Posts tagged ‘Music and Worship Leaders’ Retreat’
MWLR II: My personal roller coaster
Music and Worship Leaders Retreat ended over a week ago. The entire weekend was predictably awesome, if one can predict such things based on just a single year of previous experience. I’m still scrambling to get my head around everything the resource team had to share regarding our theme of rituals.
The weekend was also something of a roller coaster for me – an emotional one brought about by some of the challenging topics we were considering. I’ll begin at the end: that I’m energized and hopeful and looking forward to wherever my journey of faith might lead. But sometimes the short-term is frustrating – really frustrating.
What follows here is fairly personal, although I don’t mind sharing it. After all, my ‘About’ page says that I’m going to attempt to write about “trying to live a faithful Christian life in the suburbs.” Well, for me – this is it. It doesn’t get much more raw or real than this…
(But be warned! This gets long. And it’s basically just me processing. Nothing that makes for good reading.)
MWLR I: Baptism
This year’s Music and Worship Leaders Retreat is focusing on rituals – on making them alive and on making us alive through them. To expand on Jesus’ words regarding the Sabbath, rituals were created for people and not the other way around. Tonight, we reflected on baptism.
During our worship this evening, we heard a baptismal story from Sara Miles from her book “Take This Bread” (ironically, one of those six that I happen to have on the bedside table this weekend). Sara came to faith (eventually) after a receiving communion for the first time, somewhat on a whim. She went on to establish a food distribution within her congregation (Or so I understand. I haven’t made it to that part of the book yet.) She writes:
I was unloading groceries one Friday when I spotted Sasha standing out back by the baptismal font, as if she were waiting for someone. Sasha was a very small black girl, maybe six or seven years old, who usually came to the pantry with an impatient, teenage aunt. I’d never met her mother. Sasha’s hair wasn’t always combed, and this day she had a split lip. “Sweetheart!” I said. I was glad to see her again. “Want a snack? There’s some chips inside.”
Sasha looked at me, not smiling. “Is this water the water God puts on you to make you safe?” she demanded abruptly, in a strangely formal voice…
How could I tell this child that a drop of water could make her safe? I had no idea what Sasha was going through at home, but I suspected it was rough. And baptism, if it signified anything, signified the unavoidable reality of the cross at the heart of the Christian faith. It wasn’t a magic charm but a reminder of God’s presence in the midst of unresolved human pain.
Is this water the water God puts on you to make you safe? I can’t seem to shake the thought that sometimes it is just the opposite. Baptism is the flood that is trying to push me beyond safety, to push me to meet God in the midst of pain, and perhaps to be God in the midst of pain. God has not placed the Church on earth to be comfortable. Our baptism prods us and makes us uncomfortable until we are willing to enter into the pain of the world.
So there it is. Lately, I don’t seem to escape these thoughts much. I just don’t know what to do with them.
MWLR: Pre-post (or Five for Friday, or Around the Interwebs)
It’s time once again for Music and Worship Leaders Retreat at Laurelville. Last year was the first time that I attended this long running program, and I enjoyed it so much that I immediately started planning to return this year.
Last night (on the way to MWLR), I stayed with my in-laws in Goshen. My mother-in-law chastised me for a lack of blogging recently. The good news is that this weekend will provide plenty of material, if it’s anything like last year. The bad news is that the weekend is so jam packed full that there will be no time to blog the material.*
* For some reason, I’ve ended up with six books** (and a magazine) on my nightstand here. I have no idea how I thought I’d get through six books during this weekend. I guess I never know what I’ll want to pick up.
** A New Kind of Christianity by Brian McLaren
Between Two Worlds by Roxana Saberi
How (Not) to Speak of God by Peter Rollins
The Irresistible Revolution by Shane Claiborne
Winter World by Bernd Heinrich
Take This Bread by Sara Miles
In the meantime, I’ve put together a bunch of interesting and/or thought provoking stuff that I’ve come across recently on the interwebs. Enjoy!
