Preaching Peace

Pyjamas

  Yesterday evening we journeyed to a small theatre in Glen Ellyn to view "The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas."  Since viewing the Holocaust miniseries in the late '70s, I've tried to catch films and read up on that season and all we can learn from it.  Perhaps I want never to forget the victims.  I shall always be thankful for the young priest in my CPE group who responded to my tears when I cried, "Where was God for the Jews?"  He said, "Perhaps the more appropriate question is 'Where was God for the Nazis?'"  A Catholic koan?  A fitting question.
    As we watched the movie, told from the point of view of eight year old Bruno, it unfolded without much clue as to how it might end.  And then there was the moment when it because clear.  The boy is a sort of Christ figure.  Sort of, for he begins and falls as do we all, which would make him a Christ figure from an adoptionist point of view.  No matter.  As I felt after reading Victor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning, I hope and pray never to be confronted with what Bruno found his way to.  Still, could I, would I be brave, truly human, reflecting the heart of Jesus?
    I'm grateful for a movie that provokes such questions.  I'm exceedingly sorry for the reason for the movie.  I'd be grateful to any of you readers who have seen the movie, grateful to know what you saw.  The movie will be with me for a while.  You?

Where You Are

Sometimes people who visit the church will discover some of our hidden treasures. It’s not that we hide them on purpose; there are some things one has to search for. If you walk up the stairs through the part of the church that has been remade into the Village Storytelling Centre, you can find a fishing boat and a net, as well as a village rooftop.

What has always impressed me, and visitors as well, is the discovery of a series of stained glass windows that depict the world we live in today. There are five stained glass windows in the turret of the church. Each one illustrates different issues affecting our world.

One window is of a shantytown.

One window is of a green shoot pushing up through parched ground.

One window appears to be a waterfall.

One window is a representation of the HIV virus.

One window shows a raised and open hand with seeds in it. That’s the image I’ve been thinking about lately. The hand is open. Are the seeds being received, or ready to be shared? Are they the scant leftovers, or the beginnings of empowerment.

There are verses painted on the walls of the turret that give us a clue about the intent ofthe stained glass. One comes from the prophet Amos – “Let justice roll down like the waters.”

The story is told of people travelling to Bethlehem to see Jesus. We take the story for granted in a way, but Bethlehem in Judea was not the kind of place one would put high on the list as a major venue. Today we would think Washington, London, Paris or Rome; Moscow or Beijing. Not Bethlehem.

Some of them had to be told what to look for – “you will find a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes, laying in a manger.”

Some of them were looking for one thing – “he that is born king of the Jews,” a royal birth heralded by a new star in the sky. But they found something else entirely, a child in common, if not humble circumstances.

Some of them, soldiers sent by Herod to kill any threat to his position, were looking for any male child two years old or younger. Lambs to the slaughter.

Since those days, humankind has travelled back to Bethlehem many times. The story has unfolded and taken on new twists and turns. It has been retold through the lens of different culture. The passage of time has not dimmed its impact.

People today are still trying to get back to Bethlehem; to return to that simple essence of good news for all people.

I once took a shortcut through a church garden and came upon a bronze statue of Jesus that was hidden from the view of the street. Jesus was carrying a cross. The cross was big and thick, as if to emphasize the enormity of its weight. Jesus was slightly bent over. Even with the cross draped across his back, he seemed to be taking a step forward.

Seeing that alone would have been enough to make the shortcut through the church garden worth the trip. But the artist seemed to capture an essence of Jesus by one subtle gesture. As he carries the enormous cross forward, he is looking behind him. The hand that isn’t taken by balancing the cross on his back is stretched out in a gesture, as if he is beckoning someone, anyone to follow along.

Standing there alone in the garden, one knows just whom it is he invites along for the journey. Even though the face of the statue is only as expressive as it can be in bronze, his expression seems to speak, “Are you coming along?” There was no plaque there to explain the significance of the event. Nothing to imply its meaning other than the weight of the cross and the hand outstretched in implied invitation.

While all the other plaques and statues and monuments in town pointed to some past event, some great human achievement, this one reminded me of the present. There hidden away from all but the most intentional, or accidental tourist, Jesus struggles under the burden of the cross. Eventually one must turn from the scene and go about one’s business, or at least about one’s life. But the invitation signalled by the outstretched hand remains.

None of us need to be convinced that the world needs good news; we know the world in which we live. We continue to hope that somewhere along the journey our hand will grasp the hand of God.

Perhaps God chose Bethlehem to reveal the grass-roots nature of Good News. It does not come down from on high so much as it grows up through the reality of our daily lives. It comes from places such as Bethlehem. It is found in places such as Pollok. It is found where you are.

Take Care – John Mann

Yes, Virginia

Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.....

"You'd better not pout, you'd better not cry.  You'd better not shout, I'm telling you why..."

"See that you do not despise one of these little ones. For I tell you that in heaven their angels always see the face of my Father who is in heaven."  (Mt. 18:10)

Santa Claus.  I confess that at this time of year, I spend hours watching every "holiday special" I can find that includes something about Santa.  My family will tell you that I'm a "moosh," and that I cry over everything, and it's true, but this year I think I've destroyed a whole case of facial tissues as I tuned in one movie or animation after another.

