So one of the unintended but entirely welcome consequences of my sabbatical was the loss of something like fifteen pounds from my waist area. Chalk that up to several factors during my time in Sarajevo. Without a car, I walked its streets every day sightseeing and shopping and doing whatever else. I think my average was 2-3 miles per day. Plus, the city sits below several lovely mountains, making those aforementioned streets quite hilly. Further, I ate less food in Bosnia than I usually do here, and what I did eat was local vegetables and good bread and quality meat. Only once or twice did something processed snacks or potato chips enter my diet. Finally, I added some push-ups and sit-ups to my morning routine. The end result? A much healthier pastor, whose clothes fit noticeably easier.
Today, well, things have…what’s the word…changed. It’s funny how easy the pounds return when life reverts to previous patterns. I kept up some of the exercise when I came back; walked less but ran more. Alas, Minnesota weather has a way of dissuading many a jogger as fall turns to winter, and I’m sitting here now, anticipating Christmas, aware that my weight loss is now lost.
But no matter, I tell myself. I shall not be defeated! I did it before. I’ll do it again. A new day can arrive! To be clearer, I mean a new year has come, and with it, that brilliant tradition of annual resolutions. Mine for 2014 will certainly include a return to last summer’s svelter, smaller me.
I read recently that the Roman god after whom they named January (Janus) was sometimes depicted with two heads. One looking back, into the past. Another peering into the future. It makes sense they’d have made resolutions upon the start of his month, right? To resolve something includes reviewing where you’ve been and what’s occurred. Perhaps something didn’t go as planned, or desired, and that makes you less than fully happy. Yet a resolution implies more than insightful analysis into what was. It also presumes hope that what will be can be different, if you work for it. Without a look back, your resolution is, basically, meaningless. Without a glance ahead, you simply remain stuck. Honesty and hope. Two basic ingredients of good resolutions.
Coincidentally, or not, they’re also two ingredients to good living. The kind of full, faithful, excited life to the fullest for which Jesus was born to us (John 10:10). So this January, we’re going to think as a church together about resolutions, from God’s perspective. After all, as you read scripture, they pop up all over the place. The word we typically use for them is “promises,” but that’s essentially the same thing, right? Peter promised to stand by Jesus at his time of trial. Oops. God promised to be with Moses as he stood up to Pharaoh. Well done. Some resolutions in scripture are weird and tragic; others are the basic building blocks of faith. In whatever form they come, though, they’re important, and we’ll explore that dynamic together.
You know one thing that scripture says and that modern science agrees with about resolutions? It’s that they work best- i.e. you don’t break them!- if they’re made and shared in community. That’s one of the basic reason I attend (and work for) church, and not sit at home being spiritual alone. The accountability you all give me for my resolution to serve God helps me, in fact, serve God. So thanks for that, and for acting as community to my earlier weight loss resolution. Maybe you’ll be bold enough to share yours too…?! There’s still time. Happy New Year!
Grace and Peace,
Shane
Read more!
Monday, December 30, 2013
Friday, December 27, 2013
"Intern-al Communications" (a message from our intern)
Merry Christmas! We celebrated the long awaited for arrival of the birth of the Messiah through this Advent Season. The Son of God who has come to set the people free…is here! God has heard his people, the time of captivity is over!
The people that journeyed with us in this Advent Season - Joseph, Mary, the Shepherds, Simeon, all of us had or has a story of longing, of hope, of praying to for to be heard and our lives to be lifted up out of the hole of oppression that we have experienced, somewhere, sometime in our lives.
The common thread that has linked all of us in this story is that we have all experienced an oppression, an experience in life that tells us that we are “just not good enough”.
For those in the Newer Testament, being Jewish was reason enough to be held in captivity, slavery, oppression, a lesser class than the Romans. Because they were “less than”, the ruling class (the Romans) could devalue them, dehumanize them, and then demonize them.
Many of us have experienced a similar encounter with being “less than”. For women, some of the oppressions have been the right to be heard and respected as full human beings, for the right to vote, to say “no” to an oppressor, to hold office in public or private work, to have control over your own body, and to have a say in these matters regarding reproductive rights.
For African-Americans, there are many similar experience, and overlapping experiences of oppression as well. Some of the oppressions have been the right to be heard and respected, as full human beings, for the right to vote, to say “no to an oppressor”, to hold office in public or private work, to have control over your own body, and to have a say in these matters regarding reproductive rights. (I think back to when the white society deemed it permissible to control, through experiments, the birthing process through sterilization)
For those who find themselves to be Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender, again, similar experiences. Some of the oppressions have been the right to be heard and respected as full human beings, the right to say “no” to an oppressor, to hold office in public or private work as an “out” G,L,B,T person (which is illegal in many states yet today) to have control over your own body, the right to marry another person of the same gender (which is still illegal in many states and at the Federal level).
For those who find themselves to be with mental health or addiction challenges. They encounter many of the same experiences of not being fully human. I think of many friends who, having struggles with substances, were told to “pray that God heal you” or to just “not do that behavior any more”, like they had power over these challenges. Their right to be heard and respected, to be able to hold office in public or private work, the right to vote, the right to have control over their own bodies, the right to have a say in reproductive rights.
