Category: Faith

Why I’m finding internship important

On Tuesday, my day consisted of the following:

Rode the subway to Oliver’s daycare. He slept while I stared at my fellow passengers and smiled at them after they smiled at Oliver’s wonderful hat.
After I dropped Oliver off, I went to work.
I completed a draft of our Advent/Christmas pageant. Started planning three Sunday School lessons and one Confirmation lesson.
Met with the pastor of another church to talk about the joint Confirmation class that we were running that week.
Spent the day going in and out of my supervisor’s office as we finished up the details for the next two weeks since she’ll be out of town and I’ll be “in charge.”
Kept track of three dozen separate email conversations, covering things such as confirmation camp, pastoral visits, Sunday School teacher assignments, music, choir, Thursday night service details, flyers for an immigration clinic, outreach, first communion classes, etc.
Arranged a pre-baptism class; arranged to visit for a newborn.
Completed the agenda/details for my internship committee meeting.
Spent more time with my supervisor, ironing out more details.
Met with various folks who dropped by the church to say hello.
I think I ate lunch at some point but I don’t remember. Possibly pizza and a 20 oz diet coke. That’s my default lunch now.
Tried to help direct various homeless/hungry folks to the programs and associations that could help them.
Drafted our weekly electronic newsletter.
Updated our website.
Coordinated some details/information with the person who runs our facebook page.
Realized that I needed to actually do some detailed work with the Apostles’ Creed.
Didn’t really cross things off my list as more move them along.
Left my office, jumped on the subway, and read about clergy and death.
Then as I walked towards the seminary, to meetup with my son and wife, I spent twenty minutes on the phone with a woman I’ve never met, and never chatted with before, who’s in the midst of a traumatic illness in her family.
Immediately after that call ended, I walked into the special weekly service that my seminary puts together, and saw the baptism of a baby the same age of Oliver. Walked into a scene of naked butt cheeks and everything.
Then went to a share a meal with friends and the rest of my seminary community.
And I’m sure there’s more that I did that I’m forgetting.

The reason why internship matters more than just field experience is because internships let you see just how strange a day in ministry can be. There’s no barriers, really, towards what will happen. I can’t use school as a reason to keep everything in line or bounded. Pretty much, I spent the day feeling like I’m just making it all up as I go along. And, in ministry, you’re confronted with illness, poverty, hunger, fear, and death, all the time. And when that runs smack into new life, baptism (which is about death – but we ignore that a lot sometimes), and my role as a new dad – ministry is just so weird. So, so weird.

Presiding

Today, on this Christ the King Sunday, the last Sunday of the church year, I presided over the service. That means I did the entire service (minus the sermon) except for the words of institution (I don’t have “the magic fingers” quite yet). I even sung various parts of the liturgy which isn’t typically done at my internship site. It went fine and was a lot of fun.. I made two mistakes (forgetting to invite everyone to stand up at the start of the 9 am service and, during the 11 am service, skipping over the Lord’s Prayer during communion – had to backtrack on that one) but it went pretty well. I’m grateful for the experience and the chance to try it out. And it’s funny because, well, I’ve led services before. I’ve even been paid to lead an entire service, minus communion, before. But setting up and leading through the meal – that was a first. It went pretty much how I expected. What I didn’t expect, however, was how I would feel afterwards.

I’ve never been this tired after church in my life.

So, after arriving at church before everyone (except the sexton) to setup the altar and prepare the classrooms for Sunday School, I presided over a service. Then I lead several Sunday School groups. Then I presided after another service and mingled with everyone at the end. I wore myself out. I don’t consider myself to be a solid introvert – I actually am energized hanging around other people – but standing up there for two services, and leading Sunday School… it was exhausting. It’s physically tiring – standing as the focal point for the spiritual energy of the entire congregation – emotionally tiring, and spiritually exhausting as well. I felt so much energy radiating out from me that I felt sucked dry afterwards. None of this is bad, however. I actually liked it. If I had a cup of coffee and a bite to eat after the services, I could have gone to countless church meetings and thrived. But I didn’t have a chance to recharge – so I was exhausted.

