What Have I learned about PCCC?

Hospitable, agile, curious, and fun.

Plymouth Creekers,

These are some of the more quirky ways I would describe Plymouth Creek Christian Church and its members, and characteristics I have come to appreciate as important for a church to have during my time here. Of course, they are not traits that apply to everyone all of the time, but they are nevertheless present and, in my opinion, worth continuing to aspire to.

I find them especially significant because of the little bit that I have discovered along the way about this church’s past. Based on the conversations I have had with a few of you, it would be easy for you all to focus on the time between the initial break some of you made with First Christian Church in Minneapolis and the construction of the building you all now call home. I could understand this focus on the past. A number of charter members of PCCC are still in attendance. And yet it seems that this focus on the past at this time, for most, would lead either to sadness and weariness or to too quick a sense of accomplishment and completion. So I admire that you all have chosen instead to “let your gaze be straight before you,” as Proverbs would advise. For otherwise it would be easy to be stiff in your ways, hostile to more change, and therefore skeptical of new things and people as well as altogether too serious. But instead through Shane’s and others’ leadership, a mutual faithfulness towards one another, and a willingness to be honest and vulnerable before God and each other, I have seen what appears to me to be the fruit of your ongoing decision to be agile rather than stiff, curious rather than hostile, hospitable rather than skeptical, and fun rather than altogether too serious.

I have seen this, for instance, on Holy Hilarity Sunday. We laughed and celebrated with joy even through hard times of uncertainty in, for instance, Pat Farr’s condition (praise God for her return home). I have seen this having coffee with a number of you. You asked me questions about my life and chose to invest in my short time here. I have seen this from the pulpit as I began my sermon. I received not harsh, blank stares but smiling, interested faces. And I have seen this at Servant Leader and Board meetings, where people have been honest and unafraid about trying new things and caring deeply for one another.

None of this is to say that there are not still wounds from the past and present waiting to be healed, voids of hurt or even resentment that haven’t experienced full reconciliation, and questions about where you all are going and how you are going to get there. But I think it is to say that there is reason to celebrate. There is reason to celebrate the community that exists here and the values that community (you all) are going after together. Bravo. I, for one, am excited to be a part of it. Thanks for letting me. May God continue to guide you this week and for a long time after.



Your grateful intern,

Hayden Read more!

Tradition!…

Have you seen Fiddler on the Roof? It’s been many years, personally. Yet I can still easily recall its catchy songs if I’m feeling so inclined. And I have been recently; Fiddler’s opening tune bouncing through my brain space. It’s called, “Tradition,” in which the characters describe various roles expected of people in their rustic village.

There’s the papa, “Who day and night must scramble for a living, feed a wife and children, say his daily prayers.” There’s the mama, “Who must know the way to make a proper home, a quiet home, a kosher home” (the story’s about an early 20th century Russian Jewish community struggling to navigate society changing around them). There’s the son, “I hear they picked a bride for me, I hope…she’s pretty.” And the daughter, “preparing me to marry whoever Papa picks!”

Things have changed, amen? And not just for Jewish communities in rural Russia! Contemporary Americans, when deciding family or gender roles, choose among a range of options, if they choose at all. Most marriages are no longer arranged. Dual income households appear frequently. Just this week, Minnesota approved same sex marriage. Fiddler’s celebrated matchmaker Tseitel would have catching up to do.

Embedded in this song, and much conversation about “tradition”, I think, is a familiar notion, that tradition is something we inherit that’s stable, established, set. On Sunday, I talked with someone about the role of tradition in our faith community. Early Disciples looked down on “tradition,” equating it with “man-made” developments and mistakes. By contrast, they wanted to return to scripture’s original teachings, restoring The early church.

