“Errar es nuestro regalo mas divino”

I still remember the time my grandfather had wanted me to learn how to change the oil in the family car (one of his values was learning to do-it-yourself and save a few bucks).  He’d put the first of his three vehicles in the garage, had out all the tools, and said I should start by taking out the bolt on the bottom of the oil pan. 

And let’s be clear, I HAD NOT been the one who thought this whole “learning to change the oil thing” was a good idea.  Working with tools and cars—or both—was never my idea of a good time; nor did I ever think it was one of my gifts.  No matter, as this was one of those things “I should learn” and then if I wanted, I could do it myself, right? 

Can you tell I would have much rather been fishing? 

Oh, I got the bolt out of the oil pan, just at the moment my grandfather realized he’d forgotten the container to catch the used oil! 

So not 10 minutes into this helpful life-lesson it wasn’t going well!  And now, Grandpa was asking me—the novice—how we might clean up the oil soaking into the floor of his garage!  What I wanted to say was, “I told you this wasn’t the best of ideas.” 

To his credit, Grandpa liked solving problems; so, for the rest of the day WE “puzzled” over the possible solutions to the problem my grandfather’s lesson had created.  To my detriment, I thought I had better things to do with my summer vacation. 

But what I remember from that two weeks of summer vacation at my grandparents’ house was my grandfather’s sage advice: “If you don’t make mistakes, you can’t learn anything!” 

Not long ago, this picture and subtitle hit my Facebook feed: 

Errar es nuestro regalo mas divino."--"To make mistakes is our most divine gift."

A dog, making a leap, but appearing not quite on target—and we are so certain, aren’t we, that the tire must be the correct, most efficacious, clearly successful path? 

Even as we cannot see what is just outside the frame—another tire, another target, another instruction?  How do we know this is, in fact, a mistake—an error?  Or maybe these are the questions to ask as if to make it seem this is not a mistake—because we’re fearful that mistakes are bad! 

We are fearful that mistakes are bad.  We trust the old Biblical proverb that appears in various forms, paraphrased as—“do good and you shall live, do badly and you shall perish.” 

Walter Brueggemann, identifies this as our propensity to trust a “deeds-consequences” construct that [ultimately] produces a graceless world[i].  He argues that “You reap what you sow” is the construct that frightens people into a “moral life” where wrong living evokes long-term punishment that is inescapable.  So we trust that we get what we deserve, or that people should receive what we deem they deserve for their actions—ignoring the story of faith where God promises none of us are treated as we deserve! 

While we believe God pardons, forgives, and redeems, still—we are stingy about our willingness to allow God to help us! 

Christian faithfulness must trust somewhere along the way that it isn’t just about maintaining perfection according to the Law, doesn’t it?  Christian faithfulness also means entrusting God—who loves, pardons, forgives, and redeems us—and our mistakes, too—doesn’t it? 

So my grandfather’s lesson keeps coming back to me, over and over.  I’m being encouraged (more and more frequently) to “experiment” as a part of my role as teaching elder/pastor.  Experimentation is a hard task-mistress for us Presbyterians; our particular form of government was created with checks and balances and carefully prescribed structures meant to commend each little jot and tittle of church life.  Presbyterians, who prefer “decently and in order,” have too often created a barren wasteland for experimentation.  We believe we’ve not only done it before, but we’ve done it well—with great success, even!  No need to try it another way—to trust God to redeem, reclaim, recreate, with us. 

Yet not long ago, I wrote down for the second or third time as a participant in a presentation about leading “change” in the life of the Church—“It’s like seeking answers to the questions you don’t even know how to ask yet.”  And I was mesmerized once more by the promise of trying and failing well—by learning.  More and more, colleagues and congregations are sharing news of a new motto in their practices as leaders and congregations: “fail miserably—and learn from it!”  Perhaps it’s a lot like “sin boldly” was for Martin Luther. 

Perhaps this should be more familiar to us than we think, since we espouse to be a church called to be “reformed and always reforming.”  How can we demonstrate our trust in God’s willingness to write our story inclusive of mistakes?  How can we accept failure and mistakes as a verdant way forward?  A sustaining gift of God who walks with us, helping us always to find our true home. 

When was your last big failure?  --err, when was the last time you had a chance to learn something helpful, to learn something fruitful for God’s kingdom? 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch, Havertown, Pennsylvania

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[i] Walter Brueggemann, “The Impossible Possibility of Forgivenss”  Journal for Preachers Volume XXXVIII, Number 4, Pentecost 2015

And then *THIS* Happened

Yesterday began with me having to explain how it works for me to feel “unencumbered” with my job/role as pastor, because you can’t count on the predictability of a 9-5 workday and usual/ordinary tasks.  You just can’t account for what’s bound to come up except that something always does. 

Then there was the knock on the door to share the glad news that the heavy rain overnight had resulted in large amounts of water seeping into our church’s social hall.  Our Property Team chairperson, whom I may have been able to call to pawn off the task of cleaning up, was out of town.  In case you wondering, there wasn't a class in seminary that dealt with any of the maintenance issues or problems most likely to be encountered in congregational leadership.  I left seminary all certified for pastoral ministry; there was no story entitled, “the miracle of shop-vac,” or “boiler-ology” to fall back on.   

So after taking a complaint from a staff-person about wires sticking out of the wall in one of our closets, I spent a couple of hours sucking up water with the shop-vac (yet unaware that the filter was to be used in “dry-vac” operations and only impeded wet-vac success).  Then, I read a Facebook post from a colleague who spent his morning replacing lighting fixtures in the secretary’s office (better him than me since I know nothing about electricity and felt no harm standing in a puddle of water with an electric vacuum sucking water)!  (Note to Session:  Don’t ever leave me alone with power tools!)  You just can’t account for what’s bound to come up except that something always does! 

