Prayer of the People

Every Sunday, in addition to preaching, I lead my congregation in prayer.  The prayers I offer are much different from the ones I pray in private.  Communal prayer is, in many ways, different than personal, private prayer.  (When I was young, I sometimes tried to model my personal prayers after the prayers I heard in church.  It didn't work.)

When I write these prayers, I sometimes incorporate lines or themes from traditional prayers of the church.  Even though we are not a very "liturgical" congregation, I frequently incorporate lines like "Holy Lord, God of power and might, all of creation is full of your glory..." into my prayers.

Often, the prayers will lift up themes that are present in the sermon.  Almost always, they refer to the specific joys and concerns of the congregation, and also lift up people in various parts of the world.

Here is the prayer from last Sunday.  It does incorporate themes from the sermon (which you can read, if you wish, by following the link to the right). 

What do you think about communal prayer?  What does that part of the worship service mean to you?  If you were called to lead your congregation in prayer, what would you pray for?

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O God, we praise you. We know that there is a wideness in your mercy, wider than the sea. Your love is higher than the mountains. It is broader than even the measure of our mind. The depth of your riches and wisdom and knowledge are beyond comprehension.

How awesome you are, O God! How amazing is your love! In your goodness you have created a world of interrelated parts: one web of creation. Every lifeform is a strand on that web. Our connection to the world around us is stronger than we realize. Our very life depends on the plants and animals with which we share this planet. All are a part of the goodness and beauty of your creation.

Likewise, we are united with one another, and with all the people of the earth. You have created us all to share this world, to live in harmony with one another. You call upon us to welcome one another, just as Christ has welcomed us. Jew, Gentile, Samaritan; male, female; slave, free: all are one with you.

We pray for our brothers and sisters. We pray for those we know, in our families, our church, our circle of friends; we pray for our community, consisting as it does of a great diversity of people from almost every culture on earth; we pray for our nation, and especially for those at the margins of society: the young and the old, the poor, and the oppressed; and we pray for our world. We pray for peace among the nations. We pray for our enemies; help us to love them, for they are not as different from us as we like to pretend.

We continue to pray for the people of Japan, and we also pray for the people of Mynamar. We remember the people of Haiti. We lift up to you the people of Libya, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Iraq, as well as the many other places where violence and conflict are present.

Show us the way to peace. Show us the path to life in your kingdom. May we recommit ourselves, day after day, to the task of bringing wholeness to a fragmented world.

Amen.

Tragedy in Tucson: My Confession

[Note: after I wrote this today, I didn't want to wait until Thursday (when I usually publish my blog), so it is appearing one day early...]

Following the tragic shooting in Tucson last week, it was so easy to jump on the bandwagon pointing to the causes of such violence in society.  Friends on Facebook immediately began pointing fingers at folks like Sarah Palin, whose website featured gun sights targeting a number of progressive/liberal politicians, including Representative Gabrielle Giffords.  I had not known about Sarah Palin's "targets," and was horrified enough to post my own status update condeming her and her website.

It's so easy for me to condemn and blame those who (like Palin) are so obviously wrong think differently than I do.  Even as I did so, however, I heard a small voice in the back of my head challenging me to think differently.  Over the next several days, that voice got louder and louder until I could ignore it no longer.

I was utterly annoyed.

I was annoyed, because I didn't want to think differently.  I was certain that my thinking around this issue was right.  Yet the voice told me I needed to look at the words and actions of Sarah Palin and others from a more compassionate, Christ-like point of view. 

The problem was, I didn't want to look at Palin from a Christ-like point of view.

As I read more and more of my fellow progressives indirectly blame Palin for the massacre, it seemed to me that they (we) were "targeting" her in a way that wasn't so different from the way she had "targeted" politicians who disagreed with her.  The voice said that, therefore, we really weren't that different from Palin. 

The problem was, I didn't want to think of myself as being not so different from her.

But as I listened to the voice, I realized that it was right.  Despite her offensive rhetoric and actions, Palin - like the rest of us - got caught up in the ongoing war of words.  Palin - like the rest of us - had been fired upon, and fired back in return. 

Who, you may ask, fired the first shot?