Since then, we’ve learned that such thinking was rather incomplete. For instance, the New Testament says nothing clear on the Trinity; that doctrine developed later. The early church(es!) rarely agreed on how to treat converts, slaves, women. The Bible’s books weren’t decided upon until the 4th century. Before then, various faith communities considered a glut of material “inspired scripture.” All of which is to say that many well-loved theological ideas were the outcome of post-resurrection debates. In hindsight, these are our “tradition”. At the time, they were fraught conversations, new initiatives, creative solutions, hard work.

Many theologians, in fact, advocate an important idea we should take seriously. No “tradition” is ever settled. It’s always in process, evolving. Take the marriage debate. For many good and faithful people, traditional marriage means one man, one woman, that’s it. Such a description, of course, would be news to patriarch Abraham and his several wives. Which isn’t to say those who espouse what they now call “traditional marriage” are necessarily wrong to think thus. Instead, it’s to reframe the question, asking what our ancestors discerned about relationships that inspired them to change tradition and reject polygamy.

And it further highlights another critical fact about tradition, to my mind. Precisely because it’s never settled, filled with competing voices, complicated and unclear, those of us who claim allegiance to a faith tradition have responsibility for its future. Personally, when required to make decisions about our faith tradition- what to accept, avoid, teach, or work to change- I begin with Love. That’s the dominant thread I discern running through the story of Creation, Israel’s sojourns, Jesus’ resurrection, the church’s adventure. The God of all who created all, loves all. And wants us to love all in return. That’s why I support this week’s marriage decision, and why I don’t belittle other faithful souls who disagree with me about that. God’s best name is Love. And that extends to everyone, no exceptions, I believe. But there are forces at work who deny the divine power of love, nurture division and promote discord. Should they, from either within or beyond Christianity, gain control over defining our “tradition”, our church’s work will be harder. Christ’s mission through us will be hurt.

So it’s up to us to take our tradition seriously, wrestle with its complexities, work for its development. We can’t just ignore it or concede to it. Those who gifted it to us are counting on us. I won’t pretend that’s easy, precisely because we might disagree. But doing so, while sticking together in love, is- traditionally speaking- divine.



Grace and Peace,

Shane Read more!

Receipts…

Forgive me for bringing this up waaaayy too early. But I’m skeptical about the phenomenon of Christmas gift receipts. Sure, you can include with any gift a special receipt without price, allowing for easy return. But mostly, we do this with Christmas gifts. And I think the trend’s increasing.

Which annoys me, instinctively. Perhaps I’m missing the point. But consider that, first off, it’s a total lie; if you return the gift, you learn the price anyway. So apparently, you’re only not supposed to know the gift’s value if you use it, as intended. But if not, who cares? I find that confusing. More importantly, though, why are we so obsessed with returning gifts in the first place?! Do we feel entitled to critique what others spend freely on us, judging whether it’s truly worthy of our possessing it? I know not everyone feels this way, and that some gifts are epically bad. Nevertheless, a gift is a gift. It’s something you don’t pay for, that you had no claim to originally. So say you’re welcome, enjoy it or put it in the closet. A poor gift does no harm. Usually.

But it’s May. We should be thinking not of Christmas, but sun, gardens and vacations. And, of course, pledge campaigns. PCCC does this annually, ask PCCCers to make pledges for next year’s budget. I won’t focus on that except to remind you a) pledges by May 19 please!, and b) our 2013 theme is spiritual gifts.

So…about spirituals gifts, what are yours? How do you give them, develop them, gracefully receive others’? It’s an awkward question for MN-nice folk. We don’t like proclaiming our gifts. The thing is, though, God created you. God’s Spirit dwells within you. So you have spiritual gifts. Deal with it. No heavenly Macy’s available for return!

