I still don't know what I'm giving up...

I still don’t know what I’m giving up for Lent. And that’s ok. Maybe I won’t give up anything. I feel tired. Maybe I could offer my exhaustion to God. Maybe that’s enough. I’m reminded that “For I desire steadfast love and not sacrifice, the knowledge of God rather than burnt offerings. (Hosea 6:6)”

God is more interested in our hearts, our minds, our souls, than our external observances. Not that external observances are necessarily bad. External observances point us to the deeper message of Christ. Rituals are powerful. But they are not essential to our faith (“adiaphora” to use the Reformation term).

Maybe I’ll spend more time in prayer, study, and visitation. Parts of my job that draw me closer to God. Hearing faith stories of parishioners always refreshes me. Reading deeply of the grand story of our salvation always stirs me.

Praying I find more difficult. But maybe I need to push through the pain and simply do it and see where it leads me.

Lutheran membership climbs in world, Africa, but not South

Geneva (ENI). The number of Lutherans worldwide increased
by 5.4 per cent in 2004 to almost 70 million, much of this growth
in Africa, says the Geneva-based Lutheran World Federation.
But while Lutheran churches throughout most of the African
continent registered an increase in membership, several churches in
South Africa experienced a decline, the Lutheran church grouping
has noted.

Good news.

But as I noted on a previous post, the LWF numbers are wildly inflated due to the baptismal records in the European state churches. European state churches are known to be in great decline as attendance figures hover around the 2-3 percent levels.

But why are the African churches growing. I'll bet the report also points to growth in South America and Asia.

I wonder if folks are most open to the gospel when they actually experience it as "good news." History has shown that Christianty flourishes in poorer countries, but has a fundamentalistic colour. Also, the Lutheranism (as well as the rest of Christianity) that is growing world-wide is a pentecostal style that emphasizes experience over knowledge.

This is not necessarily a bad thing. Pentecostalism is a dynamic expression of Christianity that provides ecstatic experiences of God. I've called often pentecostal (or charismatics)"extraverted mystics" )a designation that has been met with derision among my more liberal friends)but they fail to deepen their understanding of the historic faith that has been passed down from generation to generation for 2000 years. At some point, experience needs knowledge to give it legs.

The pentecostal Lutheranism that is blossoming in developing countries will cause tremendous cultural division between north and south; especially around the issues of human sexuality. Maybe northern liberals will need to practice the inclusiveness they preach so fervantly by hearing the southern voices that so strongly disagree with them on some pretty controversial issues.

Who's Lurking in Your Church?

Will Willimon tells this story in this week's entry of Pulpit Resources:

A few years ago, in one of the great churches of our denomination, a young man was discoverd hiding in the church.

A maintenance worker discovered him one day. He had been lurking in the attic, spending his day in darkness, only venturing forth during the night to prowl about the church, feeding on leftovers, listening in on that daily activities of the congregation from his secret hideaway in the attic.

Willimon then asks,

Do you know anyone who is hiding in the church? Someone who is hiding amid the rest of the congregation, present, but not really, on the boundary, uninvolved, fearful of being found out, encountered? What would it take for this person to come out of the dark into the light?

As a pastor, this story haunts me.

I know there are people who are lurking on the edges, spiritually hidden away, fearful of being exposed. People who prowl through the leftovers of the well-fed. Or who overhear the joyfilled strains of the community in worship, disconnected, but still, somehow present. What does good news mean for them? Who do they need Jesus to be?

Scanning the borders, shining light in the dark corners, sweeping away the cobwebs and making sure the doors are open to all who need God's healing grace in their lives. This will always be our calling and our challenge.

I'll be pondering all this over the next couple of days as I prepare my sermon.

Sermon: Lent One - Year A

(N.B., with help from Willimon, Pulpit Resouce)

Kevin Powell
Lutheran Church of the Good Shepherd
Lent 1 – Year A
February 13 – Year A

I didn’t really take Lent seriously until I was in university. To be honest, Lent wasn’t even on my radar screen before then. Lent just seemed like a religious game that I didn’t want to play. Smearing ashes on my forehead. Keeping the “A” word buried in a tomb. Liturgically beating our chests in ritual repentance. All of this seemed so – medieval. Religious hocus-pocus that may have meant something at some time, but lost its meaning as the world “progressed” beyond superstition and religious fantasy.