Just today, I happened to read that some of the earliest written language, coming from Mesopotamia thousands of years ago, included trash talk.  Back then, there were two kinds of people:  farmers and herders.  The farmers trash-talked the herders, and the herders trash-talked the farmers.  In the book of Genesis, we see the result of all this trash-talk:  Cain (the farmer) killed his brother Abel (the herder).  Apparently, things weren't so different, even then.

63 years ago today, Gandhi began a fast to convince Hindus and Muslims in New Delhi to work for peace.  Instead of getting caught up in the conflict and the trash-talk, he searched for - and found - a better way.

Instead of blaming the other side, perhaps we need to spend some time praying for peace.  Perhaps we can, each of us, confess our own participation in the ongoing wars of rhetoric.  Fasting might even be a good idea, as a way of focusing our thoughts.

It is true that when verbal bullets fly, real bullets are more likely to follow.  I, for one, am going to work harder to ensure that none of those verbal bullets come from me.

Saved from Bitterness and Anger

Sometimes, I wonder how it is possible to keep a positive outlook on things, or even to keep sane in this crazy world. I realize that I can't speak for other pastors, or even other humans. I can only speak for myself. Yet, as I consider the state of the world, I wonder how we've let it get to this point.

The U.S. has 5,113 nuclear warheads. Just 5,113? That's a lot fewer than we used to have. And yet, each one is capable of death on a massive scale. It's 5,113 too many.

We suffer from an addiction to fossil fuels. The lives of coal miners in West Virginia, an ecological catastrophe (and more lost lives) in the Gulf of Mexico, and explosions at refineries are the cost of our addiction, not to mention smog-choked valleys and stressful, traffic-clogged freeways.

Two blocks from my home, people without homes sleep in the bushes next to a freeway onramp, where people drive by in their air-conditioned luxury cars and SUVs, talking on their bluetooths.

Shall I go on? As a follower of Jesus, and as a person called to help others follow Jesus, it is a challenge to not become discouraged and lose hope in this world. And yet, I know people who have lost hope. Their bitterness and sadness, present in sermons and status updates, only adds to the despair.

There is also, of course, personal stress: lying awake at night, praying that my son's blood sugars are normal, and that we can afford the next round of medicine co-pays; lamenting the strengthening grip of electronic media on my family; struggling to uphold the commitments I've made despite challenges of time and money; wondering what more I can do for the church I pastor, and worrying about whether or not it will be able to afford a full-time pastor next year.

One after another, the thoughts fill my mind. Worries and anxieties abound. Save me, O God, from bitterness and anger. Save me from hopelessness. Show me some comfort, something to sing and laugh about.

And then...

Then I walk past a garden filled with beauty -- just for me, it seems -- and my heart leaps in joy and gratitude for the wonderful display that delights my senses, a gift from God and gardeners...

Then I see two friends greet one another with a hug, and I think back to my own friends and loved ones, and remember that companions make the journey possible, bearable, worthwhile, and even enjoyable...

Then I hear a melody sung by a bird, a choir, or a child getting ready for school, filling my ears with a sound of delight that lasts all day long.

I know that the ancient prophets lamented the state of their world, which seemed to them so at odds with God's intentions. This discrepancy gnawed at them until they found life almost unbearable.

I wonder if they were able to see the beauty and the joy that existed side-by-side with the injustice that tormented them. I think they must have. How else could they have written their critiques of society in such beautiful poetry?

It is a spiritual practice, to take care to notice the many blessings and sights of beauty in our world, a practice that is essential for me and for anyone who works to bring wholeness to a fragmented world. The gardens, the hugs, the songs ... these are the things that keep us sane. These are the things that keep us joyful.

These passings resurrect
A joy without defect,
The life that steps and sings in ways of death.
--Wendell Berry

Solviture Ambulando

In Yosemite Valley, there are many trails for walking and hiking. The most popular ones lead to the bases of waterfalls; Bridalveil Fall and Lower Yosemite Fall in particular. They are wide, paved, and lined with trees.

The paths are engineered in such a way that builds anticipation: first you hear the roar of the water; then you catch a glimpse of the falls through the trees; finally, the trees open up, and you are presented with the full majesty of some of the world's highest waterfalls.