As I took the subway home, with my sleeping baby strapped to my chest, I wondered if seminary should look to Broadway for some of its training. I know of actors and actresses who train by running on treadmills and singing – increasing their endurance to perform 8 shows a week. Seminaries should get their seminarians, load them down with cassocks, albs, and chasubles, and have them sing the liturgy while taking spin classes. Not only would it be a hilarious sight to see, but the seminarians would be in pretty good shape after it was all said and done. I’m putting this idea out into the universe. Someone pick up on it and run with it. This…this could work.

Stephen Colbert’s top five Luthers

From American Again: Re-becoming the greatness we never were. Hardcover Page 24.

Need an example of the Protestant work ethic? Just look at their religion’s founder, MARTIN LUTHER. I’m no fan, but let’s give the Devil his due. He posted 95 Theses to the door of the Catholic Church. Most people these days would staop at, like, 12 theses, tops. And this was back before the Internet, so he couldn’t even look up “plenary indulgences” on Wikipedia. Which is why I put him ahead of Luther Vandross on my list of Favorite Luthers.

Stephen Colbert’s top five Luthers:
5. Lex Luthor
4. Luther Vandross
3. Martin Luther
2. Martin Luther King Jr.
1. Lex Luthor King Jr.*

*He has been to the mountaintop…that he created with an earthquake machine! You fools!

Happy Thanksgiving! Pay attention to the children.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! I’m actually spending Thanksgiving with extended family – which is a first for me. It took me 30 years to get to this point but Oliver, well, he’s beating me to it. He’s spending his first Thanksgiving with first cousins, once removed, great uncles, great aunts, great-great aunts, and great-great uncles. He’s busy kicking his feet while the dog show is in the background. It is a good early Thanksgiving afternoon.

Last night I attended an interfaith Thanksgiving eve service sponsored by the Upper Westside Clergy group. It was…fine. I still struggle with interfaith services – not because I find them inherently bad but, rather, I feel that the services end up losing the distinctiveness that each individual tradition has that makes those traditions life-giving. I loved seeing the rabbi preach, hearing a synagogue’s musician play, and hearing a gospel choir sing, but there is a muddle quality to interfaith services that strikes me as a forced experience. Maybe we just don’t have enough years developing successful liturgies for interfaith services. Maybe we just need more time to develop orders and the language necessary to properly blend the distinctiveness of many religious traditions into one whole. And it’s possible I’ll never particularly enjoy them – coming to Lutheran Christianity late in the game might mean I’ll always view L.C. as what is life giving for me. But I value the attempt and I value the space these services give that let me experience other traditions – experiences that I typically do not get.

Last night, however, I found myself reflecting on the lessons and the sermon for sometime afterwards. The liturgy was truly focused on children – specifically the belief in the power of children to not have a muddled experience of the divine. They are pure, innocent, beautiful creatures that should be listened too, cherished, and loved. It had many “precious little moments” feel to it. I found myself thinking about my son a lot. And I…related to a lot of the service. But there’s a danger with this kind of thinking, in my opinion. The danger is raising up the experience of children at the expense of other generations. There is a danger in romanticizing childhood, alienating those who never have those “ideal” experiences. And it runs into theological issues because, well, original sin. The innocence and transcendence of children doesn’t really work if original sin is part of your theological framework.

When I look at Oliver, I see love. I see transcendence. I see innocence. And I see myself changing. I’ve always thought of myself as a sensitive person, one who tries hard to put himself in the shoes of his neighbor. But Oliver made me realize how far better I am at it now than I was before he was born. Or maybe I’m just more sleep-deprived so my psychological defenses of self-centeredness are falling away. Yet…when I look at Oliver, I also see selfishness. I see a need for love. I see vulnerability. And when he wakes up at 3 am, wanting food, it’s hard to see him as completely innocent. Original Sin seems to be easier to see in Oliver then.

But, beyond that, the big danger is romanticizing the faith of children is that it concretes the definition of faith. It gives faith a shape and appearance that actually puts faith in a box. Faith, then, is defined as a specific thing, with specific boundaries – boundaries that are culturally, and socially, bounded. It actually doesn’t allow faith to live, grow, and dwell in our experiences, joys, loss, and pain. This romanticization actually belittles the faith experiences of those who are not children – or those children who do not express what is “typical” or “clear” or “beautiful.” And it takes Jesus’ words about children (we read from Luke last night) and forgets that Jesus wasn’t talking about the innocent of children but rather their inconsequential worth. Children are given value by God; their worth comes in spite of their place in society. Widows, orphans, foreigners, and children – all were the least in ancient Judea. All are still the least today. But God’s ordering and valuing does not match our own. They are welcomed not because they are beautiful, smart, innocent, or fit on a “precious moments” wall calendar. They are welcomed because God says so. Our worth is passive – it comes from somewhere else and not because of our own inherent goodness, awesomeness, or our own acts of innocence and “wonder.”