The question, therefore, is one of stewardship, using our gifted resources well. And one way I think PCCC does this is through participation in worship. We both receive others’ gifts and share ours through prayer, fellowship, song. So to explore that, I recently asked intern Hayden to think with me about our worship, asking whether our church shares well our best gifts each Sunday. Our decision: Maybe, often, many prayers are wonderful , the choir’s joyous! But the deeper stuff- Plymouth Creek’s values- don’t get shared consistently enough, obviously enough. Would every Sunday visitor know we value unconditional hospitality? Friendly, intimate community? Freedom of belief? Joyful service? Some Sundays, totally obvious. Other Sundays, not really.

Plus, I don’t think we’re “receiving” or probing these values as richly as we could. The reason: Your worship planner- me!- doesn’t communicate in those terms regularly. So we’re making a couple tweaks this month; a good ole PCCC worship experiment. First, we’re including one non-scripture reading in every service, something from a novel, poem or wise sage related to that week’s scripture. Hopefully, this communicates to us and newcomers that we welcome many voices to the table, believing God works beyond our walls, inviting us to follow! Second, we’ll take a half minute or so after each sermon for personal prayer and reflection. This acknowledges that preachers never “finish” the sermon; listeners do! So with Jeremae softly playing as everyone ponders prayerfully (or waits patiently), we’ll have more freedom to believe and decide how God wants us to live.

Maybe you’ll like these experiments. Maybe not. But we’re trying, which matters. Put differently, we’re hoping to include more gifts in our worship, and give ourselves more chances to receive them well. If it works, these gifts could welcome visitors better, while empowering us to serve God’s world more. If it doesn’t work, consider this letter a worship gift receipt. We’ll stop, start over and try again! The point is, you never get a gift if you’re not opening to receiving it. Either you turn it away, or return it for yourself, and then it’s not a gift anymore, not really. Which is fine if the original gift was a ghastly, ugly sweater! But for spiritual gifts, more’s at stake; God’s kingdom come on earth. May we have courage to receive- and give- as God intends. Worshipfully, consistently, together.

Grace and Peace,
Shane Read more!

Unseasonable discoveries…

Tabitha uploaded a stunning picture to her Facebook profile recently. Our backyard blanketed in inches of fresh show, weighed-down tree branches drooping, wintery bliss lit by the emerging illumination of morning’s almost dawn. Maybe it’s my Colorado roots (sorry Florida), but I’ve long been convinced that new snowfall best expresses the earth’s created purity. Yet this recent photo posting was more a protest than a celebration of beauty. I mean, marvelous whiteouts are great for President’s Day, but obnoxious for Tax Day, right?! Apparently, this winter forgot to read Ecclesiastes- “For everything there is a season.”

Of course, when you dig into that famous Ecclesiastes passage, you discover the writer (stylishly named Qoheleth) arguing against a different instinct- the oh-so-understandable desire to want only good things in life, to experience just the comfortable “seasons”. By contrast, Qoheleth observes that just as there’s a time to be born, so there’s naturally a time to die, a time to be happy and to be sad, so on and so forth. And what’s more, the book presses us to go beyond simply acknowledging these facts. It hopes we accept them gracefully, learn to honor them, even celebrate life’s seasons, understanding that human life fully lived must be balanced, entirely experienced.

Thus, the reason this work is among the Bible’s “Wisdom Literature”. That’s what scholars designate books like Ecclesiastes and Proverbs, Job and Psalms. In contrast to prophetic books like Jeremiah or theological histories like the Kings, Ecclesiastes means to impart deep knowledge, upend easy assumptions, usher us into the blessed, ancient company of the divine Lady Wisdom.

For instance, it is wise, Qoheleth surmises, that we welcome the balancing of utter happiness with the seasoning of hardship. Not that pain is good, or we should seek out struggle for its own sake. That isn’t wise! But as true as it is that our challenges- medical, financial, emotional, spiritual- are individually different, so it’s also true that no one escapes the rhythms of life, the vacillations of fortune. Put differently, we’re never in full control, desperately though many strive for it. The better part of wisdom, therefore, is nurturing the humility to live seasonally, to not rebel against whatever “season” you’re in, but accept it for what it is.

