small town Sunday: old paintings and new covenants

In an effort to do greater justice to the power of Holy Week, our pastor has mixed things up a bit. Rather than celebrating Holy Week during....well, Holy Week, we are taking the six Sundays before Easter and using each to celebrate a day of Holy Week. Hence, though next Sunday is traditionally Palm Sunday, we will be observing Good Friday. It has felt a little odd at points, but I have begun to really appreciate it, especially today: Maundy Thursday.

In place of the traditional service order, today's gathering was a mix of long readings from Mark 14 (read by the most amazing liturgical reader I have ever encountered: the man reads in a way that makes one chew on Scripture and, perhaps for the first time, actually taste it) and short reflections from the pastor. Following the reading of verses 17-26, in which Jesus eats the Passover meal with his disciples, our congregation partook of communion. Yet our pastor asked us to do this in a new way today. Rather than simply dipping the bread in the cup and partaking as we usually do, we were to instead feed the bread and juice to the person behind us. Yep, literally turn and place it in their mouths. This was, not surprisingly, a bit awkward, all of us eating and then feeding, looking like baby birds as we accepted the juice-soaked bread from the hands of the one before us. As I made my way up the line toward the front, I began to hear that, in the place of words usually spoken by those giving communion, some members of the congregation were speaking sacred words to one another as they offered the intimate gesture of passing the elements from hand to mouth. Indeed, the man before me, a friend and retired pastor, looked at me and spoke a deep reminder of what that meal symbolized. There was something newly beautiful about it, hearing those words from him, spoken specifically for me.

Stepping forward to reach for the elements, with Tim coming behind me to receive it, I considered simply saying what is most often spoken in that setting, something about bread and cups and covenants and forgiveness. But a phrase overcame me somewhere in between placing my final step and reaching for the bread. Honestly, I can think of times when I would have brushed it aside, simply so as not to sound odd, except that this morning it was overpowering. It echoed in my mind as I took the little piece of bread, that symbol of a broken body of love, and dipped it in the dark red reminder of a covenant of forgiveness. And I turned to Tim, placed the communion gift in his mouth and simply said, "This changes everything."

They were words that came out of my own mouth, yet I spent much of the remainder of the service pondering them. This changes everything. This bread, this cup--they rewrite the entire script of creation for those who, through the eyes of faith, look to see the grace and reconciliation happening all around us, even in the midst of ugliness that sometimes astounds us. This changes everything. It changes the way we treat enemies, it turns the notion of status on its head, and it dethrones pride and guilt both in the presence of divine and underserved grace. This changes everything. And yet I sat and felt, on the inside, as if my life did not show evidence of a belief that it changed much of anything at all, at least in how I relate to God and to myself.

Beyond feeling a tad disheartened, I couldn't shake the familiarity of the phrase. It struck a chord that I couldn't name, until I finally remembered a painting I did in college during the time when I was most debilitated by the vicious side effects of my epilepsy medication. My concept of my limitations, the way in which I related to people, the lens through which I saw the world: all of these things had been uprooted and thrown topsy turvy as those little pills rewrote the rules for my bodily existence. The painting was simple, and was perhaps my neatest work during that time when chemicals caused my hands to twitch at random. It was a giant pill bottle, the likeness of the basic, orange bottle I opened every day, complete with label. Behind it, written sideways and blurred (in a representation of what the world felt like to me at the time) were three words: this changes everything. It was a visual representation of what had for months felt like a devastating reality. That stupid bottle, those little pills, the chemicals coursing through my brain: it had changed everything. It had stolen something from me and made the whole of life seem sideways and blurry. I think somehow I hoped someone might look at the painting and understand: This changes everything.

Communion, I sat there and realized, is supposed to change my life on that same level. The reality of the gospel, of a new covenant by which I am received as a daughter into the Kingdom of God, ought to do much of what my medication did. It ought to transform my concept of my limitations, to change the way in which I relate to people, and to offer a totally new lens through which I see the world. Indeed, it ought to rewrite the rules for my bodily and spiritual existence. Perhaps I have not recognized it, or allowed myself to be overtaken by its recreative powers, but the reality remains nonetheless: this bread, this cup, this covenant changes everything. Except this time it carries my past the place where all is sideways and blurry, and slowly shows me a world that is suddenly set aright, suddenly in focus, suddenly in color.

In the end, I realize that communion is not so different a thing from my painting. It is a visual reminder of a wonderfully devastating reality. And it changes everything.

small town Sunday: a justified life

Each week at church, somewhere near the middle of the service, we practice "the passing of the peace." Church members rise from their pews and offer warm greetings, "Peace be with you," and, "Good to see you." I have to say that our pastor does a great job of at least puting forth the intended power of that gesture; he reminds us again and again that it is a time to speak peace and reconciliation to one another as a people who have been reconciled to God and to one another. And honestly, I try. I want to look into the eye of my neighbor and mean it in a powerful way. I want to speak, "Peace be with you" as one who believes that the power of the Spirit of peace is somehow present in those words. It has always disappointed me that I am somehow unable to make that transition from random, amiable greeting to powerful declaration of truth.

A few weeks ago, when our pastor was enjoying a much needed vacation to sandy places, we had a guest speaker. His story was a powerful one; he had personally met Martin Luther King Jr. and had lived a life marked by a willingness to act on behalf of justice even when doing so ran counter to the status quo (which is most often the case of genuine justice, I suppose). However, though his message impacted me, what has remained with me most is what he said as an introduction to our weekly peace-passing. "Offer one another signs of peace," he said, "and while your at it, perhaps ask your neighbor what he has done to justify his existence this week." I didn't hear anybody ask the question. I mean, for the most part those who fill pews are shy about such questions, if not afraid of them altogether. I wanted to ask it, but I didn't.