While it’s true that being a pastor is seldom boring, somehow I think it would have been helpful if someone had shared along the way that I might one day discover that one of the supposedly helpful steps in correctly exegeting the Pauline epistles was in fact going to be the step that included the actual plumbing and plunging of toilets!  Or, how to operate a shop-vac when your building floods.  I understand these things are second nature to some people; but it’s the same people who like to Monday Morning Quarterback the decisions that got made when they were mysteriously not around!  You just can’t account for what’s bound to come up except that something always does! 

I’m always glad to help.  But when certain things happen I definitely feel like I’m not the best-trained person for the job!  Sometimes though, you've just got to own the reality that in any given moment, you may in fact be the PERFECT person for the job! 

I've been lamenting lately that some of the people helping to lead my denomination aren't the best-trained persons for the job, either.  I've voiced my opinion both publicly and privately that recent decisions have been bungled, that the “optics” haven’t been good, and that I’m disappointed and brokenhearted that responses to questions and concerns haven’t been straight-forward and transparent.  Despite knowing well that we just can’t account for what’s bound to come up, except that something always does; I've become that loud-mouthed critic who wasn't in the room when needed action had to be taken.  I've become the proverbial congregant perpetually unhappy about the new worship order, and found myself wondering and wondering out loud that a change in personnel at the top would yield a more fruitful season. 

I do trust—that my colleagues in ministry serving in and with our denominational structure believe our ministry as Presbyterians is relevant, important, and work hard to make it effective; I do know—they are facing challenges, concerns, and “clean-up” that no one anticipated.  Like me, they no doubt feel it’s been “left to them,” while others who caused the concerns, anxieties, and problems have either moved on or been moved on.  You just can’t account for what’s bound to come up except that something always does! 

We’re still saying it, though—that the old days of denominational structures being at the center of church identity are clearly over.  Our congregation participated in a neighborhood home tour this past Sunday where we received visitors and guests and got to show off parts of our building.  “Presbyterian” is in our name that was printed in the home-tour guides—but lots of people still had to ask, “What kind of church is this?”  And while we think it “goes without saying” that everyone is welcome in our building, more than one person noted how they finally had a chance to get a look inside our building, suggesting that they DIDN'T feel welcome on other occasions. 

Just when did *THAT* happen? 

You just can’t account for what’s bound to come up except that something always does! 

I feel this way because I’m a congregational leader on the front lines where substantial change—not in our favor—has already happened.  I feel this way because I’m certain that we can do better.  I feel that way because sometimes, just like the social hall being baptized after a heavy rain, I’m the one stuck with the consequences just when I believe there are more important and pressing matters to be accomplished! 

And then I remember.  Our true task isn't always what it seems it should be.  We’re called to be witnesses to the love and justice of Jesus Christ.  To find and identify, to be and become, to point to and yet be a part of God’s love, reaching into the world in Jesus Christ. 

Some days we just have to own that, to own the tasks that have been given to us, to do our best, and let the chips fall where they may.  You just can’t account for what’s bound to come up except that something always does! 

What we count on—is the resurrected Christ; who grants not just new life when we die, but who gives us so many opportunities in which to serve, serve others, and witness to his love.  You just can’t account for what’s bound to come up except that *THIS* always does! 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch, Havertown, Pennsylvania

The Problem of Easter Sunday Attendance Records

[WARNING:  Satire alert!] 

Lots of church insiders speculate beforehand and brag afterwards about the Easter worship attendance.  But in my almost 20 years of ordained ministry in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) I’ve simply never known for Easter attendance to be all that great. 

Oh sure!  There’s the odd visitor or two.  But I can’t say that I’ve ever heard of a congregation that gets consistent growth in worship attendance for Easter! 

I’ve wondered for years why this is, because everyone seems to talk about it.  Really?  There are more people in worship for Easter?  I mean sure, CLERGY talk about it.  But they seem to bemoan the people who attend as if it’s obligatory to “see and be seen” in worship.  We even have “name-brands” for these people, like C & E’s or “Chri-Easters.”  But the truth is, worship numbers during Easter are abysmal.  They don’t go up; they plummet! 

It turns out, to the dismay of regular church-goers, Easter is not just a Sunday.  Easter is a season.  So, by the end of the season, the “losses” begin to add up (just like they do for the Phillies).  In the same way, most congregations immediately begin charting a DECLINING worship attendance on Easter Sunday—like buying a new car that depreciates as you drive it off the lot (or the Phillies on opening day in the 7^th inning).  The downward slide is completely inevitable.  I mean we chose to locate Easter during Spring and they don’t call it “Spring Fever” for nothing!  Most churches suffer a catastrophic bout of Spring Fever every year—just look at the worship attendance numbers! 

But this may be because Easter attendance always begins with a bang and stratospheric attendance for opening SUNDAY that begins declining as soon as the liturgy reaches the benediction.  And with Spring Fever and “carburetor Sunday (when everyone tunes up their lawnmowers), the numbers totally fall off. 

Look.  Believe me.  I know that if more people understood that EASTER was really a commitment of 7 weeks, they wouldn’t get our hopes up by showing up on Easter SUNDAY.  And then this whole matter of charting an attendance decline could easily be turned around.  At least, we’d have a fighting chance! 