Abstractly, that’s easy to say. When someone kicks in your backdoor, however, as happened to mine last August, it’s not so simple as, “Well, there’s a time to be robbed, I guess.” You- at least I- want to rage, to fight, to rebel, and in the case of our home break-in, those feelings seemed entirely justified, thank you very much! Bad things happen to everyone, sure- whatever- just why did this happen to me? Tabitha had an easier time accepting it. We all know, of course, she’s wiser than I!

Here’s the thing about what happened next, however, that I maybe I told you, maybe I didn’t. Our neighbors were kinder to us than they’d ever been before. It’s not like previously they were mean. It’s just that we’d all gone about life ignoring each other, waving occasionally, smiling a bit. After becoming a victim of theft, though, that changed. We talked over the fence, commiserated, their kids played with our dog. And for the first time since I’d lived there, a full year after moving in, I felt truly a part of the neighborhood, welcomed, known, legit. I wish it hadn’t taken a home invasion for that to occur, but so it was. I’m not in control. It taught me that, in every moment, opportunities for grace abide.

Perhaps that’s why Qoheleth wrote, “For everything there is a season,” like a blessing, not a curse. Because the only thing that doesn’t fade, that can’t be jettisoned by the winds of fate, is God’s ever-renewing grace, present everywhere, always. When we celebrate, God laughs along. When we mourn, God whispers resurrection. When eight inches of snow cover the ground mid-April, we could cringe and close our eyes. But we’d miss winter’s last glimpse of unparalleled, stunning beauty.

May it be that whatever season you’re in, you accept it for what it is. Then look for God. Grace is there.


Grace and Peace,

Shane Read more!

Farm land…

Last Thursday, I met a soldier who told me his dreams for life after the Army. He talked of the farming community where he grew up, herds of livestock, acres of orchards. Hills surround the land where his family established roots, where he and his newlywed wife bought a plot for building their own house…one day. Apparently, she’s moved further south to be with her family as he lives deployed at various bases. So the soldier doesn’t return to this home much, yet speaks of it with obvious passion and endearing joy. “You should visit,” he told me, enthusiasm sparkling. It sounded so beautiful I was greatly tempted! The thing is, his home is very far away. And it may not be there if ever I go.

Let me back up. This interaction occurred in Uptown at Temple Israel, an historic local synagogue with marvelous interior design. The senior rabbi hosted an interfaith clergy conversation with visiting soldiers from the Israeli Defense Force (IDF). These five young men and one woman, all officers, none above the age of 26, are traveling around Minneapolis for two weeks giving presentations about the IDF’s mission and goals. I’d attended a similar conversation last year at Beth Shalom in Minnetonka, found the experience intriguing for myriad reasons. It was great to make connections with local Jewish Community leaders; fascinating to learn more about this small, remarkable country; challenging, occasionally unnerving, to ponder the IDF’s responsibilities and actions. They’ve fought anti-Semitic terrorists. They’ve had to defend violent, anti-Arab settlers. The IDF includes young people from often antagonistic ethnic groups (Israeli Arabs, Israeli Jews, Druze, Bedouin) and teaches them to help one another, to build trust, to serve a greater good. The IDF launched a war in the Gaza Strip several years ago, in response to frequent rocket attacks, that devastated its economy, demolished communities and killed scores of non-combatants.

And the home that this soldier I met talks of so lovingly sits in his country’s north. Or rather, it’s in “The Golan” as he put it (the Golan Heights), occupied by his country since 1967. He was born there, so it feels like home, his parents and grandparents having settled years ago with their government’s permission and protection. There are other families, though, Syrian or Druze or Palestinian, who may remember when that land was theirs, who also long to return, whose children don’t recall any farms or houses from childhood, just refugee camps.

