How was your weekend?

As surely as Monday follows Sunday, I know that Joseph, our security guard, will greet me with a friendly smile when I walk in the door at the beginning of the week, and ask, “How was your weekend, Bishop?”  I usually respond in a vague, non-committal way.  “Fine, Joseph, how was yours?”  This week, though, I’m going to be more enthusiastic.  “It was great, Joseph.  I hope yours was.”

Now, to tell you the truth, I was not looking forward to this weekend very much.  Ginger is away for the summer so the weekends she isn’t here are not ones I look forward to.  Plus, this weekend was a work weekend, a fairly heavy work weekend.

I was in Omaha to meet with a network of Sudanese Episcopalians who are struggling to find their place in the church they grew up in (although, admittedly, with a lot of differences).  I knew that would be interesting and probably inspiring (it was), but I did not see it as the stuff of a great weekend. 

What made it one anyway was church on Sunday.  Now, every Monday on which Joseph asks me how my weekend was has been preceded by church on Sunday.  So it is obviously not just any Sunday that makes for a great weekend.  This one was different.

Church is often, maybe usually, good.  This one was no exception.  The liturgy was well done.  The congregation sang with sincerity.  The pews were well populated.  The congregation reflected something of the reign of God—people of all ages, lots of children, multiple races.  

Worship at All Saints, Omaha on Sunday went beyond the usual, though.  It didn’t have to do with a different worship style (the worship was fairly traditional) or an outstanding sermon (the preacher, after all, was me) or the fact that some of my favorite hymns were included (although that always helps). It had to do with three particular people and the Sudanese congregation itself, each of whom made it easier for me to recognize that the Lord was present in our midst.

One was a woman, shall we say of mature years (by which I mean older than I) who sang the offertory—“Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”  She sang it with great feeling.  You could tell she had practiced diligently.  She had given a lot of thought to her interpretation, which was both traditional and personal.  Every cell in her body reverberated with the words, “Comin’ for to carry me home.”  It could not have been more beautiful if it were the Metropolitan Opera. 

Then there was a man who had, I would guess, Cerebral Palsy.  His communication was difficult.  Every word was a struggle.  The effort to produce each one frequently took longer than the rest of the congregation.  He was not deterred.  I could hear him clearly, a beat or two behind everyone else, and not easily understood.  But he was in there, every step of the way.  He gave meaning to the words of the psalm:  “Let us come into his presence with thanksgiving; let us make a joyful noise to him with songs of praise!”  (95:2) 

And if that weren’t enough, there was a little boy seated (well, not so much seated) in the back of the church with his family, parents, grandparents, and sister.  I noticed him as soon as the procession entered.  He was moving his arms ecstatically in great arcs to the music as if he were orchestrating it all.  I watched him back there from the altar.  It was the same during every hymn, at the offertory, at every opportunity for congregational singing.  He was particularly enthusiastic at the Sanctus:  Holy, Holy, Holy.  When the procession left the Church, I couldn’t resist joining him.  We conducted together (although he took the lead).

His parents told me as they left that he is autistic.  I had suspected as much.  They also told me how much their nine-year-old autistic son loved coming to church.  And they told me how proud they were of him.  I don’t doubt it.  He was having more fun than most church-goers I experience.  Being in God’s presence, if it is anything, ought to be fun. 

And if that weren’t enough, the Sudanese service followed.  Like the earlier service, which was enriched by a smattering of African Americans and Sudanese, the Dinka service was enriched by a number of white Americans.  And it was majorly enriched by the drums.  There was no piano, no organ—just drums.  They were more than enough.  And they produced some wonderful, and highly infectious, singing.  More joy.  More fun.

It was a day of joy upon joy, a lot of fun, coming from people conventional wisdom would tell you could not be joyful—a church matriarch, a very sick young man, a boy locked inside himself by a mystery, and a people who have suffered things we cannot begin to imagine.  Still, it was there.  Joy.  Abounding joy.

It is what I would wish church would always be.  It is what I would wish every weekend would be.

It was a great weekend, Joseph.  Thanks for asking.

Peace,

Reduced to Tears

“For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received a spirit of adoption.”  (Rom. 8:15)  The spirit of adoption is something I know a little bit about.  Here’s how I learned.

Thirty-one years ago Ginger and I were in the process of completing the home study process for the adoption of our first child.  We had had all the interviews.  The social worker had come to visit our house.  (It was, by the way, one of only three times in my adult life that I’ve cleaned the oven.  I don’t know why I thought our case worker would be checking to see if our oven was clean, but that is what the words “home study” conjured up in my mind anyway.) 