Sure, I know.  It’s a big expectation for regular church goers—who attend almost every week of the year—to put on a full-court press of church attendance for Easter.  I mean, Easter is the LONGEST liturgical season, outpacing the 6 weeks plus of Lent and nearly doubling up the weeks of Advent.  And surely, we can’t expect our Easter activities to compete well with the NCAA’s “March Madness,” the opening of Baseball season, the impending NHL and NBA playoffs, and for the love of discipleship—NASCAR and spring football! 

Still, we might have a fighting chance if we risk giving up Easter SUNDAY.  Consider, the Easter SEASON almost always brings with it Mother’s Day, Graduation Sundays, and sometimes, even Memorial Day weekend—all times when just as many people may want to be seen in church!  And, if we got people off the Easter SUNDAY habit, and on to an Easter SEASONAL habit, we COULD make this worship attendance thing go in the right direction! 

So, Brothers and Sisters, Friends, I’m PLEADING here.  We need help.  We’ve got to stop bringing people to Church on Easter Sunday and start forcing (err… I mean) “INVITING” PEOPLE to join us for worship THROUGHOUT THE EASTER SEASON! 

We need non-weekly worshipers to step up their game and help us, too!  We need people skeptical of regular church attendance to come in and make a difference if only for these 6 or 7 weeks!  We need weekend warriors to give up the early-season lawn mowing and trade sleeping in on Sunday mornings for naps during NASCAR racing during Sunday afternoons!  We’ve got to STOP the Hallelujah Chorus, and START Hallelujah Chorusii (that is, many choruses)! 

Now, I know already that this approach promises to be radical and completely counter-cultural and in some circles even a bit heretical.  But I’ve been challenged recently to start trying new things and doing the unexpected.  This sounds out of the park, but I assure you it’s totally Biblical.  There’s really no reason to be in Church on Easter SUNDAY.  Mark 16:6 says it plainly—even Jesus isn’t in Church on Easter SUNDAY: 

“Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here.

[Because if you’re reading that line in church, several times, trying to make your Easter-y point, you keep saying to your people, “you’re looking for Jesus of Nazareth …he is not here (the plain reading of which must mean, he is not in church)!”] 

So I say, if it’s good enough for Jesus, “why not?”  Why not take Easter Sunday off, and improve those attendance numbers.  Plan to turn the trend around, by making Easter SUNDAY the “low Sunday” in worship attendance.  Have contests and prize-giveaways for people who DON’T come to Church on Easter Sunday.  Take up the conversation with your church officers, let it become like the State of the Union where some of the cabinet is present, but not all of them—draw straws and cast lots for the Session members who have to attending the obligatory Easter Sunday service and make sure everyone, Everyone, EVERYONE else shows up for the remaining six Sundays of Easter! 

As one of my favorite Canadian comedians is always saying, “Remember, I’m pulling for you—we’re all in this together!” 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch, Havertown, Pennsylvania

brb --Jesus

So, when we were last in worship (if you attended a Good Friday service) we were reminded that Jesus was crucified, died, and was buried. 

More than likely, when we are in worship again—either for an Easter Vigil service (tonight) or an Easter Sunday service (tomorrow), we will celebrate Jesus’ resurrection. 

So, sometime—between Friday at say, three o’clock and Saturday evening (when vigil services begin), it happens. 

The resurrection. 

Odd, isn't it.  Because it’s most likely without fanfare, no trumpet blasts, no alleluias.  Holy Saturday passes in our house full of special events and activities.  We have a special breakfast, we dye the Easter eggs, we prepare the food that will be our Easter feast, I clean and polish my church-wear, put the touches on the Easter worship service, and get ready to celebrate Easter.  In some ways, it’s like every “normal” Saturday with chores and activities and time to be monitored and carefully parceled out to various things that need attention. 

But today is really the day—isn't it?  The day of the Church’s greatest celebration—Christ being raised—yet, the celebration that WAITS until tomorrow!  (And you though Christmas Eve was hard-waiting!) 

I was reminded again this morning that tradition tells us that Jesus spent the hours between the crucifixion and the resurrection harrowing the halls of Hell.  In these hours full of activity in our house, so is Jesus busy in his—or at least the entirety of places Christ’s kingdom reaches and touches.  Not dead, after all.  Busy.  Oh, he die; yes.  And just as surely, was raised.  But there is for a resurrected Jesus to begin setting right between Friday and our discovery that Jesus was—or IS—alive! 

I know.  You and I are dying to ask, “How long was he dead,” or was it simply one of those near-death experiences” we read and hear about.  We have a thousand other questions, too! 

Isn't it enough to say simply that God raised Jesus?  That the road to resurrection goes through death.  But that the resurrection, well, maybe it doesn't just WAIT until Sunday morning—like we think it should to match up with all of the Easter sunrise services. 

This weekend, some friends in Boise, ID at Southminster Presbyterian are sharing this Easter-y message—“BRB, Jesus”—which I take to mean, “be right back,” –Jesus. 

And, by golly, I believe that’s the incredible, amazing, and almost unbelievable word of hope.  Life is going on.  Jesus dies.  But Jesus is raised, and is at work putting the world right—almost, right under our noses.  It doesn't wait, as in a heavenly boarding lounge where the flight is delayed for 3 days!  Christians have never celebrated that way, anyway.  It’s never been 3 full days between Friday afternoon and Sunday morning—or as most have celebrated it, historically, between Friday afternoon and Saturday evening (vigil time!).  No, and in that time (sometime between Friday afternoon and Saturday evening or Sunday morning) GOD’S UNDYING LOVE FOR THE WORLD is most fully LOOSED! 

