I have, though, updated the messages to the right of your screen. We’re doing a “Spiritual Disciplines” series this summer.

I’m biased, but they’re worth reading.

peace,

rich

So. I want to tell us a story this morning. It’s about one afternoon, one call I took when I was doing plumbing and drain cleaning for a local company. I wore shirts like this everyday, and I was in great shape. I had decided at the end of undergrad that what I really needed to know was a trade; so for a little while, this is the one took up.

And I hope by telling it a couple of things might happen.

I hope that we’ll see at least one example of the way we can connect the daily events of our lives to the gospel, to the good news of what God has done in Jesus Christ for all humanity.

I hope that even beyond this, we’ll remember some moments in our own lives where God has personally met us, where we’ve really experienced salvation-in-the-moment, if this makes sense: an Hors d’œuvre or appetizer of the life to come. Those moments where we’ve been saved maybe from sickness, or fear or some other terrible emotion, from uselessness or discouragement or violence or pain. I want this story to be a sort of foil for our own stories, a springboard for us to remember that one time that God met us.

And when I’m through, we’ll recall why we’re here at all, this morning, and what it means for us to be story-tellers in a society–gassed–with messages that demand people’s attention.

Some things on your end: Let this be what it is. Settle into this morning. You’re hearing a story; close your eyes if you need to–don’t fall asleep like last week–but enter into this story with me if you can.

Let’s pray:

Prayer:

God: Make your home in us. Rearrange what needs rearranged & throw away what we can’t bear to let go of–but might be killing us. Remind us that we have been washed clean; that we have drunk from the well of life, that we are your children, your people, and you are our God, our King, and our faithful Parent. Hold tightly to us, wake us up to ourselves, well up your Spirit inside us that we might go forth and be to the world as you have been to us. In Jesus’ name.

Message:

So.

Before moving here, Carolyn and I used to live in a sort of cushion-neighborhood: not quite beer-bottle, dumpster-fire campus, not quite hip, bungalow-haven Clintonville. We were transitional, both geographically, and in life. I was in Seminary, working at Wild Oats, now Whole Foods; Carolyn worked for OSU, and still does.

And we were surrounded by neighborhoods. To our east, across some streets and down some others there was a neighborhood called “Washington Beach,” that housed–and still houses–most of the local rock bands in Columbus.

Carolyn and I would walk through this neighborhood weekly, discussing which house we’d buy and how we’d fix it up. And each time we turned down one street, near the neighborhood’s eastern edge–a street a little more tired, less pretty, less ripe for gentrification, you know–I rememberd an afternoon I spent in the basement of one of those houses the summer before Carolyn & I were married.

I was a plumber; or it’s what I said. Most of what I did was technically “drain cleaning.” I graduated from college and acted upon one of the honestly very few great convictions I’d ever had, which was to say no to a fairly good job opportunity, and instead learn a trade. My father was a trainer at a local drain cleaning/plumbing company. We weren’t close, and I hoped to do two right things by going to work with him. Carolyn and I were not yet married; I lived in a house with a half-dozen guys, barely a block from our future apartment.

It was later than this; summer-late July or early August. I received the call in late afternoon: water was coming up in the basement. This is standard stuff in the drain cleaning world, and I was pleased when I realized how close the job was to home. Maybe I could knock off work early, which was always nice.

I pulled up to the house. It was big; 2 stories in some sort of 1920s vernacular style. The home had a large, windowed front porch. Squares of stained glass, showing lilies and irises surrounded the front door, and I’m certain at one point this entry was beautiful. The glass was now mostly broken, and large triangular shards lined lined the windows’ frames. Dogs barked at me from within the porch, and stuck their snouts through the holes in the windows.

I had been given instruction to use the rear entrance, and a sidewalk that led through the old chain link gate around the house was as cracked and broken as the windows. As I walked alongside the house, toward the back–it was on my left, a privacy fence on my right–I noticed the foundation stones were a battleship grey near their tops; and entirely covered in moss at the bottom. A decaying sandal lay in the weeds that grew through the crumbling cement sidewalk, and the neighbor’s dogs on the other side of the fence never stopped echoing the dogs inside the house.

Imagine all this, while I remember it.

At the back porch stairs a lady—the homeowner—greeted me. She was wearing a nightgown or a housedress, her thin brown hair showing her scalp underneath. She was overweight, short, and seemed exhausted. She was older, or had been treated poorly by life. She had oxygen hoses up her nose, which she gathered in her left fist whenever she came and went. I never saw the tank they attached to.

She opened wide the screen door that led into her kitchen; the only room except one that I saw. All she said as I entered the kitchen was “sorry about the mess.” It was a simply pleasantry, one I’d heard a hundred times in a hundred different houses. I say it all time you know.

But I knew that she was really saying: “I’m ashamed,” was really asking me not to point out her shame.

The room was wasted, trashed. Dirty dishes—far more than I’ve ever even owned–were stacked in alarming, topple-ready piles on countertops, on a washer and dryer that stood in the corner. A yard-sized trash-can stank the center of the room, filled with old packages and wrappers; the relatives of the ones on the floor and those perched among the dishes. Some syringes were around, here and there–the same ones my diabetic sister uses.

I answered cheerfully “It’s okay ma’am; messes happen.” I won’t shame you.

But a faded picture of Jesus in a cheap gilt frame leaned against the floorboards and the dirty clothes. Leaving, I would ask her for it, and she would give it to me.

She led me, hoses in left fist, to the basement door, which was opened part-way. Clothes were piled behind it: A few pair of underpants, a sock. We flip on the light switch and I look down the stairs.

They are hairy. The stairs are hairy, matted. When I arrived, the lady had told me that there were always dogs and cats around her place. “I take care of them,” she said. And why not? Dogs and cats don’t care if you wear your translucent-with-age nightgown all day. The don’t care if your kitchen is trashed, or if you carry hoses in your left fist. Dogs and cats are nicer than people.

Later, I would peel back the inches of thick, ground in, hair and waste and examine it. Bugs would be crawling in that hair, and fleas. And for the next few days I would scratch at the bites they left me on my calves and I would kill them as they jumped on my arms while I drove my van around town, from call to call.

But, be with me. Down the hairy stairs to the basement. With each step it’s growing more and more pungent, thick air; stale and burned and wrong. We reach the bottom, nearly, then turn and back up the stairs where the lady is leaning against the door frame “Ma’am, I have to get my rubber boots, I’ll be back in one second.”

I’m internally coaching myself: “Stay friendly.” “Fight yourself.” “Fight it.”

I have to get my boots and I have to fight myself because the basement is hell. The basement is a waste-land. The basement is a slimy pit, an open grave. But we’re back there again, now. Boots on, standing on the first stair.

That corner, there: Dirt is piled up. An old knee pad, alone, lays near the top and I remember the sandal outside. There’s a length of PVC pipe–two or three feet long. Holes are dug, shallowly, in the brown hill. And like spawn, rising from the soupy, watery mess that surrounds this sloping dirt hill, there is a covering of dog waste, as though it’s crawling up and out of the water that laps at this hill of dirt, if that’s what it is.