We should have asked each other the question.

I may not have posed the inquiry to anyone in the church that day, but I have been asking it of myself for many days since. What have I done to justify my existence? To justify my existence? It is a profound and unsettling question. The temptation, at least at first, is to find the question a bit offensive. "What do you mean, justify my existence? I don't have to justify anything; God created me simply because he loves me." This, of course, would be simultaneously true and a cop-out of sorts. We must balance the notion that we are created simply out of love with the biblical assumption that we are not created to be well-loved bumps on a log engraved "theology". Case in point: Abraham was told quite plainly that God's promise stated both that he would be blessed and that he would be a blessing. Millenia later, Jesus, when commisioning his disciples before he returned to the Father, did not, surprisingly, tell them to go and spend their lives thinking about how much he loved them, warmly shaking hands on a million successive Sundays. He told them to go and make disciples. To go and be a part of bringing about a Kingdom marked by justice and love and compassion. In a way, he told them to go and justify their existence. Following that command seldom left those disciples in safe places. It generally shook up the very existence he had told them to justify.

I think of it this way: I ask myself if I can stand before God and say, " Today I have been a good steward of the life you gave me. I have allowed you to use it as you wish, no matter the cost." Essentially, today I have been willing to be shaken up and taken to uncomfortable, unsafe places. On the day our guest speaker asked us that question, I don't know that I could have said those words. May I strive to live up to them in the days to come, to embrace the radical challenge that found me right in the middle of a small town Sunday.

small town Sunday: mosaics

Sunday after Sunday, these last few weeks, I have sat in my pew in Green Mountain Falls with the same thought: "I need to write about this." It has become a mosaic of beautiful and challenging moments in my mind. And so that is what I come to offer now: tiny, colorful pieces of faith and community, drawn from the deep well of my small town Sundays.

At the opening of every service, our Pastor asks the congregation if there is anything they are thankful for. There is seldom the awkward silence that one might expect (in fact, one time there was such a silence, and the Pastor exclaimed, "What's up? Usually I can't shut you guys up!"). My favorite moments of thanks almost invariably come from the two small children that are usually sitting in the pew in front of me. They will raise their tiny hands, and to my delight, the Pastor never fails to call on them. The outcome is usually hilarious. One time, the little girl--maybe 4--spoke loudly: "When you're in the snow, you'd better wear boots!" Last week, she simply asked a question: "Does Jesus live in Woodland Park?" Shortly thereafter, her younger brother took his turn. "It's snowing today," he proclaimed, "And I want lots of bouncy balls!" Smiling from two feet behind, I thought, "I am thankful for these kids, for a church that validates them." And, of course, for the giant bowtie around the neck of the 10 year old behind me.

Our church follows the liturgical calendar, and the first Scripture reading for the day is often read by a member of the congregation--sometimes adults, sometimes children. My favorite is an older man, who walks to the lectern slowly and reads at about the same pace. It is beautiful. Recently, upon reaching the lectern, he held up a torn piece of paper in his shaky hand. "You might notice," he spoke slowly, "that my Scripture has been eaten by a large, black dog," and then continued with his reading. A couple weeks later, again having concluded his slow walk to the stage, he paused and announced, "I'm a little off balance today. One of my hearing aids is dead." And on with the reading.

The sermons, of course, usually leave some sort of mark on me, whether laughter or deep thought. When the liturgy presented us with Jesus' apocalyptic words from Luke (I think), the Pastor began with, "I figure if Jesus could sum up the end of the world in about ten lines, I should also be fairly brief this morning." And he was. On the Sunday following the tragic earthquake in Haiti, he opened with a bold statement: "Those who stand in pulpits this morning and claim to have answers, I would argue, are blaspheming." I have always appreciated that he is willing to call his congregation to wrestle with the difficult and seemingly nonsensical aspects of the world we live in, of the gospel, and of what it looks like to be a disciple. There are moments to be treasured from the children's sermons as well. One week, after trying to perform a rather obvious magic trick, he led them through this simple prayer: "Thank you, God, for silly magic tricks and for miracles. Help us to know the difference." Yes, God, help me to know the difference.

Last Sunday, it was a visiting preacher who left a mark on my life. He had cerebral palsy: His gestures were awkward, and his words were difficult to understand. And yet, he was one of the most gifted speakers I have ever heard, and his simple presence taught me something of courage. This man had followed God's call to preach even when it seemed like a crazy proposition. I thought of Moses, who claimed he was not good with words and yet was called to speak to Pharaoh. I thought of a poem by Ruth Bell Graham:

He is not eloquent
as men count such;
for him
words trip and stumble
giving speech
an awkward touch,
and humble:
so, much
is left unsaid
that he would say
if he were eloquent.
Wisely discontent,
compassion driven
(as avarice drives some,
ambition others),
the old, the lonely,
and the outcast come;
all are welcome,
all find a home,
all — his brothers.

Behind him
deeds rise quietly
to stay;

And those with eyes to see
can see
all he can say.

Perhaps he'd not have spent
his life this way
if he were eloquent.

"God uses ordinary people, " this courageous man reminded us, "because frankly, God likes ordinary people." And so, having followed God into an unlikely calling, he left an indelible mark on the lives of an entire congregation of ordinary people.