Jesus doesn't wait—even as we take this day to watch and pray amongst our busy-ness, watching and praying for signs of the hard to imagine, difficult to understand, “how does he do it” questions, the Easter egg dying and recipe trying of Holy Saturday.  For those whose lives have become like hell (and even for those of us whose lives may not be as hell-ish), Jesus is at the door knocking—today.  God be praised! 

We’ll probably wait until tomorrow to celebrate it.  We’ll call it resurrection in the morning.  But for right now, it’s like the election night coverage that is “projecting” the winners while the ballots are still being counted.  By morning—or even before—and you might have heard it here first (or probably not)—Jesus is being raised! 

So, are you looking for Jesus, today, Church?  Are you seeing Christ, O people of God?  Are you even watching—because I know a lot of you are going to be preoccupied with the Final Four coverage this evening! 

Please.  Go on.  Go about your day.  But be looking, be watching, for the signs are there.  GOD’S UNDYING LOVE IS LOOSED.  And we’re celebrating real soon! 

And there’s probably still time.  You can get your roast in the oven and still get to Church!  There are Vigil celebrations and Easter services all over the place!  Find one.  Join it.  Because if nothing else, the celebration will remind you again to be looking for Jesus everywhere! 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch, Havertown, Pennsylvania

Church: Put on Your Crash Helmets!

It happened in worship this morning at the Next Church conference.  Next Church is a group of Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) leaders who are thinking and talking about what’s “next” for our denomination. 

This was my first time to participate at an annual conference that’s been growing in attendance in recent years; a pilgrimage this year that grew to nearly 700 participants!  And it was amazing.  I was reunited with friends a colleagues that represent more than 25 years of my life—some of them—and others who may sustain me and my ministry for the next 25 years! 

But, I’ve been accused of having an “old soul,” and no doubt, for one of the first times in 25 years of ministry, I felt old.  For the first time, I felt the weight of tradition and stayed-ness that is a part of ME, being more buffeted by the winds of change that God’s Holy Spirit is blowing through my church.  Here-to-fore, I watched the older folks be blown around like strong winds in downtown Chicago, where you’re simply blessed to only lose your hat and not be carried not-so-merrily down the street by the wind! 

The unwritten part of the liturgy was this, “Church, put on your crash helmets!”--words made famous by Annie Dillard’s description of what it means for us to be called by God out into deep waters, to be at risk in a world of risks, in ways that are uncomfortable and should be more expected than not.  An experience that matched the intended theme of this conference, “beyond our walls,” but also one that I fully recognized as a word of warning.  There was rough water coming in this liturgy just ahead. 

I knew these words, about crash helmets.  I knew some of the words that were coming in the liturgy.  “This was serious,” I thought, but I still wasn’t ready. 

We literally were invited to catch and use our BREATH as a part of God’s Spirit. 

The worship leader read the written liturgy, a poem “Wage Peace” written by Judyth Hill, beginning:

Wage peace with your breath.
Breath in firemen and rubble, breathe out whole buildings
and flocks of redwing blackbirds.
 Breath in terrorists/and breath out sleeping children
and freshly mown fields
Breathe in confusion/and breath out maple trees.
Breathe in the fallen/and breath out lifelong friendships intact

These words came after jarring images for me during the celebration of communion.  An image of persons wearing orange jumpsuits and whose heads were covered in black bags.  Tortured detainees?  ISIS prisoners?  Except the image held the Supreme Court building in the background, and a Police Officer standing as if at a pulpit. 

In light of recent pictures in news, I found this image jarring, frightening, and dis-comforting.  Just give me a little Jesus, please.  The Jesus who love me, who loves us, the Jesus who displaces violence with love.  I am a part of that love.  Give me my Jesus, please! 

I was uncomfortable and angry.  I began parsing a carefully worded e-mail in my head to the leadership team.  How dare they take away my Jesus! 

And then it hit me.  That is my Jesus. 

The Jesus who was tortured, who was unjustly condemned, associated with the worst human beings.  The Jesus who dwelt his last night on earth in control of those who would make him suffer and die, abused, surrounded, poked and prodded, dehumanized.  There, in fact was my Jesus, crucified in front of me. 

And what was discomforting even still, or perhaps even more, how often was it that my church would seek to deny THIS Jesus in favor of the one who only comforts us, but cannot save us?  How much my stayed Jesus teaches me to love my comfort, my safe theology, my safe faith—that actually saves little. 

JESUS, beyond my “stayed Jesus” dares to save the world—promised John’s gospel in last week’s lectionary passage (John 3: 14-21).  And so it is that this Jesus, the one present in suffering and dying, the Jesus of protest and proclamation, beckons me and my whole church beyond where I am comfortable.  And we need crash helmets! 

Can I imagine a world, a church, a faith, a hope, a Jesus-incarnation that dares us to “breath in terrorists and breath out sleeping children and freshly mown fields? 

It’s too idealistic, some will say. 

It’s too offensive, others will decry. 

“It’s not realistic,” “it can’t be real,” we’ll say--standing at the foot of the cross. 

The truth is, I’ve been taught to see Jesus in all of these places of death—be they torture, the death penalty, abortion, or the death penalty.  I see Jesus, I know Jesus—reaching out in love, displacing the victimized.  “He takes our place,” some have taught me.  He redeems.  He loves.  He makes right—in the way only God can make right.  But this is not the comfortable crucified Jesus, hanging blithely in front of the sanctuary or on necklaces. 

In all these places, Christ is dying; but Christ is raised by God.  Christ is dying and Christ is being raised, again and again.  This is Jesus who transforms the world, who transforms the church, who transforms me. 