But it’s amazing how life can turn up empty when left to our own devices. And how such emptiness can make you look at things differently.

I had been a fairly confident young man. I was studying music. I was going to be an orchestra conductor. And, as any musician will tell you, you need to have a bit of an ego to stand in front of 50 to 100 equally ego-obsessed individuals and suggest that your way is the best way. Confidence was one quality I was not lacking.

When you’re young and haven’t experienced failure. The first one can flatten you.

Without sharing the gory details, I had a few big set backs, both personal and professional. After which I found myself in an Anglican church hearing the words from the prophet Joel in the language of the old prayer book:

The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.

Rend your heart, and not your garments, and turn unto the Lord your God; for he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and of great kindness, and repenteth him of the evil. (Joel 2:13)

For me, these were words of refreshing honesty. Strange truthfulness. Perverse openness.

Failure felt dirty. But there was good news in knowing that my failures, my limitations, my brokenness, could be offered as a gift to God. Not that God was offering worldly success in return. But that God wanted from me the parts of my life the rest of world didn’t even want to know about. God wanted my tears. God wanted my anger. God wanted my disappointments and my regrets. No one other than God could take what the world calls ugly and dirty, and transform it into a gift for the Almighty.

Maybe it was the Holy Spirit talking, or maybe it was the need for a deeper expression of faith in my life, or maybe it was both, but Lent became for me a time of deepening my understanding of God and how God works in the world and in my life. The ashes smeared on my forehead confronted me with my mortality. The silence of the “A” word aroused my longing for new life. The prayers of confession exposed my self-conceits.

So now, Lent is, for me, a time of devastating honesty. Honesty about myself: where I’ve failed. Where I’ve succeeded. Where I’ve fallen short of what God wants for me. Where I need God’s healing in my life.

Sometimes Lent is the spot where pain and pleasure intersect purging me of all that limits abundant living.

But other times Lent requires more from me then I’m ready to give. Because my sin is too great.

But what I’ve learned foremost is that sin is the great equalizer. The grand leveler. None of us gets off scot-free. In today’s second reading, Paul writes to the church in Rome, singing to them of the triumph of Christ. He describes for them the entrance of sin and rebellion into the world. We are those who have gone astray, who have preferred our wills to God’s will. The results of this sin are all around us. The history of this past blood-stained century, the headlines in this morning’s paper tell the story.

Yet to this story Paul contrasts the story of Christ. Christ brings life to our death-dealing ways. Christ offers forgiveness for all our sins. In Christ, it’s like God starts all over with creation, from the beginning, and sets us toward a new future.

This Sunday, this first Sunday in Lent, think of church as a place where all our contradictions are underscored, examined, and questioned. Think of church as a place where we confront the truths about ourselves that we spend the rest of our lives avoiding. Here, with God’s help, we try to tell the truth about ourselves. And sometimes, the truth hurts.

The whole world is busy trying to climb up the ladder of success; here we kneel down in confession of sin. The world keeps telling us that we are basically good people who are doing the very best we can. Here, we admit that we are those who wander, who rebel, who fail; in short, we sin.

On a Sunday like this one, alongside of an “everybody welcome” sign, over the door of the sanctuary we should put a warning sign for unsuspecting visitors: BEWARE: TRUTH BEING TOLD HERE!

How is it possible for people like us to tell the truth about ourselves?

Left on our own, I doubt that we would be able tpo achieve the kind of honesty God asks from us because we have a way of beating ourselves up. If we think God is judging, I wonder if we don’t do a better job. Honesty would be utterly impossible were it not because in Jesus Christ, we hear first, that we are loved; God’s love is the safety net in which our honesty lands us. As Paul says to the Romans, though our sin was serious, in Christ, “grace abounded,” which is a fancy way of saying, “love and forgiveness flourished.” Our misdeeds are abundant, as we admit every time we say a prayer of confession. Yet, as Paul says, in Christ we have received abundant grace. We could not get good enough for God, so God in Christ has made us good enough through his saving love for us. We could not do right by God, so God in Christ did right for us.

