This past weekend I took my annual pilgrimage to Conception Abbey, a Benedictine monastery, with several young adults. My friend Gabe and I have been taking kids to the Abbey for several years, concentrating on older high schoolers and college-aged folk. This year we had 5 attendees who were all college-aged, and it was a new experience for 4 of them.
Catholic spirituality and worship tradition is very different from what most of those attending are comfortable with. We had 4 Disciples of Christ and 1 Seventh Day Adventist in our group. But they dutifully attended the praying of the hours, the 5 times that the monks get together and pray and chant, mostly from the Psalms, with one celebration of the Eucharist. We happened to be there on the weekend when they were celebrating the Feast of St. Benedict, and this was even more "out there" than anything they had ever experienced. The Eucharist celebration was a high mass, with incense and sung responses to everything. We were forewarned by our monk host, Brother Cyprian, that this was the "big show", and it was.
I was raised in the Roman Catholic church, so for me incense and candles and signs of the cross from forehead to chest to shoulders is a soothing thing. It takes me back to the piety of my 8 year-old self who was very proud to kneel straight and to know all of the proper responses (which, I believe, were still in Latin at the time.) I can still pretty much recite all of the English responses to this day, and can recite the Creed. I find it all rather "Zen" since I kick into auto pilot. It's only when I think of what I'm saying that I can become uncomfortable. Do I really believe that Mary was a virgin? I think it's possible; I'm rather agnostic to the idea actually. Do I believe that Jesus "descended into hell"? Who's to know? There are lots of reasons why I'm not a Catholic anymore. But I still find attending the Mass and chanting with the monks a time for experiencing a richness of feeling that I ascribe to a greater awareness of God's presence.
But my daughter is exactly the opposite. Since she has always been DOC, and her encounters with the Catholic church have largely been at funerals and weddings, she has no use for the "smells and bells", the repeated chants, the automatic responses. Instead of feeling any closeness to God, she feels repulsed by what she assumes is the judgmental attitude of those who refuse to serve her the Lord's Supper. I can't say that I blame her. But there are other DOC's (Gabe is one for sure) who enjoy this little trek back to the middle ages, with robed monks and chant and ancient rituals. He's never been Catholic. Perhaps its his age. Yet one of our attendees was a returnee for her 3rd time, so obviously there are others who appreciate these things.
I think its the way that we're wired. I suppose it might be possible to acquire a taste for differences -- I developed an appreciation for Protestant worship when I let go my preconceived notions of what worship should be based upon my childhood. But I also think it might be a lot like broccoli. Some of us hate it all our lives, some learn to tolerate it, others actually love it. But it's all about how your taste buds are set upon your tongue, about textures that you find appealing, about the pleasure you get in chewing certain things. The same thing is true in worship.
Most everyone I know says they find God in nature. I agree as well. But there is also something very good about people coming together to worship. It exponentially charges the atmosphere I think, as long as we feel like we're on the same grid with others. But if we're not, perhaps we just feel like a lonely triple A battery out there alone, with no recharger.
It's just about how we're built.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Transformation
This weekend I attended a DOC sponsored workshop about Transforming Churches. You may remember that in 2000 the DOC's set a goal to start 1000 new churches and transform 1000 existing churches by the year 2020. We're doing pretty well on the new church starts, somewhere in the 600+ range I think, but how many transformations have begun is another question.
When I got home from the event my husband says "What does church transformation mean, anyway?" Good question. I told him I thought it was like pornography -- you know it when you see it. How can we define and measure transformation anyway? Whether it's personal or whether it's the church, painting a picture of a transformed entity is difficult. It's difficult because, unlike a caterpillar who turns into a butterfly, there are likely to be many things that appear to be the same on the outside even though the inside might be entirely different. That's the way it SHOULD be, in my opinion.
A transformed church could include a renovation of the outside of course. A new building could be built or a remodeling of physical spaces could be undertaken; but unless something happens to change our insides, we can make all of the changes to the outsides that we want with little to no true effect. (This is true for people too; I can lose weight and build up my muscles, but unless I change my attitude about nutrition and exercise, the outside changes won't last long.)
In the church, our transformation starts with new attitudes. It starts with the idea that God is #1. That should seem pretty obvious, but because churches are human institutions, we can be very focused on ourselves first and God second. We worry about things like the timing of our services and the comfort of our pews and the accessibility to our buildings before we think about why those things matter. I know a church that built a wonderful new building and expected to fill it with people because of how great the building was compared to the old facility. But they didn't change their attitudes toward God nor towards one another. The same old feuds and rivalries existed. The same old reliability on people-power instead of God-power. The only thing that changed was the outside appearance. What was it Jesus said? Something like "It isn't the outside that makes you unclean but what comes from the inside??"
One of the great things that I heard this weekend was this: "You have everything you need to transform your congregation." So many of us get caught up in the fact that we don't have audio/visual technology or people to make up a praise team, or the parking lot is too small or the walls are dingy and need repainting. These are all things I have obsessed over myself. And, while I still hope that we can make some of the needed physical changes, I see now that they are a result of internal changes in perception, not the other way around. We will acquire things that are necessary to support our inner needs, not the other way around. Things don't change our hearts. This has been an obvious conclusion to me in other areas of my life; I don't know why it has just now been hammered into me when it comes to thinking about the church. But things seem different to me now than it did last week. (Is that transformation?)
So this time next year will I be able to point to our church and say "we are being transformed?" I hope so. What will I be able to point to? I don't know --- but I'm sure I'll know it when I see it!