Tomorrow, I will make the drive up the pass, my insides slowing down as I make my way out of the city and onto the quiet street that runs through Green Mountain Falls. I will experience the presence of God in the gathering of his ordinary people. And tomorrow, sitting behind thankful children in my favorite pew, I will likewise be thankful. Thankful for snow boots and bouncy balls, for Scripture-eating dogs and silly magic tricks, for bowties and sermons and potlucks. Thankful, that is, for the whole mosaic of my treasured small town Sundays.

small town Sunday and me: we will be just fine

Green Mountain Falls may be a blip on the map. Population less-than-800, its few businesses don't even fill two sides of one street. One gets the feeling of being at least a little insulated from the rest of the world and its tragedies at times. Yet GMF is no less vulnerable to recession than the rest of the nation right now, and my small town Sunday church is feeling it. Outside the sanctuary, charts can be seen with dollar signs on them. I've seen such charts before, usually showing how much money is needed to build the new addition or fund the mission trip. This chart, however, simply shows how much more red the church can handle before it goes under. Not growth, not expansion, not needless spending--just fiscal survival.

As one who cringes at the mention of money during services, I wondered what to expect when the Pastor was slated to give a report from the team dedicated to "stand in the gap" between today's offering and an empty bank account. I wondered what the admonition might sound like, since I know the pastor well enough to imagine that he likewise cringes in such settings. He stood, stared down at the podium for a few seconds, and began.

My pastor never once told his people to give more money that day. Instead, he told them how much he loved them, and how proud he was of the way that they were loving one another and loving the community. He praised them for standing by one another, for embracing every person who walked through the doors, and for seeking to be people who authentically live out their faith. He reminded them that "giving" was about money yes, but about so much more than that. He paused, the continued with the tired but resolved look of a man surrendered to faith. "I know," he said, "that I may not have a salary in 12 months. I know that. But if we keep doing what we are doing, we are going to be just fine. If we keep loving each other, if we keep sharing God's love with the community, we are going to be just fine. Peace be with you." I got home and realized that I had just heard the words of Jesus: Seek the Kingdom, seek righteousness, and you will be just fine.

There was a sermon on Sunday, but for me the moment of transformation was his "report" from the cash committee. I am in my own time of staring at a dismal fiscal forecast. I feel confident that I have followed the road God pointed me down, and it seems to be leading to anything but the farm where the cash cows are kept. Without eyes of faith, things might look rather grim. Yet on Sunday, my pastor called me home to a great truth. There are bigger things at stake in life than money. If I seek God wholeheartedly, if I follow him as best I know how and try to love the world around me, I will be just fine.

Hallelujah. We will be just fine, my small town Sundays and me.

small town Sunday: coming home

I sat near the back, as I always have. My favorite stained glass windows filtered in the sunlight at my left, while in front of me the old woman who once shaved her head for cancer funds made an announcement that her recent prayers had been answered. After a year away, I was home again, home under the great wooden beams that keep vigil over my tiny church in Green Mountain Falls.

The welcome I received should have not surprised me, yet I none the less found myself caught off guard by the hugs and questions and excited hellos. The announcements began, and I settled into the quirkiness of the place. The pastor announced that the church had been called upon to contribute 80 boxes of jello for a local Thanksgiving food drive. Of course, in the land of small town Sundays, the jello will not be stored in bags or boxes; there in Green Mountain Falls, a jello tower will be erected. Perfect. Other announcements included an abundant pumpkin harvest, one of which had been brought as a donation to the church. A choir member stood and announced that he had been married to his wife for 40 wonderful years. A high school student asked prayers for her upcoming audition with the city orchestra. I listened to it all smiling, feeling as if I was in a congregation that had its priorities straight.

Midway through the announcement, I watched the pastor's wife walk in holding their son, nearly 2 and looking like a miniature of his father. I remembered the day when our pastor held his cell phone up to the microphone and announced that they were going to have a baby. Another is now on the way. Beautiful.

One of the things that kept me in Green Mountain Falls in the first place was the pastor's unwillingness to candy coat the difficult side of the gospel. Sunday's sermon did not disappoint. He told the story of a drug lord in Brazil, a man named Fernando who, even after "converting" to Christianity, continued to provide drugs and contribute to poverty and needless death. He spoke of his initial reaction to this man--scorn, the same scorn that we all felt as we listened to the story from our pews. Yet as he related it to the passage for the day--the story of blind Bartimeus, who would have been understood to be a sinner by virtue of his disability--he called us back to the reality of the example set for us by Jesus. The gospel, he reminded us, is not only for the poor, but for Fernando. It is a gospel that calls us realize that if a man like Fernando were to step onto the road and cry out, "Son of David, have mercy on me," Jesus would accept him as he accepted the blind man. "Are we willing to help the violent, the despicable, and not just the poor? That is the gospel, and I don't know what to do with that. Peace be with you." And thus the sermon ended.

As he prepared to speak the benediction, the pastor reminded us that we seldom listen to the postlude, though the women who play put effort into it every week. "Perhaps this week," he said, "we should stay and listen." It was one of the most beautiful piano pieces I have heard in a long time, and I would have missed it. I wonder what other small beauties I fail to take time for.

I ended my return to Green Mountain Falls with a potluck, several people gathering around me simply to ask questions about my year away and hear what was ahead for me. I felt it as the embrace of authentic love among the body. It was precious to me, this homecoming. The gift of God in the form of a small town Sunday.

small town Saturday: tater gleanin'

I followed in Ruth's footsteps last weekend, and in the footsteps of generations of Israel's poor. For one afternoon in the fields of Alamosa, I gleaned what was left from the harvest, food that would have gone to waste but will now be handed out at local food banks.

I've done a lot of mission trips. Most of them have been with pretty evangelical groups, meaning that the verbal sharing of the gospel was primarily, if not exclusively the goal. My church in GMF, however, continues to show me different ways of serving. Hence, their mission trip for the year involved simply walking the dusty (and windy!) furrows of potato fields, gathering food for those in need. It was an awesome time of being with other folks from the congregation, while learning a little about the life of a migrant farm worker and helping with such a simple yet necessary task. Also included in the trip was a tour of the local mushroom factory, which provided yet another glimpse into the world of a low wage agricultural worker. Truly eye-opening.