But that, of course, is a very Lutheran Christian framework. The truth is that Oliver is a human being. Oliver is gonna sin. Oliver loves being selfish and, in many ways, doesn’t know how to do anything else. And no matter how much I love him, or value him, or will fight for him, or believe that he is the greatest thing in the world – God values him more. And that’s part of my vocation as a parent – a vocation that has completely changed me and a vocation that I’m glad I have.

Eating the Lord’s Chili

It’s hard to surprise anyone in New York City. Even me, a young fashionable guy with hipster-punk energies can’t get a second look from folks when I pop on my Roman collar and head to work. But today…today was a different day. When I walked out the door this morning, I was in my usual ensemble. Roman collar (terrible shirt), synthetic leather jacket, skinny pants, and news cap. Oh. And I forgot one thing. I was also carrying a crock pot full of sweet potato chili that K made.

The folks on the subway didn’t know what hit them.

Today was Advent’s annual chili cook off. This is one of my favorite times of year. Tons of chili, lots of good fun, great music (though I’m biased since I put the mixtape together), and an event where the cornbread flows like wine. It was a deliciously perfect day. This is definitely something I need to steal – errr borrow – for my future calls.

A sermon preached on November 11, 2012 (Mark 12:38-44)

A sermon preached at Advent Lutheran Church on November 11, 2012 by yours truly.

The 9am sermon can be heard here:

For those of you who prefer your sermons in paper form, here is the final draft that I printed out (though I did modify it on my subway ride in to church slightly).

*********

24th Sunday after Pentecost
1 Kings 17:8-16; Psalm 146; Hebrews 9:24-28; Mark 12:38-44

Starting to Happen
Please be seated.

Who is that poor widow?

I mean, for a person who only appears in one sentence in our reading today, she’s kind of a big deal. This is one of those quintessential bible stories ‚Äì one that even my un-churched friends know. And ‚Äì right now, across the country, preachers are talking about her, pointing to her ‚Äì and, no doubt, stewardship campaigns and yearly financial pledge drives are being started ‚Äì all because of her. This poor widow ‚Äì in the capital C Church ‚Äì she’s making an awful lot of noise right now.

But ‚Äì really ‚Äì what do we know about her? Well, she’s poor. Her husband is dead. And she’s in the temple complex on the day that Jesus – decides to be like a New Yorker having brunch on a nice spring day ‚Äì Jesus is people watching and he sees her, this widow, giving all she has ‚Äì and this….this has defined her ever since people started gathering together to talk about Jesus. Those two coins she tossed into the treasury box ‚Äì a kind of offering box in the temple complex of Jerusalem ‚Äì this is her defining and remembered act. And…well…that’s about all we know of her.

We don’t know her name. We have no idea where she lived ‚Äì what she called home. We have no idea if she worshiped in the temple regularly or if she’s back for the first time in years. We also have no word on why she’s a widow. I mean ‚Äì did her husband die from disease? Old age? Or ‚Äì since its Veteran’s Day ‚Äì was he a solider? Did he perish in some far off campaign or maybe from some old war wound that never healed properly? We don’t even know if she had kids ‚Äì or if she’s young or old. We know nothing about her except her class, her worth, and her act of giving on that day.

Now ‚Äì this isn’t suppose to be a stewardship sermon ‚Äì if you’ve seen the posters and read the letter we sent ya ‚Äì stewardship Sunday is next week – and I’ll let our preacher – Pastor Campbell of Broadway, UCC ‚Äì take care of that whole thing. But ‚Äì this tailored made text about giving ‚Äì it’s really hard to NOT see stewardship in it. I mean ‚Äì here’s this widow ‚Äì who in spite of having her property, dignity, her humanity, devoured by those who are rich ‚Äì she still gives all she has. In spite of having almost nothing ‚Äì and being in a position of pure powerlessness ‚Äì she still gives. We don’t know why she gives ‚Äì but it’s not hard to imagine that she had some deep faithfulness to God ‚Äì or hope ‚Äì and she…she gives. Her act ‚Ķ it’s inspiring; scary; challenging ‚Äì and it’s a reminder that what God values ‚Äì God’s ordering of the world ‚Äì doesn’t match our expectations or experiences.

