Can We Talk?

My “brush with celebrity” includes 1) a snapshot of Tennessee Ernie Ford at the Seymour fair and 2) Marissa Myer, the new CEO of Yahoo grew up in one of my interim congregations.  Bless his pea pickin’ heart, Tennessee Ernie Ford is no longer with us.  Marissa Myer on the other hand has been making business news.  She recently reversed the privilege of working from home for Yahoo employees.  Whenever a policy change occurs in business there will be dissent and so it was with this decision.

I’d like to think Ms. Myer’s decision stemmed from her strong confessional background and the influence of Luther and Melanchthon.  But, my guess is that it is purely business theory.  The policy appears to discourage isolationism in the workplace and to encourage communication and teamwork.

For being a sexagenarian I think that I am fairly tech savvy. I text message and depend on email.  I send attachments.  Not to mention, I blog and have two different Facebook pages.  However, nothing compares to live human communication.  Electronic communication will never (in my lifetime) pick up the nuances of human communication.  As far as I know there is not a font for sarcasm or sincerity, skepticism or concern.

The human condition depends on community.  Without some sense of community we slowly weaken.  The human spirit erodes into something that simply goes through the motions of life. There is a certain kind of energy when we come together for a purpose.  As Christians we believe the words of Jesus, “Whenever two or three are gathered in my name I am in the midst of them.”  I think it happens in the secular realms as well.  When we are in cooperative work relationships the results are greater than the sum of the parts.

It’s more fun when we do stuff together, too.  A few years ago I was an interim in a parish where I often had no human connection from Sunday to Sunday.  I had no secretary to kid with, no custodian to kvetch to.  When Christmas came I decided to have a staff party at Culver’s.  I bought an eggnog shake at the drive through.

I hear of people whose religious connection is watching a preacher or two on TV while sitting in jammies and a bathrobe. It may be entertaining but where is the human connection?

From my pastoral perspective or maybe my sexagenarian perspective, in a time of growing isolation, we need those moments to celebrate community.  We need to talk to one another.  We need to wait in lines together.  We need to gather around the water cooler.  We need to be assigned to work together as a team.  We need to initiate dialog.  The human family will only be made strong when it is linked together.  Families are made healthy by authentic communication.  Congregations are healthy when people are in genuine conversation.  Workplaces are productive when face-to-face contact leads to cooperation.

Talk among yourselves!

Lutheran Nuns, Or What?

On one of my church calendars the other day it reminded me of the commemoration of Elizabeth Fedde.  Sadly, Elizabeth Fedde is not especially memorable in church history books.  She was significant in the development of the deaconess movement in the 19^th century.  The notification, however, brought me to a moment of nostalgia and something that modern church members hardly know anything about.  Deaconesses are part of the American church special to the post-immigrant years.

Back in college I participated in the Semester Abroad program spending a semester of my Junior year in Germany.  University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point arranged the month of travel before settling in for the academic term in Munich.  One of our first stops was a stay in Kaiserswerth, a village outside of Dusseldorf.  Kaiserswerth was the motherhouse for a very large deaconess community.  I knew nothing about deaconesses and in retrospect I wish I would have taken greater note.  Deaconesses are women of the Lutheran church dedicated to the social ministry of the church:  nursing, teaching, social work, etc.  Yes, there are similarities to Roman Catholic nuns.  Deaconesses wear a “habit” but not like the medieval garments formerly worn by nuns.  The deaconesses in Germany wore a modest black or gray dress.  Some of the older deaconesses wore a white cap similar to a nurse’s cap.

When I started seminary I was introduced to Sister Arnetta Beyer who was the bursar (bookkeeper) at Wartburg Seminary.  My Kaiserswerth experience gave me heads up but other seminary students were clueless about Lutheran women called “sister.”  Sister Arnetta was from the Milwaukee motherhouse of Lutheran deaconesses.  She and another deaconess were working in Dubuque, Iowa.  Sister Arnetta was from North Dakota and became a deaconess because she was influenced in her youth by another deaconess. 

