nakedreligion

This is a small book with a profound message by the well-known Jewish scholar Abraham Heschel. This is not theological treatise like some of Heschel’s more well known works. Rather this slim book expounds the relationship of God’s people to time. In a nutshell, when the people of God understand the importance of God’s time, then we will subsequently also understand the value of making sabbath time a regular part of our routine.

When God commanded that the People of Israel observe the Sabbath, God did so not to punish or limit the potential of this newly formed community. Rather God gave the People of Israel Sabbath time in order to protect them from the tyrannies that often accompany a life that is led without attention to time. God’s time is not so much determined by the hands on a clock, but the rhythms of life lived day-in and day-out.

The culture in which we live could learn a thing or two about sabbath rest. I’m not talking about returning to the “blue laws”. Nor am I suggesting that we go back to a day when activities on Sundays were curtailed for the sake of the so-called “sabbath.” We need to reset our rhythms from time-to-time because that’s how God created us. That’s how we discover the mystery of God’s grace in the mundane. That’s how God is able to get a word in edge-wise in the midst of our clamoring world.

Read this book if you’re tired of running through an ordinary day only to collapse in bed too tired to untie your shoes only to get up and do it all over again the next day. Read this book if you have the nagging feeling that time is a commodity rather than a gift from God. Read this book and discover that of all the gifts that God has given to God’s people, the gift of time is the one that is most likely to make a difference when everything else is said and done. Read this book even if you don’t have time.

A youngish middle-aged woman and her mother dropped by my office the other day. She was carrying something that looked like a framed print with the back facing out. As I approached to greet them, it occurred to me that I knew the younger of these two women. We went to high school together thirty years ago. We have had not had contact since then. I called her by name and to my surprise she smiled and greeted me in return.

As we caught up on what many of our mutual friends from high school are doing this many years later, I felt like a high school student again. The older woman (the younger woman’s mother) told me that she had been following my arrival as pastor of my home church and she and her daughter wanted to give me a welcome home gift. They turned the framed print over to reveal a picture that I had painted and given to the younger woman thirty years ago.

To return home after all these years and meet people who knew me is one thing, to have that young woman return to me a piece of art that represented my hopes and youthful aspirations as a budding artist is astonishing. As we continued to talk about the way life has led us, I couldn’t help but wonder about all the different ways our lives could have turned out. I am thankful for this thoughtful gesture from this woman and her mom. I am thankful for the life I have led during the intervening years . Most of all, I’m thankful for the gift of recollection that reminded me of a time in my life that wasn’t all that different from today.

We recently attended this annual event in our small town celebrating the return of the salmon for spawning. It is a sight to behold as the small creek leading to the Issaquah Fish Hatchery teems with Salmon prepared to lay fertilized eggs in the same location from which they came years before. One-hundred thousand people turn out for this event with everything from deep fried dough to local artisans selling their wares. The highlight was the salmon.

As I watched the battered salmon, after their thousand mile swim upstream, fighting up the fish ladder for the final leg of their journey, I was fascinated by their single-minded dedication to finding their way back to where they belong. And when they finally reach their destination and release their eggs, they die. And the cycle of life begins all over again. When I asked someone how the salmon know how to find their way home after spending years in the ocean, they told me that the salmon can smell a particular scent that leads them back to where they belong.

I don’t know how many salmon lose their way or get eaten and never make it home to fulfill their ritual of laying eggs in the very stream where they were born. But the fact that thousands fight their way from the Pacific Ocean to a little creek in Issaquah, Washington gives me hope that no matter how hard life seems, no matter how many obstacles get in the way, the real joy in living is finding our way home. We may not know every bend in the river along the way, but there is no doubt that we will know it when we arrive.

Christopher Hitchens was recently interviewed on NPR concerning his influence on a young American soldier who enlisted and went to Iraq as a response to something Hitchen’s wrote in support of the war. The young soldier was killed by a roadside bomb. When Hitchen’s learned of this, he said he felt compelled to contact the parents to express his sympathy. When the interviewer asked Hitchen’s if he felt that he bore any responsibility for this young mans death, Hitchen’s said something to the effect, not really since the US has a volunteer army each one is free to enlist or not.