As God continues to open my heart to the need for the church to care for matters of social justice, I fell more and more blessed by opportunities to serve in related capacities. I want to know and live out the gospel, and I want to experience it even in the places where preaching the gospel means picking up sack after sack of left-over taters.

small town Sunday: the messiness of being the body

Being the body of Christ is a complicated thing sometimes. We have choices to make, issues to navigate, denominations and factions to wade through. Granted, we can choose to bury our heads in the ground beneath our particular brand of pew, which has become the sad decision of far too many followers of Christ. In my own life, I believe that would be an irresponsible brand of discipleship.

Green Mountain Falls is not exempt from the complications of being the body. For the coming year, they have hired an intern. She comes to us from a seminary in Denver. She’s also a homosexual.

Now, the church in Green Mountain Falls is connected to a denomination that openly ordains practicing homosexuals, and I knew that. I had chosen to stay because I trust the Pastor and because I don’t want to run from a local body in the name of boycotting its mother denomination. I had chosen to stay even when I first saw the woman come to visit the congregation, because I believe that the church is a place where all should feel welcome to walk in.

But now what? Suddenly I face a situation that is no longer a matter of sharing the pew with someone whose lifestyle I disagree with, or of choosing not to judge a small town church by its big city denominational lines. Now it involves things like sitting under her teaching. While I was away in Montana, the church had a meeting, and I returned to a sanctuary sans many familiar faces. Their decision of discipleship called them away from Green Mountain Falls in the face of what they deem to be unacceptable compromise.

I may catch some flak for this, but I’m not leaving yet. Sure, I’m full of a lot of questions. I do not hesitate to say that I disagree completely with the ordination of homosexuals. Still, I also disagree with division and hatred and fear. Where is the line between these things and discernment? I don’t know. But I believe the matter deserves some wrestling with, and that being the body requires me to think deeply when considering walking away from the people who fill those pews.

As I wrestle in the months to come, I’ll still be here with the stories of a church that will not cease to be beautiful and endearing. The children’s sermons will still provide moments of hilarity, and the pews will be full of wonderful characters. There will be cake to go with the coffee, and the conversations will be memorable.

And me? I’ll be right there too, thinking and praying through all it might mean, this complicated thing called being the body of Christ.

small town Sunday: voicemails and new life

Ah, relief. Two Dot, Montana was great, but Green Mountain Falls just feels restful. The sun did not shine on my pew until I sat in it, and I felt as if it were welcoming me home. It all felt so familiar: the spoken invocation of God’s presence, the call to a freeing rather than guilt-inducing time of confession, and the chance to say to those around us what Jesus himself might have said—“peace be with you”. I cannot help but want to say shalom every time we do this.

Early in the service, the Pastor did something strange (though he often does, so it wasn’t all that surprising). Telling us we needed to listen to a message, he dialed voicemail and held his cell phone up to the pulpit microphone. “That’s a first,” I thought. The message began with an odd, rhythmic sound similar to TV fuzz. At the very end, a voice: “That’s your baby!” His wife, he told us, had made that call from the ultrasound appointment. It was the sound of their baby’s heartbeat. What a fun way to announce it!

During the children’s sermon, he spoke of forgiveness. “I need to ask your advice,” he said after a few minutes. Still addressing the children, he said, “What do you suggest I do to help teach my child about forgiveness?” When (after a minute or two and few awkward responses) the children walked out and he returned to the pulpit, he laughed and told us, “Hey, gotta start getting advice wherever I can right now.”

There was cake, of course, this time in celebration of a congregant’s 65th birthday. I forwent it in favor of some incredible homemade zucchini bread, and I sat and chatted with various folks about school and life and the 14er I had hiked the day before. That day, I felt more at home there than I ever have before. Now, as the fall quarter begins and my travel becomes less frequent, I find myself ever so excited for a promising new year, full of small town Sundays.

small town Sunday: Two Dot

Away from home again, last Sunday found me driving across Montana, hoping to cross into Wyoming before stopping for the night. In the name of taking a bike ride, we had chosen a route along state highways, rather than the interstate-only version (which I generally avoid anyway). One of the highlights of this Sunday drive was passing through the town of Two Dot (population less than 100). I mean, the place is named Two Dot...it doesn't get much more small town than that!



Note the vehicles parked out front. Yep, that's a 4-Wheeler.

Check out that fire truck!

Something tells me "State Bank, Two Dot" has long been forgotten by the rest of the state...

World Famous? Seriously? I'd like to know the story behind this sign.

Two Dot highway, a ribbon of asphalt stretching to nowhere, which apparently didn't even merit the paint for a center line.

small town Sunday: wahoo

The world has been moving too fast for me. Even when I did make it to Green Mountain Falls a few weeks ago, I found myself unable to sit down and record the hilarity of it all. That particular Sunday was surprisingly packed out, due to a baptism, a dedication, and the conclusion of the week of VBS. As one baby was baptized, another dedicated, I found myself almost in tears. Somehow the beauty of watching a community commit to stand behind these children, of watching parents hope the best for their children, got to me.

Upon walking into the sanctuary, I had been a little confused by the amount of cowboy hats and general western gear to be seen in the pews. Was it in honor of the town’s upcoming festival? Not long into the service, I discovered that all the down-home decorum was to celebrate the end of VBS, which was called “Avalanche Ranch”. The kids sang some awesome songs, all dressed in hats and bandanas and such, and we all learned a new way to say amen: “Wahoo!” I like that.