For the most part, these are trails with a purpose, and that purpose is to bring visitors to the falls. On these trails, it's all about the destination. The point of walking on these trails is to reach that destination, and see the waterfalls up-close.

The waterfalls are indeed beautiful, even in winter when their flow is diminished by cold temperatures that keep much of the water frozen solid. However, there is another trail that does not lead to a waterfall. By myself, I walked this trail Sunday afternoon, after we had worshiped at the Yosemite Valley Chapel, in a window of time before the late afternoon ice skating session in Curry Village, where we were staying.

I began this walk at the historic Awahnee Hotel, and headed east, away from the waterfalls. Near the meadow's edge, I saw some deer grazing. The trail disappeared into a pine forest, where the brown earth was interrupted by a few small patches of ice and puddles.

For me, this trail was not all about reaching a destination. Some people did walk this trail to get to Mirror Lake, but that was not my destination. My purpose was not to arrive somewhere, but to be somewhere, to notice where I was as I walked, and not worry so much about where I was going.

A few squirrels scampered about. Occasionally, I caught a glimpse through the trees of a massive rock wall to my left. I enjoyed the smell of the pine trees, made noticeable even on this winter day by the mild, damp air. I breathed in the silence of this secluded part of the valley.

The trail crossed a creek, and brought me into a campground that was closed for the winter. I felt a few sprinkles of rain (not snow) on my face. With no umbrella, I quickened my pace, worried that I might get wet if I did not get to Curry Village quickly enough. In fact, "worried" is an understatement. A wave of anxiety swept over me, as I remembered all my admonitions to be prepared, and yet here I was without a rain jacket or umbrella. If these sprinkles became an actual rain shower ... I would get wet.

Suddenly, I unexpectedly laughed out loud. So what if I get wet? I get wet every day when I shower, don't I? I wasn't so far away from civilization that there was any danger. I wasn't in the backcountry. If it rained, I would get wet. So what? I could dry off and warm up when I reached the cabin.

I slowed down, and began to enjoy the feel of the tiny drops on my skin, each one tickling ever so slightly. I forgot about where I was going, and went back to noticing where I was. As it turned out, the real rain didn't start until long after my walk had ended.

I didn't realize why this particular walk was so meaningful to me until I got home and started reading Barbara Brown Taylor's An Altar in the World, in which she talks about noticing the world around us--and how most of us are too busy to. She asks about Moses: what if he had been too busy to notice the burning bush, or too focused on his destination to pause and investigate this strange thing he saw? If he hadn't stopped and noticed, then he wouldn't be Moses.

Barbara Brown Taylor quotes Shug Avery, one of the "wise women" in Alice Walker's book The Color Purple: "I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it."

The walks to the waterfalls are wonderful. No trip to Yosemite Valley is complete without them. But for most people, they are not that different from most of the other walks we take in life, which really aren't walks at all: walking across the parking lot to the grocery store, walking through the lobby of an office building, walking from the living room to the bathroom. We just want to get there. If we could instantly beam ourselves from one place to another as in Star Trek--and do away with the walk completely--we would. If we could get to the base of the waterfall without five or ten minutes of walking, most of us probably would.

Which is why walks that don't lead anywhere are so important. In this sense, walking the path through the pine trees was like walking a labrynth. The focus was on now, on noticing. The focus was on breathing in everything around me.

Perhaps They Come From God

Good things in the pastor's office. Relationships are nurtured through phone calls and emails. Counseling is given. Sermons and newsletter articles are written on the office computer while--often simultaneously--facebook and twitter are kept up to date. There are often four or five windows open on the computer at any given time.

To the right of the computer, one whole wall is given over to books. Commentaries, dictionaries, Bibles, biographies... books on everything from preaching to history to psychology fill shelves that rise up almost to the ceiling. Even a few favorite novels are there.

A few books are not on the shelves, but on the large desk; books I'm in the middle of, books I've just finished, and books I've yet to start. There's also one or two books loaned to me by well-meaning parishioners with the admonition, "you must read this." There is, next to the books, a candle and a ceramic skateboard, which was a gift from my son.

(After several painful occurrances that happened while cleaning my desk, the small potted cactus has been moved to the windowsill.)