Preach it, sir. Preach it…
If this is going to be a Christian nation that doesn’t help the poor, either we have to pretend that Jesus was just as selfish as we are, or we’ve got to acknowledge that he commanded us to love the poor and serve the needy without condition and then admit that we just don’t want to do it.
- Stephen Colbert
Maybe it’s time we stop being a Christian nation…
“We are a religious nation – or are we?” by Bernard Starr
A fascinating trick for multiplying…
A fun little muppet poster
An admonition to the new congress to take the Constitution seriously.
Dying and Living
1961 – 2010
Twelve days ago, my friend died. I had mentioned Bettina and her cancer journey in my New Year’s reflections earlier this year. Since that time, her health gradually grew worse. Two and half weeks ago on Sunday, February 28th, she finished her work in a Lenten worship service that she planned. Bettina shared her story with her congregation and then served communion to them.
Having said that good-bye to her congregation (and previous farewells to my congregation and to her work colleagues), Bettina was at peace and ready to go home. Six days later on Saturday, March 6th, Bettina died, surrounded by friends and her adopted family.
There is so much more that I could write. Perhaps I will in the coming days. But in the meantime, here are some reflections that I shared last night with my congregation. Every Wednesday during Lent, we’re reflecting on the theme of “Holding On and Letting Go”. It turns out that this has been a very meaningful theme for me.
In late December last year, I was looking forward to Music and Worship Leaders’ Retreat at Laurelville Church Center. The retreat is a weekend workshop in early January with an intimate atmosphere and wonderful time of worship. It is also a great resource for people who will be involved in planning services during the upcoming Lenten season. At nearly the same time that I was preparing to attend the retreat, I also learned that Bettina’s cancer had returned. I realized then that the theme of “Holding On and Letting Go” would take on greater significance this year, and that I would begin my Lenten journey in January, instead of February.
On New Year’s Day, I did some reflecting on how we try to hold on to things that are ultimately out of our control. I wrote this in my blog…
This morning as I was reflecting on the Times Square festivities, I wondered if our society doesn’t so much mark the passing time at New Year’s, as it tries to stop it, to turn back time, and to be young again. Maybe not. Perhaps we don’t do those things any more at New Year’s than we do the rest of the year, and maybe this is a time for positive change. But I wondered anyway.
Part of my wondering is because I have a friend with cancer. Last year was a time for fighting it, and for hopes of remission, but she recently learned that the cancer has returned. For her, 2010 won’t be a time of turning back the clock. Instead, it will be a time of dying.
I went on to make my resolutions for the year, which included walking with and learning from Bettina in her dying, and walking with and learning from my daughters in their living. Ultimately, I think that this is what Lent is about: living and dying, and maybe not in that order.
For many years, I have valued Henri Nouwen’s wisdom regarding dying. He writes in his book Bread for the Journey…
We will all die one day. That is one of the few things we can be sure of. But will we die well? That is less certain…
Jesus died well because through dying he sent his Spirit of Love to his friends, who with that Holy Spirit could live better lives. Can we also send the Spirit of Love to our friends when we leave them?
Frankly, I think that this is one of those things that the world regards as foolishness. The world fears death; it glorifies youth and beauty; and it doesn’t care to talk about dying well, at least until forced to – and by then, it may be too late. But it seems to me that Bettina died well.
For one thing, she showed that death has lost its sting. I’m sure she had fears that I never observed. However, I witnessed a profound peace about her – the peace of someone who was learning to trust the tender care of Jesus – Jesus, her lover – who walked with her, who had faced death, and who had shown that death is not the final word.
Bettina also demonstrated reconciliation for our congregation. When she spoke to us three and a half weeks ago, she didn’t minimize the challenges that we still face, and she didn’t ask anyone to change their beliefs. But she showed us through her humble example that to be a community we must be willing to forgive, to seek forgiveness, and to be forgiven.