One letter is much too small to address the fullness of this fraught situation, and I’m no qualified commentator, by far! Needless to say, we’d all do well to better inform ourselves and never accept easy answers. Soil that over half the world’s population- Muslims, Jews, Christians- feel entitled to calling “personally significant” on religious grounds, is soil that’s bound to cultivate fierce opinions, competing narratives, frequent misunderstanding.

But for a select group of those people, this soil isn’t an idea, a topic of debate. It’s home, at least potentially. I’ve read of the Six Days War and Israel’s takeover of the Golan Heights, along with subsequent offers to return that territory to Syria in exchange for lasting peace. However, I’d never met a person who’d lived there, saw his eye’s nostalgic gleam, heard his hopeful dreams. Friends of mine who’ve talked with Palestinian refugees in Jordanian camps describe hearing something similar of them too. Which reinforces to me an important reason why peace in that land is so hard: home matters.

Uniquely so. Perhaps I’d defend mine to the death. Unlike him, I’ve never had to offer. I mean, America’s neighbors are friendly Canadians, fish, friendly Mexicans, fish. It wasn’t always this way, but it’s been so for over a century. Existentially, we’re quite safe. This soldier, by contrast, lives within ten miles of communities who believe his home should be theirs. I can’t imagine feeling safe, planning the future, easily loving my neighbors. So the next time you hear of trouble over there, remember how complex their lives and challenges are. And pray that the God of all who loves all- repeat All- will lead them all to peace one day, soon.


Grace and Peace,

Shane Read more!

Long run…

I went running this afternoon. Not a long run; just a couple miles indoors at the local gym. When I got home, I fired up the computer to write this letter, checking the news first, like normal. And I learned that someone or ones or group or whatever exploded bombs at the Boston Marathon. Whatever else I might’ve written seems less pressing now.

One of my favorite websites is Foreign Policy Magazine. They cover developments in countries that most American news outlets rarely notice, and so provide a broader perspective on “what’s really happening around the world” than I’d get otherwise. Tragically, I’m becoming immune to reports of makeshift bombs exploding in public spaces and citizen-on-citizen violence ravaging communities. This weekend in Iraq, 27 people were killed, over 100 injured. Last week, a Serbian war veteran rampaged his village, murdering 13. Mogadishu, Somalia, having seen noteworthy gains in peace lately, witnessed an attack over the weekend, 35 people dying, at their supreme court. The Syrian government renewed massacres on its citizens. The Democratic Republic of the Congo remains brutalized in certain regions. Life isn’t terrible in most communities in most countries, but it’s fragile everywhere. Sin persists.

Still, the detachment I’ve cultivated for reading those stories isn’t maintaining itself today. Perhaps because these suffering souls are fellow citizens, the streets cratered are ones I’ve walked, it’s not enough to say, “Well, humans are broken.” These shattered lives demand my fuller attention.

I have friends who once lived along the Boston Marathon route. Every “Patriot’s Day,” when the race is held, they’d set up lawn chairs out front. Not being marathoners, but still amicable fellows, these buddies would cheer the passing runners, invite others friends for a party, and otherwise use the day as an excuse to celebrate life. I mean, it’s quite an achievement, to run any marathon, let alone Boston. Those runners have to qualify with sufficiently low times in other races, meaning they’ve done something I swear the human body wasn’t meant to do- run 26 miles straight- and they did it extremely well. That reflects an incredible characteristic of our species: we frequently urge ourselves to transcend limitations. Running marathons faster and faster. Sending vehicles farther and farther into space. Mapping our basic genetic codes. Eliminating previously devastating diseases.

It’s so easy, in the wake of tragic violence, to forget how true that transcendence is of humans. I’m not sure we’ve made as much progress morally as scientifically, but we’ve still traveled a long way there too. When Jesus said, “Love your neighbor as yourself,” and even, “Love your enemy,” it was hard for his first followers to apply that to even just their closest non-Jewish or non-Roman neighbors. The New Testament treats slavery like it’s normal. Medieval Christians slaughtered newly contacted native Americans, thinking these so-called “heathens” were less than human. We have problems still; sin persists. But in the long run, the love Christ preached has proved transcendent.

