Call to Worship

I wrote this Call to Worship a couple of weeks back, and wanted to share it. You’re more than welcome to use it if it’s helpful to you.

Leader: Let us give thanks to the Lord, our rock, our fortress and our deliverer.

People: Let us remember his mercy, for he is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.

Leader: Let us be mindful of the thousand and one ways in which Christ has carried us and the Spirit has protected us this week.

People: Let us offer up the pain and joy and indifference of our lives to God’s loving care.

Leader: Let us listen this morning for a word of clarity, a word of peace, a word of comfort, a word of challenge.

People: Let us sing songs of praise, old and new, thanking God for all that God is and all that God has done.

Together We Pray

After a summer in which I wrote embarrassingly little on this blog, I’m ready to get back on track this fall.

Even though prayer is a central practice of our Christian faith, many of us struggle to engage in it with any regularity. Even when we do summon the discipline to pray, we may feel inadequate or cotton-mouthed or lost. Which is one reason why the the book of Psalms–the prayer book of the church–is such a gift to us. Here are prayers that have been prayed for centuries. Here are prayers that express the full range of human emotion. Here are prayers that give voice to our grief and joy and doubt and courage. If we’re struggling to pray, the Psalms are a good place to start.

J. Bradley Wigger has recently put out an excellent resource to help us pray in the language of the Psalms. Designed for families, Together We Pray is a dynamite prayer book. It’s organized into three parts: (1) Table Prayers for Mealtime; (2) Devotional Prayers of Joy and Care; and (3) Bedtime Prayers. The prayers are short, accessible and drenched in the hopeful language of our faith. For the past month and a half, Arianne and I have fallen in love with it as we’ve used it in our prayers before mealtime.

Here are three examples, one from each section of the book:

Bless this table, bless this food. Bless you God, for it’s all good. (Inspired by Psalm 16)

God of grace and God of mercy, we praise you this day and every day, blessing your name from one generation to the next, forever and ever. Open your hand, compassionate One, and feed the world with the fruits of the season. Open your hand, awesome One, and bless us all with your steadfast love. God of grace and God of mercy, we praise you this day and every day. (Inspired by Psalm 145:15)

For good sleep at night and joy with the day, my soul thanks you God, at rest and at play. (Inspired by Psalm 30)

Book Notes: Almost Christian

Here’s a confession: when I read a first-rate book that really challenges and influences my thinking, it’s hard for me to review it. Reviewing mediocre books is much easier. You set out the basic argument or narrative, say what you found helpful and what you found unhelpful. Reviewing first-rate books requires a lot more of me–I have to rethink things, convince the reader that it is in fact a first-rate book, capture the work the book has done and is doing on me, all of which means that my review is usually long and tedious or it never gets done.

A case in point is that I’ve been meaning to write this very blog post for several months now. I read Kenda Creasy Dean’s Almost Christian: What the Faith of Our Teenagers Is Telling the American Church back in November, and its arguments have been on my mind ever since. But since I know it’s always easier for me to start a new book than it is to write about the one I’ve just finished, I shelved it.

Well, instead of a series of posts, which is what this book deserves, here’s a few paragraphs. I hope to reread this book next year, so perhaps I’ll have more to say then.

Dean’s book is based on the 2005 National Study of Youth and Religion, which focused on the religious lives of American thirteen- to seventeen-year-olds. Based on hundreds of live interviews with a diverse group of youth from across the country, the study found that while our teenagers speak very positively about Christianity they seem unable to articulate why and tend to be quite cavalier when it comes to genuine religious practice. What’s the disconnect? In a predecessor volume to Almost Christian, Christian Smith and Melinda Denton discovered that many teenagers adhered to a form of “Moralistic Therapeutic Deism”–God is nice and wants us to be nice to others, but doesn’t matter that much–that produces a thin spirituality with little resemblance to historic Christianity. But far from blaming our teenagers for believing or practicing this way, Dean places the blame squarely on our churches. Our teenagers believe and practice this way because, by and large, that’s how our churches have modeled the faith to them.

In a book comprised of nine chapters in three parts, Dean calls the church to recover a sense of mission and to model the self-giving love of Christ. Here’s a selective smattering of points from the book:

-We don’t need to spend more on youth programs or make worship cooler, but model the kind of faith we want youth to have.

-The exceptions to all of this are the 8% of youth in America who talk articulately about their faith and who are “highly committed.” They tend to share four important traits: they can tell a personal and powerful story about God; they belong to a significant faith community; they exhibit a sense of vocation; and they possess a profound sense of hope.

-Sacrificial love must be part of the equation for the church to be true to its story. And as teenagers know, true love inspires sacrifice.

-Mission is not a trip or a youth activity, but the business that congregations are in. God sends the whole church, all of the baptized. Young people are participants in God’s mission, not a target of ours.