Afterward, as I sipped coffee in the courtyard, I chatted with a group of people about the upcoming move, and about the imminent journey to Canada. They listened with genuine interest and support, and faithfully asked me about it when I returned. There are few things as encouraging as being among a body that actually takes interest in one another’s lives.
Needless to say, I breathed a sigh of relief to be back in my sunny pew yesterday. The children’s sermon included the usual moments of hilarity. The pastor, who told a story about going to see the local wolf preserve on the night of a full moon, asked the kids if they had seen the preserve themselves. One of them let the church know that his parents keep breaking their promise to take him, but they said they’d go next month. The pastor promptly looked out at the crowd and said, “Note to parents: You’re going to the wolf preserve in September. You heard it here first, don’t let ‘em down.” I loved it.

In fact, I loved so many parts of the morning. My British friend sat behind me, and I could hear her endearing accent as we prayed the Lord’s Prayer and as we sang our hymns. The elderly woman who shaved her head in honor of kids with cancer is sporting a nice grey shag as it finally grows out again. At the potluck, I chatted with new friends, and compared stories of frustrating weekends with the man sitting next to me. I was so encouraged by his honesty about how sometimes he just gets mad when things go wrong, mainly because I spent the day before in a state of fury as one thing after another failed to go my way.

Perhaps most importantly, I found my heart at rest in the rhythm of the liturgy again. We sing it every Sunday: “Spirit of the living God, fall afresh on me.”

Wahoo to that.

small town Sunday: home again

I've been gone too long. From a jaunt around the southwestern part of the state, to a trip home followed by a backpacking venture, and on to a journey to Arkansas and back, I have missed too many small town Sundays. As I sat in the pew last Sunday (I'm a little behind on writing), I joyfully recieved one of God's birthday gifts to me: the chance to be in the quiet of Green Mountain Falls again.

In a rather rare occurrence, I arrived early to the service. I eased into the pew behind my artist friend, and was soon joined by another woman who is always full of warm greetings and interesting conversation. She calls me Kate, a name that only a few seem to pcik up naturally. The artist told me about how she was recently commissioned to do some work for an Indian reservation, and was laughing about the mess of wood and tin and paint that currently fills the rooms of her house. Both of them offered me my first birthday greetings of the day with smiles, and I grinned inside.

The woman teaching the children's sermon offered a lesson about being the light of the world, doing so by showing different kinds of light: she lit a candle, struck a match, and held up a light bulb. I leaned over and asked my neighbor if she thought we'd get to see a blowtorch. When the pastor returned to the pulpit, he remarked that the lesson was a good reminder to make sure the building was up to fire code. In that case, perhaps the blowtorch wouldn't have been such a great idea, but I was a little disappointed none the less.

The main event for the day came after the service. The church recently acquired the town's old community building, hoping to restore it and put it to use. In celebration, there was a gathering at the building, including some words about the woman for whom it was named (Sallie Mae Bush) and, of course, food. The best part was that the congregation made the quarter mile journey to the building as a group, a mass exodus from church to community center that filled the entire two lane street and stopped traffic. The police actually blocked the road for a few minutes, just to allow the momentous event to transpire. It looked like a cross between a parade and a victory march, young and old marching toward the building in their Sunday best. I could not help but smile, depsite the fact that my schedule for the afternoon made it so that I was one of the cars held up by the march, rather than one of the mighty throng of walkers.

Yes, I had been gone too long. But despite the fact that a week is seven days long no matter where I go, it just doesn't feel the same when I'm far from my small town Sundays.

small town Sunday: ice cream and other vittles

Trinity Sunday in Green Mountain Falls, as the liturgical calendar would have it. In a courageous move, our pastor broached the topic even with the little ones: "I now invite the children of the congregation to come forward to talk about ice cream." He talked about the Trinity in terms of Neopolitan ice cream: chocolate and vanilla and strawberry are all very different flavors, but they are all ice cream, and together they make up Neopolitan ice cream. Of course, any adult in the room will admit that they understood this sermon for children far more than the one targeted at us adults.

When I walked forward to take communion, I passed by the elderly woman who shaved her head for cancer research. She was wearing a sequined ball cap that said something about New York. The only other cap in the room was on the head of another elderly woman: it was bright pink and said, "Country Girl." I like a church where old women wear fancy ball caps.

During the announcement time, a bunch of kids in cowboy outfits joined their teacher in announcing that VBS ("avalance ranch") was a-comin' up and they were looking for help. Holding up an old campfire coffee pot, they invited us to join them for some vittles in the fellowship hall to raise money. Vittles, of course, consisted of coffee and a cake that said Avalanche Ranch, but the mood was set nonetheless: each person who walked into the fellowship hall was greeted by a 3 foot nothing boy with a bandana, asking if "y'all" wanted some coffee.

As usual, though, I walked away challenged as well as smiling. I was challenged by the fact that the church sent money to a pastor in Greensburg, Kansas, so the he could put it to use as they recover from the devastating tornado that hit weeks ago. I was challenged yet again by the way that the pastor reminds us that speaking the affirmation of faith is telling a part of our story. Most of all, I was challenged by the invocation:

"Disturb us, Lord, when we are too well pleased with ourselves
When our dreams have come true because we have dreamed too little,
When we have arrived safely because we sailed too close to the shore.

Disturb us, Lord, when with the abundance of things we possess,
we have lost our thirst for the waters of life;
Having fallen in love with life, we have ceased to dream of eternity,
and in our efforts to build a new earth, we have allowed our vision of the new heaven to dim.

Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly,
to venture wider seas where storms will show your mastery,
where losing sight of land, we shall find the stars.
We ask you to push back the horizons of our hopes;
and to push into the future in strength, courage, hope and love."
(Francis Drake, 1577)

May those words challenge you as they challeged me, and as our Pastor often says, may the disturbance of Christ be with you.

small town Sunday: only in Greece

Only in Greece, we learned on Sunday, should one teach a children's sermon involving Greek words. In celebration of Pentecost (or perhaps just coincidentally), a new banner hung at the front of the church, a golden cloth with the word "agape" written on it. When the pastor asked the kids (who were apparently totally wired for the day) what it said, there were several fumbled answers, followed by one very bright girl who replied, "it says agape" (as in, my mouth hung agape as I watched him try to teach Greek to tots). After informing them of its true pronunciation, he moved on to ask them what language it was:

French!
No.
Hebrew!
No. (but great guess, eh?)
Chinese!
No.
Spanish!
No.
Mexican?
(Too much laughter to allow for a no.)

