I've been trying to keep an eye out for more of these moments. There's two I want to share with you.
The first happened today in worship. Our congregation has the practice of having the first scripture lesson read by one of our young people. The boy(and he really is a boy) scheduled to read this morning was doing so for the first time and is rather young. I don't know exactly what happened, I guess at the last minute he was too nervous to get up -- so his older brother (who's only in 7th grade himself) got up and walked into the lectern with him, and then they read in unison, the older brother supporting his younger brother when he faltered. Their mother was beaming with pride and joy, even after the service. It was really wonderful.
The second moment happened in our annual meeting. Our Moderator is a bright, articulate young woman, very organized, very task focused, but rather shy about speaking in public. To begin the meeting she offered "Openning remarks" that were basically a homily on a a scritpure passage -- not only was it well done, but the fact of her putting herself "out there" voluntarily and in such a vulnerable way was really powerful for me. She was living what we have been talking about doing in the congregation, openning ourselves to more intimate relationships. It was grace-filled.
It is hard for us to avoid being influenced by the negative messages that are so prevalent in our culture. it is so easy to fall into the influence of fear as the motivator for our choices. But grace can encourage us to live beyond the bonds of fear and open the doors to new possibilities for relationship and community. And sometimes all it takes is a companion willing to share the journey or a willingness to show people who we are. Grace abounds.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Occasions of Grace
Most of us think of experiences of grace as those knock-you-over-the-head, mountaintop experiences -- those times when SOMETHING BIG happens to us spiritually. And those experiences are few and far between in the "real" world. They tend to happen at retreats or in focused group experiences, in prayer groups or at hospital beds, in experiences of birth and death.
But moments of grace, glimpses of grace occur far more frequently than we realize if we will recognize them for what they are, if we are on the look out for them. I've been wanting to share two of them with you.
Both of these happened in December, in the pre-Christmas craziness that is the life of a pastor-mom. This is the time of year when you are trying to do everything that the pastor does, everything that the pastor's wife did in days gone by, and everything that moms do to "make Christmas happen." The first happened in, of all places, the Christmas Tree Shop. I had gotten supplies for church events (cheap candles, some kinds of paper goods, wrapping paper to back the Chrismons we had made) as well as an "order" for home festivities. As I was checking out, the music in the background was Karen Carpenter's beautiful alto voice singing, "I'll Be Home for Christmas."
"That makes me so sad," said the elderly woman cashier.
"Yes," I replied, in that we're just making small talk here kind of way you do with cashiers. "She had such a lovely voice, so sad to lose her so young."
"No," she said. "It makes me so sad to think that that awful disease killed her, that she couldn't beat it." The genuine sadness in her voice caught me up short. This woman was truly filled with compassion for a young woman she had never known, who died more than 25 years ago. That kind of genuine human connection is so rare in the world, even for people we know, that I had an experience of a holy presence. It floored me to meet this woman of such true compassion, and to recognize that compassion in her made me feel cared for as well. If she cared for Karen Carpenter, maybe she cared for me, too. Unearned, non-required caring. Grace.
(For those of you too young to know, Karen Carpenter and her brother Richard were a very hot "pop" music team in the 70's. She died of anorexia at a time when we were just giving it a name and knew very little about the disease).
A few days later I was trying to "get in" communion to all the shut-ins before Christmas. Because I have a team of dedicated deacons, I hadn't seen many of our homebound forlks for some time and I feel strongly about sharing communion with them at Christmas and Easter. I had last tried to see Ben when he was in the hospital at Thanksgiving, but he had been asleep and I had left a note. The next time I was doing calls he was back home, but he and his wife live some distance away, so they're not an easy visit.
Ben is a walking miracle. When I first came to the church I was told, "He should have died a couple of summers ago. They were sure he would. But he pulled through." He is a small, bald man with a white fringe of hair and a white mustache and eyes that always look like he knows a secret funny story. He's charming and gracious and always truly curious about pastoral ministry. He nearly always asks me something about my life as a pastor. He's also had a case of the shingles in a very painful location for more than a year and has been homebound because of it. He has COPD and a bad heart.
The Christmas tree was up -- he and Irene had pretty much ignored Christmas this year because of his health problems, but their kids had come over and put up the tree. We chatted a little about kids and Thanksgiving and plans for the holidays and what was happening at church, then I asked if they wanted communion.
"Oh, yes. Yes, please." Irene told me that for her communion was the most powerful thing about worship, and the thing she misses most about not being able to get out to church.
I opened my little traveling communion set and set it up for the three of us (When I go out with my deacons they only set it up for the person we're visiting. I'm a firm believer that you need two people to have communion, but I'm on those visits as a participant, not a director, and I let them follow their own process).