Deaconess Hospital in Milwaukee, which has long since been merged with another hospital, was the center of ministry for the Milwaukee deaconesses. Unless she was a parish worker, a deaconess worked at the hospital.  Stories were told that if a Wartburg Seminary student became ill and needed hospitalization (days before health insurance), they would be put on the train in Dubuque and sent to Milwaukee to be cared for by the deaconesses.

Because of dwindling numbers of new deaconesses, the Milwaukee motherhouse disbanded as an organization.  The remaining deaconesses working in secular fields continued their tasks.  The consecrated women in their light blue jumpers and white blouses became a ministry of the past.

There are still some deaconess communities within the United States.  Diaconal ministers are recognized within the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America.  Valparaiso University in Indiana has been a training center for deaconesses in the Missouri Synod and the ELCA.

Here’s my point:  Ever since the early days of the Church, diaconal ministry was vital to the church:  Stephan who was martyred, women like Priscilla and Agrippa, Lois and Eunice tended to the details of serving widows and orphans.  There has always been a spot in the life of the church for those blessed deacons and deaconesses who literally touch the lives of the people of God.  Maybe there still is a place for those communities of similar spirited people dedicated to prayer and healing and teaching.

Interim Time

“Interim Time”

When near the end of day, life has drained
Out of light, and it is too soon
For the mind of night to have darkened things,

No place looks like itself, loss of outline
Makes everything look strangely in-between,
Unsure of what has been, or what might come.

In this wan light, even trees seem groundless.
In a while it will be night, but nothing
Here seems to believe the relief of darkness.

You are in this time of the interim
Where everything seems withheld.

The path you took to get here has washed out;
The way forward is still concealed from you.

“The old is not old enough to have died away;
The new is still too young to be born.”

You cannot lay claim to anything;
In this place of dusk,
Your eyes are blurred;
And there is no mirror.

Everyone else has lost sight of your heart
And you can see nowhere to put your trust;
You know you have to make your own way through.

As far as you can, hold your confidence.
Do not allow confusion to squander
This call which is loosening
Your roots in false ground,
That you might come free
From all you have outgrown.

What is being transfigured here in your mind,
And it is difficult and slow to become new.
The more faithfully you can endure here,
The more refined your heart will become
For your arrival in the new dawn.

John O’Donohue, from To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings, 2008.

Listen to Sister Jane!

It was August 1978, the day before I was to be ordained.  Among all the other cards I received congratulating me and wishing me well was a modest envelope holding a notecard from Sister Jane, a Dominican nun whom I came to know my last year of seminary.  She started with kind words in the note and concluded in big letters, “Preach to convert!”

Nearly thirty-five years later, author Douglas John Hall is telling the church that the world is waiting for the gospel.  That used to be a pious phrase that would punctuate this preacher’s banter.  Now a theological professor writes puts it in print and we stand up and take notice.  He has the sociological statistics to back up what Sister Jane exhorted me to do three and a half decades ago.

Golly, a feller’ would think by now that we don’t have the luxury to be splitting hairs when it comes to letting those who have never heard that there is hope and forgiveness.  There is peace and freedom for those who have been burdened by who-knows-what.

But then, we hear this irritating story.  A new, young pastor in Newtown, Connecticut, took part in a community prayer gathering following December’s tragic shootings at Sandyhook Elementary School.  His picture appeared in national publications.  This new, young pastor is a member of the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod.  Once his activity was public, he received a phone call from the president of the Missouri Synod reprimanding the young pastor for participating in an event that was contrary to the church’s policy. The Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod prohibits pastors from praying with others from outside the denomination.  The new, young pastor whose community was reeling from that horrific tragedy was forced to apologize for praying with other Christians and Jews.

