Finally finishing Wesley Frendorff's vision for the Church
Let us dream of a a church...
In which discipline is a means, not to self-justification, but to discipleship, and law is know to be a good servant but a very poor master.
A church....
In which every congregation is in a process of becoming free--autonomous--self-reliant--interdependent.
None has special status: the distinction between parish and mission gone.
But each congregation is in mission and each Christian, gifted for ministry; a crew on a freighter, no passengers on a luxury liner.
Peacemakers and healers abhorring violence in all forms (maybe even football)
{JIM HERE IN AN ASIDE--THIS ABHORRING FOOTBALL DOESN'T WORK FOR ME....} as concerned with societal healing as with individual healing; with justice as with freedom, prophetically confronting the root causes of social, political and economic ills.
A community: an open, caring, sharing household of faith where all find embrace, acceptance and affirmation.
A community: under judgment, seeking to live with its own proclamation, there fore truly love what the lord commands and desiring His promises.
And finally, let of dream of a people called....
to recognize all the absurdities in ourselves and in one another, including the absurdity that is LOVE,
serious about the call and the mission, but not, very much, about ourselves,
who, in the company of our Clown Redeemer can dance and sing and laugh and cry in worship, in ministry and even in conflict.
That's the whole thing. Remarkable. Painfully obvious and even more painfully distant from us.
I fear and mourn for the church in these days. We need a new paradigm, a new vision, a way to be transformed and be made new.
Bp. Frensdorff's words are a beginning, a challenge, something to lean into, to seek, to long for, to desire, to work toward.
It all seems so distant--his vision--and so different from the Church as it is....
But it is to be ponderer under your Castor Oil Tree...something to fuss with God about...something to dwell on.
More about the church later....
Love you all....
Friday, February 11, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
the Future Church--2
I'm still writing out Leslie Frendorff's dream of the church.
Let us dream of a church...
so salty and so yeasty that it really would be missed if no longer around;
where there is wild sowing of seeds and much rejoicing when they take root, but little concern for success, comparative statistics, growth or even survival.
A church so evangelical that its worship, it quality of caring, its eagerness to reach out to those in need cannot be contained.
A church....
affirming life over death as much as life after death,
unafraid of change, able to recognize God's had in the revolutions, affirming the beauty of diversity, abhorring the imprisonment of uniformity,
as concerned about love in all relationships as it is about chastity and affirming the personal in all expressions of sexuality.
Let us dream of a church...
in which the sacraments, free from captivity by a professional elite, are available in every congregation regardless of size, culture, location or budget.
In which every congregation is free to call forth from its midst priests and deacons, sure in the knowledge that training and support services are available to back them up.
In which the Word is sacramental too, as dynamically presented as the bread and win; members, not dependent on professionals, know what's what and who's who in the Bible and all sheep share in the shepherding.
Let us dream of a church...
so salty and so yeasty that it really would be missed if no longer around;
where there is wild sowing of seeds and much rejoicing when they take root, but little concern for success, comparative statistics, growth or even survival.
A church so evangelical that its worship, it quality of caring, its eagerness to reach out to those in need cannot be contained.
A church....
affirming life over death as much as life after death,
unafraid of change, able to recognize God's had in the revolutions, affirming the beauty of diversity, abhorring the imprisonment of uniformity,
as concerned about love in all relationships as it is about chastity and affirming the personal in all expressions of sexuality.
Let us dream of a church...
in which the sacraments, free from captivity by a professional elite, are available in every congregation regardless of size, culture, location or budget.
In which every congregation is free to call forth from its midst priests and deacons, sure in the knowledge that training and support services are available to back them up.
In which the Word is sacramental too, as dynamically presented as the bread and win; members, not dependent on professionals, know what's what and who's who in the Bible and all sheep share in the shepherding.
It will take one more post to finish Wesley's dream.
Ponder this part.
Notice how revolutionary and radical it is. Ponder what it would mean to 'The Church'--how the church would have to be transformed to be a part of this vision.