But even though we don’t know her ‚Äì there is something else we know ‚Äì something I haven’t mentioned yet. We know that she was ‚Ķ that she wasn’t seen ‚Äì that she was invisible. She’s not flashy ‚Äì she doesn’t have the chance, the opportunity to make a dramatic entrance or scene. In the eyes of everyone there ‚Äì she has no value ‚Äì and ‚Äì with no value comes no visibility. So when she comes up to make her gift ‚Äì it is only Jesus who sees it. The other disciples don’t. They don’t come to Jesus saying “oh wow! We just saw this woman give everything she has!” No ‚Äì Jesus calls them over ‚Äì He tells them what just happened. Jesus sees her ‚Äì well ‚Äì actually ‚Äì Jesus sees all of them. He sees the rich who give large sums of money. He see the disciples who are milling about. And Jesus sees this poor widow ‚Äì with two coins ‚Äì make her deposit. She’s invisible ‚Äì invisible to everyone except for Jesus. And…and its not her act that makes her known to Jesus. Jesus is there people watching ‚Äì even before the poor widow arrives. He’s noticing everyone. And Jesus sees ‚Äì well ‚Äì he sees her. He knows she’s poor. He knows she’s a widow. He knows who she is, where she comes from, why she is who she is ‚Äì before she acts. Before she gives. He doesn’t conduct an exit poll to discover who she is. There’s nothing in the text to show that this widow even saw or noticed that Jesus was there at all. But Jesus…Jesus saw her. And I think ‚Äì I think that’s when her identity begins.

Now ‚Äì sometimes ‚Äì not being seen ‚Äì that’s awesome. Personally, there are times when my four month old son Oliver ‚Äì well ‚Äì he’s gotten to the age where he cries, loudly, when he wants my attention. He’ll want to sit on my lap ‚Äì like when I’m trying to write a sermon ‚Äì and put his whole hand in his mouth ‚Äì and just happily suck away. He wants me to see him ‚Äì but ‚Äì well ‚Äì that doesn’t fit into my schedule. So, I do what all two parent households do ‚Äì I dropped him off with my partner. At that moment ‚Äì I’ve got a choice ‚Äì and the opportunity to not be seen ‚Äì and I’m gonna take it and use it as much as I can.

But there are times when not being seen is one of the worse things in the world. When we’ve failed at something ‚Äì or we’re suffering through a broken relationship ‚Äì illness ‚Äì a broken promise ‚Äì or any number of things that can make us feel completely isolated and alone ‚Äì being unseen is terrible. And even in a city as populated as New York ‚Äì when you’re on the 2 train in the middle of rush hour with your face in someone’s armpit and with a bag jammed into your back ‚Äì it is so easy to be completely invisible.

And this extends beyond a personal level ‚Äì this lack of visibility is part of our culture too. Those folks who are too inconvenient because they don’t fit our norms ‚Äì because they’re not wealthy enough, or they don’t love the right way, or their skin color is just a tad too dark ‚Äì or maybe they’re too hungry and too poor ‚Äì they can be made invisible too. One of the sharpest examples can be seen in what happened after Hurricane Sandy. Those of us, myself included, who didn’t lose power ‚Äì our lives returned to normal. Our subway trips, while disrupted, came back eventually. It’s easy to think that everyone else is back to normal too ‚Äì but they’re not. There are still those without heat, without gas for their generators ‚Äì basements still flooded ‚Äì homes still destroyed ‚Äì lives still broken. Their narrative doesn’t match our own ‚Äì and the busyness of our lives push our broken neighbors to the side. They disappear. They are the un-seen.

But that’s not what Jesus does in our story. He sees them. He notices them. He gets who they are ‚Äì before they act. Before they do anything. And Jesus sees us too ‚Äì in all that we do ‚Äì and in all who we are. And he sees us because he promises to. He promises to be the ultimate people watcher ‚Äì living in creation, in community, with people ‚Äì in all their brokenness and all their joy. God came down to live ‚Äì to watch ‚Äì to teach ‚Äì to reveal ‚Äì to transform ‚Äì and, well, to love.

