What if Lent could be a time to think about something other than misery?
My daily Lenten Diary in “audio”. Today’s post — a few minutes of reflection regarding yesterday’s “Ashes to Go” event. Enjoy.
No, I haven’t gotten my seasons confused. I know we usually associate “wish lists” with Christmas. Lent isn’t about getting stuff, it’s about unloading stuff, right? In the popular imagination, Christmas is about joy and hope and faith and love, and Lent is about denial and guilt and suffering and pain. Lent is not a festive season. Lent is a season of penance. Having a “wish list” for Lent almost sounds sacrilegious, doesn’t it?
Certainly Lent has a particular feel to it. We will likely see a more somber “look” in most liturgical places of worship — a sparseness meant to call attention to Jesus’ forty day fast in the wilderness. We’ll hear plenty of calls to repentance, self-examination and the turning from sin. The music for the season will mostly be in a minor key — and we will put on our best solemnity as we slog along with the unfortunate notion that external displays of misery reveal an internal attitude of contrition.
I had never observed Lent until I became an Episcopalian twenty years ago. The possibilities within this season for “spring cleaning of the soul” were made very clear to me by the clergy and people who comprised the parish community of which I was a part back then. We gathered for Bible studies, slurped on soup, noshed on pretzels, engaged in service projects, participated in saying extra prayers, walked the outdoor stations of the cross (you can do that in shirtsleeves in February/March in Florida!), and generally enjoyed one another’s company as we walked the way of the cross. Sure, we fasted and “gave up” stuff for Lent, but we shared those intentions with each other and talked about them openly from week to week. We encouraged each other in keeping our respective disciplines and we comforted each other when we inevitably “slipped” here and there through the forty days. By the time our band of pilgrims made it across the seasonal finish line to Easter, we were exuberantly shouting, “Alleluia! Christ is Risen! The Lord is Risen Indeed!” I can tell you from personal experience, the Easter lilies smelled far sweeter and the Easter “Alleluias” were far more robust after intentionally “doing Lent” together.
Ever since my first Lent in 1991, this has always been my favorite liturgical season (even if music in a minor key can sometimes be a REAL downer!). Over the years, though, I’ve noticed that it’s harder and harder to get “critical mass” when it comes to observing Lent together. Like so much else in our society, we’ve become so pressed for time it’s more and more difficult to get folks in the same room for any given activity. Intellectually, I understand that the days of fifty or sixty adults crammed in a parish hall for a Lenten supper and an hour of engaging discussion about some aspect of Christian living are, for most parishes, “bygone days”. And yet, there is no doubt in my mind that I was a far more consistent participant in Lent when I had the benefit of a company of pilgrims with whom to enjoy the trip from Ash Wednesday to Easter Day.
So my Lenten Wish List has only one item. I wish (pray for actually!) that over the course of the season, folks will find a few fellow pilgrims to join them on their Lenten path. There is strength in numbers, but the numbers don’t have to be large — two or three will do. People with whom and for whom to pray. People with whom we can share our Lenten intentions/disciplines and who will hold us accountable in a loving way towards keeping those intentions/disciplines. People who will share their own journey with us. If Lent is simply reduced to an individualized, spiritual endurance contest, we will have exchanged this season of spiritual fecundity for yet another exercise in spiritual narcissism.
Perhaps the reason it’s been so easy to cancel communal gatherings during Lent isn’t because they are no longer relevant. Perhaps it’s because we never fully recognized the power of the community of the faithful gathered in a common purpose in the first place. I think now is a good time to rediscover that power. Lent is a good place to start. Anyone want to join me?
Last week, in an ill-advised fit of barely-righteous indignation, I fired off a way-too-long e-mail to a local newspaper columnist in response to her diatribe against churches. I thought the columnist’s logic was flawed, because her argument implied that the proliferation of churches was somehow related to the scarcity of public libraries. I resented her simplistic assessments about people of faith and her outright disdain for the good works that many congregations (regardless of denomination or theological persuasion) do for the communities beyond their doors. I confess, I probably felt a bit too smug in my response and some of that smugness undoubtedly came through in the e-mail. I would have been better off to keep my electronic mouth shut and spend more time in prayer.
Yesterday, I received the columnist’s response. I include it here as it was sent to me — without salutation or signature:
“Yep, but in the end you ask for donations to keep the whole thing running smoothly. If there were such things as miracles, then why do you guys always need to get bucks from the congregation? I mean, wouldn’t God just hand you down a few benjamins from time to time?”