Sometimes, I’m afraid of letting things die in me.  It is the way I’ve been taught, the church I know.  Hang on! 

Because when it’s dead, part of me will be dead. 

But the great mystery of faith is that just at that moment when we are afraid we are dying, or at just the moment we ARE dying, we are already being raised. 

Easter is coming, and this story of death is the story of resurrection.  “I believe, Lord, help my unbelief.”  “Help me die, Lord, so I can be raised.”  And then, a crash helmet seems wise; but really not necessary. 

No.  I wasn’t ready for that. 

I am now, profoundly grateful for it. 

Maybe, when it happens NEXT, I’ll be a little more ready.  And, God-willing, I’ll be even more willing to embrace it. 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch, Havertown, Pennsylvania

We Know What You Need--the Apostles' Creed

A couple of weekends ago I participated in a regional event sponsored by NEXT Church (a group of Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) leaders committed to conversations about what’s “next” for our congregations and denomination).  The keynote speaker was Rev. Dr. David Lose, the president at Lutheran Seminary in Philadelphia, sharing with us the importance of story-telling in the Church, and in particular, how Christians can and should be shaped by Biblical stories they encounter at/through/with church. 

An image David Lose shared with the NEXT Church Regional Conference

He spoke at length about cultural shifts and changes in the past few decades.  He reminded us about values that are now prevalent in the world around churches, and how many practices within churches often prevent us from pursuing the goals of the Kingdom of God which we all believe Churches are called to be about in the world.  He didn't say it exactly this way, but his suggestion was that if we were serious about pursuing the goals of the Kingdom, we need to change what we do “at church”—moving from worship as performance to worship as “practice.” 

Lose pointed to our Christian “in house” approach to worship as being counter-productive because worship is seen as a preacher-dominated environment.  Church communities have taught people to sit nicely and listen to the preacher in worship and to expect the preacher to be the hired Christian who will proclaim and act out the stories of the Christian life.  Lose reiterated the propensity of most congregations to be known for “good preaching,” with expectations of scholarly study and profound delivery; but practiced so well, this actually has a negative effect on how Christians perceive their role in the world. 

For most churches, worship is designed around the proclaimed word, presented as a monologue, surrounded by familiar words and ritual, where despite “practicing” for weeks, years, and lifetimes, preachers are seen as experts and congregants are always novices.  So Lose thought a much better model might aim at helping people feel better about their own faith and their own expertise honed by years of experience so that people would feel more confident about their Christian contributions to the world around them.  So that in his view, “Church” becomes a place to practice what we believe with the impetus of taking our faith with us into the world—using it in the real work of ministry.  That is, for each of us—preacher and congregant alike—to become “experts” in doing and being faithful. 

I was reading something totally unrelated (I thought) in the last few days—from an article about Interim Ministry by John Wimberly: 

"Telling people what they need is, in most instances, a highly flawed way of relating to others. It usually works best to ask people what they need from us." 

As a result of the conversation with David Lose, a number of us immediately noticed the systems at work in the congregations we serve as being counterproductive to sending people out into the world as fully-formed Christians with their own expertise.  For years, generations even, congregations have rested and insisted on “telling people what they need.”  We’ve taught Church doctrine and even Bible stories as if they simply “tell us” what we need to know.  As if “faith” and “believing” were an exercise that can be performed in our heads. 

Do you believe in Jesus?  “Yes, yes I do.” 

As if believing in Jesus were the key to eternal life—nothing else required.  As if attending church were only a bonus.  As if participating personally and financially in the life of a congregation was inherently a “good thing” but what really matters for us as individuals is our “personal relationship with Jesus Christ”—to open the gates of heaven. 

We've relied on the mantra that Christians SHOULD attend Church and participate.  We tell people frequently and often this is what they NEED; and often, when we then hear that’s problematic, we are well-known for backing off our presumption and telling people also, “you know, come to church when you can make it.  God doesn't mind if you have other commitments.” 

True to our word, people have found reasons why they CAN’T attend worship or “church” each week.  We can see the data in the declining worship attendance numbers. 

And rather than offering an expectation about participation, we acquiesce to the excuses of family events, little leagues, or jobs.  Rather than helping people find other ways of participating, or other connections between faith and life, we trust people to make up their own mind, insisting on the things that always have given us comfort. 

In my own congregation, people have said, “we NEED to say the Apostles’ Creed because it’s an important part of our faith.”  And so sometimes we say the Creed, almost as if saying it is salvific in and of itself.  Congregants often express resistance to using other creeds or confessions that might reveal deeper connections between faith and life not because we don’t believe them, but because they are unfamiliar and they make us feel “uncomfortable” in worship.  And we don’t ask others, who aren't in worship, what might be comfortable for them, or in particular, what the church could do to be helpful to them. 

It’s not just that we’re tied to our own tradition and ways; the reality is we’re becoming more and more disconnected from the community around us, the people around us, the people who in some respects don’t know that they need church too.  By practicing our traditions to perfection we haven’t realized how closed we have really be come.  And we haven’t recognized that “practicing our traditions” is different from “practicing our faith.” 

About a year ago, our Church Session started talking about “inviting others.”  We recognized that around the session table most folks had become members of our congregation because someone asked.  The fact that most of our ruling elders became members more than 25 years ago will tell the story that we've stopped “asking.”  But since then, that conversation about “inviting others” hasn't gone away.  We’re working on it again. 