The dog waste blooms out thick, randomly, upon this pile. You can’t put a foot down without stepping in it; there isn’t enough space, apart from the small spot where the kneepad sits. There’s an archipelago that juts out to nearly the center of the dank room. It’s littered as well, with the waste—some fresh. And I wonder if the dog released itself there today, this morning? If not today, then yesterday, certainly.

And some not so fresh, this waste, but billowing with white and purple and green molds. Later, now, I recall it as beautiful; but then I just began to lose myself. A hand-built, gateless kennel–6 feet tall, 7 feet long–leans against the dirty wall, half on the dirt mound, half in the water.

When you arrive at a call, you can’t really leave until it’s finished. There is an end to these things; the problem is solved, the solution is found. Occasionally help is needed, but a good dispatcher knows the shop’s employees, and matches calls with their abilities. Even a new hire, someone with thin experience–like I had–can deal with water backing up in a basement.

The kennel, or frame, leans into the water. And as I stand on the bottom hairy step, stooped and looking around, I see how the water laps gently at the molding waste on the hill and archipelago of dirt.

But it’s not water. It’s urine and spit and half-drunk milk. It’s mouthwash and dirty showers and sinks and tubs. Spaghetti sauce and diarrhea. And it’s everywhere, everywhere, a lake, swelling as I leave the step and force my feet to move around. I feel how cold it is through my latex gloves and rubber boots.

Turn away from the waste heap. The corner opposite, under the stairs, behind us, holds an old tool table hidden behind a furnace. Rusted tools and broken bowls cover the top and peek up from the water lapping at its base. They are useless now, forever.

An old schoolroom chair, child-size, sits near the furnace, desolate. The ceiling is hung with cobwebs, quilted with them. Through the spider webs and dirty small windows sunlight filters in.

There are 5 washers or dryers here. They line walls, jutting up out of the water on their sides. They lie here and there and none of them work, broken and rotting and their rust mixes with the water that swells higher each time something is flushed or it’s turned on upstairs.

Dust covers them, thick, these old appliances and every dry surface, covers it as though there’s never been a breath in that room to keep the dust moving. Thick dust and dead bugs coat these things, and I want to write my name in the dust that coats one of these washers, because I know that it will last forever. I don’t, because I know I won’t; I won’t last ten minutes. I feel like I’m dying, ready to be tipped over to rot and collect dust and bugs. A home for spiders and quilts of cobwebs.

Having surveyed this kingdom, I turn and step and squelch back to the base of the stairs and we cry up, now “Ma’am, ma’am?” questioningly? “ma’am” But her and her daughter are in the living room. I can hear them. I hear them laughing. They’re watching soap operas and laughing and I’m dying. But hide the shame, don’t shame her and her fistful of hoses and basement full of her and her laughing daughter’s waste. “Ma’am?”

She comes to the top of the stairs. Cheerily: “Do you happen to know where your clean-out is?” she tells me it’s behind me so I turn. It’s between the wall and a dryer, and barely 3 ft from the base of the stairs at this corner.

I step to it, peer down the 6 inch gap between the wall and the rusting Whirlpool and am showered upside down as flies, a hundred small wisps, angrily circle up and around me. I start coughing; I’ve swallowed one. A sewer fly, light and delicate, made fat on these people’s feces. But the feeder is my food now. I cough, and I try not to cry, because all the light around me is filtered through dirt, and cobwebs, and I am alone in this eternally rotting place. I wish I had called off.

Here in this corner the mat of cobwebs like tool hung across the ceiling drops a little lower down, and circles around the pipe that the clean-out, at its base, attaches to. I hate the cobwebs. I hate the whispy fingers that fall in my hair and the feeling that spiders are all around me, watching me, walking on me. But I’m stuck in the corner.

My 300 lb machine is in my van outside, where the sun is shining, and I have to bring it down to hell, to this small spot near the front of the stairs. It whirls up water, this machine, so I have to scrape aside a place in the 5 inches of waste—the consistency of jam—where my machine can rest. So I scrape with my boot, pulling back the waste—not dog, not nice droppings with pretty mold. It’s black on top, petulant and deceiving and how long has her drain been clogged? Weeks? Months? At least 2 or 3 for it to get this bad. And the toilet flushes and it all comes here, to where my boots scrape. I scrape, and the layers appear, bleak and black on top, copper brown in the center–rich and earthy–and at the bottom a layer of unnatural white, where maybe the fats and oils from the laughing pair upstairs have settled out.

I slosh this all to the side, but it oozes back, so I slosh again. It gets on my pants. I am becoming waste, now. I am turning into refuse. It’s taking me over. It’s in me, in my stomach, and its on me, in splatters and drops, wetting my clothes. So. I am waste.

I move the washer and dryer that block the clean out. A whole kitchen countertop, sink and all, covered with dead bugs and dirt lies atop them, so I move it to. The wall behind all this is alive, wriggling; I peer closer and it’s roly-polies, pill bugs. I used to play with them when I was little, amazed that they could bend so wildly, that they were so scared of me.

Flies swirl around me; I am their king now, covered in their food and they love me; but I breathe shallowly in case I eat another: one a day is enough. The waste keeps oozing back from where I’ve scraped it and whenever I push it back I am pushed back by a stink so strong it causes me to retch.

The smell is a thousand toilets and ammonia and rot and I hate it, like I hate the spiders in my hair. But I can’t throw up because the lady with the fist might see, and then what? Then what have I done right today? I bend and peer into the clean-out, uncapped, nose pulled back. There are flies all over the entrance to the pipe that is not working, that should be moving away all the hell around me. I’m squatting in the waste, peering in the cleanout. My butt gets wet with liquid that is not water and I feel the spiders in my hair. I am bending wildly like a pill bug.

Back up the stairs to my van. I get out my machine and haul it over the broken sidewalk, past the barking dogs, through the kitchen and past the faded, gilded Christ and slowly drop it’s 300 pounds down the slippery, hairy, too-steep stairs one at a time. My arms are breaking; I am sweating.

We’re changing blades on the machine now; it fits on the end of a long metal cable, and is my favorite blade; it should easily cut through whatever mess is blocking the mainline, keeping all this here. I shove the blade down the open clean-out.

But it won’t go. I shove and shove, but it won’t go so I pull it back. Frustration grows and my body heat too so I’m sweating and dank from the smell that sticks to me. I peer in the clean-out, but still can’t see. Don’t disturb the flies, don’t breath heavy. I’m crouching in the corner of the basement, legs and butt soaking, peering in the pipe entrance. A type of bug I’ve never seen before walks up the peeling plastered block wall. I spit in the water and try not to cry.

There’s a stick in the pipe. I see it. I reach in, thanking God for my small wrists and latex gloves. Pulling on the stick the flies swirl upwards but it won’t break free. I’m pulling on the stick, my arm is getting covered in filth, and it won’t break free and my machine won’t work and–the stick comes out.

It’s a chair leg, a foot long. No time to wonder what open hole upstairs it must have come down through; there is no three-legged chair down here. Covered now with terrible stuff, I wipe my arm on my pants and use my machine to clean the line. It whirls and because the waste oozed back to where it was, I’m splattered all over with dark brown blights and urine water soaks me.

My cable is back in now, inside its cage and cover. And I’m stooping in the slime, unwinding from the blade of my machine a tampon that had caught on some roots in the line and caused the blockage. I unwind it, slowly, carefully; it’s grey and matted and unrecognizable but I know what it is because this isn’t the first I’ve pulled back.