Suffice it to say, this was not the sort of response I had anticipated. Admittedly, I had to read it several times before I understood her use of “benjamins” as a euphemism for hundred dollar bills. I’m not too hip, but I do know when I’ve been “dissed”. After twenty-four hours of chewing on those few lines, I think the columnist is speaking like plenty of people in our culture and I should pay better attention to her.
We can talk all we want inside the church doors about faith and Spirit and love and peace and commitment and community and sacrifice and Sacrament, but to plenty of folks outside our doors (including those who have been hurt or in other ways scarred by the church), it just looks like one, big money-making, or at least, self-serving, racket. We use God-talk to justify lots of things in church, not the least of which are all the reasons the local congregation or the judicatory or the denomination needs money. Of course, we dress up our money talk in the language of “stewardship in support of mission and ministry” so it sounds a bit more palatable, but at the end of the day, there is a budgetary balance sheet and the bills have to be paid.
As a person who derives my full-time income from my work in service to a community of faith, I’m not in a position to actually respond to the columnist’s accusations about money. I’m not ashamed of the work I do or the money I receive for it, but I can certainly understand how people come to resent clergy comments about money since we obviously have a vested interest in the matter. Until I can figure out a way to earn a full-time salary outside the church so that I can serve the church full-time in a non-stipediary fashion, though, I’m stuck with the moral ambiguity inherent in receiving a paycheck from a congregation.
But buried in the columnist’s slam about churches, clergy and money is a deeper, far more complex issue. She accurately reflects the sort of God our culture is agnostic, and in many cases, outright atheistic, towards — the God who works miracles. The line of reasoning seems to go like this: “If God is a God who can do all things and the Bible, as the ‘Word of God’ states repeatedly that ‘whatever we ask, we shall receive’, then what gives? Wouldn’t this God who allegedly wants Her/His message proclaimed slip His/Her servants a few bucks here and there to keep the thing moving along? For that matter, why would God even need our money? In fact, why would God need us at all? And while we’re at it, what about all of the hunger, poverty, sickness, war and injustice in the world? What about hurricanes, earthquakes, tornados and tsunamis? If God is so all-powerful, where’s the proof?”
Now I’ve been schooled to engage those sorts of questions. I can prattle on about the difference between miracles and magic. I can wax eloquent about the participatory nature of the Church as the Mystical Body of Christ. I can attempt to reframe the term “miracle” and offer up examples of the miraculous that surround us every day — a sunrise over Lake Michigan, the peacefulness of a snowfall, the unsolicited act of kindness from a stranger, or the unexpected expressions of love and gratitude from friends or family.
Let’s face reality, though. The above examples of God’s presence and activity in the world, which mean so much to people inside the church, ring hollow to folks like my columnist friend. They don’t need “God” to appreciate the good things that come along with being human. Such examples sound like double-talk, side-stepping and hedging our bets. My columnist friend seems to be looking for God to act like Charleton Heston in “The Ten Commandments” — parting the waters, writing on stone tablets, smiting the enemy and making sure that everyone’s life is pain-free, tragedy-free and death-free. As people of faith, it looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us. Before we can get anyone to take us seriously, though, we will have to earn their trust. And that will take a lot more than a few benjamins.
This is my first experiment with audio, using the app “Audioboo”. My plan is to produce a daily audio devotional using the lessons from Scripture appointed for each weekday in Lent. More details later. Enjoy (hopefully!).
Over the weekend, I read with interest an opinion piece in our local newspaper, in which the columnist, a retired school teacher, wrote passionately about the need for more public libraries. The essayist’s premise concerning the necessity of/access to libraries was cogent enough. The author argued that people within our communities (particularly children and young people) benefit from exposure to the critical thinking, research and synthesis of knowledge enfolded within the pages of books and made available to all through the public and private support of libraries.
The author further argued that the development of problem-solving skills, the ability to draw logical conclusions and the cultivation of rational, discursive thought are the cornerstones for a progressive, intellectual society. A well-schooled, well-rounded populace is then prepared to compete effectively in the global markets, thus securing America’s status in the world (or at the very least obtaining some modicum of economic security for succeeding generations).