There is one more part of Bettina’s dying that amazes me – a gift that she gave. As the cancer became stronger, she put her life in the hands of her friends. She gave them her trust – trusted them to care for her – and allowed herself to be served. And by serving her, they served Christ. We hear echoes of Matthew 25: “Just as you did for one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did for me.” How precious is that gift – to serve our Lord? It’s not a gift that one could request, but neither is it a gift that one could refuse.
Here is something that is a mystery to me: When you see Jesus in another person, serve Jesus by serving that person, and then that person dies, it may seem as if Jesus dies, as well. And isn’t that also the culmination of Lent? That on Good Friday, God dies? This is a part of our faith that makes little sense. At that point, what remains, except doubt? But I’ve begun to believe that doubt is holy, because without doubt we’d never have faith.
It is the task of all of us to face death – in fact, to die – during Lent. I’d like to conclude with another quote from Henri Nouwen:
The death at the end of life won’t be so fearful if you can die well now. Yes, the real death – the passage from time to eternity, from the transient beauty of this world to the lasting beauty of the next, from darkness into light – has to be made now. And you do not have to make it alone.
God has sent people to be very close to you as you gradually let go of the world that holds you captive. You must trust fully in their love. Then you will never feel completely alone. Even though no one can do it for you, you can make the lonely passage in the knowledge that you are surrounded by a safe love and that those who let you move away from them will be there to welcome you on the other side. The more you trust in the love of those God has sent to you, the more you will be able to lose your life, and so gain it.
Success, notoriety, affection, future plans, entertainment, satisfying work, health, intellectual stimulation, emotional support – yes, even spiritual progress – none of these can be clung to as if they are essential for survival. Only as you let go of them can you discover the true freedom your heart most desires. That is dying, moving into the life beyond life. You must make the passage now, not just at the end of your earthly life. You cannot do it alone, but with the love of those who are being sent to you, you can surrender your fear and let yourself be guided into the new land.
And some pictures…
(Reflections from Music and Worship Leaders’ Retreat, part V)
I’m safely home again, but still cherishing the past weekend. Here are some photos from Laurelville…
Thanks to all who made the weekend such a blessing!
Signs of grace
(Reflections from Music and Worship Leaders’ Retreat, part IV)
In my very limited free time this afternoon, I had the chance to walk to Sunset Hill. Those of you who have been to Laurelville are probably familiar with this spot: a quarter mile hike from the main camp with a wonderful hilltop spot to mark the close of the day. In the winter you can mark the closing of day in mid-afternoon as the sun begins its descent. There was sixteen inches of fresh snow on the ground and brisk temperatures and wind, but I benefitted from the efforts of five intrepid souls who blazed the trail in front of me.
When I reached the top, the others were there, as well. I didn’t know any of them, but it seemed to me that we had much in common. ”It seems to me that anyone who meets me in conditions such as these is a friend. We are kindred spirits.”
The others left before me, but in a few minutes I was greeted by new arrivals. By then, however, I was beginning to get cold so I started back to the camp. On the way, I encountered signs of grace: at some point earlier, those coming up to the top of the hill had met someone who was descending. The individual had stepped to the side off of the path – and into knee-deep snow – to allow the group to pass.
Michael Card sings about this in his song, “The Basin and The Towel”, which reflects on the servant’s heart that Jesus taught his disciples.
In an upstairs room, a parable
is just about to come alive.
And while they bicker about who’s best,
with a painful glance, He’ll silently rise.
Their Savior Servant must show them how
through the will of the water
and the tenderness of the towel.
And the call is to community,
The impoverished power that sets the soul free.
In humility, to take the vow,
that day after day we must take up the basin and the towel.
In any ordinary place,
on any ordinary day,
the parable can live again
when one will kneel and one will yield.
Our Saviour Servant must show us how
through the will of the water
and the tenderness of the towel.
And the call is to community,
The impoverished power that sets the soul free.
In humility, to take the vow,
that day after day we must take up the basin and the towel.
And the space between ourselves sometimes
is more than the distance between the stars.
By the fragile bridge of the Servant’s bow
we take up the basin and the towel.
And the call is to community,
The impoverished power that sets the soul free.