He finally gave up and just told them it was Greek.

His eventual goal, you see, was for them to know that agape love is how we are to love one another, and that it is a different kind of love from loving our toys. This in itself almost backfired when he asked a little girl if she loved her mom more than her plastic pony. No, the little girl told us quite plainly, she did not. Then, within a few sentences, the pastor managed to mention the word candy, and it was a total loss from there. At one point, he actually looked out at us and asked with a smile, "What would you do right now if you were me?" When the kids finally left to go to Sunday school, he laughed with us about how unpredictable children's sermons can be. But before moving on, he paused, and his face turned thoughful and serious; "Thank God," he proclaimed, "that things don't always go as planned. Thank God that he surprises us." We were all struck by it, and I realized that sometimes the children's sermon ends up being for the adults, too.

In the sermon, he bravely spoke about hip hop music to a crowd of small town (and partly grey haired) mountain folks. "You may not listen to it," he said, "but your children and grandchildren do." He talked of the typical hip hop protagonist, the "player", and how our disdain for such characters is somewhat compromised by our own likeness to them. We, too, he challenged, find ourselves characterized by manipulating things to our own pleasure, our own ends. Disciples, he reminded us, are to be odd, to be different. We are not to fit the cultural mold of self-satisfying players, and yet we so often do. He quoted Flannery O'Connor: "Then you will know the truth, and the truth shall make you odd."

As he finished, his final sentence almost echoed: "Now I say to you, players, may the disturbance of Christ be with you." The weight of his words lingered for a moment as music began to play and the service moved on.

Bill came in late and sat right behind us (a friend joined me this week). "Just in time," he said out loud as the offering plate came his way. He told us later that he had rushed back from Breckenridge (where he had gone to see a grandson graduate) and hadn't quite had time to put on his "church duds". He showed us the cane that his son gave him in an effort to make him walk less hunched over. Turning it upside down and taking a golf stance, he grinned and explained to us that it would be better used as a putter. Inside, I was smiling at the joy of his company.

Agape. I sensed it from Bill that morning, and I sensed it in the pastor's words. It came through in the many hi's and glad to see you's. I'm sure it was present over the coffee I didn't have time to stick around for. That place, that little church in Green Mountain Falls, is full of agape--enough to leave your mouth agape.

small town Sunday: the heart grows fonder

I originally planned to title this post, "bedside Baptist". That was the old joke around my college when we didn't make it to church some weekend. Sadly, two nights of terrible sleep and a paper due the next day made me realize it was unwise to get up earlier than absolutely necessary this Sunday.

Now, I have been able to feel myself grow more and more attached to Green Mountain Falls and my little church there. But my disappointment in missing it this week made it all the more sure: I am in love with small town Sundays. I love feeling myself calm down as I turn off the highway and pull into town. Last week, I had to slow down so as not to hit some folks walking right down the middle of the road. That, I have always thought, is the sign of a good town--walking down the middle of main street and not being crazy to do so.

I love the familiar faces as I look around the sanctuary: the choir in their blue and white robes, the elderly woman who sits up front so she can wear earphones in order to hear the service, the twins coloring and chattering behind me. I love the coffee hour, and am even developing a taste for church coffee (notriously nasty in small town churches). I love being called by name, and being able to return the gesture.

I am sad that this summer will include so many Sundays away (the summer schedule is getting packed!). I'll have to collect some stories to tell along the way. For this week, I figured I'd just offer some pictures I've taken as I've meandered around town. Meandering, of course, is just the thing to do on a restful small town Sunday.



These are obviously taken a couple months ago. The lake is thawed now and glittering with sunlight when I drive in each week.


The local motel. There are lots of nice cabins and things, too, but I love the character of this place.


Green Mountain Falls' most popular restaurant, The Pantry. Amazing food, and home to the exuberant waitress I told you about.


The Sheriff's office. Doesn't it just make you think Mayberry?


My two favorite cars to see parked around town (in second place is the truck with a frog stuck on the hood)

small town Sunday: what mothers are for

Mother's Day in Green Mountain Falls. At church, the children's sermon served as a reminder that kids are almost never going to give the answers you think are obvious. The Pastor began this week's mini-message by asking, "Now, you guys know what today is, right?" His question was answered enthusiastically, the kids' voices in unison: "It's Sunday!" Only a second later did one little voice add, "Oh, Oh...and it's Happy Mother's Day, too."

The pastor moved on to ask the kiddos what it is that mothers are for, what sorts of things they do. One tiny girl, after an almost endless series of um's, told us quite plainly that moms exist to feed you and to clean your room. Another boy chimed in to mention that mothers are there to pay the bills so you have somewhere to live. (Seriously, what kid under 10 thinks of that? Let's hope he's not one of the ones who will be giving the same answer at age 30.) The pastor finally recieved his segway when a little girl said with great innocence, "Mom's are there to teach us how to be good and to believe in God." In the world of Mother's Day children's sermons, that answer is the equivalent of saying "Jesus" in Sunday School.

Despite the service holding some good laughs for me, the real highlight of this small town Sunday was the coffee hour afterward. Remember the old man who steals kids' lemonade? Well, this week I plopped down next to him at one of the plastic tables in the fellowship hall. We were both sipping coffee and dining on Mother's Day cake (yes, I finally got some cake) as he introduced himself and began to tell me stories, all the while offering his big, wrinkled smile and easy laugh.