And the curse of Adam meets the curse of Eve. And I am so desolately waste that I barely notice now as water hits me–water! What a wrong term for the leftovers, the sweat of life that splashes on my cheeks and in my eye as I crouch against a wall inches in human dung and flies swirl around me. But I keep unwinding, wanting to go home, and trying not to cry. I turn my brow down and into my armpit, wiping my head with my sleeve. A habit I’ve learned over time: lean, and wipe and lift and go—1,2,3,4 I’ve done it a thousand times, and I’ll do it again.

Now, I’ve crossed the room. I’m by the furnace; sitting with my too-long legs on that too-small child’s chair.

Sit here with me, please. Sit on that old-preschool chair. We’re together, then, sitting on my wet work gloves, because the chair disgusts me. One glove had dropped in the water, and its soaking through my pants and underwear. I unwind another tampon and pull it off and throw it down and toil meets childbirth, curse to curse.

I sit there a moment, and I am so alone right now. I am so alone.

I auger the floor drain and hold my gloved hand over it as the basement’s water sucks down and away, away. I hold it there to keep sticks and blooms of foam and a floating baloney package from going down the drain I’ve just unblocked. The oily months of urine and juice and scum float by and through my palm, and it’s so cold to my gloved hand and bare wrist. Great whorls of mold and oil flow, towards me and under me.

Until, finally, I think that I am the floor drain.

Come to me, all that is rotten and dying, wet and flowing, streams of living death flow down and out and past my hand as I keep the solid waste from going down the drain.

Are You There?

Are you there with me? Are you there? Have you left me alone down here? Or are you in that barely lit, waste-filled basement right now. Your left buttock wet with all the stuff a family can’t get rid of? Your arm and cheek dappled with human waste like a Jackson Pollock painting? Your brow sweating, sitting on an old wooden pre-school chair. And you, your boots squelch as you shuffle feet and long to be home, long to be safe. All I wanted was Carolyn and a shower; all I wanted was a tree-house and Kingdom come.

Because if you’re there. If you’re disgusted at the weeks of unreconciled waste piled at the base of the stairs, at your boots half high in urine and shame, then maybe you can see that your life and mine is one where more often that not we live in houses without drains, with basements that collect the refuse of months and moments, refuse that the dogs bring upstairs with them as they jump on our laps with cute wet feet.

We are too often each of us homes where we lose ourselves in our laughter and get caught up in made-for-escape television dramas, and ignore that every time we go to the bathroom, it stays with us. “Ignore that smell, honey. Ignore that basement door. Don’t let the dogs down there anymore; there are bugs in their hair and I don’t know why.”

We’ve got bugs in our hair and we don’t know why. We’re wasting all over ourselves and we don’t want to talk about it. And if you’re there with me, in that basement, if the smells and noises and poor lighting, the beast and human waste are real to you then you’ve met who I met.

You’ve met Christ.

Because we could talk about our basements that we fill with waste, our hearts that we fill with secrets and sins, ones we dare not examine until we cannot ignore them anymore.

But Jesus came to clean us up. To take from us the things we have flushed down into our hearts, and make it so that we don’t have to live with such things anymore. Jesus came to replace our shame with his grace and gentleness. He didn’t resent his stained clothes, the smell that trapped and hung on him, the bites and bugs and flies. He never begrudged his cold, wet hands, his waste-covered forehead, as he made sure that our fear and doubt wouldn’t plug up the drain again. He peeled us back and took to himself the fleas and bugs and all their bites. He made us clean.

Do you realize it? The wonder of what the Lord has done? Do you remember your salvation? Or has it been too long? Are we stuffing and hiding in the places of our hearts things that we need Jesus to come and cleanse, free us from?

Epilogue:

Carolyn and I rarely walk in that neighborhood anymore; I am not reminded as often of the stuff that gathers in basements when the drains are broken. I did go home, I did shower, and I did hurt for the lady with her hoses, for the hole the chair leg fell through, for the world that is ordered in such a way that allowed that afternoon, that basement; for if the lady with hoses was anything, she was poor.

But I have never forgotten her, with her oxygen and her home that she can’t care for. I haven’t forgotten her for loving those animals, for feeding them and letting them relieve themselves all over her basement. For needing and receiving their love.

I don’t know if she is a saint; but I wish it. In my memory she has become almost an angel, doing what little she could to show me our God. She has become a messenger of the ways God can remind us in any moment how real He is, what it means to hear “Come to me, all who are weary, and I will give you rest,” and then to go to Jesus. To go to him.

And I reminded of this impossible call, this idea that I must become as Christ to all; must eventually be only Jesus, and yet all of me. The weight of what it means to take up the sorrows and sufferings of the world, that others might not experience them is a crushing weight; the call to position others, so that they somehow might meet in life or their dreams who I met in that basement.

I am tired of sorrow and pain. I am tired of the ways of the world.

I cleaned that lady’s basement, sort of–emptied it of her waste, and for payment.

But I cannot allow myself to be emptied from this memory she lent to me, and this urging that the greatest, holiest, most Jesus-like thing I can ever do is ease away, somehow, the pain that happens in every place.

I can not allow myself to be emptied from her reminder to me that “whoever the Son has set free, is free indeed.” None of us are forced to live with hearts filled with waste, minds filled with trash, lives filled with sin; if we have indeed tasted freedom.

So:

So; let’s wake up for a moment.

This is “just” a story right? The world is full of them.

It’s a story about one afternoon I had a decade ago, during which I met the Lord in a powerful way, during which I was reminded of what Christ has done for me, and for us, and the sorts of attitudes and postures that we’ve been called to as Christians.

Just a story of an afternoon, but one that I experienced differently than others might, because of what Jesus has done for me.

When we reflect on our afternoons, on what fills them, how are we doing at making connections between our “stories”–whatever they might be–and the greater story of God’s redemption?

We talked a little about this when we talked about Biblical Spiritual Formation, if you remember.

Because you will not be able to make connections for others between chapters and passages of their life stories and the story of God’s redemption, until you can make them in your own life. And it does seem as though we are supposed to help others see the way God is working in their lives.

So Where is redemption? Where have you seen it? Where is hope? Where have you seen it? Where is forgiveness? Where have you seen it?

Moving On:

We live in a world of sound clips, of briefer and briefer chances to claim anyone’s attention. We live surrounded by so many messages that they are, as one person puts it, a “smog,” a cloud of pollutants that we can’t see through anymore, made up of sound bytes, 140 character nothings, and empty information clothed as wisdom. And because it is hopeless to really be attentive and hearing of everything that goes on around us, we fragment into smaller and smaller groups of people who think like we do, act like we do, look like we do, simply so that there will be less and less novelty, less new stimuli for us to have to work to pay attention to.

But there are things that are universal in this life. Pain. Despair. Conflict. Terror. Sin, and the things that grow in it: these are what are common to humanity. Joy and peace and love; they are usually weeds in our world, which is tilled and composted with sin. This is what has become of life because of the Fall; joy is a meager thing.

But joy springs up! Peace springs up! Love springs up! And if we are anything, we are sowers and waterers and tenders of these things. The fruit of the Spirit that grows in us isn’t for our own eating; it’s for the fullness of others.