-The best way to get youth more involved in and serious about their faith is to get their parents more involved in and serious about their faith. The research is unambiguous: parents matter most in shaping the faith their children. But congregations are consistently the second most important variable, so our efforts should be taken very seriously as well.

-To pick up this ability to converse Christianly we must be immersed in a culture where that language is spoken, namely, the church.

Dean has a lot more to say, but those are some of the points that stuck with me. I’m eager to be the kind of church and lead the kind of ministry with youth that views them as equal partners in God’s mission.

Christmas in July

The past couple of weeks Arianne and I have been engaged in some belated spring cleaning. Sifting through our file cabinet was by far the least enjoyable task, but it did turn up some stuff I was proud to have written or kept as well as some stuff I was relieved to finally discard in the recycle bin. I know it’s July, but this Christmas Eve meditation I gave on Luke 2:1-7 a couple of years back struck me for its brevity and simplicity. Since I’m writing a sermon this week and next on texts which don’t necessarily lead to either quality, I’m posting this for inspiration.

2:1 In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered. 2 This was the first registration and was taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. 3 All went to their own towns to be registered. 4 Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was descended from the house and family of David. 5 He went to be registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a child. 6 While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. 7 And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.

In this short space of seven verses, like a good filmmaker, Luke draws attention to the stark contrast between two different scenes.

In the first scene, we have the Emperor Augustus, the richest and most powerful person in the ancient world—issuing a decree from the throne of his elegant courts in Rome, the sprawling capital of the Roman Empire. We are to imagine the Emperor dramatically signing the decree for his census, flanked by a bevy of his yes-men who are as eager as he is to collect the tax or expand the military, which is why a census is given in the first place. This is a scene of great consequence, or so it seems.

In the second scene, we have the concrete instance of Mary and Joseph doing what everyone in the Roman Empire had to do as a result of the census: traveling to their own town to be registered. Luke depicts this scene so rapidly and with such sparse detail that it is easy for us to miss how harsh it really is. Mary and Joseph start up in Nazareth of Galilee. The seventy-mile trip from Nazareth to Bethlehem would have been uneven, dodgy and strenuous. It would have taken at least five days. On top of it all, Mary is forty weeks pregnant. Let me repeat: forty weeks pregnant. Even though she may have had a donkey to sit on, it would have been a dreadfully long and painful ride.

What’s more, the engaged couple is enduring the scandal of Mary’s pregnancy. In the culture of first-century Judaism, having a child out of wedlock was a gigantic no-no, a disgraceful blunder that would shame everyone associated with them, especially if the woman had gotten pregnant by another man. In Mary’s case, allegedly, the Holy Spirit had just come down and miraculously impregnated her. I think it goes without saying how unconvicing that story would have been to most people.

In any case, Joseph and Mary, beleaguered by the long journey, finally arrive in the backwater town of Bethlehem. But, much to their chagrin because now Mary’s contractions have started, there is no room for them at the local inn. The only place available is a tiny, smelly manger on the outskirts of town, which, they determined, would have to do. Not a few hours later, Mary, who had been screaming from labor pains, gives birth to Jesus, who comes wailing into the world to announce his new birth. This second scene is a scene of humiliation and little consequence, or so it seems.

In these two scenes, Luke juxtaposes the Emperor Augustus to the baby Jesus. The one is fantastically rich and powerful, the leader of the entire Roman world. The other is born into scandal, crying, helpless and poor.

But, as we know, things are far, far from what they seem. The scene of great and cosmic and unprecedented consequence is happening, not in the elegant courts in Rome, but in a lowly manger on the outskirts of Bethlehem. Little does the Emperor know what he has set in motion by issuing this census. Little does he know that this baby Jesus would not just be tallied and taxed in Bethlehem, but would be the one to redeem all of humanity, to usher in the reign of God, to call us all to follow him, to teach us love of neighbor and enemy and to reveal to us at last the God who is totally and irreversibly for us.

As followers of Jesus, we have always been people of the second scene, people of the long and tired journey, people called to the little, inconspicuous work of love and justice and peace that so often seems to be on the losing side. As people of the second scene, we are called to carry on the work of the Christ in our relationships, in our homes, in our places of work and everywhere we find ourselves. But the only reason we have a shot at actually doing it is because Christ came, Christ came for you, for me, and for all of humanity, not because we deserved it, but because that’s the way God is. In a world of first and second scenes, Christ came. To the weak and the strong, Christ came. To the poor and the rich, Christ came. To the humble and the haughty, Christ came.

This Advent, and every Advent, Christ comes to us, wherever we are and whatever we’re doing. Christ comes, calling us again to costly discipleship. Christ comes, eager to transform us and suffer with us. Christ comes, arms open wide to embrace all that we are with his love that never ends. Amen.