The “good news” of the birth of Jesus, is that he came for all of us, not just some, but for all of us, that we all might know the love that God has for all of His children! He has come to show us the way, to set us all free from the oppression and slavery that we have been experiencing.
As followers of Jesus, we are invited to be receptive to the working of the Holy Spirit, as Joseph, Mary, the Shepherds, and Simeon were in their time. To allow God to “break through” this slavery and oppression and set us free! But the work continues on, for God’s love compels us to pray and work so that all people, wherever they are, can experience God hearing and responding to them in their lives. How does God accomplish this, through us! Yes, God is showing up in us, through us, as us in this world! The great work begins!
Read more!
The people that journeyed with us in this Advent Season - Joseph, Mary, the Shepherds, Simeon, all of us had or has a story of longing, of hope, of praying to for to be heard and our lives to be lifted up out of the hole of oppression that we have experienced, somewhere, sometime in our lives.
The common thread that has linked all of us in this story is that we have all experienced an oppression, an experience in life that tells us that we are “just not good enough”.
For those in the Newer Testament, being Jewish was reason enough to be held in captivity, slavery, oppression, a lesser class than the Romans. Because they were “less than”, the ruling class (the Romans) could devalue them, dehumanize them, and then demonize them.
Many of us have experienced a similar encounter with being “less than”. For women, some of the oppressions have been the right to be heard and respected as full human beings, for the right to vote, to say “no” to an oppressor, to hold office in public or private work, to have control over your own body, and to have a say in these matters regarding reproductive rights.
For African-Americans, there are many similar experience, and overlapping experiences of oppression as well. Some of the oppressions have been the right to be heard and respected, as full human beings, for the right to vote, to say “no to an oppressor”, to hold office in public or private work, to have control over your own body, and to have a say in these matters regarding reproductive rights. (I think back to when the white society deemed it permissible to control, through experiments, the birthing process through sterilization)
For those who find themselves to be Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender, again, similar experiences. Some of the oppressions have been the right to be heard and respected as full human beings, the right to say “no” to an oppressor, to hold office in public or private work as an “out” G,L,B,T person (which is illegal in many states yet today) to have control over your own body, the right to marry another person of the same gender (which is still illegal in many states and at the Federal level).
For those who find themselves to be with mental health or addiction challenges. They encounter many of the same experiences of not being fully human. I think of many friends who, having struggles with substances, were told to “pray that God heal you” or to just “not do that behavior any more”, like they had power over these challenges. Their right to be heard and respected, to be able to hold office in public or private work, the right to vote, the right to have control over their own bodies, the right to have a say in reproductive rights.
The “good news” of the birth of Jesus, is that he came for all of us, not just some, but for all of us, that we all might know the love that God has for all of His children! He has come to show us the way, to set us all free from the oppression and slavery that we have been experiencing.
As followers of Jesus, we are invited to be receptive to the working of the Holy Spirit, as Joseph, Mary, the Shepherds, and Simeon were in their time. To allow God to “break through” this slavery and oppression and set us free! But the work continues on, for God’s love compels us to pray and work so that all people, wherever they are, can experience God hearing and responding to them in their lives. How does God accomplish this, through us! Yes, God is showing up in us, through us, as us in this world! The great work begins!
Read more!
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Creative designs…
We live in a weird world; a crazy and wild, weird world. It is beautiful, awe-inspiring, breathtaking, and weird.
A book I finished last week drove this point home to me. It’s called Parallel Worlds, written by renowned physicist Michio Kaku, and is basically “Advanced Physics for Dummies,” for those without years studying high-level math. I took college-level intro physics, so some of this book’s ideas were familiar. But he wanted his readers to move well beyond the basic stuff I once struggled to comprehend. He wrote of notions we typically encounter only in science fiction novels, like the principles behind worm-holes and black holes, the unfathomably tiny strings that (probably) makeup sub-atomic particles, the possibilities of time travel or moving between parallel universes. Like I said, our world is weird! Perhaps I should say- All of reality is crazy!
The fancy term for this kind of thinking is cosmology. Derived from Greek, that means “thinking about the cosmos”, or pondering all that is. And it’s a project the Greeks kicked off in ancient times, as philosophers before even before Plato looked to the stars and…wondered. What creates those flickering lights? Are there patterns or laws they follow? And what about us? Where do we fit in this grand adventure? This cosmic accident? This design? Not everyone ponders so all the time, but we’ve all had some such thought before. I hope.
Indeed, it’s partly why I have a job! We do church, in part, to connect with the cosmos’ Creator. Thus, religion and cosmology have long been close partners; religion being the senior partner for much of history. But not so much anymore, right? Modern physicists who think about these questions are much more likely to quote from Einstein than St. Paul. Abstract math describes the stars’ motions more accurately than poetic statements from the Psalms. Experiments for discovering the secrets of space are better done through massive particle colliders than meditative prayer. Those methods and mathematical models, in fact, have grown so powerful for describing reality, we religious folk can sometimes feel, now, like time is passing us by.