And if the question is not “How can I get more people to hear me in a fragmented world,” or “How can I get more followers, more market share, more readers” but instead, “How can I get anyone to really listen to me in this smog?” then I believe that the answer is to make our messages that we send ones that cut across the smog by providing the one thing that every single person is desperate for, the one thing that at the end of the day can open up all our stories to joy and peace and love.

Hope. Hope. Hope. Hope.

The hope of redemption. The hope of freedom from guilty feelings and haunted by past regrets. The hope of being known and adored despite our insecurities. The hope of joy that we experience regardless of our surroundings; the hope of permanence that lasts beyond death, the hope of living without shame and finally not caring what anyone else thinks. The hope of being free from some of the things that this world calls normal & the church calls–hopefully honestly, hopefully humbly–sin.

Because of the Lord we are able to present to people something amazing–and some of us need to remember this, need to more fully realize it ourselves–but hope in this life isn’t empty, isn’t futile. Our deep heart hopes, because of Christ, can come true. We can offer hope to the world because we have, “here and there, now and then,” realized that these sorts of hopes are not “pie in the sky, by and by,” but are promised, real, and personal–we have experienced them.

The greatest problem in presenting the gospel is not how to be novel & fresh, it’s how to be honest. And honesty leads to avoidance & rejection; if you breath into a fog, the fog closes back up around it pretty fast. But if enough people breath together, you can create a space that is large enough for a person to fit. I want us to imagine breathing together, becoming conspirators–ones who breath together–and who breath “the breath of God,” the Holy Spirit.

I want us to imagine telling our stories so frankly and honestly and personally that that Christ can enter into the space we create, and lead others out of the smog–a thing only Christ can do.

Too Much Metaphor?

Here’s what I’m saying:

1) Our world is characterized by ever-more brief opportunities to claim any one person’s attention; we live in a “smog” of overwhelming information.

2) Even when we can claim a person’s attention, we claim it only for moments.

3) And that person tends to be someone that usually thinks, acts, or looks like us in many ways.

4) Novelty, superficial cleverness, & group-affirming prejudices, opinions, or pop-culture references are the most valued components of any message we send.

One way to fight this is to share our personal stories that emphasize common human desires (hope) and experiences (tragedy) as opportunities for captivating (against #2), unifying (against #3), and substantive, deep (against #4) encounters with God. Our stories of the ways God has met us can allow others to see the way God meets them. Our stories can become avenues of hope for people–soil from which Christian Peace, Christian Love, and Christian Joy can bloom.

How to Get Others’ Attention: 1

The question, of course, is how to get anyone’s attention in the first place.

First, we’ve got to remember that one small benefit of a fragmented society is that each of us does have an audience: each of us has clubs we’re a part of, followers on twitter, facebook friends, a section of the office or slice on some server where we’re famous, where we have people’s attention. Most of us are celebrities, but just for tiny little audiences. Nearly all of us have public venues. We need to remember this.

So how to be heard in those public places? I have one small answer. I think.

How to Get Others’ Attention: 2

We have to forget about being clever, forget about being novel, interesting, or ironic. We have to be authentic and we have to be frank.

You know what I mean by “being frank,” right? Speaking just straight-fowardly, honestly, without irony and with self-disclosure. This nearly always makes people uncomfortable, and it is also nearly always captivating. We are attracted to rare things, and in our message-polluted world, frankness and authenticity are so rare.

How to Get Others’ Attention: 3

But we aren’t great story-tellers, generally: especially not personal stories, especially not ones spoken frankly & authentically. Maybe for a few reasons:

Maybe it does not occur to us to connect our lives to God. We simply forget to say “this reminds me of this,” “that reminds me of that.” We forget to connect our stories to God’s Redemption, to our Salvation.

Maybe we have forgotten our first love. We have lost the zealousy of our youth, but not replaced it with the solidity of maturity, which reminds us that even when we don’t “feel” anything, we’re still called to speak about what God has done for us.

Maybe we do not know how to give voice to what God has done in our lives. We don’t have the words, and the words we do have we simply think aren’t all that impressive.

These are just guesses, but I’m going to pretend that the last one is right: that we think we’re awkward, and what we have to say isn’t beautiful, isn’t memorable, isn’t powerful.

But listen: that’s a lie.

How to Get Others’ Attention: 4

You’ve got to believe me for a minute. I would trade any equity I have for you to believe this. There is nothing more powerful you can be for the Lord, than yourself.

Our greatest power is who we are. God loves remodeling; Jesus loves finishing the basements of our lives & turning them into rec rooms.

We don’t need fancy words, we don’t need impressive afternoons, we just need to speak frankly to others about the moments in our lives when the Lord has met us–whether those were transfiguration, top-of-the-mountain moments, or ones that our gospels don’t talk about–the hundreds of times Jesus & Paul said hello while one was leaving the rest-room & the other was going in.

Life is life; your life is your life. And there is power in who you are and where you have been. All Christ asks is that we talk about the good that he has squeezed out of the moments in our life.

Every saint, every “hero” in the Bible was a mess. Every “hero” for the Lord since then has been, too. If we wait until we are clean and shiny to be ourselves, then we lose our greatest opportunity to reveal to others the power of the Lord. The world uses finished things to get done what it wants to get done; God uses unfinished things & broken tools.

If you can help it, don’t go to sleep tonight without doing me a favor–which is really a favor to yourself, and to Christ: Think about your life.

What stories do you have to tell about the ways God has proved Himself to you? Remember the Lord? His faithfulness & His Love?

What gets in the way of you being authentic and frank with others about these stories? What do you need? Where can you get it? Will you?

And if there places in your heart or life that need emptied of things they should not be filled with, then run to Jesus–and if he feels to far away, run at least to one another.

Prayer:

Oh, Spirit, oh Father. Jesus–come. And until then, send me, send yours. May we be as you to the world, and to one another. Cleaners and Emptiers of terror and waste and trouble and shame…but please, Jesus…hurry. Remind us that we have been cleaned & commissioned; that you gave us tool belts when you gave us a shower and clean clothes. You have given us stories. Give us the power to share them as we are. We are not impressive. We are not heroic. We are just people, Lord: but use us to gather others to you. And if we ourselves need re-gathered under your loving wings, then run to us.

Introduction:
Hi. My name is Rich for those of you who don’t know me. I pastor Smoky Row Brethren Church, in Columbus. So I know some of you through that, of course.

If you ever move there, join our church; we’re going places. Help keep the denomination alive, you know.

I have never been a Bethany Camper, haven’t been to Camp, except to speak to others now and then, and help out a little.

But those of you that I do know talk about Camp Bethany all the time, so it’s like we’ve dated, or something: I’ve heard a hundred stories from all sorts of perspectives.

But: Lisa invited me to speak, and she’s just really difficult to say no to–I’m kidding. I’m honored.

Preface:
And the theme, or title at least, of this retreat is “Reconnecting,” which is great. It’s been neat to hang out today & watch as so many of you do reconnect with people in more than an “Oh, Facebook tells me it’s your birthday; I better say ‘hi’” sort of way.