So I denounce this afternoon’s bomb attacks as both evil and utterly stupid. Callous disregard for human life has no justification, whatever “motivation” we may eventually learn was used. But even more, the attackers chose as their ‘symbolic event’ a self-defeating situation. They went after marathon runners, people who strive day after day to improve their lives, to stretch themselves beyond normal limits, very few of whom might expect monetary reward. They simply believe in themselves, and by extension humanity, to be better than is rationally expected. Proving that to themselves, and whomever is watching, is generally reward enough for the effort. I commend them, and would’ve done so even before today’s event. But now I celebrate any future marathon runner who takes to the streets in defiance of this nihilistic violence, declaring step after agonizing step, by their willingness to not be cowed into staying home, that we were created for more than terror or violence, that together, we can overcome. For love was, is and always will be our common destination, our finish line. And in light of what’s just happened, may we recommit to it being how we run life’s race too.



Grace and Peace,

Shane
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A Message from Our Spring Intern

In the midst of all of the hoopla recently regarding the conclusions of the Men’s and Women’s March Madness basketball tournaments, my favorite sports moment in the past two weeks actually came on April 1, opening day of the Major League Baseball season. The Boston Red Sox faced (and defeated) the New York Yankees in the first of many games these classic rivals will play against each other this season, but the moment that stuck out most to me came in the ninth inning at a time when the Red Sox were already winning 5-2, a sizable last inning margin by most people’s standards: one of the Red Sox players scored from second base on an infield hit, something almost unimaginable in the majors.

So what does any of this have to do with you, God, or me being the new intern at Plymouth Creek Christian Church? Well, for starters I have always loved baseball, and in high school base running was not only my specialty but also my favorite aspect of the game. Unlike the obvious contributions of hitting and fielding, base running has the ability to more subtly but still drastically change the dynamics of a game. It is a part of the game that most people, baseball players included, take little notice of, and a part of the game that receives little attention on Sports Center. Perhaps most importantly, though the best base-running plays require teamwork and sacrifice. For some such plays, like the “sacrifice fly” or “sacrifice bunt”, this is obvious; but for others it is not, as when a groundball to the right side allows a player to go from second base to third base (or, in the case of the Red Sox game, all the way home), an otherwise awful hit usually only bringing an out now also advancing a base-runner, creating another opportunity to score and eventually win.

This (perhaps convoluted) example from sports sheds light on a much simpler reality that transcends the baseball diamond: good teamwork always requires sacrifice. Last night, for instance, my 13-year-old sister Bailey was told she has to play her worst favorite position in soccer for at least the next few weeks, something she’s very upset about but is coming to terms with because she loves her team. Or consider this often-read passage from Philippians showing God joining our team in Christ, obtaining victory for us all through sacrifice:


If then there is any encouragement in Christ, any consolation from love, any sharing in the Spirit, any compassion and sympathy, make my joy complete: be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others. Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,

who, though he was in the form of God,
did not regard equality with God
as something to be exploited,
but emptied himself,
taking the form of a slave,
being born in human likeness.
And being found in human form,

he humbled himself
and became obedient to the point of death—
even death on a cross.

Therefore God also highly exalted him
and gave him the name
that is above every name,
so that at the name of Jesus
every knee should bend,
in heaven and on earth and under the earth,

and every tongue should confess
that Jesus Christ is Lord,
to the glory of God the Father.


It is in this light that I want to thank you for letting me join the team here at Plymouth Creek, even if only for a short while, for I know it will require sacrifice on your part and on mine, but hopefully growth in love and in joy and in Christ for all of us. Teamwork is not always glamorous or fun, and hardly glorifying in itself, but nevertheless glorious and beautiful in due time.

Grace and Peace,

Hayden
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