But we shouldn’t, I think, and not because I’m a Christian who thinks the Bible’s more accurate than modern science. The Big Bang sounds more likely a theory to me than either of Genesis’s creation stories. Rather, it’s the very weirdness physicists are discovering, hidden within the fundamental “stuff” that comprises us, that encourages me to keep my mind open to more than only what I can see. Because deep within our minds, our cells, our atoms, strange things happen. Barely perceivable events happen constantly that seemingly contradict laws we’d think common sense. I won’t pretend to understand that stuff, like quantum theory or indeterminacy, but suffice to say that the days are long over of smart folk thinking reality was simple to grasp.
Besides, the heart of religion isn’t so much about finding exact formulas to predict the behavior of people and weather. Sure, for a while people thought that correct prayers would impact that stuff, but I suspect we’ve mostly evolved as a religious species. Religion’s contribution to describing the cosmos, instead, is less about mechanics and more about character. We stare into the stars, seeking the personality behind whatever designer may’ve pushed them into their orbits.
And 1 John puts our most basic “findings” into as precise a formula as any. “God is Love,” he wrote. The two words, we believe, are synonyms. Such that, in this backwater corner of an insignificant galaxy within a vast universe, among many others, our species looks above and understands basic laws, then shares awe at their beauty with others. That something so lovely and improbable could occur among so massive a reality is crazy and wonderful to me. Yet, it reminds me of that babe born in out-of-the-way Bethlehem, poor and insignificant, yet precious to all. But such is the character of this world’s Creator. God is Love, unto eternity. And if the stars themselves follow that law, I guess we should too. Thankfully, for that, for you Christ was born.
Grace and Peace,
Shane Read more!
A book I finished last week drove this point home to me. It’s called Parallel Worlds, written by renowned physicist Michio Kaku, and is basically “Advanced Physics for Dummies,” for those without years studying high-level math. I took college-level intro physics, so some of this book’s ideas were familiar. But he wanted his readers to move well beyond the basic stuff I once struggled to comprehend. He wrote of notions we typically encounter only in science fiction novels, like the principles behind worm-holes and black holes, the unfathomably tiny strings that (probably) makeup sub-atomic particles, the possibilities of time travel or moving between parallel universes. Like I said, our world is weird! Perhaps I should say- All of reality is crazy!
The fancy term for this kind of thinking is cosmology. Derived from Greek, that means “thinking about the cosmos”, or pondering all that is. And it’s a project the Greeks kicked off in ancient times, as philosophers before even before Plato looked to the stars and…wondered. What creates those flickering lights? Are there patterns or laws they follow? And what about us? Where do we fit in this grand adventure? This cosmic accident? This design? Not everyone ponders so all the time, but we’ve all had some such thought before. I hope.
Indeed, it’s partly why I have a job! We do church, in part, to connect with the cosmos’ Creator. Thus, religion and cosmology have long been close partners; religion being the senior partner for much of history. But not so much anymore, right? Modern physicists who think about these questions are much more likely to quote from Einstein than St. Paul. Abstract math describes the stars’ motions more accurately than poetic statements from the Psalms. Experiments for discovering the secrets of space are better done through massive particle colliders than meditative prayer. Those methods and mathematical models, in fact, have grown so powerful for describing reality, we religious folk can sometimes feel, now, like time is passing us by.
But we shouldn’t, I think, and not because I’m a Christian who thinks the Bible’s more accurate than modern science. The Big Bang sounds more likely a theory to me than either of Genesis’s creation stories. Rather, it’s the very weirdness physicists are discovering, hidden within the fundamental “stuff” that comprises us, that encourages me to keep my mind open to more than only what I can see. Because deep within our minds, our cells, our atoms, strange things happen. Barely perceivable events happen constantly that seemingly contradict laws we’d think common sense. I won’t pretend to understand that stuff, like quantum theory or indeterminacy, but suffice to say that the days are long over of smart folk thinking reality was simple to grasp.
Besides, the heart of religion isn’t so much about finding exact formulas to predict the behavior of people and weather. Sure, for a while people thought that correct prayers would impact that stuff, but I suspect we’ve mostly evolved as a religious species. Religion’s contribution to describing the cosmos, instead, is less about mechanics and more about character. We stare into the stars, seeking the personality behind whatever designer may’ve pushed them into their orbits.
And 1 John puts our most basic “findings” into as precise a formula as any. “God is Love,” he wrote. The two words, we believe, are synonyms. Such that, in this backwater corner of an insignificant galaxy within a vast universe, among many others, our species looks above and understands basic laws, then shares awe at their beauty with others. That something so lovely and improbable could occur among so massive a reality is crazy and wonderful to me. Yet, it reminds me of that babe born in out-of-the-way Bethlehem, poor and insignificant, yet precious to all. But such is the character of this world’s Creator. God is Love, unto eternity. And if the stars themselves follow that law, I guess we should too. Thankfully, for that, for you Christ was born.
Grace and Peace,
Shane Read more!