Ponder also, whether you would want to be a part of this dream, this vision, this Kind of church....
Ponder this part.
Notice how revolutionary and radical it is. Ponder what it would mean to 'The Church'--how the church would have to be transformed to be a part of this vision.
Ponder also, whether you would want to be a part of this dream, this vision, this Kind of church....
pain in the rear view mirror
So, I noticed Bern's truck had a very low tire and drove it down to the Mobil station to fill it up.
No sooner had I hit Rt. 10 than I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw a beautiful young woman in the passenger seat of the car behind me crying.
She wasn't sobbing or anything, simply wiping tears from her large, lovely eyes. The man driving the car was about the age the girl's father would be--she was probably in her early teens--and he seemed to be listening quietly to what she was saying as she wiped the tears away.
His face did not show upset or anger--it showed pain. Whatever the girl was crying about and whatever she was saying seemed to be bringing pain to her father as well.
I don't recommend driving down Rt. 10 paying more attention to the rear-view mirror than the view out the windshield, but that's what I did. The traffic was very slow, as it often is on Rt. 10 in Cheshire. I stopped two or three times before I could get through each of the half-dozen or so traffic lights between Cornwall Ave. and the Mobil station, so I wasn't being reckless as I watched the silent drama in the car behind me.
In the back seat of the car were two young boys, I'd say younger than the girl by a year or so. They were leaning forward, the one on the driver's side had his face between the two front seats and the one of the passenger side had his head up close to the beautiful, weeping girl's headrest.
If I would say what I saw on those two boys' faces, I would call it painful concern. They too were listening to the crying girl, speaking slowly, constantly wiping the tears from her eyes as if she were embarassed by them. They looked like her, not so beautiful by half, but handsome, dark-haired young people. So--and of course I'm making this up because I couldn't hear what the girl was saying--it seemed to be a father and three siblings, driving down Rt. 10 with the daughter talking and wiping tears away.
And the other three seemed to listening with compassionate concern to what the lovely young woman was saying.
I could be totally wrong about this, but I watched it for 15 minutes on what is usually a 5 minute drive, but I don't think her pain was because of them. Only once did I see anyone but her talking. At a stop, her father turned to her and said what was probably a sentence or two. She turned to look at him as he spoke, which people don't do if the person speaking is the cause of their distress--at least that's my experience with people who have distressed me or I have distressed. You don't look at the object of your distress.
She nodded, just as the light changed and we crept forward, and begin to speak again, wiping away yet more tears.
The family was Asian, did I mention that? At least the father was, undeniably. Not Chinese or Japanese, further south or west of those. Thailand, perhaps, or Viet Nam--the father looked like he haled from those parts. The children were blended, not so obviously Asian. Perhaps their mother was Occidental (I know it's not politically correct to say 'Oriental' any more, but I've never been schooled to avoid Occidental.) Perhaps they were talking about the wife, the mother, or something that happened at school, or some deep and profound sadness in the family or the girl or simply life itself.
I wanted to keep driving ahead of them. I wanted to 'know the story' that caused this so lovely young woman with long black hair to be crying and talking. But I got to the Mobil station and pulled in. The tire had 10 lbs. per square inch of pressure. I ramped it up to 34 and drove back home wondering what happened in the car behind me, praying--actually praying--that young woman found relief, comfort, healing from her talking and her tears.
I know this, I will ponder this afternoon for a while.
(I went out at 5:30 to walk the dog and it was just twilight. A month ago--a few weeks ago--5:30 p.m. would have meant deep darkness. The Northern Hemisphere is, each day, tilting back toward the sun a bit. In the chill, surrounded by ice, today was the first day I realized the light is returning, Spring will, inexorably insinuate itself into life in New England. How wonderful is that. And, how wonderful--unless my interpretation is completely wrong {and Everything IS Interpretation, after all} of what the little drama was in that car behind me was about, people who love you being willing to listen to what you say and have concern for your tears: that too, is the Coming of the Light.)