The final interviews had come.  These were to be with Ginger and me separately.  I assume the reason for that is that if one of us had not really wanted to go through with the adoption we could bring a halt to the process without having to reveal the complete truth to our spouse.  In our case, we were both as committed, and anxious in every sense, as ever.

I was to have my interview first, and I promised to stop at a pay phone (before the days of cell phones) to call Ginger and tell her what the social worker had asked on my way back to the office.  I did.  Ginger, in turn, was to call me when her interview, scheduled late in the afternoon, was complete. 

The time of Ginger’s interview came and went.  There was no call.  I waited and waited.  No word.  I began to get concerned.  My anxieties ran rampant.  I feared that the social worker had completed Ginger’s interview and said something like Ginger would make a wonderful parent but that I was a complete Bozo who had tried to trick her into thinking we had a clean oven.  I imagined Ginger crying because of the disappointment and too upset to call me. 

Finally at about 5:30 Ginger arrived at my office door.  She had red, puffy eyes.  She had clearly been crying.  I thought my worst fears were confirmed.  Instead, however, she stepped in and said, “You have a son.”  And she pulled out a picture of a Korean baby boy.  We know him as Andrew.  At that point I started to cry.  It was all I could do.  People from the office came in to see if I was alright.  It was very embarrassing. 

It turns out that the social worker’s last question to Ginger, as it had been to me, was, “So, are you ready for a baby?”  When Ginger responded, “Yes,” the social worker had said, “Good, because I have a referral for you,” at which point she pulled out a file and a picture.   Ginger had, of course, met this news with tears of joy, and in all the excitement she couldn’t remember exactly how to get to my office.  She had been driving around a long time hoping to recognize something and be able to find the way. 

Now, here’s the rest of the story.  Ginger is the emotional one in our family.  She could cry at the drop of hat.  Happy or sad made no difference.  Tears were appropriate for any occasion.  Not so for me.  Up until that point in our lives together, I had never cried.  Not once.  I didn’t think I had it in me.  But when the news of Andrew came, the floodgates broke open.  I started to cry, and try as I might, I couldn’t stop.  I would think I had myself under control, and we would try to call someone to tell them the news.  I would be prepared to speak, but when someone answered the phone, I would start again.  I would have to hand the phone back to Ginger.  I was reduced to nothing but tears.

People come to the United States from faraway places for many reasons.  Some come to escape persecution.  Others come in search of freedom.  Many come in search of a better life.  Some are oppressed.  Some are displaced by war.  Our son Andrew, and later his brother Matthew, came to complete a family. 

At the moment hundreds of children from Central America are risking a long, dangerous trip without adults to come to the United States to escape oppressive poverty, violence, and exploitation.  They are receiving a mixed welcome, sometimes with compassion and sometimes with hostility.  Paul’s words seem relevant to me.  “For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received a spirit of adoption.”  Now we all have an opportunity to learn what that is all about.  It may well reduce us to tears.

Peace,

The Parable of the Sower

I’ve always loved the Parable of the Sower (Mt. 13:1-9, 18-23).  I realized this week, though, that I’ve been loving it for the wrong reason.

Up until this week, I’ve been focused on the ground where the seed landed, which represents those who hear the word of God’s reign.  Some of the seed landed on the path.  The birds came along and ate it.  Some landed on rocky ground without much soil. The seedlings sprang up quickly, but when the sun came, they withered away “since they had no root.”  Other seeds fell among the thorns, which choked them.  Finally, some fell on good soil and brought forth abundant grain. 

As a product of the Bible belt, although one distinctly out of step with it, I’ve always found that comforting.  Of course, I was finding it comforting in a judgmental and somewhat self-righteous way since, of course, I saw myself and those more like me as the good soil and the evangelical fervor around me as shallow, rocky, and thorny.  Perhaps it was all those visits during college from Campus Crusade for Christ, who I learned had me on a list of back sliders.   (I think it must have been my defense of infant baptism.) 

The antidote to my defensively judgmental view, though, is not to concentrate on the soil or even on the seed.  It is to concentrate on the sower. 

What I now see in the Parable of the Sower is the way the sower casts the seed with abandon.  The sower holds nothing back and is content to let the seed fall where it may and yield what it may.  When I concentrate on the sower, I am more inclined to see reckless generosity with the seed and unbridled hope in the result.  Perhaps I ought to see scarcity and risk of waste.  Still, what strikes me is the complete confidence that the good soil will yield more than enough to carry along the soil that was not able, through no fault of its own by the way, to produce a harvest.

Peace,