Beyond the Curtain

Rest is a virtue that must be learned; for many of us, it is not in our first nature to rest.  I found rest on my third day of vacation in Jamaica. The first day was spent worrying about airplane crashes and Jamaican taxis that disregard speed limits and have high appreciation for honking horns. The second day I thought about work until my worries slowly drifted away.  As the Jamaicans say, "No worries, mon."

All-inclusive resorts have no other function except to be a haven of rest.  There is every kind of bed imaginable—beds on the beach, beds on the cliffs, beds for one person or beds for two people, beds with attached umbrellas, beds in pools, and of course, beds in rooms.  The sole purpose of an all-inclusive resort is to provide a space that enables you to clear your mind of e-mails and phone calls and to help you forget about the strains of daily life. The waves crash, the sun shines, and everyone smiles. We were served meat covered in Jamaican Jerk sauce, fried plantains on a daily basis, and every kind of fruit imaginable.  The bar is always open to create and shake up your favorite drink. For better or worse, the resort encourages you to romanticize the country that you are actually in. 

The resort didn’t look like any place that I have ever been in America and it didn’t look like any other place we visited in Jamaica (an ours was a long shot from the nicest resorts in Jamaica). It was intentionally created to look different and to become a curtain that separates tourists from reality. Whenever you feel brave or want a glimpse of excitement, then you can step outside of the curtain and get a taste of Jamaica.  After you are sick of being asked to buy weed, you can return behind the curtain and forget about the country.  There's no need to think about the poverty anymore because it's time to rest.  At a resort, the people, land, and culture can easily become a commodity to be used and consumed for the enhancement of the tourist at the expense of the cheapening of the people and culture.

Some of our favorite moments were spent on the other side of the curtain. I am grateful for an adventurous wife who enjoys mingling with locals. Once a day, we walked down the narrow road with cars whizzing past us, honking their horns. We met Amelia, who was enjoying her last few days of summer working at an old woman’s craft tent.  The janitor at our resort knew more about politics than most Americans. He advised us to reelect President Obama for one reason—everyone deserves a second chance in life.   We went out to eat with our hotel lobbyist who hooked us up with free food at our restaurant.  We talked music with our cab driver, who told us that there were only three real artists—Bob Marley, Michael Jackson, and Elvis Presley and everyone else is just an imitation.

Outside the curtain, we tasted the food that the Jamaicans actually eat at “Aunt Jenny’s” diner—a red shack that I normally have never entered, but our hotel lobbyist recommended it. We had barracuda, goatfish, plantains, and dumplins—every morning we watched Jamaicans catch these fish with spears.  Our waitress sat down beside us, told us how she cooked it, and then showed us how to eat. How’s that for hospitality?  That’s what it means to break bread.

We found a people who were proud of their country and genuinely joyful to be a Jamaican when we decided to take a taste of their lives at our own convenience. Don’t get me wrong—I often thought to myself, “I’m glad I’m at a resort.” We often hid behind the curtain to hide, but we were welcomed with smiles and laughter when we ventured out beyond the curtain.

And I am struck with the conviction that we should live our entire lives outside of the curtain. 

Sharing Life

The vegetables had just come out of the soil and I placed them in a pan of oil and they immediately began to simmer and pop.  The scent of sautéed onions and garlic is a little glimpse of heaven; they smell better than anything could ever taste. I took the sautéed vegetables which included squash, zucchini, and onion and arranged them on the plate. I placed a steak that had been rubbed with copious amounts of paprika, cumin, and pepper and of course, seared on both sides right on top of the vegetables.  I topped off the meal with a watermelon that was so luscious that the juices leaked out and on to my shirt with every bite.

But it did not taste the same. Everything was cooked to perfection, but it was still dull.  I was eating alone. How can you enjoy a meal if you are alone?  A meal is not the same when no one mentions the miracle of vegetables that were covered in dirt just five minutes ago. Food is bland when no one is laughing or telling stories.  A glass of wine makes you feel like an alcoholic when you aren’t unwinding with a good friend.  My meal felt less like grace and more like a mound of energy that merely functioned to keep me satiated for the rest of the night.