If you pray...and however you pray...I would invite you to say a prayer for that family in my rear-view mirror....
No sooner had I hit Rt. 10 than I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw a beautiful young woman in the passenger seat of the car behind me crying.
She wasn't sobbing or anything, simply wiping tears from her large, lovely eyes. The man driving the car was about the age the girl's father would be--she was probably in her early teens--and he seemed to be listening quietly to what she was saying as she wiped the tears away.
His face did not show upset or anger--it showed pain. Whatever the girl was crying about and whatever she was saying seemed to be bringing pain to her father as well.
I don't recommend driving down Rt. 10 paying more attention to the rear-view mirror than the view out the windshield, but that's what I did. The traffic was very slow, as it often is on Rt. 10 in Cheshire. I stopped two or three times before I could get through each of the half-dozen or so traffic lights between Cornwall Ave. and the Mobil station, so I wasn't being reckless as I watched the silent drama in the car behind me.
In the back seat of the car were two young boys, I'd say younger than the girl by a year or so. They were leaning forward, the one on the driver's side had his face between the two front seats and the one of the passenger side had his head up close to the beautiful, weeping girl's headrest.
If I would say what I saw on those two boys' faces, I would call it painful concern. They too were listening to the crying girl, speaking slowly, constantly wiping the tears from her eyes as if she were embarassed by them. They looked like her, not so beautiful by half, but handsome, dark-haired young people. So--and of course I'm making this up because I couldn't hear what the girl was saying--it seemed to be a father and three siblings, driving down Rt. 10 with the daughter talking and wiping tears away.
And the other three seemed to listening with compassionate concern to what the lovely young woman was saying.
I could be totally wrong about this, but I watched it for 15 minutes on what is usually a 5 minute drive, but I don't think her pain was because of them. Only once did I see anyone but her talking. At a stop, her father turned to her and said what was probably a sentence or two. She turned to look at him as he spoke, which people don't do if the person speaking is the cause of their distress--at least that's my experience with people who have distressed me or I have distressed. You don't look at the object of your distress.
She nodded, just as the light changed and we crept forward, and begin to speak again, wiping away yet more tears.
The family was Asian, did I mention that? At least the father was, undeniably. Not Chinese or Japanese, further south or west of those. Thailand, perhaps, or Viet Nam--the father looked like he haled from those parts. The children were blended, not so obviously Asian. Perhaps their mother was Occidental (I know it's not politically correct to say 'Oriental' any more, but I've never been schooled to avoid Occidental.) Perhaps they were talking about the wife, the mother, or something that happened at school, or some deep and profound sadness in the family or the girl or simply life itself.
I wanted to keep driving ahead of them. I wanted to 'know the story' that caused this so lovely young woman with long black hair to be crying and talking. But I got to the Mobil station and pulled in. The tire had 10 lbs. per square inch of pressure. I ramped it up to 34 and drove back home wondering what happened in the car behind me, praying--actually praying--that young woman found relief, comfort, healing from her talking and her tears.
I know this, I will ponder this afternoon for a while.
(I went out at 5:30 to walk the dog and it was just twilight. A month ago--a few weeks ago--5:30 p.m. would have meant deep darkness. The Northern Hemisphere is, each day, tilting back toward the sun a bit. In the chill, surrounded by ice, today was the first day I realized the light is returning, Spring will, inexorably insinuate itself into life in New England. How wonderful is that. And, how wonderful--unless my interpretation is completely wrong {and Everything IS Interpretation, after all} of what the little drama was in that car behind me was about, people who love you being willing to listen to what you say and have concern for your tears: that too, is the Coming of the Light.)
If you pray...and however you pray...I would invite you to say a prayer for that family in my rear-view mirror....
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Pondering "the Church"
The Castor Oil Tree is a place, like Jonah, to sit and ponder. One of the things I 'ponder' under my tree is the nature and the future of the Church. I have lots of concerns about the Church's future--economic pressures, the weight of hierarchy, how to live out the gospel in a multicultural world, how to be 'the Body of Christ' in a time when the Church is mostly irrelevant to the culture and and world as it is. Stuff like that.
