Ryan Bolger, author and instructor at Fuller, has a great post on the role of the Sunday service in how churches think about evangelism and life together. Doug and I talk about this stuff ALL THE TIME as we live and breathe the challenge of growing a church in our community.
Thanks to Todd Hiestand at Meremission.org for this link.
Scot McKnight had quite the discussion going today about women pastors, and some of the obstacles they face within denominations that support the ordination of women. As I read some of the comments, I was struck by God’s grace to me in my own process of being called, as a woman, to pastoral ministry. It is good for me to remember the different people who, both directly and indirectly, were used by God in the formation of my own sense of calling as fully gifted to preach and lead.
There were Priscilla Pope-Levison and Jodi Mullen Fondell who served as chaplains at North Park during my years as a student there and who gave me some of my first speaking opportunities.
There was Brenda Salter McNeil who came and spoke in chapel when I was a freshman and gave me my first preaching role model.
There was David Nystrom, an extraordinarily gifted minister and leader who was my most significant mentor during my years in Chicago.
There were Mary Miller and Jay Phelan who took my writing seriously and gave me platforms to share it.
There were David Horner and Carl Balsam who, though we did not always see eye to eye, treated me with respect and gave me a place at the table.
There was Glenn Palmberg who made sure that I knew how valuable I was to my denomination.
There was Henry Greenidge, the kind of pastor I dream of being, who invited me onto his staff and into his pulpit.
There was Pastor Mike who gave me opportunities to teach and lead in the church that raised me.
And there were my parents who “opened all the windows” and believed that I could do anything.
May it be that I too would have eyes to see how I might be used to shape the hearts and dreams of those coming after me.
This past week, Doug and I were humbled by a gift from someone we have never met. An individual on the other side of the country was moved to send us a gift card to help us out with groceries this month. In a letter they sent with the gift, this person shared about how after they decided to do this, they were met with opposition every step of the way. I was deeply moved by not only this person’s generosity of spirit, but by her perseverance in following the spirit’s movement in spite of varied, and obviously frustrating, obstacles.
I am struck by how this is such an accurate picture of what it means to live as people who lay our lives down for others. So often we are nudged, or sometimes slapped in the face, to move toward another in compassion and generosity. And we can feel total certainty that yes, this is God prompting us to see and respond. But so often the obstacles do come, be they our own lives and schedules or other outside forces, and like the thorns that squeeze the life out of a vulnerable plant, they choke us. What was an opportunity to participate in a work of God, large or small, near or far, passes.
My husband is a brilliant musician who has recorded on numerous albums, who has led worship all over the globe, and who writes songs that bring people to their knees. Yet he does not fit the musician mold in one remarkable way: he has only owned one guitar his entire life (it was given to him when he was sixteen), it is a no-name guitar that has no reputation or prestige, and he has never wanted to replace it with anything else. “I was given this guitar at the time I needed it, and it has done everything I have ever needed it to do.” Now, I know a fair number of musicians, and dare I say enough guys in general, to know how strange my husband is in this situation: totally uninterested in the bigger, the brighter, the flashier toy.
After beginning to break multiple strings every week in our worship services, Doug took his beloved guitar in to a guitar tech. They were able to do a temporary fix for part of the problem but, “you have a year max on this thing” was the guy’s diagnosis: it was terminal.
When we got the news from the tech, I told Doug that we needed to pray for God to give him a new guitar. It was not soon after that I received news that our sister church in Pasadena wished to designate a financial gift toward the purchase of a new instrument for Doug (many of them had sat through our worship services and seen the strings fly!). The amount they set aside was exactly half of what it would cost to purchase the one guitar Doug had said he would love to own above all others. I began to pray and scheme and think about how I could raise/find/earn the other half.
Less than twenty-four hours later, an envelope arrived in our mailbox. Inside was a letter with only two sentences written in it: “Please find enclosed a check in the amount of… This gift is to be used toward the purchase of a new guitar.” Inside was the other half of the full amount needed to purchase Doug’s guitar, sent anonymously from someone at my home church in Seattle. I remember driving to Pasadena that day (I think Mercy had a doctor’s appointment) and having to fight repeatedly to see the road through my tears.