I am grateful that my parents made the five members of the Snider clan sit down at the table every evening for dinner.  Nothing extraordinary ever happened—told a few stories and sometimes we fought.  Rarely someone would comment upon the food that my mom prepared. But, we were together and we were able to learn important habits.  We learned the habits of thanksgiving, respect, and we learned how to gracefully receive something we did not want. As the family endured my dad’s jokes and my big brother’s stories, we learned the skills of listening and patience.  Slowly, meal after meal, we are transformed into different people. And we receive grace all along the way, whether we realize it or not.  

A teacher of mine, Norman Wirzba, asks a series questions, “Is food just a commodity? Is it just fuel? Is it merely a necessity to keep us going? Or, is it more than that—is it grace?”  Table fellowship is a cornerstone to both Jewish and Christian worship.  In Acts, the early Christians “devoted themselves to the apostles teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and prayers (2:42).”  As they broke bread, the early Christians took time to learn about one another and place their lives in the context of Jesus Christ. The table became Eucharistic as the gathered body of believers were transformed into different kinds of people—a people who were more attentive, caring, and hospitable.  Food is never only about energy.

I am struck by a conversation that a group of members at Plains had last Sunday after worship. We shared food at a local ‘greasy spoon.’  The food is reminiscent of the sort of thing your southern grandma might cook.  A parishioner remarked, “We complain about going out to eat because it’s cheaper to stay home. Years down the road, we will not remember this little bill.  But we will remember the memories we make.”  Another parishioner remarked, “That was a good sermon illustration.” And I nodded, “Yes. Yes, it was.”

It’s about sharing food. And it's also about sharing your life. 

LaGrange College Senior Thesis

I found my senior thesis from college on the web while researching for Bible Study.

Thought I would share it. The topic is on Wesley's understanding of works of mercy and sanctification.

http://www.lagrange.edu/resources/pdf/citations08/WorksofMercy.pdf

Parsonage Ramblings

Every once in a while I have those days when I wish I didn’t live in a parsonage. Mostly because I have to get approval before I do anything in the house.  There is a leak in the basement—call the Trustees. Wait.  The lawn mower hasn’t started in two consecutive weeks—call the Trustees, again. And wait.  The latest tragic misfortune to strike Holland Road: the toilet runs non-stop over night creating condensation that drips from the toilet disfiguring the bathroom tile.  What’s my next move? You guessed it, call the Trustees.  

Of course, this really isn’t that big of a deal. I take a lot for granted (like not having to pay rent). I am a spoiled United States citizen. I forget that a parsonage is hospitality when it’s at its best; they “welcome the stranger.” United Methodist Churches do not ‘call’ their pastors, but pastors are ‘sent’ from the conference creating a sort-of arranged marriage between Church and pastor. The pastor and the Church say to one another, “Will you learn to love me?”  Itinerancy has its flaws, but it can be a wonderful lesson in hospitality. For the Church is faced with the challenge to welcome the strange new pastor into their church, their community, and their house.  “Come live with us. Yes, even in our house,” says the Church who is up to the challenge.

Our Church was up to the challenge and they have done a great job of welcoming two young, spoiled, and naïve (but enthusiastic) strangers into their house and community.

About a month ago a parishioner, who is zealous about having a pristine parsonage tells me in the hospital, “I want all of my memorials to be donated to the parsonage fund.”

 I interjected, “But, you are going to be released from the hospital today…”  

“I know; it’s just been on my mind. I’ve been thinking about how important a parsonage is.  How will we ever take care of our community, if we can’t even take care of our pastor? A worn-out parsonage means that our Church is worn-out.”    

 “Done deal."

John Wesley would also agree. He believed that your outward appearance signifies what kind of character you have.  In other words, if you are a slob in some parts of your life, then you are likely to become a slob in other parts of your life. He noted, “cleanliness is next to godliness”: “Be cleanly. In this let the Methodists take pattern after the Quakers. Avoid all nastiness, dirt, slovenliness, in your person, clothes, house and all about you. Do not stink! Let none ever see a ragged Methodist.”  I would guess that the same might go for a Methodist’s parsonage. A ragged Methodist parsonage signifies that the character of that Methodist Church must also be ragged. 

I can’t help but to wonder what the Church imagined when I first moved in and failed to mow the lawn in a timely manner.  “Will a pastor who overlooks lawn care, overlook us too?”