The good God who had every right to punish us for our failure to be good, instead loved us back into relationship with God. This is the great and wonderful contradiction of our faith, the great contradiction of God’s love for us, upon which rests our hope in life and in death.

So maybe we shouldn’t put the sign up: BEWARE: TRUTH BEING TOLD HERE. Maybe instead we should replace it with, WELCOME: LOVE AND FORGIVENESS BEING OFFERED HERE.

May this be so among us. Amen.

What can I give up for Lent?

I know I'm a little behind. We're two days into Lent and I still don't know what to give up. I thought about giving up beer (yeah, right!) or starting to exercise and eating healthier (even funnier). When I figure out what I'm giving up I'll let you know.

TS Eliot: Ash Wednesday

Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

- TS Eliot, Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday Sermon

Roman Catholic priest Joseph Nassal tells this story,

Imagine you are walking down the street and come upon a house that has burned to the ground. Sitting in the midst of the ashes and rubble is a man in his mid-thirties. The young man, a professional, who might otherwise be a striking symbol of sanity and success, is rubbing the ashes on his arms, his shirt, his pants.

You stop on the sidewalk to watch him. At first you think the fire which destroyed his house also took his mind. One of his neighbours is standing beside you and tells you that this is where the young man lived as a child. The house had been vacant for a couple of years since the death of the young man’s grandfather.

“He was looking to sell the house,” the neighbour says, “but he never got around to it.” Then he adds, “Come to think of it, I don’t think he never came to take care of his grandfather’s possessions until after he died. He’s busy, you know, with his career and all.”

The young man stands and then stumbles over charred beams and scarred remains. You want to step forward to comfort him but can’t. What if he has indeed gone insane? No telling what he might do. You watch and whisper with the others.

He’s found something. The young man picks up a tiny object and holds it in his hand. He brushes away the powdery ash and rubs it on his face. His bath is complete. He is covered with ashes.

You inch closer to see what it is the young man has found. Whatever it is, it’s not very large. His hands hide it. Perhaps it is an heirloom. Then you see a tarnished chain slip through his fingers. A watch dangles at the end of the chain. Gracefully, gently, it glides back and forth as the young man gazes, hypnotized by memory.

You hear him say softly, “This was my grandfather’s. Just before he died he gave it to me.” It is one of those pocket watches that you put in your vest. The young man opens it and a smile slightly creases his face.

He puts the watch in his pocket and falls back to the ground. A cloud of dust rises as the young man rolls around in the ashes of the place he once called home.

“He’s lost his mind,” the neighbour whispers.

No, you think to yourself, he’s found his soul. (Joseph Nassal, The Conspiracy of Compassion)

An odd little story, don’t you think? It’s awkwardly morbid. Yet strangely life-affirming.

Ashes are the enemy. Ashes mean defeat. Don’t they?

Think about how bizarre these ashes look stuck to our foreheads. It’s as if we’re saying to the world “I give up!” We’re flaunting our mortality. We’re boasting in our weakness. Maybe that’s why we’re tempted to wash them off as soon as get into our cars. We’re embarrassed that someone is going to say to us, “You’ve got something on your forehead.”

It’s as if we’re telling the world the wrong kind of truth.

A week ago I received the sad news that the three-year-old cousin of a seminarian died after a valiant two-year battle with leukemia. I never met Hannah. But through Sara, our friend at seminary, Rebekah and I had been following her story. We received regular reports. I checked her website often. I prayed for her. I wept when she died.

I wonder if Hannah’s story moved me so deeply because was she was only a few months older than Sophie. So much life. So much joy, doused. And I can’t imagine what it feels like to lose a child. On top of sorrow I felt angry. Angry at the injustice. Angry at the absurdity of losing such a beautiful young life. Angry at knowing that her’s is not an isolated case. Thousands of children die each day. Hannah’s is just one voice in a chorus. So, I’m angry.

But moreover, maybe I’m angry because I know that one day Sophie will die. Naomi will die. Just like all of us.

It’s one thing to reflect upon our own deaths, but I think the death of one’s child carries its own special tragedy. I feel a responsibility for my children’s well-being and survival, and I just can’t wrap my head around the fact that Rebekah and I have brought Sophie and Naomi into the world simply to die. To me it feels like I’ve lost the game before it has even begun.