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Impossible…
Our ideas are too often too small. And in recent days, I’ve felt struck by that observation. In our personal lives, too readily Christians imagine that God imagines little for us. We want eternal life from God- not an inconsequential thing, surely- but might God desire more for and from us in this life too? It seems to me that our communities usually hope collectively for but simple advances of the common good. Broadly shared justice and prosperity sound wonderful, all things considered. But when we consider whether that’s possible, or the effort it would take, don’t we frequently turn to cynicism, inaction, even despair?
Forgive that downhearted opening! Let me explain. As many of you have also, I’m sure, I’ve spent time recently reflecting on Nelson Mandela. I’m too young to have been aware of his country’s struggles in real time. Most nine year-olds probably don’t follow momentous events a world away. But I do remember seeing a movie in childhood called The Power of One that was both a tragic love story and a film exploring South Africa’s fight for racial justice. The imprint it left on my young soul then was firm- that skin color shouldn’t cause people to mistreat their neighbors; that no person, however seemingly insignificant, is unimportant. We all can matter, can help, should live for ideas and dreams greater than ourselves.
Then in college, as an overwhelmed philosophy major, I read a small treatise for my honors thesis. It was called On Forgiveness, by distinguished- and weird- French philosopher Jacques Derrida. I won’t bore you with the details of his complex argument, but the main point is one I still affirm. He argued that forgiveness, at its heart, is an impossible phenomenon. For one, we often don’t want it. We typically content ourselves with revenge or basic justice. To move beyond convicting your enemy to forgiving your enemy is often a bridge too far. Plus, even if you attempt forgiveness, the person you seek to forgive is, basically, no longer present. Time has elapsed; her attitude might’ve changed. She might even now be apologizing! In that sense, it’s no longer the attacker you’re forgiving. It’s someone safer, someone more sanitary. So to forgive fully demands a victimized soul to reach back in time, and confront his enemy as his enemy, then say, “You’re forgiven.” That’s impossible.
Yet it happens, occasionally, Derrida observes. He then pushes the argument to wild extremes. He wonders if this impossible task, so absurd yet so real, is what makes us, in fact, truly human. As a Christian, I interpret that idea in light of Genesis 1, which describes us all as made in God’s image, designed at our core to do the impossible. To create life in loving partnership. To see beyond our surface-level differences to the common wonder that connects all. To forgive, actually forgive, by remaking relationships broken by sin.
The experience that Derrida points to in making his argument connects to Mandela. After Apartheid, you maybe remember South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Committee. This book first brought it to my attention, how- with Mandela’s guidance- they offered egregious perpetrators pardon, conditional on their appearing before a committee of judges and admitting the crimes they committed. These were abusers, murderers, rapists, many still armed and targets for possible revenge. But in the interests of moving forward as a society, seeking long-term, restorative justice rather than decades of subsequent trials, evasions and dangerous division, forgiveness became the country’s expectation. And together, they did the impossible.
In other words, after centuries of turmoil, these people weren’t content with small ideas. They drew on the grandest hopes of the Gospel and human possibility to accomplish an unprecedented good before all the world. In light of Mr. Mandela’s passing, I’m feeling convicted to “biggen” my thinking, to remember that at my core is God’s Image; glorious, impossible, divine. And if that’s true, then my usual hopes for personal peace and comfort feel inadequate. As Jesus said, “God’s Kingdom is coming.” That’s a huge idea! Yet he believed it possible, waiting simply for us to share his dream and make it so.
Grace and Peace,
Shane
Read more!
Forgive that downhearted opening! Let me explain. As many of you have also, I’m sure, I’ve spent time recently reflecting on Nelson Mandela. I’m too young to have been aware of his country’s struggles in real time. Most nine year-olds probably don’t follow momentous events a world away. But I do remember seeing a movie in childhood called The Power of One that was both a tragic love story and a film exploring South Africa’s fight for racial justice. The imprint it left on my young soul then was firm- that skin color shouldn’t cause people to mistreat their neighbors; that no person, however seemingly insignificant, is unimportant. We all can matter, can help, should live for ideas and dreams greater than ourselves.
Then in college, as an overwhelmed philosophy major, I read a small treatise for my honors thesis. It was called On Forgiveness, by distinguished- and weird- French philosopher Jacques Derrida. I won’t bore you with the details of his complex argument, but the main point is one I still affirm. He argued that forgiveness, at its heart, is an impossible phenomenon. For one, we often don’t want it. We typically content ourselves with revenge or basic justice. To move beyond convicting your enemy to forgiving your enemy is often a bridge too far. Plus, even if you attempt forgiveness, the person you seek to forgive is, basically, no longer present. Time has elapsed; her attitude might’ve changed. She might even now be apologizing! In that sense, it’s no longer the attacker you’re forgiving. It’s someone safer, someone more sanitary. So to forgive fully demands a victimized soul to reach back in time, and confront his enemy as his enemy, then say, “You’re forgiven.” That’s impossible.
Yet it happens, occasionally, Derrida observes. He then pushes the argument to wild extremes. He wonders if this impossible task, so absurd yet so real, is what makes us, in fact, truly human. As a Christian, I interpret that idea in light of Genesis 1, which describes us all as made in God’s image, designed at our core to do the impossible. To create life in loving partnership. To see beyond our surface-level differences to the common wonder that connects all. To forgive, actually forgive, by remaking relationships broken by sin.
