Why Can't Church Be Fun?

I had fun in the Church balcony today.   I sat in the center section just in front of the balcony organ pipes.  I sang just as loudly as I wanted because I knew my voice would not out sing those beautiful pipes.  And I had fun because I knew I could sing the wrong notes, even the wrong hymn if I wanted to, and nobody would know! 

I had fun, also, because the pastor did a monologue.  Dr. Christopher Chapman is one of the most creative preachers I’ve ever known.  This was the second time he has done a monologue this spring. This time he appeared as a modern day cynic.  Walking to the podium and speaking beside the pulpit rather than behind it, Dr. Chapman became the cynic of faith and religious practice that we all, at some time in our lives, have been.  “Now here is a pastor who knows that we sometimes doubt and have all kinds of faith questions,” I thought, “and he’s not afraid to deal with the real issues which confront us all, and in such a creative way!”

  I am continually amazed by the versatility and depth of Dr. Chapman’s sermons and monologues.  I find myself leaving Sunday after Sunday with the words from one of Chaucer’s Cantebury Tales characters, “…and still they gazed and still the wonder grew, that one small head could carry all he knew.”   When the word gets out about how this Church and its pastor are tackling some of the difficult issues of life and faith, and with such a sense of joy and wit, the balcony should soon be overflowing!

It feels good to leave Church knowing that the pastor, staff, and members are working together, in all their diversity and with all their differences, to learn and grow.   As Scott Peck put it, “God put us on this earth to learn and to grow.”  First Baptist Church of Raleigh seems to understand the learning, growing, and doubting processes involved in the life of faith.  And instead of forming circular firing squads to address differences in the congregation, they celebrate them with healthy discussion, laughter, and creative thinking.

Live Simply that Others May Simply Live!

It’s almost tomato season again. This year I have again  fought insects and deer to have a few tomatoes to harvest soon.   My tomato plants are, again this year, in my front yard.  It’s the only sunny spot in my yard and I am convinced that it is more important that I grow some food, no matter what the neighbor’s say about “Dr. Herman’s front yard, overgrown veggie patch.”

Why fill the yard with vegetables rather than petunias?  For one, I want to remember where my food comes from.  And I want all the kids on my street to see that food actually grows on plants and just doesn’t “appear” in the produce department.  I am hopeful that the kids on my street (unlike the young clerk at the supermarket where I shop) will someday know the difference between an avocado and a turnip.

I am defying my professional yard “fertilizers” and going to a natural lawn care service.  I am attempting to eat less meat because the way our meats are raised and processed tend to, well, turn my stomach.  I don’t like the fact that poultry cannot breathe or even walk where they are raised, or that beef is injected with any number of hormones and antibiotics, or pork is….well, you get the picture.

No, I’ not a rabid animal “rights” person, or a tree-hugging environmentalist, or a fanatic about every health fad that comes along.  But I am seriously trying to understand “Christian stewardship” as being about more than giving to the Church.  It’s about how we treat our earth, our animals, our humans, and our food and water sources.

I believe some resources of our earth are limited and others, while limited, are replenishable.  I believe there may just be enough food and resources for all of us if some of us don’t mess it up or use it up!   And I believe that good stewardship calls me to live simply that others may live.

This is a counter cultural idea and you may not agree.  But if you can’t get any tomatoes or basil, come by my house.  I don’t mind sharing.

The Best Sermons are Short Ones

Year ago, I received some criticism from my ten year old daughter after one of my sermons.  “They are sooooo long,” she said.  Wishing I were the wise and patient father that I am not, I asked, “Well, if you were the preacher, what would you say to the congregation?”  Without hesitation she answered, “Everyone can go home now!”

I was in the balcony of First Baptist Church Raleigh yesterday when Pastor Chris Chapman shared the story of hearing about a Pentecostal Preacher in Argentina who stood for his sermon and said only three words:  “Love one another!”  He sat down, only to get up a second time to say “Love one another!” After sitting another moment, he stood a third time and preached loudly, “Love one another! And we are not leaving here until you do!”  The congregation then began stirring about, talking about mutual needs and concerns as they attempted to “love one another.”  They conversed, prayed, and then mobilized to meet the needs they had just learned about as they related to one another.

As I left the balcony of the Church, I looked more closely at the people around me, observing their needs and wondering what kind of love they needed in their lives.  We are dismissed after hearing of community needs (deaths, illnesses, opportunities to minister to one another, mission opportunities, etc).  I imagined that I was doing what the pastor asked us to do, look right around us to share love with those close by who need it.  We are to be “missional” as we meet needs wherever we happen to be.

We can all preach sermons of love.   The best ones, from my experience, are the ones that are short.  Sometimes, we preach the best sermons when we use no words at all.

Recipe for Happiness and "Ceviche"

These beautiful spring days remind me of our years in Quito, Ecuador.  One of my favorite foods from Ecuador is ceviche.  Look it up and you’ll find several spellings:  seviche; cebiche; or sebiche.  You’ll also find as many variations of how to fix it.  Ecuadorians use shrimp or other shell fish.  I’ve also eaten vegetarian ceviches which were good.  Here’s my recipe that I mix up when the weather gets like it is today.  For those of you who like exact ingredients, forget it! Ceviche ought to taste different each time you eat it.  Here goes:

1 cup of orange juice; juice of two lemons; cup or two of chopped tomatoes; 1 tablespoon of catsup; 1 tsp sugar (or to taste); salt; pepper; chopped onion; chopped cilantro (lots); 2 cups small shrimp cleaned/cooked (we cook ours briefly, but Ecuadorians don’t).  Optional:  diced cucumber, corn,  garbanzas, or other veggies you like.  Refrigerate for at least an hour. Feeds one:  me.