It was a year and a half ago that the tech gave us the bad news, and he was right! At about the twelve-month mark, Doug’s guitar broke to the point of requiring some clever use of twine to hold it together (thanks, Rabbi Dauermann!). He played it like this for months until it literally could not be played anymore. It was only then that he used the money given to him and placed the order for his new guitar.
This past Sunday, Doug stood in front of our congregation and led our worship in song with a new guitar in his hands. There just happened to be a family from my home church in Seattle that was visiting that day, as well as a family from Pasadena Covenant, our sister church. For me, these two visiting families who had never met unofficially represented the two church “families” that made Doug’s need, and our congregation’s need, their own. Two families that knew nothing of the other’s intent to give; two families who were somehow nudged or slapped; two families who were paying attention to God and who persevered in making a gift.
And like my long-distance friend, the opportunity to participate in something God was doing did not pass them by. And I am grateful.
We spent the day today in Anaheim visiting Doug’s dad and his wife. They have rented a condo for part of the week and the last two days we have been enjoying their wonderful company, some nice air conditioning, and the great swimming pool at their resort. They are located on the edge of the strip of hotels and resorts that border Disneyland, and for most of these properties on the strip it is all about glitz and decoration and over-the-top-ness.
As we drove down the road toward Grandpa and Nana’s condo this morning, I noticed this funny little sign posted on the fence of a vacant property that sits, absurd, in the midst of Disney-Vegas. The sign reads “Fugishige Farm”, and on the other side of the fence there is another sign that says “Fresh fruit and vegetables for sale”. It turns out that from the porch at Doug’s parents’ condo, we sit overlooking this exact property. It is a large plot of land that only looks partially used by the rows of growing green, and later in the day we saw people harvesting things by hand.
We commented on how much this piece of property must be worth (it could easily hold yet another chalet-styled hotel) and how strange it was to see it used for such a humble, and clearly non-profitable purpose.
Yesterday, Doug’s great-aunt, who knows I am a minister, gave me an article to read from the Orange County Register. Their newspaper is doing a twenty-week series on Rick Warren, the Saddleback Church, and the global P.E.A.C.E. initiative he is launching and she thought I might find it of interest. I did. I found it of interest that the article used language like “evangelical superstar” and “spiritual salesman”. I found it of interest that they described a church gathering as “an event big enough to justify the rental of a stadium, the succession of Christian rock bands, the big-screen video tributes, the synchronized placard-waving worthy of the Olympic Games.” I found it of interest that the article was steeped in language of celebrity, fame, and fun.
As I sipped my latte today overlooking an earthy, awkward plot of land in the midst of the shiny, happy facades, I wondered about the church. I wondered what it means for us to be a theme park, a destination resort, a brand? What does it mean for us to be popular and attractive and feel-good like Disneyland? And what does it mean for us to be awkward, out of place, inexplicable to what surrounds us? What does it mean to be the thing that gets your attention because of what it does not look like?
From the LAPD website pressroom:
Non-tactical Negligent Discharge
The case will be investigated and ultimately reviewed by the Police Commission.”
You know how police cars have the ability to broadcast their instructions? Well, last night we learned that the helicopters do too. We had just gone to bed after watching King Kong, and we were already a little tense with thoughts of giant bugs eating our heads, when we starting hearing some really crazy noises outside. The helicopters were soon hovering close, and at one point a round of gunfire went off. In the midst of all of this, we could hear that the helicopter was broadcasting something–something about a white car? Something about staying in our houses? (It was 1am so not a problem there).
The worst part about the helicopters coming is that when they are so close overhead, you know you have reason to be nervous and you want to be vigilant in listening to what is going on around you. But of course the noise from the helicopters is truly deafening and you honestly cannot hear if the back door did indeed just open (how many trips my poor husband has made to verify this one in the middle of the night…).
I checked the LAPD website this morning–sure enough, a white car was involved in a drive-by shooting where a pregnant woman, an eight year old boy, and an eighteen year old man were all shot. It happened earlier in the evening so my best guess is that maybe what we heard was them finding the car/people involved and there was likely a chase, which would explain why there was such a commotion for so long.
Yesterday I read this on Mark Galli’s blog in response to a NYT piece on the plight of Black Americans:
I can tell you that living under the shout and shadow of hovering helicopters makes me long for more white, suburban Christians (those who could invest time, money, political capital, whatever for the sake of the underserved and under-represented) to hear a call from Jesus to do something.