I've been working lately on Sundays in the Middlesex Cluster--4 churches in Northford, Higganum, Killingworth and West Brook--that seek to live into and lean into the vision of a prophet named Roland Allen, who dreamed a dream of what he termed "total common ministry", which turns out to be a vision for the Church in our time.
Wesley Frensdorff was the Episcopal Bishop of Colorado back in the 70's or so and a disciple of Roland Allen. The just retired missioner of the Middlesex Cluster shared this with me and I want to share it with you. It was written during one of Bp Frensdoff's gatherings of like-minded folks.
Ponder it.
THE DREAM by Wesley Frensdorff
Let us dream of a church....
In which all members know surely and simply God's great love and each is certain that in the divine heart we are all known by name.
In which Jesus is very Word, our window into the Father's heart; the sign of God's hope and design for all humankind.
In which the Spirit is not a party symbol but wind and fire in everyone; gracing the church with a kaleidoscope of gifts and constant renewal for all.
A Church in which....
worship is lively and fun as well as reverent and holy; and we might be moved to dance and laugh; to be solemn, cry or beat the breast.
People know how to pray and enjoy it--frequently and regularly, privately and corporately, in silence and in word and in song.
The Eucharist is the center of life and servanthood, the center of mission; the servant Lord truly known in the breaking of bread. With service flowing from worship, and everyone understanding why a worship is called a service.
Let us dream of a church...
with radically renewed concept and practice of ministry and a primitive understanding of the ordained offices,
where there is no clerical status and no classed of Christians, but all together know themselves to be part of the laos--the holy people of God.
A ministering community rather than a community gathered around minister,
where ordained people, professional or not, employed or not, are present for the sake of ordering and signing the church's life and mission, not as signs of authority or dependency, nor of spiritual or intellectual superiority, but with Pauline patterns of 'ministry supporting church' instead of the common pattern of 'church supporting ministry',
where bishops are signs and animators of the church's unity, catholicity and apostolic mission,
where priests are signs and animators of her eucharistic life and the sacramental presence of her Great High Priest,
and deacons are signs and animators--living reminders--of the church's servanthood as the body of Christ who came as, and is, the servant slave of all God's beloved children.
As I've typed this I realize that is so dense and so profound that I can't do it all or ponder it all at once. So I'll stop there.
More to come, with some commentary. Two more posts at least....
I've been working lately on Sundays in the Middlesex Cluster--4 churches in Northford, Higganum, Killingworth and West Brook--that seek to live into and lean into the vision of a prophet named Roland Allen, who dreamed a dream of what he termed "total common ministry", which turns out to be a vision for the Church in our time.
Wesley Frensdorff was the Episcopal Bishop of Colorado back in the 70's or so and a disciple of Roland Allen. The just retired missioner of the Middlesex Cluster shared this with me and I want to share it with you. It was written during one of Bp Frensdoff's gatherings of like-minded folks.
Ponder it.
THE DREAM by Wesley Frensdorff
Let us dream of a church....
In which all members know surely and simply God's great love and each is certain that in the divine heart we are all known by name.
In which Jesus is very Word, our window into the Father's heart; the sign of God's hope and design for all humankind.
In which the Spirit is not a party symbol but wind and fire in everyone; gracing the church with a kaleidoscope of gifts and constant renewal for all.
A Church in which....
worship is lively and fun as well as reverent and holy; and we might be moved to dance and laugh; to be solemn, cry or beat the breast.
People know how to pray and enjoy it--frequently and regularly, privately and corporately, in silence and in word and in song.
The Eucharist is the center of life and servanthood, the center of mission; the servant Lord truly known in the breaking of bread. With service flowing from worship, and everyone understanding why a worship is called a service.