And you’ve reconnected other ways, I’m guessing. People from a long time ago bring with them memories from a long time ago, insecurities from a long time ago, crushes, & quirks & clicks, expectations & embarrassments: My guess is that you’ve been reconnecting with all sorts of “long time ago” things.

And hopefully it has been good. People have been praying over this retreat, over you all, for some time. I hope that as you’ve been reconnecting with each other, and recounting “the old days,” that they have seemed like “good old days.”

But “good old days,” can be dangerous, treacherous, in a very particular way.

I want to talk about that. First let’s pray.

Prayer:

Israel:
You’ve all been to camp, which likely means you’ve been to church some, so I’m going to assume a little familiarity with the grand narrative of the Bible, if that’s cool.

There is a scene in the Old Testament; it’s not the only scene of it’s kind.

Israel has just escaped 400 years of ethnic slavery in Egypt, and not just escaped, right, but been delivered miraculously, all over the place miraculously, by the hand of God. Exodus happened.

And through a series of events, God’s People are in the desert on their way to the land God has promised them. This is well before they are condemned to wander the wilderness for 40 years.

And it’s a hard time. It’s a difficult time. The road to the promised land is a hard road. And honestly, the catered meal is lame. All they have to eat is “manna,”–hebrew for “What is it?”–some bland, boring, but nutritionally perfect food that God miraculously gives to them every single day.

And this miracle turns to routine, you know. This would never happen to us; we’re alive to God’s presence in our lives, we have the Holy Spirit, we care too much about the Lord–but they’re weak, they have little faith, so gratefulness for God’s providence gives way, over time, to a desire for variety.

“If only we had meat to eat!” Some of them start saying, “We remember the fish we ate in Egypt at no cost–also the cucumbers, melons, leeks, onions and garlic. But now we have lost our appetite; we never see anything but this manna!” (cf. Numbers 11)

Poor Endings:
Now, this particular scene ends poorly; God gives them what they want, and they are killed for it, they die from it, “all the people who had craved other food,” beside Manna end up buried.

This group of God’s People, called “the Rabble,” so–clearly not role models–they were unsatisfied with their present situation. Their lives in the desert were not great, and even though they hadn’t been traveling long at all, it was long enough for them to begin to look back fondly at the old days, recall them as “good,” even when they were pretty lame, really.

And this isn’t the first time People of God had, after leaving slavery, after God had broken a great chain of generation after generation of slavery, that they had longed for the good old days.

And we want to pull Israel aside & say, “What are you talking about?” Perceive the world around you rightly, for God’s sake. You are on your way to the promised land! You are given miracles every day! God is with you in a powerful, visible way! We want to shake the dummies!

Our Own Advice:
But it’s hard for us to take our own advice.

This weekend may be a good example. We come here, you come here, because of all the “good old days.” And they, you know, probably weren’t lame, probably really were good–at least the ones you spent at camp. If camp were like slavery, you probably wouldn’t be back here today.

But, here’s my question: How is living in the present going? How is life right now?

Instead of longing for the good old days, how is the present? What miracles are you blessed with every day?

And how bright is your future? What promises of God do you think are coming down the line?

Appreciating the Past:
Taking a weekend to appreciate the past–appreciate camp, the seasons of life we were in when we came here, appreciating the friendships that were so important to us during those days–taking a weekend to do that, is awesome. It’s healthy.

But the whole point of reconnecting with our past, when that reconnecting is at its best, should be to send us back into our present situation with purpose, gratefulness, and power. It should remind us that God has seen us through things we rarely give voice to, but God’s intent is to see us into a future so bright we’ve got to wear shades.

The present is the thing. The present is what matters; and beyond it, glory.

Israel wanted slavery rather than the place they were in, which was a hard place. Even though they were in slavery, they at least had routines, they at least had a neighborhood, and all they were traveling to was a place rumored to be full of milk & honey, full of good hopes fulfilled. Rumors and hopes are not so satisfying when you miss your old room. But what they couldn’t see was that their old room was a place of death, Egypt was a place of death; and Canaan, where they were headed, was life, was not only promised but for them full of promise–and blessing, and peace, and better food than they had ever eaten.

Are you living in the past? Because the past is over, is gone. The past is, maybe, slavery–slavery to regrets, unforgiveness, wounds. And so, while you reconnect and it’s wonderful, I would challenge you to spend time talking about where you are now this evening & tomorrow in a meaningful way. Let me define meaningful.

While you are here, reconnecting with one another, reminding each other of “the good old days,” do another thing, too: talk about your soul, and talk about your future.

Now: both those things, for some of us, are murky. Pinning down the future is a wild goose chase at best. But most of us have hopes about the future, most of us are making some sort of plan, and if it’s the best thing for us and the Kingdom of God, it’ll likely happen. What is coming your way? How are you hoping to respond to it? Hardly anyone has the glamorous future they thought they’d have sophomore year of college or junior high camp; hardly anyone realizes the deep miracles they see daily, and still fewer of us realize that God does hope to meet us in what’s coming down the line, even if it looks an awful lot like what’s going on right now in our lives.

And regarding our souls: some of us spend so little time with our own souls that we’d have nothing to say if we were asked how they are. If that’s the case, maybe you need to reconnect with yourself, or with your God, and maybe all these other folk should fade into the periphery tonight.

There is no way you can live well in your present if you are aimlessly reacting to everything that happens to you, and the only way to react intentionally and with purpose is to know yourself and your God and all the bridges and gaps that stand between the two of you.

Can you do the work to come back to one another later this evening, or tomorrow before breakfast, and say “It is so good to see you. Here is my soul; how is yours?”

Conclusion:
The good old days are long behind us, and we can never return to them.

But we shouldn’t want to. If for some reason this time you’ve spent together has left you longing for the past, then what is going on in your present that you must bring to the Lord? Or is that the problem–it’s been far, far too long since you brought anything to the Lord, or invited the Lord into anything going on in your life.

How is your life right now? What are you doing with it? How is your soul today, and what does Christ want to say about it? What miracles surround you that you would trade away for slavery? And in truth, those Israelites who left Egypt but got bored w/ Manna never really left, were never really freed–they were still slaves in their hearts. I pray none of us are enslaved by days that will never, ever return, a truth which is ultimately in our best interests.

And as far as our futures go, as group, we’re given only this: that Jesus will never leave nor forsake us, that Jesus is with us to the very end of the age, and that whatever comes in this life, on the other side of it comes resurrection.

But each of us, if we’ve spent anytime thinking about it all, could foresee some reasonable sort of thing coming down the line, even if it looks an awful lot like what life looks like today. Part of the great promise of the Promised Land was that God would be with His People; do you know that God is going to be with you in the coming days? As your future gives way to your present–which is just what time does–God is going to be with you: that should be a great hope. If it’s anything less, then we should stop & examine our hearts.

So what are you going to do with the time you’ve got this weekend? It can be an opportunity to reconnect with your soul, with your God, with people who can help you sort out what you’re going through right now and realize the miraculous around you. It can be a time that helps you look forward to the future with great hope.

Or you can just trade a bunch of memories like we’ve traded pogs or pokemon cards, slap bracelets or Topps, and wait until next year to do it all again. It’s really up to you.

I thought I’d offer a link to a really interesting, thoughful article by the writer of “Half the Sky: Turning Oppression into opportunity for Women Worldwide.”