Bill (or Mr. Bill, as the kids call him) has spent the last 21 years worth of mornings down at Ute Pass Elementary school, just to be there with the kids and help out around the school. "They just won't graduate me," he told me with a grin. Having originally come to Colorado because he was stationed at Fort Carson, Bill spent 25 years as the fire chief in Green Mountain Falls. He also spent many of those years as the director (and pretty much every other position) at a local boy's ranch, being a father to boys who needed one. He served as a Cub Scout leader for eons, whether for the boys at the ranch or for his own sons, a position which he said led to more ascents of Pike's Peak than anyone would really care for. On his first trip, he told me, he sat down for a rest not far from the top, only to be passed by a man in his 70's: "Next thing, I looked up and saw that the person blazing up after that old man was an old woman! I said to myself, 'Bill, you'd better get off your bottom and get to the top of this thing.'"

As I sat there eating my cake (he said he was eating his piece in honor of his mom), I just felt blessed to be able to talk with a man whose many long years are brimming with so much life, so many stories. Though he is a widower with an aging body, Bill is full of more joy and vitalty than most of my 20-something peers. He is a treasure.

I may never run into him on Pike's Peak, but the scenario seems familiar all the same: Bill is that old man who passes by with enthusiasm and vigor, and leaves you thinking, "Man, I'd better get off my bottom and start living some good stories to tell."

small town Sunday: townsfolk

It is a storyteller's gold mine, Green Mountain Falls. If you are struggling to dream up quirky characters, people that a reader will fall in love with, you'll find plenty within those small town city limits. At least, I know I'm falling in love with them.

Of course, there's Oscar, the 90 year old feisty Swede whom I encountered walking around the lake when my parents came to visit. We met him as we made our way toward the local cafe, where we were served by a lively woman with the most classic diner voice I have ever heard: loud, a little raspy, and full of "honey" and laughter. She served me what might be the best cornbread I've ever eaten.

At church, I often sit behind one of my favorites--a quiet, unassuming local artist whose face provides a sort of comforting familiarity. This week she was next to an elderly British woman who is full of questions, and who told me this week how much she loves retirement. When she first met me, she immediately tried thinking of ways to help fund my rather expesive education. None of the ideas panned out, of course, but I was delighted in her effort none the less.

During the coffee hour, you'll see an old man, hunched over but full of life, who sneaks up behind unsuspecting kids and pretends to steal their lemonade. They all know him and laugh. Meanwhile, twin 8 year old boys run around looking for mischief and usually finding it. Even better are the twin 2 year olds--a boy and a girl-- who often sit closeby during the service. The girl is shy but smiley. Her brother just chats away, oblivious to prayer or Scripture reading or song. It reminds me a lot of my own brother and me, though we aren't twins.

One of the quirkest characters is a middle aged woman from New Jersey. She hasn't lost an ounce of the accent, nor of the personality for that matter. She told me once her dream would be to become a missionary, though her husband would never go for the idea. I smile as I think of it; The only way to truly paint the picture would be to title it, "My Cousin Vinny Goes Evangelical". I hope she gets that dream someday.

I am starting to find comfort in this town full of eccentrics. They begin to feel like home the way an old rocking chair does. Those in the that tiny church cannot be united by social or economic homogeniety, or by a common age group, as is the case in so many churches. No, they are a band of characters held together by the glue of Christ and small town hearts.

When the ties that bind are as simple as that, it's no wonder that a stranger like me can so quickly feel at home.

shanty town Sunday

I woke up this morning in a house of cardboard and tarps. Inside, seven friends slept beside me. Outside, 4,000 others crawled out of ramshackle huts and sleeping bags strewn across the ground. On a hilltop in Parker, CO, the sun was rising on a chaotic mess of cardboard shanties and unshowered people, all cramped inside a make-shift displacement camp.






We were there for an event called Displace Me, put on by an organization called Invisible Children (IC). For the past couple years, IC has been beaking the silent shroud surrounding the 21 year war in northern Uganda, and has been opening the world's eyes to the atrocities being committed there. For years, rebel forces called the Lord's Resistance Army have been raiding villages, conscripting children and teaching them to kill. In this time of chaos, the Ugandan government has moved millions into crowded displacment camps, lacking ample food and water, as well as proper sanitization. Many people have been in these camps for over 10 years. IC began with a documentary on the issue, and since then has been effecting change in northern Uganda in ways they could not have imagined. Displace Me was just one small part of it.

I would like to say that my night on the hilltop was about understanding what the people of Uganda go through, but that would be ludicrous at best. I did have moments where I felt crowded-in and uncomfortable, and was stunned at the thought of doing it for 10 years. And when we were waiting for crackers and water to be distributed at the "relief station", I really was hungry and thirsty (Saltines have never tasted so good in my life). Yet I know that one night in a cardboard box, hanging out with good friends and knowing I have home waiting for me the next day, does not even come close to providing a glimpse into their lives. No, my night of displacement was about raising my voice. It was about being one more body, one more face in the swarm of people speaking out on behalf of the oppressed.






During this year of reading Proverbs, one proverb has been the most impactful:

Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves,
for the rights of all who are destitute.
Speak up and judge fairly;
defend the rights of the poor and needy.
(31:8-9)

The people of northern Uganda are not the only ones around us who don't have a voice, who cannot speak up for themselves. The homeless man in the park, the underprivileged child, the refugee, the migrant worker, the sick who have no access to healing...all these people lack the power that we take for granted--the power to speak up and actually be heard.

Is there a particular group of the oppressed that stirs your heart? Do you hear the cries of the poor and orphaned and widowed? We have the power to say something about it, to effect change even when we feel like we may only be making a tiny dent. When we see the forgotten, the silenced, the invisible, we have the power defend their rights. The task seems so daunting, and at times hopeless, but I believe the gospel challenges me to overcome that.