Faith Over the Summer

This piece is cross-posted at the NEXT Church blog, which I’m attempting to curate this week.

With the passing of Memorial Day, summer has unofficially started. Routines change. Weather warms up. For our children and youth, school is out. For those of us who work, summer is often a more relaxed and diverting time with fewer demands. Some of us take vacations. Many of us visit family and friends. Almost all of us spend more time outside. And–let’s be honest–most of us spend less time in church on Sunday morning.

I’m not interested in bashing this glaring reality. It makes a lot of sense to me. If there really is a season for everything and a time for every matter under heaven, as Ecclesiastes 3 insists, then I suppose there is a time to skip church. Not because we’re sick of each other or bored with the worship service or too tired to get out of bed, but because we sometimes need to stay away in order to come back in our right minds and with renewed spirits. I believe pastors need this just as much as parishioners.

How do you transition to summer in your church? Some of us move from two services to one on Sunday, or at the very least start worship a bit later. Many of our Christian education programs downshift or stop entirely. From my view at Highland Park Presbyterian Church, we continue to offer one worship service on Sundays at 10:00am, but we migrate into the cozier chapel where, thanks be to God, it is air-conditioned. While our vocal choir enjoys a summer hiatus, we feature different music each Sunday.

For the most part, I’m understanding of this annual transition and even welcome it. But I’m concerned that we’re not talking helpfully about what it means to express our faith over the summer. Last fall, one of the families in our church whose children attend our after-school program said to me they were sorry they weren’t around all summer. I assured them, with an unrefined mix of grace and truth, that we missed them, but that I was glad they were able to enjoy some time away. The parents then confessed to me that their youngest child, an adorable and curious five-year-old, had asked them in late July, “Is church closed in the summer?” “Hmmm,” I said, “it makes you think, doesn’t it?”

A week ago, I facilitated a conversation about faith over the summer with our junior high youth during a gathering here at church. We read some texts from Scripture and talked about their interpretation. We mapped out our summers and considered together what it would mean to be a follower of Jesus at camp or while sleeping in late every day or during a roadtrip with family or while exercising with friends or after volunteering at the local food shelf. We talked about our call to go out into the world and be agents of God’s reconciling love wherever we find ourselves.

What might God be calling us to do in the summer of 2011? Summer is a season so ripe for seeing and showing the tangible love of God. Here in the Midwest, we’re more apt to actually see our neighbors who’ve been hibernating for the long winter. The beauty and lushness of God’s creation is on dazzling display. Community events are more frequent and accessible. And yet the brokenness of our world is impossible to miss. The desperation and jadedness and anger on too many faces of God’s children cries to us for help, and especially for prayer.

As we wrapped up our conversation, I invited our youth to share one thing that they could remove or add or change about their summer that would help them to more faithfully express their faith. I was struck by the simplicity and depth of their responses. Care for others. Stop judging others. Enjoy the outdoors. Try to play video games a little less. I think I shared that I’m hoping to worry less about tomorrow–especially in my search for a first call–and focus on how I can love God and my neighbors in the nitty-gritty of today.

I’m kicking myself for starting this conversation so late in the spring, and for not including the entire church as well. But at least it’s a start.

What about you? What does it mean for you to express your faith over the summer?

Prayers of the People

Yikes, I’ve been away from blogging for too long. Hoping to get back on track this week. Here’s a prayer that I wrote and that six children and youth from our congregation led this morning during worship.  We were celebrating faith formation and thanking our teachers for their faithful efforts this year. I tried to write in simple and sharp language.

God of love, we thank you for everything you are and for everything you have done. Thank you for creating us, for loving us and for calling us by name. Thank you for never giving up on us. Thank you for your beautiful creation: for the sunshine that keeps us warm, the rain that refreshes us and the plants and animals that feed us. Help us to take care of everything you have made.

Answer us, Lord. And fill us with your peace.

God of education, we thank you for the chance to learn and grow. Today we thank you for our teachers, for those who have formed our faith and helped us to follow Jesus. They are a gift from you. Bless and encourage them. Help us remember to thank them and to think about how we can be a teacher to others too.

 Answer us, Lord. And fill us with your peace.

God of community, we pray for the mission of our church. Help us to be faithful and to welcome everyone. Help us to share your good news with words and actions. Help us to support each other, from the youngest to the oldest. Keep us from small plans and light a fire in us today.

Answer us, Lord. And fill us with your peace.

God of compassion, we pray for all your children who are hurting today. For those who are sick, tired, lonely or angry. For those who are confused, in trouble or scared about the future. Please help them and heal them. Wrap them in your arms of love. Give them hope. And help us to love all who are hurting.

Answer us, Lord. And fill us with your peace.