On this ‚Äì the anniversary of Martin Luther’s baptism ‚Äì I’m reminded of one of my favorite quotes by him ‚Äì that we are invited ‚Äì called really ‚Äì to be little Christ’s to one another. This doesn’t mean that we’re suppose to see a beggar and give them our cloak because that might be Jesus playing some kind of game with us ‚Äì no ‚Äì it means that we are to be like Jesus because Jesus keeps on being Jesus to us. He continues to see us. He continues to join with us in our baptism ‚Äì in the meal we’ll share around his table ‚Äì a meal that is open to all ‚Äì that sees all ‚Äì and the pastor and chalice bearer will say that this bread and drink is not just a symbol ‚Äì or something that is pretend ‚Äì but that this really is Jesus, right here, right now, for you. Capital Y-O-U because you are being seen. You are being known ‚Äì whether you are a child or one of our older, wiser Lutherans. You ‚Äì all of you ‚Äì your fears, worries, joys, hopes, your dreams ‚Äì all of you ‚Äì the Lord truly sees you.

So like Jesus on that day ‚Äì on that day when he sat in the temple complex ‚Äì he still watches people. He sees all of us. And we are invited to see everyone too. White or brown, gay or straight, democrat or republican, young or old, man or woman, rich or poor ‚Äì we are invited to see everyone. To be in relationship with all of them ‚Äì especially the unseen ‚Äì the marginalized ‚Äì the ones we don’t see. And we’re called to love them. To start to love ‚Äì they must be seen ‚Äì and known. We are invited to notice. We are invited to pay attention ‚Äì even when our sisters, brothers, neighbors ‚Äì even when their names are no longer in the papers ‚Äì we are invited to be in relationship in the long term ‚Äì and to not give up on all who need to be seen. Because we are seen. We are known. Our identity rests in that Jesus, he, who sat in a temple complex and watched the world go by. He saw them; he sees us ‚Äì and we are called to be a people of see-ers. So lets go see.

Amen

Vicar, vicar, vicar, viccaaaarrrrrrrr

I relate to Abraham Lincoln in his first standup comedy routine in this clip from Saturday Night Live.

Well, okay, I haven’t talked to any slaveholders recently. No one has tried arguing with me that owning a couple of dudes is okay. But I relate to Lincoln’s reality of having to “play nice” in these debates even though, really, he doesn’t want to. When it comes to base assumptions that completely disagree with what he believes, he doesn’t want to play nice. He wants to go WHAT THE…, drop the mic, and walk away. He doesn’t want to be nice.

Today, I didn’t want to be nice.

After the 11 am service, after I lost syllables in my pronunciation of names/prayers because of dry mouth (and throat and stomach – talking non-stop for a few hours without a touch of moisture on my lips wasn’t the smartest thing to do today), I talked to someone who was new to church. For a moment, I almost walked by her. I needed to clean three Sunday School rooms, say goodbye to a few families, and break down the “children’s” section of church before the next service started. But I decided that I should say hi. Engaging people is something I still need to work on. So I said hi. She said hi back. We engaged in small talk. And then she did something that made me swallow my tongue just a bit. She did that thing that I’m starting to dread because it is something that always happens when I’m busy. She said “So you’re a pastor here? Cuz I’ve got two questions.”

Sometimes, I really am not into that phase “I’ve got questions.”

Actually, that’s not totally true. I love questions. I love being seen as a person that might have answers. But, really, I love being a person that isn’t afraid of questions because I have questions. I’ll always have questions. And that’s a-okay.

But…my enthusiasm for not only questions, but Lutheran Christian answers to those questions (even if they are paradoxes) can get in my way sometimes. I’m too much of a punk to just reaffirm people’s beliefs when I’m answering “questions” and that gets me into trouble. Even though I can look cool, collected, and diplomatic – I’m actually getting slowly defensive, especially when I’m arguing against a belief that I find caustic, problematic, and down right annoying. So, of course, I get two of those questions today. “Why do you worship on Sunday when the sabbath in Saturday?” and “Shouldn’t women wear long dresses when they are at church?”