Let us dream of a church...
with radically renewed concept and practice of ministry and a primitive understanding of the ordained offices,
where there is no clerical status and no classed of Christians, but all together know themselves to be part of the laos--the holy people of God.
A ministering community rather than a community gathered around minister,
where ordained people, professional or not, employed or not, are present for the sake of ordering and signing the church's life and mission, not as signs of authority or dependency, nor of spiritual or intellectual superiority, but with Pauline patterns of 'ministry supporting church' instead of the common pattern of 'church supporting ministry',
where bishops are signs and animators of the church's unity, catholicity and apostolic mission,
where priests are signs and animators of her eucharistic life and the sacramental presence of her Great High Priest,
and deacons are signs and animators--living reminders--of the church's servanthood as the body of Christ who came as, and is, the servant slave of all God's beloved children.
As I've typed this I realize that is so dense and so profound that I can't do it all or ponder it all at once. So I'll stop there.
More to come, with some commentary. Two more posts at least....
Monday, February 7, 2011
a beautiful thing
I know what it is now. I stood outside in the rain tonight long enough to know it wasn't a miracle or a wonder or something beyond explanation. I can explain it.
And, it was a beautiful thing.
End of the evening stuff. I was out on the porch noticing that it was raining and our dog hates rain and I knew a walk down the street to the parking lot of the Congregational Church wouldn't be a good idea. And then I saw it.
At first I didn't believe what I was seeing. It couldn't be there, not there, and not the way it was. But it didn't go away and I watched it long enough to get myself rather wet.
I went inside to get the dog and make him go out back. We've kept digging away at the snow to make him a labyrinth of a run in the back yard--not near enough to any of the fences, almost topped by snow, that he might decide to jump the fence and make a run for it.
I wrote a poem once about him maybe running away. If I can find it, I'll put it at the end of this thing about the beautiful thing.
I watched the beautiful thing while he went out to do the business he needed to do. We went in and I gave him a treat and started up the back steps. But I passed Luke's litter box and turned on a light to check. Yep, it needed some cleaning. So I scooped and poured into a Stop and Shop plastic bag and took Luke's 'business' out to put in the trash can on the back porch. And the beautiful thing was still there.
Here's what it looked like: a sliver of golden light hanging in the air between two big evergreens, about 3 feet off the ground. And it was beautiful, reflecting off the snow--a golden sliver in a darkened, white world.
I know it was just an icicle hanging off a limb of a sapling, reflecting light from one of those golden street lights over a hundred yards away, down on Route 10. And I stared it some more, simply appreciating how mysterious (though explainable) that little sliver of light was to me.
Beautiful. A beautiful thing. Between dog's waste and cat's waste, in the rain on a cold winter's night---something to stand in the rain and ponder and marvel about....
(I couldn't find the poem I was looking for just now, but here's another winter poem about our dog)
The Difference Between a Puli and a Man
It is just about 3 degrees Fahrenheit
according to the thermometer on my back porch.
And the wind is blowing, O, I'd say,
about 15 miles an hour.
The ice has iced over a couple of times
and everything wood and metal creaks
from the cold.
Puli dogs were built for weather like this.
When Attila left the steppes of Mongolia
to cross the known world,
conquering everything in his path
(raping and pillaging along the way)
he already had dogs
that had survived cold that killed horses,
camels, oxen and men.
Hungary, in the deepest winter of those years
we think of as long, long, long ago,
was like moving from Connecticut to Florida
for the Hun's dogs.
Their tangled, cording hair--black as midnight,
or 2 a.m.--kept them warm,
made them think Budapest was tropical
compared to the gales in winter
off the steppes.
That is the difference between a Puli dog,
like mine,
and an aging white man like me.
In the back yard, he runs in circles,
pausing only to eat ice and snow,
guarding sheep that are not there
from wolves that don't exist.
He finds a mound of ice
and splays himself on it,
feeling the genetic connection,
the DNA link, the marrow deep instinct of his breeding.
Then he grabs a stick and runs to the edge of the yard,
stopping to bark at me to come chase him.