God of peace, we know that we often fight with each other. We want power, control or bragging rights, so we harm our brothers and sisters instead of seeking peace. Please forgive us, God, and help us to disagree in peace. We pray for all the places in your world that are choked by violence and war. Somehow bring your peace and justice to the chaos. And help us to be instruments of your peace.

Answer us, Lord. And fill us with your peace.

God of goodness, send your Spirit now into each of our hearts. Feed us at this Table and renew us for the journey. Help us to be agents of your love this week at school, at work, at home, in the car, when we are mad, glad, sad or scared. We lift all of these prayers up to you, in the name of Jesus Christ, who taught us to pray together, saying, “Our Father…”

Reflecting on Osama Bin Laden’s Death

Like a lot of Americans, I’ve been occupied with the news of Bin Laden’s death most of the week. I first heard of it on Monday morning, since Arianne and I went to bed early Sunday night and I, for reasons passing understanding, didn’t check facebook, twitter, my routine news sites or email before turning in.

Reading the headline the next morning wasn’t all that dramatic, but I was filled with a raft of conflicting emotions: relief, surprise, anger, sadness and curiosity. He was in an affluent suburb of Abbottabad, Pakistan? Living in a million-dollar compound? With 12-18 foot walls? Down the street from a military-training facility akin to our West Point? Without a phone or internet connection? And he lived there for six years?

I admit I was pretty much glued to social media and news sites for the rest of the day. We were reminded of all sorts of voices from Scripture (mostly from the Psalms, Prophets and Jesus), a partially faked although moving quote from Martin Luther King, and a quote from the inimitable Stanley Hauerwas, a pacifist, which I can’t help but share with you: “I am a pacifist because I’m a violent son of a bitch.” Fair enough.

As more details of the operation trickled out, I was very proud of our military personnel. I’m grateful to our Navy SEAL Team 6 who led the operation, even though I’m embarrassed to admit I had never heard of them before Monday. They did what our President said needed to be done. They killed Osama Bin Laden.

At first, I cringed when I clicked through pictures of impromptu rallies that broke out all over the country to (apparently) celebrate Bin Laden’s death. It did not seem appropriate to be hooting and hollering about his death with such bravado. Even the death of someone who killed so many people and scared so many more.

In divinity school, I took a class on the just war tradition with Prof. Jean Bethke Elshtain. An outspoken advocate of just war theory, she supported President Bush’s decision to invade Iraq in 2003. It was one of my favorite classes because the lectures were stimulating, the workload was about right and the course topic was so challenging. I began the course as a “functional pacifist,” someone who in theory believed in the use of force if certain criteria were met, but who in practice had such stringent criteria that practically no circumstances could ever be so dreadful to condone such force. It will probably surprise few people who know the culture of the divinity school that I ended up siding with Reinhold Niebuhr’s “Christian Realism” by the end of the course. What Niebuhr means is that sometimes armed resistance is the lesser of two evils in a world that is full of self-interested people who are prone to evil. In fact, sometimes taking up arms is a moral imperative to protect the innocent or pushback tyranny, even for Christians.

Yet as a Christian I feel a tension. I know Jesus said to love and pray for our enemies. I know that the prophet Ezekiel said that God doesn’t delight in the death of the wicked. I know that the apostle Paul said not to repay anyone evil for evil, but instead to leave judgment to God.

The news of Bin Laden’s death brought all of this tension back for me. I do think it was the right decision to kill him. This side of God’s new heaven and new earth things are not the way they are supposed to be. We are not the way we are supposed to be. We deal with all too limited capacities for justice and truth and peace.

I don’t think the world is all of a sudden safer. I don’t think “justice has been done,” although a measure of justice certainly has. I don’t think Jesus would have ordered the killing, although Jesus isn’t President of the United States in 2011.

On a week like this week, I’m grateful for the Reformed theological heritage of which I’m a part. We believe in the seriousness of the human condition. It is sometimes called “total depravity,” the idea that everything we do is tainted by self-interest, but I like to think that’s only one side of the coin. Along with a strong belief in the capacity for evil we also hold an equally strong belief in the capacity for good. God creates everything good and has the gall to give us freedom to solidify our character day after day, choice after choice. I do and Bin Laden did. Now, a thousand things shape and limit our “freedom,” including privilege, environment, relationships and so on, but the fact remains that we are co-partners with God in becoming the person God has called us to be.

As a Christian, I believe that Osama Bin Laden was a child of God. Full stop. God’s mercy and justice are held out to him as they are to me. And God’s hands are not tied after death.

We need to be thinking theologically about this as a church. I hope it is addressed in sermons, newsletter articles and education classes. Not to belabor it, but to help us think about death, the use of force, evil, justice, interfaith relations and eschatology. As someone who works with children and youth, I’m asking myself how I can engage in honest and fruitful dialogue with them about it. Your help would be appreciated.