I am blessed to be a pastor to a parishioner who takes pride in the parsonage.  I pray for the grace to develop this kind of character, too.  One day maybe we will both be able to develop the character to be able to look upon the entire world as our parish and treat the world with love and hospitality.   

Ordination Reflection

I write this partly as a reflection on ordination, but also as an open letter to my older brother who was recently ordained.

I hit the road Friday afternoon to meet my family at Colin’s house in Cary to celebrate his ordination on Saturday.   Halfway through the trip I received a call from my mom—my grandmother had fallen at Colin’s house. She didn’t tell me much except, “grandma fell and dad is worried.”  I overanalyze everything and so I rushed to the hospital as quickly as I could. My brother had already arrived and was keeping my grandmother company with my dad.  She is ok, but had to spend the night in the hospital.

Grandma was a little embarrassed but she was mostly, and unnecessarily, apologetic. She knew that our plans had been thwarted. She apologized that we were not able to eat a family dinner. Colin was not able to rest like we had planned, but he was going to have to return home exhausted. The service on Saturday was going to be ruined. The list goes on.  Of course, none of us regret being with grandma that night, but we also knew that she was partly right. Our plans did change, even though we were glad to be at her side. The relaxing weekend received unforeseen excitement—the kind of excitement you don’t receive warmly.  Later on, I came to find out that there had been an even bigger misfortune earlier in the day—a tragic death in Colin’s congregation.  Like I said, so much for relaxation.

I tell this story only because the events of that day gave me space to reflect on what it means to be ordained. I offer two reflections—one that is more superficial in nature and one that is more personal.

On a superficial level, my brother’s chaotic day exemplified the commitment he was making for the rest of his life. We planned to party on Friday night, but my brother spent the eve of his ordination in the hospital. He didn’t celebrate like he planned, but he served.  Ordained ministry is countercultural because your life is no longer your own. “Ordained ministry, especially ‘sent’ ministry, is unpredictable, demanding, and uncontrollable—it must also be self-less for these reasons. It was ironically fitting that Colin was in a hospital most of the day. I do not think he cared, though. Ordained pastors don’t feel a deep need to celebrate their own accomplishments as much as they feel called to serve God’s world. If you are egocentric, then it’s hard to be a pastor.

I lament the two tragedies that took place on that day.  Oddly enough, though, the best celebration Colin could receive was the calling and privilege to serve those whom he loves (even on his ordination weekend).

Yet, I also noticed something on a deeper level, something that was more profound.  I realized that my brother had already received another identity gradually, somewhere along the road.  For when I walked into my grandmother’s hospital room I didn’t just meet a brother, but I met a soon-to-be ordained pastor. And his presence in the hospital room had to be that of a pastor, not of a grandson.  His role was to sanctify the space with his presence, speech, and touch.  This was striking—Colin was no longer primarily a son, or a grandson, or even a brother—he was, first and foremost, a pastor and a representative of God. In the service, Bishop Leeland said, “We no longer live in the world, trying to serve God, so much as we live in God, seeking to serve the world."  This was made incarnate in the hospital.

Colin’s ordination weekend showed me that my brother has become a pastor. Saturday was a special event for my family and me because it was the culmination of many experiences—the times Colin has led us in mealtime prayers, dragged my sister and me to youth group, and the way he has implicitly led me and paved the way for me to acknowledge my own calling and gifts. Colin, you have often been a representative of God to us, but now you will be one wherever you go.

  This is a vocation that is going to be unpredictable, challenging, but also adventurous. And there is nothing more important than being Christ’s representative.

            

Family

This Sunday, I will explore the baptized family of God in worship. I share this post so that we can start thinking about what it means to be baptized in advance of Sunday. To balance this message out, I will be focusing more on the baptized universal church this Sunday.

In the Gospel of Mark: "Your mother and your brothers are outside waiting on you, calling for you," one of the disciples said to Jesus.  And he replied, "Who are my mother and my brothers?" And looking at those who sat around him, he said, "Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.”

Over the last couple of months, two couples that sporadically attend worship at Plains have remarked that they will probably worship someplace different. This is hard for the small-membership church to hear. Of course, we asked them why. One couple remarked, “We want to go to a Church where we can blend in and not be seen.”  The other couple remarked, “We don’t want to be asked to do anything.”  I take these responses as compliments. If you want to be anonymous, then don’t go to the small-membership church.  