Along the way, toward making the point about the role of public libraries in the development of intellectual capital for society as a whole (and children in particular), the author couldn’t resist taking a shot at “churches” as the identified opponents of libraries — indeed of all higher knowledge. For the author, the proliferation of churches was seen as the primary roadblock to any sort of rational progress by our society. I believe the author was implying — if not outright saying — that every church building constructed within our community not only took away a potential location for a library, but also, simultaneously insured somehow, the continued intellectual degradation of our society.
The writer characterized what happens in churches as the promulgation of a superstition-based mythology in which people were taught, not to think for themselves, but instead were fed religious fairy tales. The author’s perception of people who attend churches is that they are decidedly anti-intellectual, too dependent upon one “Book” to the exclusion of other texts, too willing to hand over their minds to “some person” (also known as a religious leader) who tells them what to think, and have gullibly believed in some “magic being” beyond the sky who will rescue them from their problems. I could certainly appreciate the author’s fervor, even if I didn’t quite enjoy the polemic.
I actually agree that libraries are a key component in the intellectual and cultural life of a community. But I didn’t so much appreciate the author’s unfriendly characterization of churches. The author didn’t exactly say it this way, but I could summarize the column’s assessment of churches thusly: churches are places set aside to house non-thinking, sheep-like dullards incapable of asking meaningful questions as they pitifully bleat their way through this life on their way to the grave of disappointment, utterly dependent upon some authority to tell them how to manage their absurd trip. The criticism offered by the columnist was scathing. So I wrote the essayist a letter.
I don’t expect I’ll hear back. It’s far easier to caricature all religious people than it is to understand the diversity of intellectual openness within each religious tradition. It’s far easier to believe that libraries are the products of post-Enlightenment intellectual prowess than to acknowledge they are the outgrowths of the key role religion played in the preservation and promulgation of the written words in the West for centuries after the Fall of the Roman Empire. It’s easier to ignore the Church’s role in the establishment of institutions of higher learning throughout the Middle Ages and into the present time. Of course, if the author had visited a library and read a bit of history, those facts might not have been overlooked.
What most saddened me, though, as I read the column, is that yet again I see how those of us who happen to be the sort of church folk who value a good argument, understand our own ignorance and seriously want to wrestle with the big questions of existence have done such a good job of keeping our conversations to ourselves, very few people outside our walls know they can bring their own doubts and wonderings “to church” with them. We’ve also been far too complacent in allowing other parts of the Christian Church to set the terms of the dialogue and define what it means to be “Christian”. I wonder if the author of that column has ever had a conversation with a Christian who isn’t threatened by questions, but rather welcomes them. Such conversations (or even an argument or two!) would be fun to have. In the meantime, here’s the closing paragraph from my letter to the columnist:
“I would like to suggest to you that not all people who go to church believe the Bible is a book of science. In fact there are plenty of us believe science (including the “Big Bang” and evolutionary theories!) helps us understand our universe, while the Scriptures give us some clues for figuring out our place in it. There are, in fact, plenty of us who think the purpose of “congregating” isn’t to have some person give us pat answers, but rather it’s an opportunity to explore our questions and confront our doubts in the company of fellow travelers through this mystery we call life. Some of us read books, think critically and believe the human capacity for exploration and creativity are to be encouraged and supported at all costs, even if that ultimately means the end of religion as we know it, and we believe maybe that was the point of religion all along — not to bind us up, but to set us free. But what do I know? I’m just one of those redundant, library-trained clergy that are of little use in a ‘thinking’ society.”
I know a person who, a little over seven years ago, along with his wife and several other couples, sold their homes, left their jobs and moved from all over the country to a city in the southeastern United States where they felt God was “leading them” to start a church. This group of less than twenty people studied Scripture together, prayed together and dreamed together. None of the folks in the group were much over 30 years old at the time. Only one had received formal theological training. But they felt their call from God was simple — to plant a congregation to reach the generation of folks all of the pollsters say aren’t interested in “organized religion” or “attending church”.
Five years ago, with on a Sunday morning, in a borrowed high school space, the fledgling congregation had its first worship service. Slightly over 200 people attended. From these roots of faithful action a full-on “mega-church” with multiple locations has blossomed. Last year, the average total weekend worship attendance was slightly over 7,500. There are 18 “worship experiences” in six different locations across their city. The revenue of the ministry exceeded $11,000,000, of which 12% was distributed to outreach ministries and mission partners across their local community and throughout the world. Over the course of two weekends in the fall of 2012, over 2,000 people were baptized (by immersion!). This morning, I watched a few of the dozens of videos that populate the church’s website — a website that is engaging, intuitive, hi-tech and hi-def — a website which projects the energy of people who have been transformed by the Gospel.