When I got home from the event my husband says "What does church transformation mean, anyway?" Good question. I told him I thought it was like pornography -- you know it when you see it. How can we define and measure transformation anyway? Whether it's personal or whether it's the church, painting a picture of a transformed entity is difficult. It's difficult because, unlike a caterpillar who turns into a butterfly, there are likely to be many things that appear to be the same on the outside even though the inside might be entirely different. That's the way it SHOULD be, in my opinion.
A transformed church could include a renovation of the outside of course. A new building could be built or a remodeling of physical spaces could be undertaken; but unless something happens to change our insides, we can make all of the changes to the outsides that we want with little to no true effect. (This is true for people too; I can lose weight and build up my muscles, but unless I change my attitude about nutrition and exercise, the outside changes won't last long.)
In the church, our transformation starts with new attitudes. It starts with the idea that God is #1. That should seem pretty obvious, but because churches are human institutions, we can be very focused on ourselves first and God second. We worry about things like the timing of our services and the comfort of our pews and the accessibility to our buildings before we think about why those things matter. I know a church that built a wonderful new building and expected to fill it with people because of how great the building was compared to the old facility. But they didn't change their attitudes toward God nor towards one another. The same old feuds and rivalries existed. The same old reliability on people-power instead of God-power. The only thing that changed was the outside appearance. What was it Jesus said? Something like "It isn't the outside that makes you unclean but what comes from the inside??"
One of the great things that I heard this weekend was this: "You have everything you need to transform your congregation." So many of us get caught up in the fact that we don't have audio/visual technology or people to make up a praise team, or the parking lot is too small or the walls are dingy and need repainting. These are all things I have obsessed over myself. And, while I still hope that we can make some of the needed physical changes, I see now that they are a result of internal changes in perception, not the other way around. We will acquire things that are necessary to support our inner needs, not the other way around. Things don't change our hearts. This has been an obvious conclusion to me in other areas of my life; I don't know why it has just now been hammered into me when it comes to thinking about the church. But things seem different to me now than it did last week. (Is that transformation?)
So this time next year will I be able to point to our church and say "we are being transformed?" I hope so. What will I be able to point to? I don't know --- but I'm sure I'll know it when I see it!
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Regularity
I have this bookmark set to open up with Firefox (don't you just love this browser!) automatically, so I have to consciously choose NOT to write an entry everyday. Some days I just click it shut without giving it a thought. Other times I think that I SHOULD do it -- I started this thing, so I should follow through. It occurs to me that this is a lot like my attitude toward prayer.
Some of us at Countryside Christian Church are on a special journey during Lent, with the goal being that we will learn to be more comfortable sharing our faith with others. We mainliners are pretty darn private about our faith, and we're not too good at putting words to why we continue to be disciples of Jesus Christ. A big part of this journey is to pray daily for 30 minutes. Of course we're not dictatorial about it, but it is an expectation. So every day I am faced with the decision: whether or not to pray, when to pray, where to pray. The "bookmark" opens every morning when I wake up and remains open until I lay down at night. I can decide to close it or open it, but I can't ignore it.
I'm more successful when I know where and when I'm going to pray, rather than having to decide those things. So when I'm here in my office, it's first thing in the morning on my couch. That's the easy do; the only thing that stands in my way is if I do ANYTHING else first and get distracted. So I try to open the door, light the candle and get started, with no distractions. The harder part is when I'm not coming to my office. There is no quiet place in my house, except my closet. So last Sunday evening I went into my messy closet, the one with the big blue trash bag full of clothes that I don't wear and my husbands dusty suits that he hasn't worn in 20 years but refuses to give away, and I set up my little altar of candle on the little fireproof file box, sat down on the floor and began praying. Amazingly -- it actually works. That's one more bookmark that opens automatically that compels me to do what I know I should do.
The other wonderful thing about regularity in anything is that the more I do it, the more I want to do it. Shoulds, oughts and musts turn into iwannas. Iwannas are good; they are even fun sometimes. The trick is to do something regularly long enough to turn them into iwannas. Yet even very regular iwannas sometimes slip back to idonwannas, and then I have to decide all over again whether or not to open the bookmark.
Regularity -- it has its upside. But its not foolproof.
Some of us at Countryside Christian Church are on a special journey during Lent, with the goal being that we will learn to be more comfortable sharing our faith with others. We mainliners are pretty darn private about our faith, and we're not too good at putting words to why we continue to be disciples of Jesus Christ. A big part of this journey is to pray daily for 30 minutes. Of course we're not dictatorial about it, but it is an expectation. So every day I am faced with the decision: whether or not to pray, when to pray, where to pray. The "bookmark" opens every morning when I wake up and remains open until I lay down at night. I can decide to close it or open it, but I can't ignore it.
I'm more successful when I know where and when I'm going to pray, rather than having to decide those things. So when I'm here in my office, it's first thing in the morning on my couch. That's the easy do; the only thing that stands in my way is if I do ANYTHING else first and get distracted. So I try to open the door, light the candle and get started, with no distractions. The harder part is when I'm not coming to my office. There is no quiet place in my house, except my closet. So last Sunday evening I went into my messy closet, the one with the big blue trash bag full of clothes that I don't wear and my husbands dusty suits that he hasn't worn in 20 years but refuses to give away, and I set up my little altar of candle on the little fireproof file box, sat down on the floor and began praying. Amazingly -- it actually works. That's one more bookmark that opens automatically that compels me to do what I know I should do.
The other wonderful thing about regularity in anything is that the more I do it, the more I want to do it. Shoulds, oughts and musts turn into iwannas. Iwannas are good; they are even fun sometimes. The trick is to do something regularly long enough to turn them into iwannas. Yet even very regular iwannas sometimes slip back to idonwannas, and then I have to decide all over again whether or not to open the bookmark.
Regularity -- it has its upside. But its not foolproof.
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