The trouble is we need to recognize that that “invitation” should be more of a two-way street.  We shouldn't be inviting people because we know what they need—that they need to do and be “like us.”  We should be inviting people because our relationship with Jesus invites us to a life of transformation.  That we’re not stuck or stopped in the same place.  That we have the capacity to be renewed and reshaped by our faith—together.  We have to be open to asking more realistically what others need from us.  And hearing THEIR story, perhaps we will find our own revitalized. 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch, Havertown, Pennsylvania

Lint is for Navel-Gazing; Lent is for Something Else

I’m indebted to my colleague from another Presbytery, Mark Davis, who created or shared the observation, “lint is for navel-gazing; lent is for something else.”  That was more than a handful of years ago and I’ve thought ever since that it’s gotten more and more true.  We live in a time when Church traditions (even the most ardent ones) no longer “play well” in the audience the church needs to be appealing to.  “Lent,” a traditional season of penitence and fasting has become a time when everyone can talk about the fashionable-ness of “giving up lattes and chocolates” after Valentine’s Day and trying to lose part of the weight we wrote down in those new year’s resolutions a couple of months ago.  Frozen fish goes on sale at the grocery, Long John Silver’s advertises again on television, and there are “Lenten specials” in a lot of restaurants even if they don’t use the word “Lenten” much. 

Perhaps this is simply because much of our national GDP is driven by consumer spending.  Despite that one of the best-known Bible quotes is still, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not WANT,” we’re constantly enticed to buy because the predominant story of our culture is that we don’t have enough. 

Which story do you believe—the Bible or the culture? 

But which story gets your money? 

I digress. 

Last Friday I was at the grocery story.  I had been at the same grocery story two weeks earlier and had seen that even in suburban Philadelphia, we had “King Cakes” for sale.  Now I know King Cakes because my parents lived for many years in South Louisiana, and King Cakes were very much a part of the Mardi Gras culture, there.  In fact King Cakes were beyond special, many were quite elaborate and there were wonderful creations and decorations, and flavors; it was fashionable there to order your own personalized, special-made, and even gourmet “King Cakes.” 

Seeing a “King Cake” at the grocery store took me back.  But finding the $6.99 price tag for an unglamorous grocery-store baked-good that’s been on the shelf for a while gave me whiplash!  The memory was nice, but it was easy to move on. 

But last Friday, I was in the health-foods aisle in the same grocery when I witnessed the bakery lady pushing a whole bakery-rack full of King Cake boxes.  I watched her rolling the cart in the direction of the “baked goods sale table” where the newly expiring baked goods are shuffled out at a substantial discount.  She was already 3 or 4 aisles ahead of me when I began to smell the waft of freshly baked, baked goods, and was inexplicably following. 

And, if you remember your Lenten calendar, this was the Friday, AFTER Ash Wednesday.  Ash Wednesday is the END of King Cake season everywhere.  I mused to myself that having King Cake after Ash Wednesday was probably at least a little bit sacrilegious; yet still I followed, justifying the journey in order to document what price a King Cake brings in the post-holiday euphoria (when stores drop the price in order to move the merchandise). 

I was more horrified to discover these were not “left-overs” but freshly baked King Cakes on the Friday after Ash Wednesday!  The bakery lady, quickly unloading the cart as if there were more cakes on the way, explained how they were just fresh-baked and decorated, and how they had lost all the little plastic babies that go with the king cakes, so they were minus the babies, but at only $1.75 it was a great price for freshly baked King Cake.  “Indeed,” I offered sheepishly, now salivating after the freshly baked King Cakes even on the first Friday after Ash Wednesday, and still, in fact, working over the Sunday sermon on Jesus’ temptation in my head! 

Yes, this is where it all comes together!  And I’m not embarrassed enough to admit that I left the grocery with a King Cake on the first Friday of Lent.  My wife and I decided we would eat the King Cake on Sunday—when it was no longer fresh-baked—because Friday was a fast-day for our family because of Lent; and, we were leaving the next morning before breakfast so I could attend a conference outside of Washington, D.C.  And I’m writing this because the keynote speaker, David Lose, encouraged being mindful about telling our faith-stories because this world in which we live, the predominant stories have shifted away from the telling of faith-communities and have been co-opted by those who want to sell us things—driving not only the GDP but personal profits and gain. 

Notice how deftly my newly acquired king cake box re-interprets—to the advantage of King Cake enthusiasts and Mardi Gras revelers—the story of Jesus and Epiphany.  It’s as if it were its own liturgical holiday.  And while the colors of gold, purple, and green may stand for justice, peace, and faith, those words have a slightly different meaning outside the Biblical context.  I’m not at all sure what that means to the casual passer-by, or for the family who takes advantage of $1.75 King Cake!  Is this religious-speak?  Is this what Christians believe?  Does the Church advocate having your cake and eating it too—even if it’s the Friday after Ash Wednesday? 

That the King Cake box is re-telling the Jesus story tends to make me mad; but maybe the King Cake box is getting away with it because I’m not telling the Bible’s stories—and my own stories as a Christian—about peace, justice, faith, and Jesus! 

This could be different, perhaps, if I were different.  If I made more of a concerted effort to share my stories of Lenten practices and why I choose the lifestyle I do—or at a minimum, why it bothers me that King Cakes go on sale after Ash Wednesday! 

But that means I not only have to believe and act like Lent is special and religiously significant, but also, I have to tell the Bible’s stories and MY stories …so there is another narrative.  In other words, lint is about navel-gazing; Lent is something else. 

What are some of your Lenten stories?  What are you struggling with?  What gives you hope and joy?  And do you carry the hope and joy with you in the struggles? 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch, Havertown, Pennsylvania

"From 'No Words' to Good Words"

We've been this way before.  Too many times.  