I said the words of institution and prayed the blessing, and I held out the tray with the three little squares of bread: "This is my body, given for you. Take..." and as I spoke, Ben reached out and put his hand under mine, to hold me up, and I realized that HE was serving ME.
It took my breath away. I have never had anyone do that for me before. I faltered saying the rest of the phrase, "Take and eat, remember Christ and give thanks." I teared up. It was such a lovely, grace-filled act, I could barely absorb it. Again when we took the cup, he held up the other end of the little wooden box that holds the elements. Loving care. Unasked for, unearned. Grace.
I think I've mentioned before that I believe in grace for everyone else but have trouble believing in it for myself. God sent me two angels this Christmas to remind me that grace is for everyone, even for me. And the power of those two moments shine like shafts of light and hope in the chaos and craziness of the life I live and are reminding me that grace abounds every day, in the places where we least expect it, if we will open our eyes, our ears, our hearts to receive it.
But moments of grace, glimpses of grace occur far more frequently than we realize if we will recognize them for what they are, if we are on the look out for them. I've been wanting to share two of them with you.
Both of these happened in December, in the pre-Christmas craziness that is the life of a pastor-mom. This is the time of year when you are trying to do everything that the pastor does, everything that the pastor's wife did in days gone by, and everything that moms do to "make Christmas happen." The first happened in, of all places, the Christmas Tree Shop. I had gotten supplies for church events (cheap candles, some kinds of paper goods, wrapping paper to back the Chrismons we had made) as well as an "order" for home festivities. As I was checking out, the music in the background was Karen Carpenter's beautiful alto voice singing, "I'll Be Home for Christmas."
"That makes me so sad," said the elderly woman cashier.
"Yes," I replied, in that we're just making small talk here kind of way you do with cashiers. "She had such a lovely voice, so sad to lose her so young."
"No," she said. "It makes me so sad to think that that awful disease killed her, that she couldn't beat it." The genuine sadness in her voice caught me up short. This woman was truly filled with compassion for a young woman she had never known, who died more than 25 years ago. That kind of genuine human connection is so rare in the world, even for people we know, that I had an experience of a holy presence. It floored me to meet this woman of such true compassion, and to recognize that compassion in her made me feel cared for as well. If she cared for Karen Carpenter, maybe she cared for me, too. Unearned, non-required caring. Grace.
(For those of you too young to know, Karen Carpenter and her brother Richard were a very hot "pop" music team in the 70's. She died of anorexia at a time when we were just giving it a name and knew very little about the disease).
A few days later I was trying to "get in" communion to all the shut-ins before Christmas. Because I have a team of dedicated deacons, I hadn't seen many of our homebound forlks for some time and I feel strongly about sharing communion with them at Christmas and Easter. I had last tried to see Ben when he was in the hospital at Thanksgiving, but he had been asleep and I had left a note. The next time I was doing calls he was back home, but he and his wife live some distance away, so they're not an easy visit.
Ben is a walking miracle. When I first came to the church I was told, "He should have died a couple of summers ago. They were sure he would. But he pulled through." He is a small, bald man with a white fringe of hair and a white mustache and eyes that always look like he knows a secret funny story. He's charming and gracious and always truly curious about pastoral ministry. He nearly always asks me something about my life as a pastor. He's also had a case of the shingles in a very painful location for more than a year and has been homebound because of it. He has COPD and a bad heart.
The Christmas tree was up -- he and Irene had pretty much ignored Christmas this year because of his health problems, but their kids had come over and put up the tree. We chatted a little about kids and Thanksgiving and plans for the holidays and what was happening at church, then I asked if they wanted communion.
"Oh, yes. Yes, please." Irene told me that for her communion was the most powerful thing about worship, and the thing she misses most about not being able to get out to church.
I opened my little traveling communion set and set it up for the three of us (When I go out with my deacons they only set it up for the person we're visiting. I'm a firm believer that you need two people to have communion, but I'm on those visits as a participant, not a director, and I let them follow their own process).
I said the words of institution and prayed the blessing, and I held out the tray with the three little squares of bread: "This is my body, given for you. Take..." and as I spoke, Ben reached out and put his hand under mine, to hold me up, and I realized that HE was serving ME.
It took my breath away. I have never had anyone do that for me before. I faltered saying the rest of the phrase, "Take and eat, remember Christ and give thanks." I teared up. It was such a lovely, grace-filled act, I could barely absorb it. Again when we took the cup, he held up the other end of the little wooden box that holds the elements. Loving care. Unasked for, unearned. Grace.
I think I've mentioned before that I believe in grace for everyone else but have trouble believing in it for myself. God sent me two angels this Christmas to remind me that grace is for everyone, even for me. And the power of those two moments shine like shafts of light and hope in the chaos and craziness of the life I live and are reminding me that grace abounds every day, in the places where we least expect it, if we will open our eyes, our ears, our hearts to receive it.
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