Across the room are hymnals used for worship planning, a box of promotional items for this fall's boy scout popcorn fundraiser (wanna buy some popcorn?), a lava lamp that needs a new bulb, a guitar, the bike I rode to work, and a crate of supplies that I took to camp but haven't yet unpacked even though it's been over a month.

Many of these things call out to me. Some represent tasks that need to be done. Others distract my thoughts from whatever they had been focusing on. Is it any wonder that, every so often, I need to get out of the office for inspiration to come?

About once a week, I'll take a pen or pencil and some paper and head to the coffee shop; not even the laptop gets to go. There, I'll spend several hours writing a sermon, a newsletter article, or a blog post. The only distraction is my cup of green tea--hot in winter, iced in summer--which really isn't much of a distraction at all.

Sometimes, inspiration comes as I walk. That's one piece of advice they never give you in preaching class: go for a walk. One could also go for a drive with the radio off, but here in southern California, the roadways aren't often conducive to quiet, undistracted reflection. Besides, shelling out money for gas and polluting the atmosphere isn't very holy.

One final source of inspiration is the nap. As one lets go of consciousness, one also lets go of distractions. The mind begins to wander, dream, sometimes even before the body is fully asleep. Sometimes those dreams are history: events from the past mixing with the present in a strange warping of the time-space continuum. Sometimes those dreams are fantasy. I won't say anymore about that, except that you have yours, and I have mine.

Sometimes, those dreams and thoughts are pulled in new directions, pulled into unchartered territory; and in those new lands, new thoughts emerge. What agent is it that pulls the subconscious and semi-conscious? The landscape is so new and unfamiliar, nothing in your conscious living could have led you there. From where did these thoughts, ideas, and images come?

Perhaps they come from God.

Prayer and Exercise

Last week, I mentioned the way I don't pray, which may spark one's curiosity regarding the way I do pray. I didn't plan on bringing this up, except that it's been something that I've been working on lately. I also bring it up because I mentioned a book I'm reading on prayer, and somehow the author of that book, Robert Benson, found my blog, read what I wrote, and left a comment. That's both motivating and intimidating, although the intimidating part is lessened somewhat by the fact that I've now found his blog ("the long pew," I put a link to it in the column to the right), and I already know a little about his prayer life, having read his book. His prayer life isn't perfect, either, and whether it's right or not, I find some comfort in that.

I know it sounds strange, but even though I'm a pastor, it sometimes feels a little awkward to take time to pray. "Shouldn't the pastor be at work? Why is he just sitting there with his eyes closed?" That's what I imagine people saying, although the only voice that I've ever actually heard say those words came from within me.

There's always something that needs to be done. I hope to find some time to pray, but something else always seems more important, more pressing. Phone calls need to be made, my report for the board meeting needs to be written, and this week's sermon isn't finished yet. Of course, the sermon is never finished until I give it on Sunday morning, and sometimes I even want to make changes to it Sunday afternoon, after it's been delivered. But I digress.

When I began my ministry here at Bixby Knolls Christian Church, I found that riding my bike to the church every day gave me some time to pray. In fact, prayers came quick and fast when the driver-side door of a parked car would open directly in front of me. However, those weren't the kind of prayers I was searching for.

When the weather got cold and the wind chill that one experiences while riding a bike became too much, I started walking to church. Walking works better for prayer than cycling. Some of my best prayers have taken place while I was journeying by foot, and the 15-minute walk to church was a perfect time frame. However, when a lady walking past me greeted me with a friendly "hello," I nearly stumbled over my own feet in surprise, lost as I was in prayer.

A few weeks ago the weather started warming up and I started riding my bike again, and I decided that there had to be a better way to pray. I'm the first one awake at my house, and I realized that I could use that time to pray ... and exercise. I work out three times a week, and realized that if I did that every other morning, and prayed every other morning, well, it would be a good start.

This is a rather disciplined sort of prayer for a free-thinking Disciple like myself. I've even dared to open up some books of prayer that I've had since my days in seminary; three different books on prayer, one published by the Presbyterians, one by the church in New Zealand, and one by the Disciples. Wouldn't you know, all of them have sections on daily morning prayer.

I just may have to start using them.