The experience that Derrida points to in making his argument connects to Mandela. After Apartheid, you maybe remember South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Committee. This book first brought it to my attention, how- with Mandela’s guidance- they offered egregious perpetrators pardon, conditional on their appearing before a committee of judges and admitting the crimes they committed. These were abusers, murderers, rapists, many still armed and targets for possible revenge. But in the interests of moving forward as a society, seeking long-term, restorative justice rather than decades of subsequent trials, evasions and dangerous division, forgiveness became the country’s expectation. And together, they did the impossible.
In other words, after centuries of turmoil, these people weren’t content with small ideas. They drew on the grandest hopes of the Gospel and human possibility to accomplish an unprecedented good before all the world. In light of Mr. Mandela’s passing, I’m feeling convicted to “biggen” my thinking, to remember that at my core is God’s Image; glorious, impossible, divine. And if that’s true, then my usual hopes for personal peace and comfort feel inadequate. As Jesus said, “God’s Kingdom is coming.” That’s a huge idea! Yet he believed it possible, waiting simply for us to share his dream and make it so.
Grace and Peace,
Shane
Read more!
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Blessings count…
Ugh. I’m looking out of my window and see the worst of all non-disaster related weather events happening. Not snow, not rain, but snow mixed with rain that’s just barely cold enough to not melt. It’s like slush, but more dangerous to drive and walk on. I’ll call it slice. Or snush. Whatever the term, I should just stay inside, amen?!
The past two weeks, I’ve been reading a book about the “peopling of America.” That refers to our nation’s first European settlers. And the slaves they brought too. Native folk will say the land was peopled already, thank you very much. The title of this historical tome sets the stage poignantly, and sadly. It’s called, “The Barbarous Years,” and focuses on 1600-1675, written by Bernard Bailyn, Pulitzer Prize winning Harvard historian and all-around American Founders expert.
The story is brutal. As he puts it, “Death was everywhere” in colonial America. Death is everywhere always, but in certain circumstances, its hands are more frequent and grasping. Bailyn describes settlements from Virginia to New England to what eventually became New York, and time after time these fragile communities suffered beyond my imaginings. I mean, sure, I remember elementary school legends about huddled settlers near Plymouth Rock, gratefully accepting assistance in their need from friendly, local Indians. I had some awareness of what happened next- the Pilgrims soon turned on their native hosts. Blood feuds, war, even genocide complemented efforts to trade and survive.
But the depth of that period’s suffering, among colonists but especially native peoples and slaves, was even more severe than I’d previously realized. Perhaps that says something about my own historical ignorance. And there’s also something in that about our modern sugar-coating of the nation’s founding (a process every nation undertakes, by the way; we all want the past to be nobler than it frequently was). But I also think this story is one about the vast improvements made across the centuries. I can stare out the window at slice/snush/icky ice and say, “I’ll be okay inside. I’ve got what I need.”
The original colonists had no such luxury, of course, especially in the first years, when Atlantic seaboard winters wiped out entire towns, desperate people resorting to terrible measures- stealing Indians’ seed corn, lunches of leather, occasional cannibalism. Many came to these shores fleeing what they considered religious persecution. So a blazing fire of faith drove them to persevere through these hardships, and then inflict more hardship on “heathen” natives, barbarians they thought. But the settlers whose stories most intrigue me aren’t the pious, well-documented Puritan Pilgrims. It’s the high percentage of travelers who came as servants or basic workers without an agenda. They made up about one-third of the Mayflower’s passengers, and had no interest in establishing a pure, new world religious outpost. They simply thought this foreign land held more opportunity for work, advancement, survival.
Little did they know. Or maybe they did know the depravations the journey would entail. Nevertheless, they gathered all they had and sought a fresh start or new adventure. What does that say about the society they left behind, the struggles of ordinary poor folk in 17th century England? I haven’t read that book yet, so I can’t say for sure, though I suspect the situation “at home” was desperate too.
Which returns me to my forlorn glances out of the window today and niggling annoyance I can’t take my dog for a run. I may have trouble counting my blessings at times, but I’ve got a great many to count, if I took the time. People in generations before mine underwent ghastly struggles that- God willing- I’ll never have to endure, not even close. Native tribes exterminated by disease or bigotry. African families bought and sold and treated like cattle. Fragile European migrant communities still figuring out how to till this soil, build enduring homes, make a living or simply survive. It’s not a new or especially insightful point I’m trying to make. But it’s useful to remember now and again. For all our troubles, we have many advantages unthinkable to ages past. May it be our kids will say the same.
Grace and Peace,
Shane
Read more!
The past two weeks, I’ve been reading a book about the “peopling of America.” That refers to our nation’s first European settlers. And the slaves they brought too. Native folk will say the land was peopled already, thank you very much. The title of this historical tome sets the stage poignantly, and sadly. It’s called, “The Barbarous Years,” and focuses on 1600-1675, written by Bernard Bailyn, Pulitzer Prize winning Harvard historian and all-around American Founders expert.