This year, for the first time in my life, I know who Santa is.

This year, for the first time in my life, I've been met in my place of longing, the place that sells advertising minutes by the hundreds of thousands between Thanksgiving and New Year's, and the tears of gratitude have washed away the stains of half a century's tears of heartache and wistfulness. 

Yes Virginia, there really is a Santa Claus, and He is more wonderful and powerful and terrifying and knowing than even you have dared to hope.  When I finally came to His manger, I learned why His name has always been too holy to be pronounced.  All language left me as I gazed at the One who has gifted me with Himself and my every need was known and fulfilled and worship poured forth in the tongues of angels. 

And I heard this caution, "Despise not my little ones."

Suddenly I understood that in a day where everything can be reduced to bits and bytes, where romance has been supplanted by mechanistic determinism, Santa Claus is the last refuge not of "love and generosity and devotion" (the words of that famous editorial from the New York Sun) but of hope, of belief in things not seen.  This jolly caricature is not some pagan god of consumption, but a temple to an "unknown god," (Acts 17:23) a target for our desire that Creation be governed by Someone not constrained by what is logical.  Someone Who can be in my house even when there isn't a fireplace.  Someone Who knows me, really knows me, and brings me my heart's desire.  Someone who can transform me from the man that I am, warped and rotted by sin, to the man that I know I was created to be.

Isn't that the underlying message of all the good Christmas specials?  Transformation?

Some of the transformed subjects are like Rudolph, weighed down by sadness and unable to live into their callings, but Santa redeems what had once been a source of shame and makes it a gift.

Some are like Scrooge or the Grinch, so beaten down by life that they become "meaner than a junkyard dog," but the "Spirit of Christmas" causes their hearts to grow "three sizes that day."

Each of these stories shares the same hope, that there remains the possibility that my own heart of stone might one day be replaced by a heart of flesh.

And so the Spirit says to each of us, "See that you do not despise one of these little ones," because they are all searching for Me. 

If you are tempted to anger at the waste, remember that He who leads us to the manger once defended a woman accused of wastefulness.

If you are tempted to rage at the blindness of "conspicuous consumption" in the face of great misery, remember that He who brings healing in His wings once rewarded the singlemindedness of four friends who destroyed another man's roof to "cut in line" for their friend.

If you are tempted, as I certainly have been, to criticize the desperation of those who fill the malls in these last days before Christmas, know that such desperation is the only thing strong enough to bring us to the foot of the Cross, to the place of our death and resurrection.  Yes, the world has bent this desperation to its own ends, but the hunger is holy.

This may be why I have become so fond of the two "Santa Clause" movies.  In the end, we are not transformed into "better people," but we are conformed to the image of the One who has, against all reason, loved us into new life.  We put on the suit and we become a bit ridiculous in the world's eyes ("No place tropical, you don't want to see this in a speedo!") but we also become the very temples of the God those shoppers seek to know, the stable to which their stars and angels will lead them.

And in us these "little ones" will not meet a "kinder, gentler" version of our old selves, but the One in whom all things hold together.

Merry Christmas,

Jeff

The On Switch

Since moving to Scotland we’ve noticed a greater seasonal shift between light and darkness. At this time of year the daylight hours are woefully brief. The sun “rises” at 8:45 A.M. It scoots along the horizon and then disappears by 3:45 in the afternoon. Sunrise and sunset are like long twilights. On a cloudy day, like most days around here, one has the impression that the day never gets around to shining bright.

We do what we can to get some light. We installed a SAD light in the vicinity of where we read the morning papers. SAD as in “seasonal affective disorder” is a tangible effect in these parts. The body needs sunshine in order to produce vitamin D. Without an adequate supply, some people get depressed. So we soak in our full spectrum of sunshine, albeit artificial, each morning over the news of the day.

It seems to help. Not the news, but the SAD light.

The news is sad in and of itself. The arctic ice cap is melting. The conventional wisdom stream of science says it’s because of what we’ve done. Too many carbon footprints tromping around the globe. Others aren’t so sure.

The economy is collapsing and on that score there’s no doubt who is to blame. It’s all down to basic human greed. From the profligate credit card user to the mega bucks hedge fund scammer, everyone who spent more than they earned has a hand in it. The result is as Micawber explained to David Copperfield – “Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen and six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery.”

There’s no SAD light for SAD news.

Over here the government says we should all try to spend our way out of the slump. For some reason, that feels similar to telling someone to dig themselves out of a hole because the price of shovels just went down a few pennies.

For much of what dims the soul, we have to find our way to the light. The light of hope? If we are followers of Christ, then we have no alternative. Not in the Micawberish sense that “something will turn up,” but in the realization that something turned up 2000 years ago. Our task is to remind ourselves that the light switch in God’s realm doesn’t have an off position and it’s not a rheostat.

It’s just on all the time.

Merry Christmas.