In humility, to take the vow,
that day after day we must take up the basin and the towel.
Entering into the story
(Reflections from Music and Worship Leaders’ Retreat, part III)
This afternoon, we focused on the Lectionary reading for the fourth Sunday in Lent. In each of the three years in the common lectionary, the Lenten readings provide us with definitions of conversion. This year (Year C), we have what Marlene Kropf described as the “theological core of Lent”. It is a story that extends back to Christmas and forward to Easter. It is also one of the most well-known stories in the Gospels, perhaps making it difficult to see the story in fresh ways.
Luke 15 is the parable of the lost son (which one?), but we might also call it the parable of the running father. As we considered it today, Brian McLaren noted that most of our questions swirled around what the parable left out, rather than the details present. This, he said, is one of the gifts of parables: they provide space, which allows us to enter into the story and explore it for ourselves.
I wondered – Does this space make me uncomfortable? Do I try to fill the space to capacity, and provide a ready answer to any question that the parable might suggest, in order to alleviate my discomfort?
What is the worst that could happen?
(Reflections from Music and Worship Leaders’ Retreat, part II)
This morning, we read from Luke 13, the scripture for the second Sunday in Lent. Following a warning from the pharisees that Herod is out to kill him, Jesus laments for Jerusalem, renaming it from “city of peace” to “city that kills”. He wishes that he might have gathered Jerusalem in, but instead he lets it go: “See your house is left to you.” These are particular sobering words to some of the first readers of Luke, who would have been reflecting on the words in light of the destruction of Jerusalem.
At the end of the story, however, Jesus utters words that are ultimately hopeful: “You will not see me again until the time comes when you say, ‘Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.’”
Brian McLaren asked two questions that might be hopeful for my congregation:
What is the worst outcome [in our current conflict]?
What blessing, what hope can we utter at the end?
Of poinsettias and bridges
(Reflections from Music and Worship Leaders’ Retreat, part I)
In my last post, I alluded to my trip to Laurelville for Music and Worship Leaders’ Retreat. It is now Saturday evening just after supper as I sit and reflect, and the time has been phenomenal. For me, the retreat is my first. However, it has a twenty-three year history, and many participants have a long history of attending – for good reason. The resource people - Ken Nafziger, Marilyn Houser Hamm, Marlene Kropf, and Ted Swartz – bring a profound love of worship and a comfortable ease leading it, which they do with in an unassuming, yet professional way. The participants are also here because they love worship, and as leaders themselves, also know how to be led. The result is beautiful.
The focus of the weekend is on the upcoming season of Lent, with the theme, “Holding On, Letting Go”. The leaders introduce appropriate resources, songs, scriptures, and so on, so that the participants can take ideas back to their own congregations. Each session, I’ve been trying to reflect on what I can take away or learn.
The first session was last night, and we began with a brief look back to Christmas…
In Mexico, there is a legend about a girl who had nothing to offer to the Christ-child for his birth. Instructed by an angel, she went out and gathered weeds, which she placed on the altar in her church building. The offering, appropriately given, was transformed into the brilliant red flower we know as the poinsettia.
In the wild, poinsettias are large, tall plants. But at Christmas time, we confine them to small pots. Do we perhaps do the same to the plans of God? The scandal of Christmas is God in human form. Do we become so familiar with the story that we lose our amazement? How do we limit God’s plans by the limits of our own imaginations?
My congregation is struggling with whether to grant membership to same-gender couples in committed relationships. I despair that there isn’t a win-win solution. Someone will lose; someone will leave. My vision is too narrow.
Parker Palmer writes of an NPR interview that he heard. Basim, an Iraqi translator was forced to flee his country, because of his efforts to build a bridge between the Iraqis and the Americans. He was asked, “Was it naive to believe that you could stand in the middle like that?” Without hesitation, Basim responded, “No. It wasn’t at all.” Palmer writes,
If reconciliation is going to happen, there must be people who are willing to live in the tragic gap and help the two sides understand each other.
I hope that I may be such a person.
