced more. The congregation never murmured a word.
Thomas Edison said “The body is a community made up of its innumerable cells or inhabitants.”
This sure sounds like Paul to the Corinthians. It is interesting to think of the body as a community instead of a mass of cells and organs. A revisit to Paul’s image of the body in 1 Corinthians 12 can lead us into an understanding of community. The body parts in Paul’s metaphor—feet, hands, ears, and eyes—are talking. It is not nice talk but it is conversation.
August 28 marks the 50th Anniversary of the March on Washington. A young, 34-year-old Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. set aside his prepared notes to declare “I have a dream.” That dream seems to have been realized in part—but not anywhere near the whole—as events this summer have shown us.
Memories of other long-ago summers bring to mind my son and his best friend in high school, who played in the band and did many teenage things together. Even before cell phones were prevalent, they could always easily both be found either in our house or his. I never really thought about his life as an African American being any different than my son’s.
Cindy Bolbach accomplished many things in her life. Not only was she an accomplished attorney and business executive, let’s not forget that she was also elected Moderator of the 219th General Assembly (2010) in Minneapolis. The appointment of a woman—raised a Lutheran in the land of Lutherans—to the highest elected position in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) is no doubt one of God’s little jests. Yet among all of Cindy’s many achievements and accolades, what she was most fiercely proud of was her role as a ruling elder.
Miss Arnold, Mrs. Estes, and Mrs. McKinney were my first-, second-, and third-grade teachers. They brought me all the way from a basic understanding of words—courtesy of Dick and Jane—to a command of long division. That is quite a journey. They were responsible for us from the minute we set foot on the school grounds until the minute we ran out of the building at 3:00 p.m. at the sound of the bell. They knew Mr. Ingram, the principal, had their back when it came to discipline. They supervised our play time, our lunchtime, and every minute of the school day. Their only break was when Miss Red took us off for music and quickly brought us back.
It was a generational moment. I had just baptized my grandson and was now presiding at table with my newly ordained daughter. Three generations intersecting in the historic Sacraments of the church. On the table was the freshly baked loaf of bread and the cup full of wine.
If you date a generation by roughly twenty years, sometime in this century we will approach the 100th generation to tear the bread and drink the cup. We should probably pull a committee together to work on that anniversary, because—for me—it marks one of those rare occasions that call us to pause and take stock of the life of the church. It has been a long journey since the first Christians met in small house gatherings throughout the Mediterranean to the multi-continental collection of the people of faith we are today.
One sure sign of spring in my hometown was the return of the old men to the benches outside the courthouse. I was never certain where they went in the winter. It was not entirely clear what they did for a living. But they would appear yearly some time after the arrival of the robins and before the trees leafed out.
Upon seeing a Facebook photo of me holding my newborn grandson, one of my friends wrote that I looked “smitten.” To which I replied, “I am.”
Smitten is a word you do not hear used much anymore. The fact that its root is the verb “smite” makes it all the more interesting.
Ashes are the remains of a fire. Any fire. Whether a warming fire from logs burning on a cold day or a raging fire that results in the destructive loss of a home. The ashes before us this month originate in the fires that consumed the palm leaves from last year’s celebration of Palm Sunday.
No matter the fire, the results are the same. Ashes. The palm ashes are the remains of a fire. It is a long time from Easter’s celebration to the cold, winter day when we step forward to have our foreheads smudged on Ash Wednesday. The fire of Holy Week has dimmed. Many of the extra Easter faces have retreated. Sanctuaries are cold, the pews never quite warmed up by the furnace.
October 15, 2012, marked the 60th anniversary of Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White, one of the classics of children’s literature. National Public Radio reported on the struggle E. B. White had recording the audio version of the book. When it came to describing Charlotte’s death, it took the author seventeen takes before he could get through it without showing emotion in his voice.
My neighborhood is a great place to be these days. We are reaping the benefits of dedicated home gardeners in our midst. The bounty of produce is amazing. But what amazes me even more is the level of trust that is displayed.
The gardeners put their crops of tomatoes on untended stands in front of their homes. You pick your tomatoes, weigh them on a nearby scale, and put your money in a metal box. I have never heard of anyone stealing either tomatoes or money. It is really kind of remarkable in our gated, alarmed, and locked-down world.