That story grieves me without end.  It does not matter whether I am Lutheran, Presbyterian, or Holy Roller.  (Maybe it does bother me more because I am Lutheran and the world lumps us all together despite the alphabet soup of synods) When there is a world waiting for the gospel; when there are people hurting and in need of somebody representing God; when a community aches to gather for prayer together, they are waiting for the gospel.  The world wants words that tell them God loves them.  The world wants the Good News embodied in somebody who manifests God’s love for its people.  The world wants the simplest cross to cling to so that they know they are not alone but that God is with them.

That is why even as a Geezer, I am interested in what we call the emerging church.  Maybe the old model doesn’t always work for us.  There are new voices that have actually heard the world saying that it longs to hear the Good News.  Once again, my colleagues do not have the luxury of always following the same paradigm as every generation before.  Turn up that hearing aid and listen to where the Good News is needed!

Sister Jane was on to something.  She very well knew that “Preach to convert” did not mean strong-arming the unrepentant scoundrel. Rather, it is preaching to make a difference—a difference of hope and renewal, a difference of love and forgiveness, a difference of justice and freedom.

Here’s the question for the week:  where in your world is the good news waiting to be told?  Talk among yourselves…

Sing with me: Tradition, Tradition!

Once upon a time I played Lazar Wolf in “Fiddler on the Roof.”  One of those evocative songs is “Tradition.”  It sets the theme for the musical that all of the village’s routines are based upon tradition.  It is funny how our lives are dictated by tradition.  Sometimes, tradition is healthy and provides a solid foundation to build upon.  Other times, tradition bifurcates our view on reality.

The new bride surprised her groom with a ham dinner.  Being a modern man, the husband knew his way around the kitchen.  Oh, he complimented his wife profusely because it was delicious.  He did ask her, however, why she cut the ham in half before placing it in the roaster.  She didn’t know why but said that is what her mother always did. 

The next time they visited her parents his mother-in-law also prepared a ham adorned with pineapple slices and cherries.  It was wonderful. But, the ham was also sliced in half.  Daughter asked mother why she cut the ham in half.  With great confidence she replied, “That’s what you always need to do with a ham, Dear.”

At Easter, the whole family was invited to Grandma’s house.  Grandma served her customary baked ham and when she brought the platter to the table the ham was already cut in half.  Granddaughter sweetly asked Grannie why she cuts the ham in half.  “Does it improve the flavor?”  “Piffle,” Grandma chuckled. “The only roasting pan I have isn’t big enough for a whole ham so I have the butcher cut it in half.”

Ah, that which we hold as sacred began from necessity.

In Wisconsin, we participate in the weekly ritual of Friday night fish.  It comes from the area’s large Roman Catholic population, which in pre-Vatican II days anxiously refrained from meat on Friday.  The Weiner Lady doing a weekend store promotion was seen by some as an offense to their piety. Friday fish carried an element of penitence.  But where did that tradition come from?

In former times before refrigerators or ice boxes or even smoke houses, peasants couldn’t preserve meats. Heck, as peasants there weren’t many animals.  Winter months were harsh on food supply and there was no animal protein.  A benevolent prince concerned for his people encouraged the church to tell the people to fish for food and have it on Friday in honor of the salvation won for the people on that Good Friday long ago.  Friday became that day when peasants could look forward to a protein source to help them survive and stave off starvation.  Somewhere, that tradition evolved into adding an over-sized baked potato with sour cream, cole slaw, and rye bread served by a saucy waitress competing with the din of Happy Hour.  A tradition born out of survival has become a tradition of conviviality.

You have to love tradition.  Traditions are what hold families and cultures together.  Traditions are the actions that dramatize our story as a culture.  Traditions that are negative are unhealthy and should be avoided.  But those traditions that allow us to celebrate and give pride and strengthen a community are rituals to preserve and pass along to coming generations.

Be a George!