Serve cold with more cilantro sprinkled on and with popcorn to garnish and eat by handfuls with the ceviche.  The beverage accompaniment of your choice completes the feast. (Baptists like Coke, but Presbyterians may enjoy beer.  Baptists who are in the company of Presbyterians with no other Baptists present may enjoy beer, also.)

There you have it, the recipe for “ceviche.”   Oh, the happiness part that I promised?   That comes after you eat the ceviche!

Back Porch Sanctuary

It looks like the local newspaper has snubbed me again.  They said, “send in the photo of your porch and tell us why you like it.”  I did.  They never contacted me about having received my photo.  Evidently, they did not like my rusted milk can next to my rocker, its finish now a weathered gray.  Or maybe they didn’t like my description, “the place I come for sanctuary from the world.”  The back porch removes me from the television’s bad news obsession, although I do occasionally take a newspaper with me to sit a spell.  My porch reminds me, in the middle of a busy city, that the true joys are the green leaves that provide a reprieve from the city’s fumes with some fresh oxygen, the breeze that strokes some calmness upon me, and the aviary symphony which charges me nothing for its unique concerts.

As I think about it, I am glad the News and Observer didn’t print my porch photo and my description of why my porch is so important to me.  I really don’t want to be a porch celebrity.  I actually wish I had not sent a photo of the porch at all. Now I’m afraid they might really print it and I’ll be invaded by the paparazzi wanting to photograph my sanctuary!

 Something as uniquely relaxing and soothing as a private back porch should shun all publicity.

Homemade Ice Cream--A Mother's Day Sacrament

We will not be in the balcony at Church this Sunday, Mother’s Day.  We will be traveling, but not to see Mom.  Betsy’s mother died a few months ago and my mother died in 1994.  There will be no children or grandchildren to visit us this Mother’s Day as they live too far away for a week-end trip.  So we have decided to travel three and a half hours to meet with my siblings and nephews and nieces for an afternoon of homemade ice cream.

  No ice cream parlor can provide the memories of a lazy summer afternoon when the kids would take turns turning the ice cream churn.  It was always interesting how the circle of friends and family grew as the turning of the churn became harder!  Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the ice cream would be spooned out and we would dig into the soupy delight. I expect that will be what this Sunday’s ice cream reunion will be like. Yes, we can buy it cheaper and some say there are varieties that taste better than homemade. But none of those store-bought novelties can compare with a group of loved ones who gather around an old ice cream freezer as it churns its way to frozen delight

Our mothers will not be present to enjoy the ice cream with us, but somehow their presence will be palpable as we watch the children scurry about, anxious to be first in line for homemade ice cream. In the ritual of homemade ice cream, we will know the communion of saints long gone, but not forgotten, and we will affirm the goodness of love still present. 

Low Sunday Pizza

I was in the balcony at First Church today when the pastor confirmed what I felt:  “Today is low Sunday,” he said.  As a retired pastor, I knew what he was talking about.  My heart goes out to all pastors, especially my pastor on this low Sunday after Easter.  He was preparing to return to Kentucky to do the funeral of his mother-in-law. The balance of ministry to others and ministry to one’s self and one’s own family is a difficult one to hold.  I know.  I’ve tried for almost forty years. I knew Dr. Chapman always beautifully crafted his sermons, but this Sunday’s  efforts were even more appreciated given all the demands of the past week.

The choir and bells, who are also balcony people, did a beautiful job.  They lifted my spirits with their  heavenly intonations.  Yet, I could not get my mind away from the terrible losses of life in tornados this week, now over three hundred dead in the Southeast.  Many in Raleigh are still cleaning up and putting their lives together from tornados in the previous weeks.  I also remembered the losses of lives in Libya, Iraq, and Afghanistan  in those continuing wars.

 I returned home on what was becoming an overcast Sunday.  I missed my children and grandchildren in California, Colorado, and Maryland. I thought of those in my family who had died. I was spiraling to even lower Sunday depts. “Time for a nap!”  Did the disciples say that in their  low Sunday experience? I can’t stop the wars or bring my loved ones home at the snap of a finger.  I cannot erase tornados and their effect ,but I can give and help as possible in the aftermath, but all that after a nap.

As evening of this low Sunday approached, the thought of raiding the frige for a quick meal didn’t really sound appealing.   I found a Papa John’s coupon.   I could order on line and get a whole dollar discount!   After about a half hour of trying to get all the information entered in the on-line forms, with my wife wiping my brow as if I were a surgeon working over his patient, we completed the order (my wife intervened before I canceled it all, or before I could give away our credit card number to the whole world).  It was a hard fought technological battle, but I (we) won!  We actually bought our first pizza on-line!

The pizza arrived. It was missing the olives and mushrooms we “thought” we had indicated on-line.  We sat in the tranquility of the back porch, said a blessing, thought of those without homes or loved ones, and feasted on our low Sunday pizza. And I decided, right then and there as I dipped my pizza crust into the garlic sauce, that I had no reason to complain.