It is said that our sense of smell is linked to some of our strongest memories.
One of those August memories for me is the scent of stacks of blue jeans in McKee’s Store. You might say that those jeans smelled of transition, as if they knew they were waiting for patient-thin mothers to purchase them for ungrateful boys for a new school year. They were very stiff jeans, as though their purpose was to rein in the freedom of summer. They were jeans meant for the combat of school playgrounds – jeans that would survive the school year through no effort of the one wearing them.
I will observe the 33rd anniversary of my ordination this summer. It seems a long time ago when I answered ordination questions for the first time.
I have had different calls to ministry over the years, with different questions to answer at each installation. Those questions have never lost their significance. The “do you” and “will you” still evoke a commitment to a life rich with meaning.
The following is an account popular in the storytelling world and passed along in William White’s Stories for the Journey (Augsburg Press, 1988).
People in a remote village purchased a television set. For weeks, all of the children and all of the adults gathered around the set morning, afternoon, and night watching the programs. After a couple of months, the set was turned off and never used again.
Zippy was a thoroughbred horse that competed in ninety-nine races and never won. Ever. He was finally banned from rack tracks “for the protection of the betting public.”
I want to salute those silent and often unseen sisters and brothers who have the call of being a church janitor. The position may have a different name where you are, but the functions are the same.
It does not matter whether your congregation’s calendar is filled with daily programs and activities in your building or the space is used just a few times during the week. Someone, paid or volunteers, keeps it clean.
Who taught you in Sunday school? I can remember most of my teachers, which included my parents. My father taught the rowdy third-grade boys and my mother, the more mature sixth graders.
Mrs. Arnold corralled the kindergarteners on Sunday after teaching first grade in public schools during the week. She was infinitely kind and had x-ray vision for any good impulse. She was intolerant of meanness. She was an advocate for play and joy. She relayed Bible stories as if she was actually there – and, well, she did seem old.
The Mayan calendar indicates that the world will end in 2012, which is a claim that several archeologists dispute. Either way, the business of making predictions generates a lot of energy – and money. People are paid to predict everything from the weather to the next president.
The liturgical year, however, is more than a prediction. From Advent to Christmas to Epiphany to Lent to Easter to Pentecost to Ordinary Time and more, the liturgical year is a steady progression – a cycle that tells us over and over again the story of God who comes to us in Jesus Christ.
Advent is here – the days of preparation for the birth of the Christ child. The root word in Latin for Advent is advenire, which means to arrive. Interestingly, it is the same root word for adventure – to venture.
Where is the sense of adventure in this liturgical season?
In the Lord I'll be ever thankful,
In the Lord I will rejoice!
Look to God, do not be afraid;
Lift up your voices: the Lord is near,
Lift up your voices: the Lord is near.
This song by Jacques Berthier (Sing the Faith #2195) is one of my favorites of all the Taizé music. It combines the ingredients of gratitude, joy, fear, and the desire for the Lord to be near.
September 25, 2011, found me worshipping with the spirited folks of the First Dominican Evangelical Church of San Pedro, Dominican Republic. It was a lively service with lots of music, many children, a fine sermon, and a moving celebration of the Lord’s Supper.
Joining me in worship were five people from denominations across the Caribbean. We were one of several small groups that had spread across the region that Sunday morning as part of our meeting of the Caribbean and North American Area Council, a regional part of the World Communion of Reformed Churches.
The Blessedness of Unity
1 How very good and pleasant it is when kindred live together in unity!
2 It is like the precious oil on the head, running down upon the beard, on the beard of Aaron, running down over the collar of his robes.
3 It is like the dew of Hermon, which falls on the mountains of Zion. For there the LORD ordained his blessing, life for evermore. (Psalm 133)
Life after disasters is full of stories of tragedy and miraculous survival.
Recently, I visited Joplin, Missouri, which was devastated by a class E-5 tornado in May. It was the deadliest tornado since 1950, killing over 155 people and destroying around 7,000 homes. The tornado tore a path three-fourths of a mile wide and ten miles long through town.
It is difficult to see what force the church has against the magnitude of such destruction. Yet, what impressed me in Joplin is the extraordinary power of the ordinary life of the church.