Last December, when more than 126 children were violently killed at a school in Pakistan, my Facebook feed filled up with acknowledgements like, “No Words.”  It was more “bad news”—it was more than “bad news”—on top of other devastating news stories.  The season of the Prince of Peace was again shattered by violence and death.  And for many, there were “no words” that could express fully our sadness and broken-heartedness. 

Maybe because of its nearness in our Christian liturgical drama, many colleagues and I found this quotation from Matthew’s gospel appropriate for online posts and sermons:

“A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be consoled, because they are no more.” 

The shoes of Jews sent to the gas chambers on
display at the Holocaust Museum, Washington, DC

Weeping for children—whom I could never know—wasn’t hard.  And like in the aftermath of the violence at Sandy Hook Elementary (that was a mere fraction of the life taken in Pakistan), I found myself appreciating my children and hugging them, and enjoying my time in the schoolyard after school. 

But in the last 24 hours, again news of violence, killing, and innocent lives destroyed has emerged in the news; this time, AGAIN, in our own country.  I could hardly bear to read the words of the news accounts of the three Muslim Americans who were shot and killed in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.  The words in news accounts—“execution style” and “gunshot wounds to the head”—suggest this was not some random act, or the result of a dispute over a parking space that was alleged.  And while I don’t know what actually occurred, it appears that the man who turned himself in to authorities killed or murdered the three people; and that by all accounts, it appears to be religiously motivated violence.  That these victims were killed because they practiced a particular faith. 

Once again, there are “no words” that can effectively declare the depth of how I feel—sad, disheartened, demoralized, angry, afraid. 

This comes on the heels of complaints and disagreements over reflective words offered by our President at an annual prayer breakfast; and the outrage and offense expressed by lots of people who would like to think or believe that almost all religious violence in the history of the world is perpetrated by non-Christians.  These people often seemed to speak in ways that make killing seem justified if it is violence being used to protect “American values” or in the cause of “keeping us safe.”  However, as a Christian, my faith and principles dictate that to attack or kill other persons for religious reasons is always wholly and utterly wrong. 

In fact, I’ll go beyond that to say that to attack or kill another person for any reason is wrong.  I believe God does not kill; and that God finds all killing abhorrent. 

In the wake of more violence, more killing, and more death—that we continue to live with every day—there cannot be “no words.”  I believe we must begin to recognize that violence and killing is in fact, not only senseless, but somehow preventable.  That recognition, I believe, beings with more than just “no words” in response. 

While perhaps there are “no words” that can define or describe fully the depth of our sadness, disappointment, and disturbed-ness of spirit; there are words that describe what we believe about God, what we believe about other human beings, and the violence perpetrated against others and ourselves.  There are words; and we can use them. 

This is how some of my Christian colleagues in ministries in Chapel Hill, North Carolina expressed themselves regarding these latest killings: 

As leaders of faith communities in Chapel Hill, we deplore the senseless killing of Deah Shaddy Barakat, Yusor Mohammad, and Razan Mohammad Abu-Salha, and we share in the profound grief of their families.  An attack on any of God’s children, our sisters and brothers, is an attack on us all.  We renew our pledge to continue the vital work of fostering mutual understanding and respect that cross all lines of difference. 

These words are not “no words.” 

These are powerful words—if we choose to use them (or other words like them). 

In fact, these words can hold us to account: “we deplore the senseless killing…,” “we share the profound grief of their families, …an attack on any of God’s children is an attack on us all, …and we renew our pledge to continue the vital work of fostering mutual understanding and respect that cross all lines of difference.” 

It seems to me that any Christian could surely claim these words. 

It would seem to me, that any citizen of the United States could claim these words. 

These are good words. 

They speak to our grief.  They speak to our commitment to God.  They speak of our calling to respect one another (dare we say love one another).  AND, they commit us to the way of peace. 

These names will not be the end.  We will need these words again (or words like them), only with different names attached—maybe next time, Christian names, or Jewish names, or Hindu names, or Orthodox Christian names, or Morman names, or Athiest names…. 

These are not “no words.” 

These are good words. 

We should use these words. 

I just pray that the day comes quickly, that they are no longer required. 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch, Havertown, Pennsylvania

I'm Feeling Deflated

It’s not really about the footballs, but the Superbowl has left me feeling deflated. 

Despite the fact that I hear my grandfather’s voice in the back of my head reminding me of the fact that “life isn’t fair,” I’m angry that the New England Patriots got to play in the Superbowl and ended up winning. 

I feel like their team has collectively stolen from me, from my children, and our culture at large—the promises about fair play and doing your best.  So I’m not-so-secretly hopeful that in the light of investigations and interviews it will be revealed that the Patriots willfully broke the rules by manipulating the air pressure in footballs in order to gain a mechanical and psychological advantage over their opponents; and that for maybe the very first time, the NFL will have no choice but to stand up for the integrity of the game and our common life, and ask for the Lombardi trophy to be returned and that the Patriots win in yesterday’s game be vacated. 

That would be so SWEET!  And I must admit my own sin in wanting to gloat over that eventual outcome by wanting to take much pleasure in what surely would be a painful turn of events—deserved or not.  Besides, I like seeing Tom Brady suffer. 

Yet, it’s true.  Life is not fair.  It rains on the just and unjust alike.  Bad people, and good people, do not always gain their just desserts. 