I'd like to pray like this every day. But on the days I exercise, there just isn't time. I know that sounds horrible, and it is. However, I'm making progress. I once heard a friend talk about Jesus' command to love our neighbor; he said that he couldn't love his neighbor perfectly, but he could work on loving his neighbor just a little more, a little better, each day. I know I don't pray perfectly, but hopefully I can get better at it, little by little, day by day, year by year.

The fact that I am as disciplined as I am is a hopeful sign. True, some mornings, I don't feel like praying. (Some mornings, I don't feel like exercising, either.) For both prayer and exercise, some days there doesn't seem to be much point to it. I think to myself, one day really isn't going to make much difference.

But still, I do it. It's work, as Robert Benson says in his book. It's a discipline. Besides, I've exercised long enough to notice that some muscles are a little firmer than they used to be. I may not get much out of one morning's prayer, but I know that, over time, as those mornings add up, my prayer life grows stronger as well.

It's Not For Me

On Saturday, I co-officiated at the wedding of my sister. My partner in this venture was a Catholic priest, well-known to the groom, who prepared the couple and planned the cermony.

In the weeks leading up to the event, my sister told me that the priest would be calling me. She also told me what the scriptures would be (I was to read one of them), and that the priest and I would be sharing the homily time. The priest would go over the details with me when he called.

In the past, I've had occasion to work with a number of Catholic priests. One or two I got along with quite well. In one community in which I lived, I got along with the priest better than almost all of the protestant pastors. But other Catholic priests seemed to merely tolerate the idea of working together with a protestant pastor, and were less than enthusiastic about it.

I didn't know what this particular experience would be like, but I began to worry when the priest didn't call; not until the day before the wedding, just a few hours before the wedding rehearsal, did he call.

However, when I met him in person later that day, I discovered that he was one of the most open, friendly, and truly caring people I've ever met. No wonder the groom specifically asked him to officiate. What a pleasant experience it turned out to be!

I sometimes joke that the first non-Catholic wedding I ever attended was my own, and in fact, that's almost (but not quite) true. That's what one gets with several dozen Catholic aunts, uncles, and cousins.

As a child and teenager, it seemed a bit bizarre to me, all those Catholic rituals: the bowing, the kneeling, the sign of the cross. And the prayers that seemed almost other-worldly; I could barely understand them.

(I once read something by someone who, like me, came from a mixed Catholic/Protestant heritage. He wrote that when his Catholic cousins prayed, one could barely understand them. "Bless us O Lord, and these thy gifts..." sounded like "Blorgiforabounty.Amen." His Protestant relatives, on the other hand, prayed, "Thank you, Lord, for this meal. Thank you for those who prepared it. Thank you for the silverware that allows us to eat it. Thank you for the silversmith who forged the silverware so we could eat this meal that has been prepared..." The writer was being funny, but I can tell you from personal experience, he wasn't far off the mark.)

Growing up, I also thought it strange that they read four different scripture readings in worship. Why read all four of the scripture readings if you're only going to hear a sermon on one of them? It just confuses things.

Over time, though, I've developed a respect for many of the Catholic ways. As we prepared for the wedding, with several members of the church present as co-coordinators--and then at the wedding itself, which included two altar boys--I realized something. I realized that, as a result of living with all that high-church drama and ritual, the people around me seemed to know, almost instinctively, something that many Protestants, including me, forget: worship is all about God. I tend to plan worship services so that I and people like me can get something out of it. It's true that worship is often a blessing to those who attend and participate in it, but it's intended for God's benefit, not ours.

I'm currently re-reading a book on prayer by Robert Benson. It's called In Constant Prayer and it's part of a series of books called the "Ancient Practices" series. I'm re-reading it, because I read it for the first time a few months ago, and sometimes it takes me several readings for the information to sink in. It's not a long book, and I may read it yet again one day, a fact which suggests that perhaps I shouldn't be so quick to judge those who use the same phrases each and every time they pray.

The book is about praying the "daily office," the prayers of the church that faithful people have prayed 2, 4, or 7 times a day for centuries. The prayers are "common," that is, written down, and shared among many. They are ancient. They include psalms.

I don't currently pray every day. Well, that's not quite true, but it is true that I don't pray like this every day. It never seemed to me that I'd get much out of it. But I'd like to, because that's not really what it's about, is it?