On my way to my sister’s house yesterday afternoon, I walked by a young man on the street who was decked out in typical gangbanger duds. What made him unique was the thick, living snake he wore around his neck. Is this the new “bling”?
When Doug came home last night after work, the first thing out of his mouth as he walked through the door was: “Hey, what happened to the license plate?” Having no clue what he was talking about, I was stunned to find out that in fact there was no longer a plate on the back of our Nissan. I had JUST taken the car to the museum for a short visit with the kiddos that afternoon. When we got home we played in our “yard” (the cement driveway that runs the length of our house) for a good twenty minutes and I was in a position to certainly have noticed something as glaring as the big ugly cavity that is now the back side of our car. Just in case, I went back out and drove my route to check and see if maybe I had lost it along the way (the museum is just a few blocks from our house). I also checked with Paul, our landlord who lives downstairs, and asked if he noticed it missing when I got home. He had been in the back with us for a while and when he took a look at the car he said, “Oh, I definitely would have noticed THAT.”
So, our best guess is that someone came down our driveway and snagged our back plate. There is a crew of young men on 30th, the street behind our house, who steal cars, and stealing license plates is the criminal corollary. It’s a bummer in many ways.
First, if you have ever gone to the DMV, you know that there is nothing quick or easy about getting ANYTHING done there. Especially here in L.A. When my best friend down here and I were jumped a few years ago, we both fought back to defend ourselves against having our purses taken. She actually ended up on the ground in a fetal position, covering her purse with her body while her attacker continued to fight her. That same day she had gone to the DMV to get a California driver’s license (we had all just recently moved to L.A. from other cities) and later that night she told me what was going through her mind while lying on top of her purse in the middle of the street: “I just don’t want to have to go back to the DMV!”
It can be so bad in fact, that Doug has made it a habit of driving all the way out to Glendale because it has a reputation for slightly nicer staff and shorter lines. So far, his experiences there have been okay to tolerable.
The second is the more troubling. As I sat on the driveway curb yesterday, playing with Aaron while Mercy ran up and down the driveway, there were a few young men on bikes (oddly, a criminal vehicle of choice in our neighborhood) casing our street. I recognized none of them as guys who live around here, and felt, at the time, that unsettled nervous feeling that sometimes comes.
All we lost was a license plate, and sure it is a hassle to replace it, but in the big picture it is not that big of a deal. But we were also likely watched and then purposely violated, again in a very minor way. But it opens up the door in my heart for the fear of the unthinkable things that can happen, and as the mother to two little ones those are not easy thoughts to endure. I remind myself, again, who our God is: the one described by Isaiah the prophet as the shepherd who holds his lambs tightly in his arms and gently leads those who have young.
Our common living areas in our apartment are filled with bookshelves (our living room is our home office), and Mercy knows that she is not allowed to play with “Mommy’s books.” She has her own shelves of books that she is free to do with as she pleases, but in general I do not let her take our books off the shelves.
Up until this week, there has only been one author that has tempted her, and that is Henri Nouwen. She has been drawn to his “section”, and his section only, and every time I have caught her with one of my books in hand it has been one of his. Well, this week I found my Helmut Thielicke collection rearranged and the red crayon gives me an idea as to who the culprit might be. I just might be raising a preacher girl after all!
I’ve been hired!
On September first I will begin working part-time for Servant Partners, a mission agency with a truly astounding commitment to holistic church-planting among the urban poor. I am thrilled to call the folks of this organization my new ministry family, and I am grateful to God for the provision of this job. It comes just in the nick of time financially, and allows for great flexibility for a mother of two very young kids. And it is a job I will enjoy: helping to share the stories of God’s global work among those declared the least, and inviting individuals and churches to join arms with us in prayerful and practical ways.
I am thrilled too that this job intersects our work here at Church of the Redeemer. Our church is one of the ministry sites for Servant Partners’ two-year urban ministry internship here in L.A. We share our lives deeply with these interns (a crew of whom are currently living accross the street), and we are so blessed to be a part of what God is doing in their hearts through this experience.
Please pray for our family as we add this significant new venture to our lives. Even before the synagogue had to stop paying Doug we were set to close the year in the red, and now with the loss of that income we are really in a challenging place. This job will certainly help, but we are still looking to that mysterious “grace of God” line item as we like to call it, praying for our family’s needs to be met.