We’ve talked a lot at SRBC about the way our consumption can be tied to our faith. With the current, hmm–exuberance?–over any new tech gadget that comes our way (smart phones, tablets, netbooks, gaming consoles), it’s worth thinking about where the materials that these guys are made from are sourced, and the conditions in which they are gathered.

so: here’s the article.

My suggestion if we can’t “not buy” something–wait & buy second-hand. What do you all think?

The State of Things:

Introduction:
Today we’re talking about ourselves, more completely than we have for awhile, even when we were discussing core values.

It’s important for a church to remember now & then where they have been recently, and to look forward to where they are going. And very straightforwardly, this is what we’re going to do.

We’ll talk about some of the things we’ve “done,” over the past few years, we’ll talk about what’s going on now, and I’ll present what I think–as best as I can discern it–what’s coming around the bend for us.

And throughout all of this, there’s something you need to think about this morning: How important is Smoky Row to you? How important is Smoky Row to the world?

Prayer:
pray, pray, pray,

What we’ve been up to:

So. What have we “done,” over the past few years.

And I use that timeline because that’s when I showed up, right? What I personally know of Smoky Row is a few years chunk of time.

Let me mention some things:

We’ve redrafted our philosophy of ministry–core values & mission statement. We’ve re-imagined our entire governance structure around those core values of ours and individuals who are called & gifted in the areas they represent. Along with this, we’ve restructured a number of ministry teams, developed ministry practices, and organizational processes that simply didn’t exist three years ago.

We’ve restructured Sunday morning, twice, launched Life Groups, including relaunching Koinonia & Coffee and a spanish group.

We shut down the spanish service, sent Rudy on a long-overdue sabbatical, and have relaunched that service, along with positioning ourselves to become over time a fully integrated community, as more and more spanish speakers become involved with us. Along w/ this, we’ve instituted annual bilingual Easter & Christmas services, and have even had a couple of bilingual communions.

We’ve had child dedications and baptisms, and will have more of both, I suspect, before the year is out.

We’ve called three individuals to ordained ministry, including myself, taken on a few interns–and still have one.

We’ve taken on the food pantry, which feeds dozens of families every week, and we’ve ensured that the children in those families have school supplies, have Christmas gifts.

We’ve recently launched a community garden, and partnered with WellSpring counseling. We’ve prepared a constitutional revision and a new membership policy. We’ve held pantry drives, participated in Relay for Life, given gifts for Operation Christmas Child, held special giving opportunities for brethren churches and others. We’ve preached through Mark & Revelation, looked at passages & books we never look at, talked about Christianity & how it relates to the world around us, talked about us, about ourselves.

And this is in addition to the “regular” work, the furnace work, the fire work, the yard work, the work days; it’s in addition to the production that is Sunday Morning, the ESL program and all its related goings on, the regular governance stuff, the Cancer Support Group, the conferences, trips to camp & lancaster, re-organizing prayer chains and meals teams and all the rest. This is in addition to the swings & misses: trying to partner w/ Henkels & McCoy, the Leadership Community that never really worked, the “Gethsemane Project,” prayer group that didn’t last long.

I’ve reminded us about resurrection, about the need to remember, about expectations and what they get us, about our neighborhood and our place in the world, I’ve sought to reshape the way we bring our faith into conversation with our lives, I’ve sought to reshape the way we are engaged by the Word of God–and God’s Word. I’ve sought to position us to position ourselves to become like Christ in every single possible way that we’re able.

And today we present re-drafts of our membership policy, our constitution, a vision statement, the expansion of our pastoral team.

And you should feel exhausted. C’mon! This is too much! We should all take a vacation and a cruise. People should feed us candy and smoothies. Three years we’ve been at this, church, in three years we’ve done all this. But into this, Paul says “Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. 10 Therefore, as we have opportunity, let us do good to all people, especially to those who belong to the family of believers.” Give me a break, right?

But God has been at work in us. God has been at work among us. God has worked with us. Along the way we’ve lost some, and gained others. Along the way we have been frustrated–at one another, at others, our attempts at faithfulness frustrated by the evil one. Along the way we’ve been human, and sinners. We’ve been holy, and saints. But we have kept on. We have continued forward, and we have not become weary.

And there is more good work coming, people of God. But we can be the ones who “hope in the Lord,” whose strength is renewed. We can be the ones who soar on wings like eagles, and from that high vantage point can see more of what God wants us to do, and do more of what God’s wants us to do, than we can see or do at this moment, today, right now.

Group Life Cycle:
And let me say this:

Most of the needs-oriented outreach work, the intentional christian hospitality work, the prophetic multiculturalism work–most of this wasn’t on, at least, my radar. Wasn’t in, at least, my plan for us.

Now: some of the things we’ve done have been planned. It has not been an accident that we now have core values, around which we have re-shaped ourselves.

But most of the things that have happened since I arrived have not been things that I thought we as a church would not even be discussing for a few years.

Let me explain:

Every group–every group, and this is true for churches as well–goes through a formational group life cycle. The group cycles through life stages that have particular emphases associated with them.

Initially, there is the forming stage, which is a season of formation and infrastructure-building. this gives way to the “norming” stage, a season in which group “norms” are established. Norms are the routine things, the things that are normal, that develop.

After you’ve been in the “norming” stage for awhile, the group enters the “storming” stage, in which norms are tested, people react to & test the group’s cohesiveness, conflict happens, “storms,” develop because people are like “This is it? This is our group? I don’t want it.” Finally, though, the group moves forward into a “transforming” stage, in which the group acts out in power and cohesive unity, it knows its purpose & mission, it knows who it is, and those who make it up work together to realize fully the groups goals and hopes. Those who for any number of reasons don’t fit the group have left it for any number of reasons. The group lives as a transformational agent of power and change in the world: or, I should say, the Church does. Because that’s what we’re talking about here.

Forming, Norming, Storming, & Transforming.

Forming, Norming, Storming, & Transforming.

And there are all sorts of things we could talk about here. Most groups have sub-groups, which can go through these phases at different times: you can think of your life group, or your ministry team, and where it is. You think about your marriage, or whatever club you’re a part of. Nearly every time a group of people bunch up together–or are gathered together by the Holy Spirit–some form of this formational life cycle happens.

But Smoky Row, we’re in the forming stage. We’re in the forming stage. For good or ill, when you all called me as pastor, our group life reset–and not accidentally. I worked to reset it, you know, because it was my deep conviction that we needed a reformation, a re-forming.

But–believe it or not–I have had a map in my mind of the future that is before us. I have been operating with some strong convictions about what we will face in the coming months.

I have believed for a while now that our “forming” stage would last until about the end of 2010, about the end of this year, you know. I have been planning on this. I suspect that from 2011-2012 we’ll be norming, really establishing some of those normal routines for our church, we’ll be cementing our Smoky Row culture. I have been expecting that 2013 & 2014 will be years of Storming, years where we ask again who we are, where each of us and those God gathers to us begin to test the culture we’ve established and really say “is it safe for me to be here, or not? Can I both root myself in the Lord and be me here, at this church?”

And I have for some time believed that we will weather our storming phase well, and we will in about 5 years, in 2015, begin to really, really become the powerful agent of transformation that I know we will become.