Take Care – John Mann

Some Mimetic Observations on Current Events

There is a sit-down protest in a Chicago factory that has caught the eye of President elect Obama.  Workers seek severance pay, but the bank financing the Republic Windows and Doors factory won't extend credit.  This from CNN.com:

"Bank of America, the giant lender, played a large role in the Republic factory closure when the bank, noting a decline in Republic's sales, cut off the company's line of credit. In normal times, this would have been considered prudent banking practice, but just last month Bank of America received $25 billion in a financial bailout meant to keep loans and credit flowing."

Reminds me of the parable of the unjust steward.

Second, the riots in Greece keep escalating after the killing of a youth.  I note that this youth was invloved in violence (he is alleged to have been throwing a molotov cocktail at a police car), and that the policeman who shot him is now going to be prosecuted for manslaughter.  But why the outrage in Greece?  How does the violence of the bomb throwing youth and the police shooting escalate into riots?  First, is the false identity of the mob with the victim of violence, a sort of Lamech 70 x 7 justification for the riots.  But more importantly, it demonstrates how archaic patterns of retribution can rear their ugly heads in the birthplace of democracy (Athens).  This suggests to me the real fragility of the political sphere, the collapse of both truth and justice and leaves me wondering: how long before we start seeing such here in America?  After all, think of all the weapons in the hands of citizens (from the country who makes and exports more weapons than any other).  If things break down here in America, the Greece riots will look like UN talks comparitively speaking.

Finally I have to agree with Al Gore who said, "For America to lead the world through the dangers we're facing, to seize the opportunities before us, we've got to have new leadership," he said then. "Not only a new president, but new policies. Not only a new head of state, but a new vision for America's future."

I wonder if that vision looks anything like the hopeful vision of Jesus and the Kingdom of God or if it just another of the same old, same old tired vision of  Enlightenment individualism.  Guess we'll see.

Michael

Living History

Our history is a layered affair. The “journey of faith” is not so much a trajectory with a beginning, middle and end as it is a, well, something with a bit more nuance, shading and mystery. A dance of life, perhaps?

Last Sunday we observed the grand finale of the congregation’s 60 year history. History in this part of the world is an amalgamation of people and events. The Kirk, St. James’ started as a congregation in the 1940’s. The church building used to be known as “Titwood Parish Church.” It was built in the 1890’s. After the war it was dismantled and all the stones were numbered. Over a three year period, one lorry hauled three loads a day to the new site where workers reassembled the building.

The building itself is a mix of old and new. A few years ago one side chapel was reformed into The Village Storytelling Centre. A country store motif sits on the ground floor and the stairs lead up through different storytelling venues. New stained glass was installed. The people are fortunate in that the architecture from different centuries flows through the building like a seamless timeline.

We invited people back for the celebration. Helen, who was pastor up until six years ago, gave the sermon. It was the first time she and I met face to face. I once told her that her greatest gift to me was the fact that in all the churches I’ve served, St. James’ was the first one where a predecessor was not back on the scene to provide helpful (mostly not) assistance.

A decade or so ago I was serving a church that observed its 40^th anniversary. At that point many of the “charter members” were still around. There was a list of them on display in the foyer. The “charter pastor” once visited worship, unannounced and uninvited, after which he invited me out for a meal. While we broke bread he gave me a lecture about how I might improve my preaching.

During the time when various 40^th anniversary things were going on, I happened by the church one afternoon to retrieve something from my office. In the main conference room down the hall from that office I noticed that a somewhat major event was taking place. All these people from church were dressed up and mingling about. I also noticed the charter pastor there.

Someone happened down the hallway and I inquired, “What’s going on in there?”

“Oh, that’s a reception for charter members.”

“Golly, you would think that perhaps the current pastor of the church might have known something about it.”

“Well, it’s just for the charter members.”

And not, apparently, for the hired help.

While that was just one episode from my times of trial and error, I know from listening to colleagues, that for every woeful tale told there is one waiting in the wings that can always go one better in the pastoral misery archives known as “can you top this?” So yes, thanks to Helen for her thoughtful observance of professional boundaries.

One thing that has sustained me through times of trial was a thought gleaned from a continuing education program in which we were encouraged to think of the church not as “our church” but as the “church we serve.” No matter how long one is there as minister, one’s time is a sojourn. We are stewards and God is the owner. We are servants.

The congregation at present might be 60 years old and the building at least twice that, but those are mere starting points in a larger history. There are items around the place that go back even further. Things passed down through endings and beginnings. The common cups we use at Communion were crafted in 1781 when King George III was on the throne.

That was around the time when the United States of America was in its formative stages. Folks in Scotland were well aware of that at the time and some of them were in sympathy with the revolutionary cause. When George Washington was inaugurated in 1789 a company of Glasgow metal smiths produced a number of pewter articles to commemorate the event. We have two of them in our possession in the form of Communion plates on the back of which is an inscription that reads: Success to the United States of America.

Could they have imagined that an American minister serving in the Kirk would ponder their inscription on the eve of president number 44?

Take Care – John Mann