It's easy to slip in and out of larger churches and avoid being seen. The larger church blends well with our individualist/capitalist/consumerist society. If you prefer to slip in and consume then go to a larger Church. It is easier to become just a number.  Don't get me wrong--we need the large membership church. They do work that the smaller churches will never be able to do. Plus, they help keep the churches out in the sticks afloat.  

But the rural church cannot afford to have numbers for the sake of numbers. We want numbers because we desperately need our family to grow.  The field is ripe for the harvest, but the laborers are few. There is a lot of work to get done in the kingdom of God.  And family members have to pitch in on the farm. Don’t join a small-membership church and expect to never receive a hug or to never be asked to read Scripture on a Sunday morning. We won’t fit in that shopping cart; we expect discipleship and we expect family. This is a gift of the small membership church.

Last Sunday a gentleman returned to worship for the first time in years.  He slipped in the back door right after the service started. I don’t know if he wanted anonymity or not.  Like I said, privacy is not an option. We celebrated. We announced his name as we lifted up the joys in our lives; we greeted him with smiles and hugs. “Glad to have you home,” we said.  I shook his hand as he walked out the door and he replied, “See you at Sunday School next week.” 

If you want to be unseen during worship then you are free to go. If you ever decide to return we will slaughter the fattened calf and welcome you home to the family.

Memorial Day and Pentecost

This Sunday is Pentecost and Memorial Day weekend, which creates a tension that puts many pastors in a tough spot. After a year of ministry, I am able to think more realistically and pastorally about civil religion in the local Church. Yet, I cannot bring myself to preach or make reference to this holiday on Pentecost.

The climax of late spring and early summer in the Church is Pentecost Sunday. We have reached the end of Easter, celebrated the Ascension of our Lord, and now receive the fullness of God’s promises as we remember the coming of the Holy Spirit among us.  This is the height of our resurrection story! But Memorial Day throws a stick in our spokes and brings a halt to our celebration as our country stops to remember those who have died in the military.  Remembering our loved ones surely is not a bad thing in and of itself. Still, it strikes me that Memorial Day will confuse our worship in a few ways—I’ll share two of them.

First, it’s confusing because we remember death, but we do not remember resurrection.  This reminds me of the confusion created by the military ritual inside of the Christian service of death and resurrection. Don’t get me wrong; the military rituals are a nice gesture. The trumpets blow, the guns are fired, and the flag is folded.  There is a sense of honor, pride, and even thankfulness. But the ritual ultimately falls short. It creates a shocking message: our country can ask you to die, but it cannot raise you from the grave.  This creates a hopeless contradiction in the funeral—a kind of Stoic acceptance of death as a result of a courageously lived life. Is this really what we need to hear? I find myself patiently waiting to hear “Amazing Grace” played on the bagpipes.  Conversely, Jesus asks us to die to ourselves that we might one day be raised.  Pentecost should be joyfully proclaimed as the pinnacle of Jesus’ promise of resurrection and the recreation of the entire world.

Second, the nationalism inherent in Memorial Day gestures toward a negation of Pentecost. At the birth of the Church the Spirit descended and a multitude of nationalities were able to hear in their own language. This was a beautiful joining of differences.  Pentecost is a time to celebrate our boundary-crossing faith that brings together ethnic/cultural/and socio differences. This Sunday we will celebrate that the Church did not force anyone into a specific mold or keep out differences. True worship takes place when our differences are joined together as when the God-man, Jesus Christ, joined humankind. Pentecost is certainly not a time for the Church to receive its identity from the state. But Memorial Day is a time to remember United States soldiers. How could we lift up and celebrate one nationality on this Sunday? I do not want to do anything that will move toward an “us—them” attitude on Pentecost.

In would be a nice gesture to remember our soldiers this Sunday, but it will ultimately fall short. We have the opportunity to proclaim that Jesus has ascended to the Father, but that Jesus has also keeps his promises.  The Spirit is among us! The Spirit has descended upon us and is reversing the calamity of the Tower of Babel so that we may no longer be confused by our differences. There is trust instead of fear. There is clarity instead of confusion. There is peace instead of war. One day the Spirit will accomplish something that war cannot as our “dry-bones” rise from the grave.

I hope that my omission of Memorial Day will not be perceived as an insult, but as a means to create theological clarity in the context of worship on Pentecost Sunday.