Interruption:
Let me interrupt myself: Do not forget what is coming to us, what the future will be for us if we stay the course we have begun. We are headed toward a great goal, a great thing: We will be the light on the hill, we will be the one who stands up to the bully’s of the world in the name of Christ, we will be the beautiful bride, dressed white and shining, and stand in the gaps of our neighborhood, acting as bridges between darkness and light, agents of healing.

But what you need to understand is that it was never my intention, as your pastor, that we be doing nearly any of the things that we have been doing. I have been almost entirely focused on those actions that are critical for the forming stage to be considered excellently passed through. What I’m saying is this: as your pastor, my concern has been more-or-less only for you, for us. For our restructuring process, for our documentation, for the internal systems that we need to have in place in order for us to be considered structurally sound.

And yet: in spite of my attention being given more-or-less over to internal things, we have somehow been more engaged in christ-like works than, well–I say this regretfully–than many, many churches are.

This tells me two bright, shining things: God is tirelessly committed to using us in the world no matter where we are looking, no matter what our concerns need to be; and that you, as Smoky Row Brethren Church, are carrying us into that forward journey of Spirit-empowered service.

You have been the lamp-lighters, you have been the nurses, you have been the ambassadors, the builders of bridges and walls, the restorers of desolate places. It’s been you–God acting through you, in you, with you.

Smoky Row Brethren Church, we should drop to our knees in grateful praise, we should drop everything and run to our prayer closets, because God is watching us, God is with us, an all-consuming fire–and we are not being burned, but we are setting small fires in the places where we turn our attention, and if we simply stay the course that has been set for us we will set the nations on fire, the power of God will go from us out into the world around us in ways that are so life-changing and christ-true that we’ll have to shield our eyes.

Death:
But, but, but, there is something that is important for us to acknowledge when it comes to this formational life-cycle.

At any point, the group can die.

Forming, Norming, Storming, Transforming: at any point, a group may not make it out of the stage it finds itself in.

And this is important. Because what you may not think about much, but I think about every day, is that Smoky Row will fail without our efforts to keep it alive. Our lights will dim, then go out. God is powerful, and deeply wants to save the part of the world we are in, deeply wants Christ’s compassion to be seen in it: if we were to fall, God would provide another to come take our place.

But I simply, frankly, don’t want him to. I don’t want him to need to.

Here’s how this works: God takes the offering we each of us give him, an offering of our time, of our talent, of our treasure. More particularly, an offering made up of the attention we give him, the prayers we pray, the money and items we give away for him, the skilled and unskilled labor we utilize on his behalf, the bits of our wealth or poverty that we chip away for him. He takes these things, and he fashions from them great work for us, he gives us all the power we need to accomplish every goal of every vision that he gives rise to among us.

But God gives us, also, the freedom to not give him anything at all. To choose to see around us inevitable failure, overwhelming troubles, worthless participation.

We each of us can be in on the work God is doing with our church, or we can be out, and it is, at the end of the day, almost entirely up to us.

And if enough of us chose to sit this season out, then this body, this church: you and me together. We would simply die, and our work and our part that we play in the building of God’s Kingdom, the healing of the broken world, it would pass to another. Instead of deciding to sit out this season of life, we would be benched permanently, or perhaps sent home, disbanded. The season would go on without us, but we would play no more games because we would no longer be a team.

Dangerous?
We have, I think, been operating under a potentially dangerous sort of triumphalism. Three years ago we had, as a community, very little direction, very little momentum, and very little vision. We were maintaining ourselves, and that just.

And over time God has renewed us, renewed us Smoky Row. And it is worth ongoing celebration. But we need to realize something, and I want you to hear me as the one you have called to this church as your pastor.

We are not out of the woods, Smoky Row. Death can interrupt any formational life-cycle, and we ourselves have not even finished the forming stage, despite all that God is doing with us even today. We are not all of a sudden established in the land, utterly secure.

So here is what I need to ask us to begin to do.

I need us to stop thinking of ourselves as an traditional church–whatever image pops into our minds when I say it–and instead begin to think of ourselves as a mission, as a mission outpost, stuck here in the middle of these woods we are not out of.

We have to begin imagining ourselves differently. If, when we think of ourselves, we think of ourselves as, simply, a church that could use a few more of something–a few more people, a few more dollars, a few more leaders, a few more programs, a few more whatever, then we are setting ourselves up for a great fall.

Because we will begin to trade things. Maybe we’ll trade intentional, potentially risk-filled, God-dependant action for the shrinking vision of maintaining whatever we’ve got right now. We will trade soaring on eagles’ wings and streams of living water for paddling around in a dissipating, stagnant pools.

We have to begin imagining ourselves differently, and seeing what we do differently. We are not simply a church that needs a little more of some things here or there: we are John the Baptist in the desert, we are Elijah on the mountain, we are Mary in front of the angel, Jesus on a cross: we are small, and could fit in the shadow of many celebrity churches, many big names, and great people: but our purposes in the world are exponentially the opposite of our size.

God has always used the little and the few do the greatest things, and we have to remember that we are few, and we are little, by any standards. But our God is working and will work huge things through us.

Regarding New Things:
And you know, I was recently at a birth. It was a mess. It was the craziest mess I’ve ever been a part of. And it was very hard work for the one in labor, and work for those helping. And the end result is, honestly, more work.

But I would never, ever, ever trade away the end result of that new birth. Because she is mine to care for and love. She has been given to me as a great blessing, great responsibility, and a great burden.

It is not my role in the face of my daughter to reminisce about the past days when I had greater freedom. It is to focus on the needs of the present, because she demands things of me that I didn’t know I was capable of giving. And she has not seen a full season pass by her. And it is to think ahead, only insofar as I might best meet what needs come down the road.

New birth demands a changed perspective on the world. And we, as a church, are facing a new birth, a new season of demands, a new way of being alive in the world.

And like living with an infant, things are mostly ordered, mostly structured: but it is also a little chaotic. We are not called to resent the chaos, but to thank God for the routine when it finds us. Disorder & Order are in equal measure during this season of our life; but God is in the midst of both of them, and we must rest assured–rest assured, rest assured, convinced, calmed–that God is with us.

Claiming Things:
And as a result of the new birth I witnessed, from that day forward it was demanded of me to claim the title “father,” and all the things that it means, which are many and varied.

And what I am asking each of you, Smoky Row, from this day forward, is to claim the title “missionary,” and all the things that it means, which are many and varied. And that is not the same thing as claiming “church member” or something like it. It demands more of us, and I know this.

And I realize that for some of us, thinking of ourselves as missionaries may sound like too much, may sound crazy. Except for this: we already are. Smoky Row has been operating far more like a mission post than it has that image of a “traditional” church.

I am simply asking that we claim who we are in the world, and the unusual place that God has made us to be. And there’s this, too:

Others are claiming it. I met last week with the Pastor of Smithville Brethren Church: a well-established church, financially stable, nice new carpets, a donut ministry for their Sunday services: some of us are salivating, right? And not because of the donuts, but because of whatever we imagine their checking balance is.