And I, wrapped in clothes that will take five minutes
to rid myself of back inside,
call to him to return
to what aging, white men love:
central heat, fireplaces, hot coffee.
Eventually, he will return--even if that means
I have to go and get him,
playing 'catch me if you can'
all the way back to the porch.
But he could fall asleep, nestled in ice and snow,
while I would simply die of hypothermia.
That, if nothing else (and there is much else indeed!)
distinguishes me from my Puli...
Or, more accurately,
distinguishes the Puli
from his man.
jgb 2/5/07
And, it was a beautiful thing.
End of the evening stuff. I was out on the porch noticing that it was raining and our dog hates rain and I knew a walk down the street to the parking lot of the Congregational Church wouldn't be a good idea. And then I saw it.
At first I didn't believe what I was seeing. It couldn't be there, not there, and not the way it was. But it didn't go away and I watched it long enough to get myself rather wet.
I went inside to get the dog and make him go out back. We've kept digging away at the snow to make him a labyrinth of a run in the back yard--not near enough to any of the fences, almost topped by snow, that he might decide to jump the fence and make a run for it.
I wrote a poem once about him maybe running away. If I can find it, I'll put it at the end of this thing about the beautiful thing.
I watched the beautiful thing while he went out to do the business he needed to do. We went in and I gave him a treat and started up the back steps. But I passed Luke's litter box and turned on a light to check. Yep, it needed some cleaning. So I scooped and poured into a Stop and Shop plastic bag and took Luke's 'business' out to put in the trash can on the back porch. And the beautiful thing was still there.
Here's what it looked like: a sliver of golden light hanging in the air between two big evergreens, about 3 feet off the ground. And it was beautiful, reflecting off the snow--a golden sliver in a darkened, white world.
I know it was just an icicle hanging off a limb of a sapling, reflecting light from one of those golden street lights over a hundred yards away, down on Route 10. And I stared it some more, simply appreciating how mysterious (though explainable) that little sliver of light was to me.
Beautiful. A beautiful thing. Between dog's waste and cat's waste, in the rain on a cold winter's night---something to stand in the rain and ponder and marvel about....
(I couldn't find the poem I was looking for just now, but here's another winter poem about our dog)
The Difference Between a Puli and a Man
It is just about 3 degrees Fahrenheit
according to the thermometer on my back porch.
And the wind is blowing, O, I'd say,
about 15 miles an hour.
The ice has iced over a couple of times
and everything wood and metal creaks
from the cold.
Puli dogs were built for weather like this.
When Attila left the steppes of Mongolia
to cross the known world,
conquering everything in his path
(raping and pillaging along the way)
he already had dogs
that had survived cold that killed horses,
camels, oxen and men.
Hungary, in the deepest winter of those years
we think of as long, long, long ago,
was like moving from Connecticut to Florida
for the Hun's dogs.
Their tangled, cording hair--black as midnight,
or 2 a.m.--kept them warm,
made them think Budapest was tropical
compared to the gales in winter
off the steppes.
That is the difference between a Puli dog,
like mine,
and an aging white man like me.
In the back yard, he runs in circles,
pausing only to eat ice and snow,
guarding sheep that are not there
from wolves that don't exist.
He finds a mound of ice
and splays himself on it,
feeling the genetic connection,
the DNA link, the marrow deep instinct of his breeding.
Then he grabs a stick and runs to the edge of the yard,
stopping to bark at me to come chase him.
And I, wrapped in clothes that will take five minutes
to rid myself of back inside,
call to him to return
to what aging, white men love:
central heat, fireplaces, hot coffee.
Eventually, he will return--even if that means
I have to go and get him,
playing 'catch me if you can'
all the way back to the porch.
But he could fall asleep, nestled in ice and snow,
while I would simply die of hypothermia.
That, if nothing else (and there is much else indeed!)
distinguishes me from my Puli...
Or, more accurately,
distinguishes the Puli
from his man.
jgb 2/5/07
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