It challenges me to stand up and raise my voice.


(for some great links to practical venues for raising your voice, check out my friend's post about the event http://ransomedjourney.blogspot.com/2007/04/raise-your-voice.html)

small town Sunday: the few will bless the many

In the eyes of most people, Green Mountain Falls is clearly a town of little consequence. New York City has 10,000 times as many citizens. My house is bigger than their Town Hall. There isn't even a store there, remember? But don't tell that to the people in my church. I have been encouraged again and again by their sense of connectivity with the world.

When our Pastor went to visit his ailing grandfather in England, he took with him a prayer shawl knitted by the women of the church. He returned to tell us that the gift had brought tears to the eyes of his grandfather, who asked why someone so many miles away would care about him. A similar prayer shawl was recently sent to a missionary in Indonesia, the nephew of a church member. Before it was sent, the shawl was passed around the church so that it might pass through the hands of everyone present, prayed over individually by each soul in the sanctuary. When I held it in my own hands, praying briefly for the man who would recieve it, I was suddenly so aware of the bigness of the body of Christ.

Last week, when students 1,500 miles away were killed at Virgina Tech, the church did not simply make brief mention of it, using it as a point of departure for a theological discussion of suffering. Rather, each victim's name was read aloud, slowly and clearly. The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of the church bell, sounded once for each of the deceased. The pastor told me later that he'd heard many pastors talking about their plans to discuss Earth Day, or to simply continue with the sermon they had planned before. To him, this was unthinkable--the suffering of our brothers and sisters must be recognized, and names must be remembered.

The examples go on. As the weather warms, many migrant workers will be coming in for the summer work. In Green Mountain Falls, church members are creating small bags of hygeine products for them. In support of children with Cancer, an elderly woman shaved her long, grey hair. How beautiful.

In the sleepy, unknown town of Green Mountain Falls, I am learning a little about what it means to care for my world. I am witnessing a group of people who are abundantly generous, despite having a budget that is probably less than ten percent of most of the more recognized churches. I am learning that being small doesn't have to mean being insignificant. Yes, it's true that the vast majority of the world has never heard of Green Mountain Falls, but those small town hearts are loving and blessing their global body nonetheless.

small town Sunday: ordinary holiness

I didn't want to go to church yesterday. I was feeling tired, a little heavy-hearted and anti-social, and I was worried about the gas money. Still, I have learned over the last few years that I want to be someone who is committed to community. And I want to be someone who is committed to trusting a God who wants to speak even when I don't want to listen.

It was like a breath of fresh air for my heart. Not because of any spetacular movements of the Spirit or astounding words from a sermon. Yesterday, for the first time, I was really able to experience what I have read about from lovers of liturgical traditions: I found rest and encouragement in the rhythm of the invocation and confession of faith, in the prayers that were prayed and the music that was sung.

As we began the morning, the invocation was read: "God of all our beginnings, may this day and every day begin with our praise to you. Let every breath become a witness to your Spirit, dwelling within and among us. Open our hearts to receive your saving gifts. Loosen our tongues to proclaim your unsurpassed greatness. May the noise of our celebration help your people to sense your powerful presence and to claim the joy of serving you, in Christ's name. Amen."

The noise of our celebration. The noise of tongues loosed to proclaim the greatness of God. I was struck by this in a way that lit fire in me for a moment. Am I celebrating? Can people hear the noise of my jubilation? I felt so challenged to live a life that is a rowdy celebration of the the joy of knowing God.

A moment later, a section of the affirmation of faith struck me: "We believe the God of Jesus encounters us in the whole of life--not in the special and extraordianary so much as in the ordinariness and reality of our lives and they are lived, and died."

Encounters us...in the ordinariness and reality of our lives. Have I been looking for him there? Have I been inviting him into my day-to-day? Perhaps to do so would be cause for that great celebration that serves to remind many of his presence.

As the morning went on, there was beauty in the words of the hymns, truth in those sung by the choir. There was encouragement in the call to confession and the recitation of prayer. Yes, worship came in the rhythm of participation...of words to read aloud in community, of listening to those sung aloud to me. My heavy heart did not have to muster its own song or affirmation, just to stand with those in the family of God and declare aloud words of faith and belief. I had only to offer my yes--Yes, I believe this to be the determining truth of my life. I suppose it was God revealing himself, as in the pastor's prayer, to be a "God who makes the common holy." It was God ecnountering me in the ordinariness of the tradition.

How extraordinary.

small town Sunday: Hartsel

Since I went home to Glenwood Springs for Easter, I wasn't in Green Mountain Falls yesterday. However, on the drive home, Carrie and I passed through Hartsel, a tiny town in the South Park area. This one's even smaller than GMF, and it made me smile in a big way! Oh, how I love small towns!

Our dinner stop was at Dorothy's Homemade Tamales. This place used to be a house out in the middle of nowhere. I guess they hit the big time and moved into town. Of course, we were the only ones in there on a Sunday night. For not much cash, we had three tamales, a huge order of tots, and (drum roll please).....a fried pickle spear! (Just to say I did it, of course.)

This is almost on par with the Marshall's office in Green Mountain Falls. Hand-painted signs are awesome. Unfortunately, this one's abandoned. The office in GMF is alive and kickin'!

Hartsel Bible Chapel. This thing is literally one of those insta-structures that is basically canvas-y stuff over some odd frame. It looks like it seats about 30 max. Still, it's an official church of the SBC!

This old one-room schoolhouse is now the community center. It reminds me of the town hall building in Green Mountain Falls.

Praise God for friends who will exlpore small towns and funky diners with me! She even gave me some of her tots:)