Oh boy.

I never asked what church tradition she was from and I should have. I assumed 7th Day Adventist but it could have been something else. The sabbath question was a softball. I’ve never had to answer that question before but I racked my brain, argued history (which wasn’t necessary), and weaseled my way out by the usual claim that we are suppose to worship (and pray) always so the day we gather isn’t the end all/be all of our identity. Again. Easy. Peasy. I patted myself on the back for that one.

But that second question…Lord have mercy. Where to even begin? There is so much baggage in that statement – so much culture, tradition, identity, patriarchy, and social ridiculous in that question. We moved somewhere private were we could speak more frank. I tried to listen. I used a lot of “What I hear you saying…” statements. But – really – I didn’t know what to do with this. And that’s what really annoyed me because I should have. This wasn’t an “answer” question like the previous one. I went about this the wrong way – and, in my diplomacy, I was Abe Lincoln with slave holders – trying to be cool about something I disagree with. It ended up being 30 minutes of seesawing because I just wouldn’t say “you’re totally right – stripper heels aren’t church wear.” I hate the question about modesty for women (and only women) because I find the whole premise of the question to be sexist and problematic. It’s never just about what women wear. I tried the same tactics I used to answer the sabbath question but I blew it. I ended up saying half-truths, some outright lies (“oh, this is never a question I’ve ever thought about before”), and my diplomatic word choices and affirmations of the validity of her opinion left me with a bad taste in my mouth. That was my mistake – and I really had no one to blame but myself for this happening in the first place.

This wasn’t a conversation about questions; from my perspective, it should have been a conversation about why she was bringing this up in the first place. Why, at the invitation of a friend, did she visit a church with women leadership and come to church on a Sunday rather than a Saturday. Why did she want to try this place out? Why did she speak to me, as a male leader, rather than the head pastor (and associate) who were female? Why these questions rather than something else? I should have asked “why do you care?” or “what happened that makes you want to ask this question?” (using nicer words of course). That’s the question to answer. But I didn’t get there. I indirectly got close to those questions – but I should have sighted them first. And I didn’t. And we both left the conversation in an uneasy place. And I left with a bad taste in my mouth. Let’s see if she comes back again. If I’m given another chance, I’ll do better next time (I hope).

Franken Oliver

So, I haven’t updated this blog in awhile. I’ve been busy. This summer, I dreamed the dream that I would blog every day about my internship but that hasn’t happened. By the time I get home in the evening, and Oliver is put to sleep, the dishes are done, and late night emails are responded to, I’m already past my bed time. My forgetful parent brain has already melded with my sleep-deprived brain. It’s hilarious.

With Frankenstorm moved to more Canadian pastures, we’re trying to get back to our lives even though cabin fever has set it. The buses were filled with non-bus people today which made the already strange and crowded moving metal sardine cans (since the subways were down) even more annoying. We’re still trying to learn when lower Manhattan will receive power. And through all of this, Oliver handled it like a champ. He’s been his usual, sometimes annoying, self. It’s like he has no idea that a hurricane went through the area. He’s still his normal, fat, fussy, smily self.

So, tonight, he woke up from a short nap, and decided to lose his lid for no reason. This isn’t abnormal so I went through our normal routine. I held him, carried him around the apartment, harassed his mom pretending that the voice she was hearing was really Oliver’s, etc. When that didn’t work, I gave him some Gripe water and changed his diaper. And when that didn’t soothe him, I put on some iTunes and we had a dance party. I held him close and we rocked out for forty five minutes before he fell asleep. While I held him and danced around, I couldn’t think that there isn’t a sermon in this experience – especially with the fact that a huge part of my city is suffering, in mourning, and waiting for light and heat to re-enter their lives. He fussed, cried, shed tears – but I didn’t let go. In this time of suffering, that’s what we’re suppose to do. And I hope this is what happens – because the effects of the storm will not end in a week, or a month, or a year. But it’ll last for a long, long, time. And we’ll need to keep holding onto each other for as long as it takes. It’s what the church is called to do.

Oliver finally passed out and I put him down to sleep…which he did for a whopping thirty minutes. He woke up, fussing, crying, and angry. I hate waking up sometimes too little buddy. And…well..here’s your mother. Let’s see if she can calm you down this time.