Long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away, I remember sitting in church as a youth.  The Sunday was an occasion to have a supply preacher.  In those days I didn’t pay much attention whether the fellow was a lay preacher or if he was ordained.  Regardless, bless his heart for the ministry he did.  However, the fellow was blessed with a voice that had the nasality of a foghorn. It’s funny and maybe a bit tragic that we have those “tapes” that loop through our minds.  There are times I would like to run my head across a demagnetizer to erase some of those tapes.  Anyway, the preacher selected a passage about Christian service.  In crafting his sermon he drove home the point with the oft-repeated phrase, “let George do it.”  When he said the word “George,” ore boats on Lake Superior steered clear of rocky shoals.  Mean little kid that I was I thought it was hilarious.  Now, a hundred years later, the guy had a point.

Not just churches but every sort of organization consists of either leaders or followers.  The leaders grumble about the followers and the followers grumble about the leaders.  Leader types cannot understand why followers hold back and let reticence restrain them.  Followers are offended about those leaders who are always so “pushy” and always have to be so “showy” (their words).  But, when followers are asked to be involved or to volunteer for something simple they respond with (say it with me, now) “let George do it!”

I am sure it is a scenario from the Myers-Briggs Personality Inventory of introverts (I) and extroverts (E).  It is also an example of Family Systems Theory and the conflict within systems, formal or informal. It could also be fodder for Garrison Keillor’s next installment of “News from Lake Wobegon” where Minnesotans do not take kindly to people who take the splashy initiative to get things done.  But, there is a nation-wide malaise to recite that refrain along with you, Dear Reader, “let George do it!”

I am one of those introverts (I) who has seen the light. Hallelujah! If that supply preacher would have had an altar call I would be among the first ones (actually second or third in line because I wouldn’t want to appear pushy) to say, “Let me be George.”  I’m the one who sees a herd of people pressing through one door of a double set of doors and I open the second door.  I’m the one who sees a stack of programs not being handed out at the school concert so get up and make sure people receive them.

Here’s the point:  be a George!  People who might have their hands full at the moment appreciate the George who steps up to the plate to do the task at hand.  Don’t worry that people will fall at your feet in gratitude and admiration; it’s not that big of a deal.  You won’t be asked to make an acceptance speech for a trophy; there is none.  Cowboy up, world; it ain’t going to kill you.  Instead of letting George do (I heard you say it that way), be a George!

Holy Faces!

I like my icons—not the ones on my computer desktop but the ones on my wall and on my shelves.  My collection of religious icons is nothing valuable but I like the variety and remembering that some of them have been gifts.

Icons are more than religious art but have been devotional items over centuries of time.  Icons originate from the Eastern Orthodox tradition and reflect Byzantine, Greek, and Russian influences.  Typically, icons pay special attention to the eyes because it is said that icons are painted in a reverse image as if the believer is looking into heaven. Art history lessons point out the s-shaped form of those adoring Christ. The position of the hands and fingers becomes a message.  Often in the other hand there is a message describing the figure in the icon.  Traditionally, icon artists are in a period of prayer and fasting as they paint the images to match the spiritual journey of those who venerate the icon.

I have traditional icons within my collection, Mother and Child, the Holy Trinity, and Jesus the Liberator.  I have a Russian icon that a former confirmand brought me from his trip to Russia.  I have another icon that a friend decoupaged from a greeting card.  But then, I discovered a place in Vermont that not only does traditional icons but sponsor artists who do more contemporary icons.  So, I have an African Jesus, a Hispanic Angel Gabriel, an Apache Jesus, and a Navaho Madonna.  I have Bishop Oscar Romero, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Johann Sebastian Bach from that source.  I was especially excited to purchase the Bach icon since he was a devoted Lutheran—not typical choices for icons.  I wrote to inquire if they anticipated an icon of Martin Luther.  They replied that would not be in their plans.  I tried.

Here’s the point:  worship needs to appeal to all the senses.  We tend to be very verbal and worship time is filled with talk, talk, talk.  There are some folks in the pews who are more visual than they are audio.  They may best worship the Almighty by focusing on a simple worship accoutrement.  They are the ones who might best benefit by an icon on a stand with a candle lit indicating a holy place.  The devotion from gazing into the eyes of an icon is just as precious to God as the pious prattle that comes from human lips. 

Hey, whatever it takes to jack up worship.