For a man who has experienced the recent notoriety that Hitchen’s is enjoying right now because of his provocative book debunking God, I find his answer both surprising and a little disingenuous. For a writer who makes his living with words, how could he possibly claim that he bears no responsibility for the influence his words have on others. Isn’t writing in fact a process of persuasion where one essentially attempts to express their opinion to convince others? Mr. Hitchens may sleep better at night by denying that his writing influences others. But it seems to me he is using the same argument that gun sellers use when some high school kid purchases an automatic weapon from their retail outlet and then kills dozens of their class mates.
Mr. Hitchens, for a man who is as thoughtful and articulate as you, I’m surprised that you would resort to the same argument that my prepubescent sons use when they break something and blame someone else. On further reflection, I’m not surprised that you resort to such tactics given the world view you espouse in your best-selling book denying the existence of God. Perhaps the very instincts that you exhibited to contact the victims family and express your condolence betrays the very argument that you are making to deny the existence of a God.

Preaching to an unfamiliar congregation is like going on a blind date. The congregation doesn’t know the preacher and the preacher doesn’t know the congregation, yet both are supposed to act like they are enjoying the date immensely. I feel for my new congregation who have grown accustomed to a certain style of preaching and now must put up with a new voice poking and prodding them from the pulpit.

Likewise, preaching to an unfamiliar congregation is no cakewalk either. Every preacher knows that their new congregation is listening intently and comparing them to their predecessor or childhood pastor who has become larger than life. I’m tempted to stand before my new congregation and tell them that I have a confession to make. I’m not their previous pastor so get over it. Furthermore, I regret to inform you that not every sermon I preach will be better than the last one (I gave up that delusion years ago). Finally– and this is the stinger for most people, if you really want me to preach well, then you better start listening well.

Yes doing time in the pulpit isn’t it’s all cracked up to be during the early months of ministry in a new church. But it will get better as preacher and congregation learn to love one another and recognize the secret passions that compel a preacher to preach and a congregation to listen and act. If there is any consolation for a preacher entering into a new congregation, he or she can use all their best illustrations and stories because at least for now, the new congregation hasn’t heard them all before.

The Episcopal Church has finally drawn the line in the sand concerning the mandate from the rest of the Anglican Communion to refrain from ordaining and/or “blessing” homosexuals. Having lived in New Hampshire and having met Bishop Robinson a couple of times prior to his appointment as the first gay bishop, and having a number of friends who call the Episcopal communion their home, I’ve been watching this ecclesiastical version of “High Noon” in progress for some time.

On the one hand, watching Bishop Rowen Williams maneuver between the American and British Anglicans and the rest of the world on this issue, I suspect that there are days when he wonders why he ever allowed his name to be placed in nomination for the top job. He finds himself in a most difficult position trying to keep the Anglican Communion from fragmenting into dozens of independent jurisdictions. All the while, interested persons watch Archbishop Rowen Williams as he attempts to keep all the balls in the air like a clown juggling at the circus.

If I were a betting man, I suspect that as much as the Anglican Communion has been working through these issues in the public venue, there is an equal effort taking place behind the scenes to save the historic church from going the way of their founder when the Roman Catholic Church denied King Henry a divorce from his wife. I’m betting that the Anglican Communion will remain intact because that’s what the Anglicans have always done. I’m betting that the conservative wing of the Anglican Communion will continue to thrive and grow while the British and American liberals decline in influence until the day when their views don’t matter. In the meantime, my hat is off to my Episcopal friends who must figure out the meaning of reconciliation in front of a watching world. Perhaps all of us should take notes.

Today is moving day. Having recently moved to a new state, we find ourselves moving from the apartment that awaited us when we arrived into another one. So for the last month, we’ve been living out of our suitcases, boiling water in a sauce pan, and sleeping on mats on the floor. I marvel that my family doesn’t complain about this too much. The fun of having everyone go to bed at the same time because our apartment is too small to allow anyone of us to linger in front of late night television has probably worn off.

If one packs light, moving is easier. If one doesn’t become too comfortable with all the creature comforts that this life has to offer, then moving is more bearable. If one understands that the life that we lead is stable and comfortable by the grace of God, then when it comes time to move (again), it is more likely that we can give thanks as we haul our suitcases from one place to the next.

The children of Israel were no strangers to moving for the first forty years of their experience. And had they been more willing to trust God earlier in the process rather than complain every step of the way, I suspect that they too would have enjoyed a life of milk and honey much sooner. And with every time they packed their bags and prepared to make their way to the next destination, their hearts softened to the possibilities that next stop would be their final destination. And even it if wasn’t, there was surely comfort in knowing that no matter how many times they had to pack and re-pack their suitcases, their God was pulling up stakes and going with them. And so it is for us as well.