Irrational? Maybe. But aren’t most fears?

But maybe these ashes tell a different story. Maybe these ashes bear the wounds of the saviour who embraced our dustiness, our limitations, our failure, when he went to death on the cross. Maybe these ashes are signs of defiance against death and suffering and point to a new future. Maybe, these ashes, that we wear so proudly say to the world, I know you’re suffering. I know you carry wounds so deep that maybe you can’t even name them. I know that life can be devastating. I know all that because these ashes bear witness to my own suffering. And through my own suffering, I have learned compassion. So share your agony with me. So let’s breathe together. As the Spirit of the Risen Jesus who still bears the wounds of salvation, breathes with us.

More than a simple act of remembering that “We are dust and unto dust we will return,” receiving ashes is a sacred act of courage. It says: Yes, I am willing to wrestle in the darkness of these days “where the shadows of sin play hide and seek, where clouds of indifference have eroded commitment, where the cold winds of compromise have chilled compassion” as one poet says it. (Nassal)

Ashes say: Yes, I am willing to confront those death-dealing attitudes and death-denying gestures that have become second nature to me. Yes, I will roll around in the dust in an act of repentance and remembering and confidence. Yes, I will be mortal; I will trust God, because I can’t find my own way into eternity.

Even when we wash our faces, the ashes cling. They remind us that only God can bring new life out of these ashes. Only God can bring new life out of you, out of me, out of Hannah.

No, we don’t have all the answers for all the world’s ills, evils, and diseases. We don’t have the answer to death. But when we have the courage to live the questions with each other, then we may discover how the Spirit of God breathing within us gives us power to change from self-centred ways into a growing respect for the needs of others. The Holy Spirit loosens the grip that original sin and unoriginal indifference hold on our lives and frees us to remember what we need never forget: God’s fingerprints are felt on our wounds, God’s life breathes deep within us. It is because of God’s mercy that we can be merciful. It is because of God’s faithfulness that we can be faithful. It is because of God’s grief at losing God’s Son that we are re-born into eternal life.

So try as we might. We can never wash the ashes from our forehead. They stubbornly refuse to be wiped clean. Only though the waters of life given to us in baptism is the stain of death removed. In the meantime, I think I’ll leave my wounds open, hoping they will continue to teach me how meet others in their pain. And in our common wounds, we breathe together, conspiring for life, for love, for compassion.

And when people say, “He’s lost his mind,” I can answer, “No, I’ve found my soul.” Amen.

Was that an AGM or a LoveFest?

Yesterday Good Shepherd had an excellent Annual General Meeting. It wasn’t a meeting as much as it was a celebration of all the gifted people doing wonderful ministries at our church.

The motion about pursuing a more suitable facility for our congregation went through very easily, with a minimum of discussion. I guess folks got to have their say at earlier meetings. All that was left was a vote. And it was unanimous.

Now the hard work begins.

Transfiguration: Children's Message

Esther’s parents dropped her and her brother James off at her grandma’s and grandpa’s while they went away for the weekend skiing.

Esther and her brother James loved going to visit grandma and grandpa. Their house was tucked away the middle of a small forest with big trees looming over the roof, providing shade in the summer and comfort in the winter; for the naked branches of the tree looked like arms hugging their little house.

James liked to roam about in the woods outside, but Esther preferred to stay inside and explore the vast treasure-house of old things that grandma and grandpa kept in their attic.

Esther opened a box labeled “pictures” and pulled the pictures out and laid them on her lap. They were pictures from long long ago; from before her mom and dad were born. Everyone was all dressed up. The men had slicked back hair and the women were wearing fancy white dresses.

Just then James came up the ladder that led to the attic.

“What’ya looking at?” asked James.

“Just some old pictures,” replied Esther.

“Of who?” asked James.

“I don’t know,” replied Esther, “This one looks like grandma and grandpa, and this one looks like Uncle John. But they all look so different.”

James came closer and looked at the pictures over his sister’s shoulder.

“That’s not them,” said James “Grandma and Grandpa have white hair.”

“But not back then, silly,” replied Esther. “It does look like them, but then again, it doesn’t. I wonder who it is.”