The story is brutal. As he puts it, “Death was everywhere” in colonial America. Death is everywhere always, but in certain circumstances, its hands are more frequent and grasping. Bailyn describes settlements from Virginia to New England to what eventually became New York, and time after time these fragile communities suffered beyond my imaginings. I mean, sure, I remember elementary school legends about huddled settlers near Plymouth Rock, gratefully accepting assistance in their need from friendly, local Indians. I had some awareness of what happened next- the Pilgrims soon turned on their native hosts. Blood feuds, war, even genocide complemented efforts to trade and survive.
But the depth of that period’s suffering, among colonists but especially native peoples and slaves, was even more severe than I’d previously realized. Perhaps that says something about my own historical ignorance. And there’s also something in that about our modern sugar-coating of the nation’s founding (a process every nation undertakes, by the way; we all want the past to be nobler than it frequently was). But I also think this story is one about the vast improvements made across the centuries. I can stare out the window at slice/snush/icky ice and say, “I’ll be okay inside. I’ve got what I need.”
The original colonists had no such luxury, of course, especially in the first years, when Atlantic seaboard winters wiped out entire towns, desperate people resorting to terrible measures- stealing Indians’ seed corn, lunches of leather, occasional cannibalism. Many came to these shores fleeing what they considered religious persecution. So a blazing fire of faith drove them to persevere through these hardships, and then inflict more hardship on “heathen” natives, barbarians they thought. But the settlers whose stories most intrigue me aren’t the pious, well-documented Puritan Pilgrims. It’s the high percentage of travelers who came as servants or basic workers without an agenda. They made up about one-third of the Mayflower’s passengers, and had no interest in establishing a pure, new world religious outpost. They simply thought this foreign land held more opportunity for work, advancement, survival.
Little did they know. Or maybe they did know the depravations the journey would entail. Nevertheless, they gathered all they had and sought a fresh start or new adventure. What does that say about the society they left behind, the struggles of ordinary poor folk in 17th century England? I haven’t read that book yet, so I can’t say for sure, though I suspect the situation “at home” was desperate too.
Which returns me to my forlorn glances out of the window today and niggling annoyance I can’t take my dog for a run. I may have trouble counting my blessings at times, but I’ve got a great many to count, if I took the time. People in generations before mine underwent ghastly struggles that- God willing- I’ll never have to endure, not even close. Native tribes exterminated by disease or bigotry. African families bought and sold and treated like cattle. Fragile European migrant communities still figuring out how to till this soil, build enduring homes, make a living or simply survive. It’s not a new or especially insightful point I’m trying to make. But it’s useful to remember now and again. For all our troubles, we have many advantages unthinkable to ages past. May it be our kids will say the same.
Grace and Peace,
Shane
Read more!
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Silent Night….
Among the moments I most look forward to each year is the end of our Christmas Eve service. We’ve typically spent the past half hour reading familiar stories, singing beloved carols, reflecting together on the glorious mystery that is Jesus, Emmanuel, God with Us. Then I’ll walk to the back of the sanctuary and turn off the lights and pass around flame from the Advent Wreath candle to handheld candles we’re holding. As dimness first falls and then slowly recedes- these simple torches collectively pushing back the dark- Jeremae leads the congregation in singing Silent Night. We go through four verses; often the piano cuts out toward the end. And a peace that passes understanding wraps our church for a blessed moment. Every year, I feel a chill and a flash of profound awe. God is here, among us, prepared to still love us, from everlasting to everlasting.
We’ll do that again this year; join us for a Christmas Eve service staring at 4:30PM. But as I’ve thought recently about not just that time of worship, but the entire Advent season, something struck me about the Christmas narratives that, honestly, hasn’t before. There are very few, if any, silent nights in those familiar texts. You know the stories I’m referring to- Mary and Joseph learning she’s pregnant, Magi traveling to honor the Christ child, shepherds and angels outside Bethlehem. The Christmas story, broadly conceived. Night figures into many of these plots. The characters are sleeping, or praying, or waiting. And time and again, God or something divine shows up, interrupting what those people were doing. Which is to say, their nights are markedly unsilent. Not peace, but disruption descends.
For instance, take Joseph, who’s snoring away one evening. He has a dream telling him, “Your fiancé is pregnant and the kid’s going to save your people.” I don’t imagine he woke up slowly from that dream, no languid morning yawn. God arrived and totally disrupted his plans, his family, his life.
Not only does that shocking disturbance contrast with the peace I feel singing Silent Night, I’m wondering if it contrasts with many of our spiritual expectations. In other words, it’s bigger than Christmas. We often expect comfort and calm from God. I’ll sing “Abide with Me” one May Sunday morning and sway in relaxed contentment. I’ll say my prayers before dinner one evening and, with a self-satisfied grin, dig in. Occasionally, I’ll include in that mealtime grace a phrase, “May you care for those going without tonight.” But never, in response to that prayer, have I stepped outside to share my table with someone nearby in need. Never have I left that table once dinner’s over to make a donation to IOCP’s food shelf. Not that any of us have to do that in order to claim spiritual integrity. The point is, rather, that saying grace to me is an exercise in comfort or routine. It’s certainly not a time I expect God to disturb me. I wonder if I ever do.