And this friend of mine, this pastor; I have talked with him about Smoky Row, about our place in life, our size & our resources. He casually mentioned this to his board this past week. They were meeting to discuss a number of maintenance needs that their property has. And nearly spontaneously, his board decided that instead of putting a new roof on their building, instead of tearing down an old structure that they had on their property–things that they have been planning on doing–what they really needed to do was to partner with us. To learn from us. To help us. They decided “Look, we have got to partner with this church, because this church is doing things that we have got to learn how to do, this church is doing things that are changing their community.” They want in on what Smoky Row is doing, because we are acting as Christ to the world around us, and they want to as well.

And what you should hear, church, is this: word of you is getting around. The denomination’s “Church Health & Resource Specialist” drove to Columbus this past week to meet with Rudy and I to talk about ways the Brethren Church can begin to network together churches in North America that are doing intentional Latino ministry. Soon, some members of the governance teams from Smithville Brethren & Smoky Row will join together to begin to flesh out what it would mean to have them join with us in the work we’re doing here.

We are moving forward in mission, in power, in the grace of the Lord. And others recognize it, and want in.

Hope:
We know that hope does not disappoint, that faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen: whether that’s resurrection or broadly, God’s fidelity and faithfulness to us. So hope with me, for a moment. Have faith, for a moment, with me: There are things that I believe we will do in the coming months & the coming years.

Programs:
We will, over time, develop greater and more powerful programs than we could imagine. We’ll add more services than the two that we now have–not to divide and fracture ourselves, but to expand us into groups and for people who would not grace our place otherwise. We will have a life group in every distinct neighborhood that exists around our church and where you live. We will develop a life skills training center, to offer to those in our community the skills they need to navigate life in areas like banking, like health & wellness, like language, citizenship, social or governmental services, housing.

We will do fun things: fairs, and parties, and VBS. Our youth group will be strong one day, and our nursery noisy, our ministry well-organized and our finances rock solid.

Partnerships:
We will, over time, continue to partner with organizations around those things Christ has caused us to care deeply about. There are groups out there who need us, who need what we have to offer: and we have need of them. Is it animals? We will work with those shelters that need our help. Is it justice? We will partner with those organizations that fight human trafficking, that train and empower the poor and jobless, that act as advocates for immigrants and refugees, that house the homeless and feed the hungry in ways we cannot do with our pantry and our garden. We will host social services, and medical aid groups. We will develop partnerships with churches throughout Ohio & the US, and with churches & missions in Latin America, and mission trips will again be a normal, a routine thing that we annually engage in, annually raise funds for. We will help establish neighborhood community associations, and

Personality:
And we will mine our unique Christ-like personality in ways we cannot even now comprehend. Imagine the complete integration of spanish speakers into every aspect of our church life: every structure, every relevant team. Imagine the creation of more and more life groups and special care groups and ministry teams and special training all which flow out of who we are and what we love, areas of interest such as music and arts and pets and cycling and dance and gardening and building and reading and philosophy or theology or board-games or exercise or programming. We will bring to the Lord ourselves, and the Lord will gather others to us who share in what we love.

Smoky Row, we will each of us, and us together be captivating, entirely and only because Christ will shine out through us, and draw people to himself–and we will be drawn closer to him as well, revealing him to the world and one another.

And we’re not even out of the forming stage yet!
I know we can:
But I think we will do these things. I know we can, if we do just one thing, which is simply to stay the course, and stay desperate for the Lord who has worked such miracles in us this far, ones which I never expected, and any outside observer casually, I think, would have simply never believed could happen.

Hear me on this, Smoky Row Brethren Church. Great things are in store for us. We are still forming, and have been participants in miraculous things: our programs have expanded, our partnerships increased, our personality becoming clearer and clearer.

And as your pastor, I want you to know that I am very proud of us, impressed by us. And I am certain that as we respond with holiness, with speed, with wisdom, to whatever opportunity God presents us with in the coming months and years then we will continue to be the dramatic place of Christ-like mission that we are right now. I am certain of it. I am sure of it.

Can we stay the course? Can we hold to the Lord God Almighty, hold to the Risen Lord, and to one another?

The work set before us is hard work; but we know the master we toil for. The rewards set before us are great rewards, and we should receive them with thanks. There is joy set before us, just a little way down the road. There is power set before us, whenever we need it most. We will be more than any of us could imagine us to be or ask the Lord to shape us: but we must begin to realize that the old way of thinking about ourselves no longer works. We are not simply a church that needs a little more of something or other; we are a mission post inside a troubling woods.

And we need to hold to this one who has given us the tasks we have been given, and who has given us the power to become like Christ as we finish them well.

The woods will recede you know, draw back: we will find ourselves secure & safe. But the truth is that our security and our safety are already here. The Spirit of God is among us, with us; we float on the surface of the mercy of God.

So Let’s be brave, let’s be strong, let’s be wise. You already are; I have seen and heard it in hundreds of moments. But my church, we have great need of one another now, and greater need of the Lord who answers before we call, and is already here among us calling us to greater things.

And each of us is left with one question to ask ourselves, and our God: Are we in? Or are we going to sit this season of Smoky Row out. I pray, desperately, but with great peace, that ever single one of us is ready to play.

It’s been awhile.  Who knew how busy it was to be a parent?

I’ve updated the messages that have been recently preached: The SRBC Core Value Messages & the Plumbing Story from last week.

I really, really recommend these; if you’re particularly interested in seeing at least one way in which we can “reflect theologically” on our days, then I’d recommend the plumbing story.  It’s a recollection of one particularly nasty afternoon I had, and the ways the Lord met me in it.

I’ve been reading some interesting things: Data Smog, by David Shenk; A collection of essays by Wendell Berry, a work by Erich Fromm (Toward a Humanized Technology, or something like it).  There is a theme here, I’m sure.  I’ll perhaps post more in the future.

Until then: be an agent of peace, draw close to the Spirit inside you. Remember the Lord.  Resist the evil one. All shall give way to the mercy of God.

Thoughts? Would anyone be interested? Maybe quarterly meetings?

Email me: rich@srbc.info

We wait for times, seasons: Some of us are waiting to die; some of us are waiting for life 5 years from now.  Some of us are waiting for next week.

We wait for events: When I am (that), then I will be (     ).  And we needn’t really fill in the parentheses.  We think, for some reason, that when something happens (marriage, a home, a job, a child, a pet, a production), then we really will be.  Then we’ll matter, then we’ll have significance, worth, and power.  Then, somehow, the cracks deep below will be caulked over, and our sense of security and place in the world won’t slip through them anymore.

We cannot wait, and cannot strive, for things which we can lose, and we are lousy repairmen, jerry-rigging and stringing together bits and pieces of found stuff to keep ourselves whole.

And this may be human, in that I’m pretty sure everyone everywhere at all times has done some version of this.  But it’s an old humanity if it’s human: used up and outdated.  And Christians, at least, claim belief in a new sort of humanity, one that’s replaced the old, like fullness replaces hunger.

Jesus is the only repairmen worth calling for human problems, and his table the only sort of place worth eating. If we live down to the lowest standard, the old way of being human, we do something, maybe, a little like turning away from the Lord.

I really recommend this one.  Look it over @ your leisure, and please, please let me know what you think.

Peace; rh

And all this entry is, really, is a little bridge until I get a chance to post something more interesting…

In the meantime, peace.