“Also, when was the last time you saw grandpa wearing a tie?” asked James.

That night, as Grandma and Grandpa were tucking Esther and James into bed and to say their prayers, Grandma asked,

“Did you find anything interesting in those old boxes?”

“Just some old pictures,” replied Esther, “but we didn’t know who they were.”
Esther pulled out a picture that she had slipped under her pillow.

Grandma looked at the picture and laughed.

“What’s so funny, grandma?” asked Esther.

“Why that’s your grandpa and me at your Uncle John’s wedding.” Grandma replied, “That feels like it was a thousand years ago, and only yesterday.”

“But that doesn’t look like you. Where’s your white hair?” asked James.

“Grandma and grandpa didn’t always have white hair,” replied Grandpa. “We earned each one of them.”

“I guess it’s like in the bible story at church where Jesus was hard to recognize because he looked so shiny and new,” said Esther, “He wore brand new clothes and his hair seemed to shine like the sun. Our Sunday school teacher said that was the beginning of Jesus’ real work. He looked nice for a day, and then he went off to Jerusalem where he was crucified, and then his work was finished. So, like you and grandpa, who looked nice that day, spent your life together and built this house and the family business, and then your work was finished.”

“Yeah,” said grandpa smiling, “I guess it is like that.”

Then they said a prayer like this as we do now: Dear God, help us to finish the work you have for us. Amen.”

As promised...

As mentioned this past week, I was in Canmore at our synod’s Pastor’s Study Conference. The guest presenter was Michael Foss of Prince of Peace Lutheran Church in Burnsville Minnesota. He was excellent. He talked about renewing the church: from “membership to discipleship.” While it might have easy to dismiss him and his church as being irrelevant to our context because his numbers are massive for a Lutheran church, but he showed how his method was used in small rural settings as well as inner city churches and suburban parishes.

But the best part for me was the fellowship and the time to get away. Since I’m new to the synod I had the opportunity to meet all sorts of new folks. Of course, the dominant topic of discussion was Same Sex Blessings. Some people put a moratorium on The Issue, but it came up in almost every discussion.

My former bishop, Michael Pryse of the Eastern Synod spoke for a bit during the bishop’s hour. After a couple soft ball pitches he was blunt with the crowd, “Don’t you have any questions about human sexuality? I know you have questions, so ask them!” The Eastern Synod has been designated a “Reconciling in Christ” synod by Lutherans Concerned, despite the fact that the ES has not adopted their statement of welcome. Their Synod Assembly last year passed their own, but similar statement, that broadened the welcome beyond GLBT’s. So they were placed on the list, which has been a cause of concern from conservative elements within the ELCIC.

Bishop Steve talked about the farm crisis. Not just the fall out from BSE or Mad Cow, but the whole farming industry in Alberta. He shared with us a report of a meeting that took place in Medicine Hat between Canadian and American farmers. All Lutheran. He said that the gathering was very productive, dispelling myths on both sides and brought reconciliation between people sharing similar struggles.

But if I walked away from the event with one essential learning it is that there are good people on every side of the issue. I had meals with some of the most conservative pastors in our synod as well as the most liberal, and I experienced both of them as caring, faithful, and generous people who honestly want what’s best for the church.

So, it was a great event. Good things are happening in our synod and wider church. Which gives me hope for the future.

"Canada is lucky we allow them to exist on the same continent as us" - Ann Coulter

Do Americans really like hearing their pundits bash Canada? The level of political discourse south of the border is deteriorating rapidly if these folks are the public face of American conservatism. The arrogance is breathtaking. Here's another link.

Also, I'm a religious nut! Or so writes my brother on his blog. Be sure and check out the links on the body of his writing. What can I say? He's a class act. I'm sure the 4 or 5 people who read his blog will be very amused.

Mountain Scenery...

Right now I'm in Canmore, Alberta, enjoying the mountain scenery and some excellent presentations by Michael Foss of Prince of Peace Lutheran Church in Burnsville, Minn. When I get back I'll have a complete report of what went on here. But I'm enjoying being here with colleagues and friends, eating good food, drinking cheap beer, and learning lots.

I heard this afternoon that the pope has been hospitalized. Let the Vatican Spin Machine fire its engines!