But we should, right? We should expect that God, every now and then or more often, wants to shake things up. Of course, sometimes we beg for it! Those times we’re feeling down, at a loss, in need of help, nowhere to turn. But other times, when life is smooth and we’re feeling in control, on top of things, God knows others don’t have that good feeling, and you could probably help out. Besides, spiritual growth never ends. We’ve never fully developed our relationship to God. And being human, you (and I!) get into routines, into comfort zones that arrest growth.
So this Advent, I think it’ll do you and me some spiritual good to think of such things. To re-encounter the story of Christmas as a parade of unsilent nights. We’ll still sing beloved, familiar songs at church. We’ll re-enact that annual waiting for Christ’s birth. But we’ll ponder that event in light of God’s tendency not just to comfort us, but also to disturb us. After all, Christmas isn’t normal. God, in flesh, dwelling among us…?! You’d think that would change someone’s world, right?
Well, does it yours?
Grace and Peace,
Shane
Read more!
We’ll do that again this year; join us for a Christmas Eve service staring at 4:30PM. But as I’ve thought recently about not just that time of worship, but the entire Advent season, something struck me about the Christmas narratives that, honestly, hasn’t before. There are very few, if any, silent nights in those familiar texts. You know the stories I’m referring to- Mary and Joseph learning she’s pregnant, Magi traveling to honor the Christ child, shepherds and angels outside Bethlehem. The Christmas story, broadly conceived. Night figures into many of these plots. The characters are sleeping, or praying, or waiting. And time and again, God or something divine shows up, interrupting what those people were doing. Which is to say, their nights are markedly unsilent. Not peace, but disruption descends.
For instance, take Joseph, who’s snoring away one evening. He has a dream telling him, “Your fiancé is pregnant and the kid’s going to save your people.” I don’t imagine he woke up slowly from that dream, no languid morning yawn. God arrived and totally disrupted his plans, his family, his life.
Not only does that shocking disturbance contrast with the peace I feel singing Silent Night, I’m wondering if it contrasts with many of our spiritual expectations. In other words, it’s bigger than Christmas. We often expect comfort and calm from God. I’ll sing “Abide with Me” one May Sunday morning and sway in relaxed contentment. I’ll say my prayers before dinner one evening and, with a self-satisfied grin, dig in. Occasionally, I’ll include in that mealtime grace a phrase, “May you care for those going without tonight.” But never, in response to that prayer, have I stepped outside to share my table with someone nearby in need. Never have I left that table once dinner’s over to make a donation to IOCP’s food shelf. Not that any of us have to do that in order to claim spiritual integrity. The point is, rather, that saying grace to me is an exercise in comfort or routine. It’s certainly not a time I expect God to disturb me. I wonder if I ever do.
But we should, right? We should expect that God, every now and then or more often, wants to shake things up. Of course, sometimes we beg for it! Those times we’re feeling down, at a loss, in need of help, nowhere to turn. But other times, when life is smooth and we’re feeling in control, on top of things, God knows others don’t have that good feeling, and you could probably help out. Besides, spiritual growth never ends. We’ve never fully developed our relationship to God. And being human, you (and I!) get into routines, into comfort zones that arrest growth.
So this Advent, I think it’ll do you and me some spiritual good to think of such things. To re-encounter the story of Christmas as a parade of unsilent nights. We’ll still sing beloved, familiar songs at church. We’ll re-enact that annual waiting for Christ’s birth. But we’ll ponder that event in light of God’s tendency not just to comfort us, but also to disturb us. After all, Christmas isn’t normal. God, in flesh, dwelling among us…?! You’d think that would change someone’s world, right?
Well, does it yours?
Grace and Peace,
Shane
Read more!
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Thanks…
As we prepare for Thanksgiving, my thoughts turn to a moment during my Bosnia Sabbatical. Toward its end, I had an encounter with gratitude that y’all might find stimulating.
We- meaning I and the middle-aged man who was my sabbatical guide- began a journey to the country’s south one morning, knowing a ninety-minute drive loomed ahead. You should know that my guide worked for several years as a Church World Service employee. His job was directing charitable donations- from Disciples of Christ and others- to poverty relief and redevelopment projects following the 1990s war. So stop one on our trip was a church, whose building and community he’d helped restore. Next, we drove to a famous tourist site; a centuries’ old Islamic monastic (Dervish) house.
Noon arrived. It had been a full morning, and we had several more visits planned. But suddenly, my guide stopped the car and said, “Tell me Shane- yes or no?” Conspicuously, he’d not shared the original question, though I saw he was wrestling with something internally. Being generally positive, I figured “Yes” is usually best, and that’s what I said.
He responded, “Okay. Then we’re going now to meet another family I know. Their farm is in a village about twenty minutes away that CWS helped rebuild after the war. The problem is, the man from that family who I’d worked most closely with died last January. I haven’t seen them since. I kept wanting too, but it’s far from my home. Now that I’m close, however, I thought we could stop, but I wasn’t sure that was right, since we’d arrive without a gift to give his mother.”