What concerns me is that we will just shrug our shoulders as if this is simply the way life is supposed to be.  That lying, cheating, and even stealing is all in how you play the game.  After all, we show it in how we try and place our children in the best preschools to gain them the best possibility of being in the best schools with the top reputations that will lead to the best colleges—taking every advantage to put them in the best position for “success” in life.  Even if we have to bend the rules a bit here and there, the end justifies the means.  Right?  Because surely, it’s all worth it if you get to play in the Superbowl and drive home in a new Chevrolet truck—even if what you did was unfair.  Right? 

All too often, people who misrepresent the facts or themselves are rewarded with success unfairly and unjustly earned.  This didn’t start or end with the Patriots’ cheating scandals or their Superbowl win.  But on this Monday, it feels like one more time my mother’s promise that what matters most is your honesty, integrity, and doing your best—appears more often than not to be a true roadblock to the accolades and trappings of success.  And so it seems harder and harder to convince ourselves that doing the right thing is really the right thing.  It may be the right thing, but we see often that the “whistleblowers” often pay a heavy price for their integrity. 

I wish the world were not so! 

Yet even in my deflated state (that I’m blaming on the Patriots and their Superbowl win) I still know and trust that in the long run, always and forever, honesty, integrity, and doing your best is what matters.  I just wish there were some form of major smack-down for everyone who takes advantage of others! 

But there’s not. 

The Bible promises us over and over again that it’s wrong to take advantage of others.  God declares fields cannot be gleaned so well that there isn’t something left for the less fortunate to also have their fill.  The jubilee rituals attempt to level the haves and have-nots so that no one gains an unfair advantage for long.  Jesus reminds us over and over that the loves of money, fame, and fortune are often gained at the expense of others; that we can still “kill others” by acting unjustly rather than having to take their life in the flesh.  And we are constantly invited to live, giving witness to the justice and righteousness of the Kingdom of God where God sides frequently with the least and the lost. 

So today, I’m remembering my uncle who had the opportunity to play football at the University of Kentucky.  The team had a young coach at the time by the last name of Bryant—who would go on to become a legend at another school.  Known as “Bear” the coach called my uncle out in practice one day.  “Stipp,” he yelled, “I want to see you play for blood!”  My uncle reportedly replied, “No sir.  I don’t play for blood.  I play because I love football.  I love football, and I play hard every down; but I’ll not play for blood.”  And the coach said, “Not on this team.  On this team, you play for blood.” 

So my uncle never played another down. 

Life’s hard lesson is that we can’t make anyone else play by the rules.  It’s a choice we make for ourselves.  And it comes, unjustly it seems, without any of the accolades or glorious rewards.  We have to value it for its own ends.  That’s the lesson we have to teach ourselves and our children everyday.  And not because the Patriots may have used under-inflated footballs. 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch, Havertown, Pennsylvania

Ruling Congregations?

Yesterday, the congregation I serve in the PCUSA held its annual congregational meeting. 

We did most of the usual things one might expect in an annual meeting—we reviewed written reports from the previous year, we looked at financial statements and budget plans, we approved the pastor’s terms of call and changed our ecclesiastical bylaws to reduce the number of active ruling elders on our session from 12 to 9.  It was as routine a meeting as anyone could have hoped (I think). 

But “routine” is not necessarily the way the Bible teaches us to think about God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit or the Kingdom of God.  No.  In most every way, the Bible would teach us that God is extraordinary, Jesus is extraordinary, the Holy Spirit is extraordinary, we are extraordinary and that the Church is (or should be) extraordinary.  Though I can appreciate a routine meeting, it sometimes fails to offer a glimpse of the extraordinary nature of our relationship with God. 

In the last few years one of the meaningful changes in our Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) constitution has been a return to the language of Ruling Elder to describe those elected by the congregation to serve on the Session (our congregation’s governing council).  The “ruling” part of Ruling Elder has been expressed as a job of measuring (like a ruler measures) the congregation’s fidelity to the gospel of Jesus Christ.  In other words, the task of Ruling Elders and the Session is to help determine the congregation’s faithfulness to the work set before us by scripture and in particular, Jesus Christ. 

In some ways, those written reports and financial statements and plans all demonstrate some fidelity to the gospel.  In some ways, that’s the congregation’s willingness to own the ministry to which it’s called.  But I left the meeting wondering if we were more caught up in the routineness or the extraordinariness of our ministry. 

What would a congregational meeting look like and feel like if we were caught up in the extraordinariness of our response to the gospel?  Who should speak to that?  And how do we make it more of a church party rather than a reading of reports from the previous year?  How can annual meetings, too, be about the work of the gospel—and really feel like it?  

I get that this is part of the work that Teaching Elders (who used to be referenced as Ministers of Word and Sacrament, and who are often referenced by congregants as Pastors) and Ruling Elders do together.  But it’s a real shift away from the “decent and in order”-ness that Presbyterians are often best known for.  And then, there’s the relationship to the annual meeting and the rules of incorporation that must be adhered to in relationship to the state. 

Over the years I’ve worked with Sessions and congregational leaders to think in new ways about congregational meetings.  A few years ago we organized our meeting as a Sunday morning worship service; we’ve been intentional about trying “worshipful work,” we’ve moved the meeting from the sanctuary to sitting around tables.  Still, it feels more like business and less like ministry; it feels more like process and less like Jesus. 

I’m grateful for all the opportunities we take to measure our ministry.  How many children came to Sunday School?  How many meals we prepared in response to homelessness?  How mission dollars were allocated?  Whether or not we met the budget with a surplus or a deficit?  I just wish we all had a chance to walk away with a better feeling of our personal stake in it; and the place and reminder of Jesus’ call. 

If we could help congregations accomplish this…, it might resolve a lot of other things, too. 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch, Havertown, Pennsylvania