My “yes”, then, was the deciding factor for his paying condolences now or waiting for another time. At first, his concern confused me. Do we need a gift to say, “I’m sorry”? But I figured it wasn’t my culture, so I’d best sit back and observe. Then, it occurred to me that the woman we’d meet had experienced a parent’s worst fear- seeing a child die before her. Our visit could stoke the fires on painfully hot memories. A gift to cool the flames was the least we might do.
Yet we went, rather anxious whether we’d be a welcome distraction or renewed burden. My guide said hello and offered regrets to the still-grieving mother, ninety years old. She gave us homemade pomegranate juice and several cookies beloved in that country. My guide told her how much her son had meant to him, and the fondness his memory still brings.
I couldn’t understand most of this, of course. They spoke Bosnian; I smiled and watched. But as my guide translated to me what was happening, I saw a change in the woman’s wrinkled forehead. The burden of years and conflict and loss didn’t leave her, but they shifted noticeably. And a sincere, relieved smile emerged. She grabbed and patted his hand.
Right then, I realized- and I hope my guide did too- that he had brought the woman a gift. It wasn’t tangible, not like the boxes of pomegranates and vegetables they loaded into our car as we left, despite our protests of “It’s too much, too kind, really.” They kept giving. Rather, my guide’s gift was something a woman in her situation couldn’t buy, but desperately wanted. She saw that she wasn’t alone in her grief, in missing her beloved boy. Indeed, because my guide went out of his way to witness her sorrow, to share his with her, she learned that her son’s memory endured in more hearts than her own. I’ve grieved before. I know how lonely, how isolating it can be. So to discover others are in it with you, to be assured your loved one’s life made a difference, isn’t forgotten…well…she was grateful.
We stayed for just a few minutes longer, toured their farm and moved on. I saw more tourist sites, heard further stories, ate the best ice cream you can imagine. Night had fallen as we arrived back home. I opened the door and said goodbye. My guide said, “I’m glad we said hello to that family.” I was too.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Grace and Peace,
Shane Read more!
We- meaning I and the middle-aged man who was my sabbatical guide- began a journey to the country’s south one morning, knowing a ninety-minute drive loomed ahead. You should know that my guide worked for several years as a Church World Service employee. His job was directing charitable donations- from Disciples of Christ and others- to poverty relief and redevelopment projects following the 1990s war. So stop one on our trip was a church, whose building and community he’d helped restore. Next, we drove to a famous tourist site; a centuries’ old Islamic monastic (Dervish) house.
Noon arrived. It had been a full morning, and we had several more visits planned. But suddenly, my guide stopped the car and said, “Tell me Shane- yes or no?” Conspicuously, he’d not shared the original question, though I saw he was wrestling with something internally. Being generally positive, I figured “Yes” is usually best, and that’s what I said.
He responded, “Okay. Then we’re going now to meet another family I know. Their farm is in a village about twenty minutes away that CWS helped rebuild after the war. The problem is, the man from that family who I’d worked most closely with died last January. I haven’t seen them since. I kept wanting too, but it’s far from my home. Now that I’m close, however, I thought we could stop, but I wasn’t sure that was right, since we’d arrive without a gift to give his mother.”
My “yes”, then, was the deciding factor for his paying condolences now or waiting for another time. At first, his concern confused me. Do we need a gift to say, “I’m sorry”? But I figured it wasn’t my culture, so I’d best sit back and observe. Then, it occurred to me that the woman we’d meet had experienced a parent’s worst fear- seeing a child die before her. Our visit could stoke the fires on painfully hot memories. A gift to cool the flames was the least we might do.
Yet we went, rather anxious whether we’d be a welcome distraction or renewed burden. My guide said hello and offered regrets to the still-grieving mother, ninety years old. She gave us homemade pomegranate juice and several cookies beloved in that country. My guide told her how much her son had meant to him, and the fondness his memory still brings.
I couldn’t understand most of this, of course. They spoke Bosnian; I smiled and watched. But as my guide translated to me what was happening, I saw a change in the woman’s wrinkled forehead. The burden of years and conflict and loss didn’t leave her, but they shifted noticeably. And a sincere, relieved smile emerged. She grabbed and patted his hand.
Right then, I realized- and I hope my guide did too- that he had brought the woman a gift. It wasn’t tangible, not like the boxes of pomegranates and vegetables they loaded into our car as we left, despite our protests of “It’s too much, too kind, really.” They kept giving. Rather, my guide’s gift was something a woman in her situation couldn’t buy, but desperately wanted. She saw that she wasn’t alone in her grief, in missing her beloved boy. Indeed, because my guide went out of his way to witness her sorrow, to share his with her, she learned that her son’s memory endured in more hearts than her own. I’ve grieved before. I know how lonely, how isolating it can be. So to discover others are in it with you, to be assured your loved one’s life made a difference, isn’t forgotten…well…she was grateful.
We stayed for just a few minutes longer, toured their farm and moved on. I saw more tourist sites, heard further stories, ate the best ice cream you can imagine. Night had fallen as we arrived back home. I opened the door and said goodbye. My guide said, “I’m glad we said hello to that family.” I was too.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Grace and Peace,
Shane Read more!
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