The mission of this mega-church is simple: “So that people far from God will be raised to life in Christ.”
As I watched one of the videos highlighting the 12-day revival this church conducted in January, I found myself staring at my computer screen through tear-soaked eyes, thinking, “What if something like that could happen here in Wauwatosa?”
Of course, the thought of what might be possible with God was immediately countered by everything I’ve learned in nine years of ordained ministry in the Episcopal Church. I know “large numbers” aren’t in our ethos. I learned that in seminary. I know that the “Mainline is in decline from the sidelines of the culture.” Every document I receive from our “national office” seems to underscore this alleged reality. I’ve been guilty of quoting those statistics myself. I’ve certainly gotten the impression from many “in the know” that our job is to accept our fate as an increasingly marginalized, anachronistic ecclesiastical species of Christians and occupy ourselves with answering questions no one in the culture is asking: “Will the liturgy be Rite I or Rite II? Why do we bow when the Cross carried in procession arrives at our pew? Why do people cross themselves? Will there be incense on Christmas Eve?”
Yawn. And we wonder why we’re an afterthought? And we actually have to theorize about why people would rather curl up with a loved one, the New York Times and a cup of Starbucks on a Sunday morning after a week of being overworked, over-stressed and over-stretched than trudge through another cookie-cutter liturgy (albeit thoughtfully arranged and flawlessly executed in accordance with the rubrics of the Book of Common Prayer)?
While watching those videos this morning, I’ve been confronted with the awareness of how I have unintentionally colluded with an attitude I’m coming to believe is unfaithful to the Gospel. This attitude, so prevalent in many quarters of our Church, seems to be that it’s more important to fit in, keep quiet, move along, not make waves and avoid failure at all costs (even if avoiding failure means never doing anything other than next Sunday’s liturgy). In spite of all of our linguistic gymnastics to the contrary, our denominational behavior witnesses that, “It’s better to settle in for the long slow decline towards death than to take any sort of REAL risk that might end in failure.” We have confused the worship of God, supported and nourished by our Episcopal ethos, with the worship of the ethos itself.
I’m not ranting. I’m lamenting. I love this Church! I just happen to love God more. I believe the Episcopal Church has a message for those who are hungry, hurting and dying (literally, spiritually and metaphorically). I believe God can actually work through all of our idiosyncrasies to feed, to heal and to bring new life. And, yes, I believe when some of that stuff happens, people will actually be lined up outside of our Red Doors EARLY — for fear of not being able to find a seat when the liturgy starts. Can you imagine?
I’m not suggesting “mega-church” status should be a goal for the parish I serve or any other parish for that matter. I simply wonder why we seem to be so proud of “micro-church” status. This morning, for a few minutes I was inspired by the possibility that we Episcopalians don’t have to accept the fate the pundits (inside and outside our denomination) have been assigning to us for the past twenty years. We can make a difference. If a few souls in Jerusalem “turned the world upside down” (see the Book of Acts), and if a couple of dozen crazy, idealistic young people started from scratch and in a few years have a congregation the size of a small town in Wisconsin, then what could happen if only a few Episcopalians took the denominational blinders off and believed God for an outpouring of the Holy Spirit?
Oh, that will never happen, Gary!
What if it did?
I grew up in a frugal household. My parents, both children of the late Depression, are fiscally conservative by nature. Throughout my childhood, our small family ate meals of simple food, wore simple clothing, sat on simple furniture and feverishly saved every additional penny we could squeeze out of the budget in order to put money away for the (ever-threatening) rainy day. While I always thought we had “enough”, I was certain there wasn’t a whole lot of “extra”.
There were two exceptions to the perpetual frugality rule.
Christmas! As the son of a paper mill laborer and the daughter of a sharecropper, my parents had never received much more in their Christmas stockings than a piece of fruit and maybe a pair of socks or a little (often handmade) toy. Thus, they were determined to go “all out” on Christmas for their two children. And they did! I cannot remember ever asking for something and not receiving it for Christmas. Only now do I recognize what sacrifices my mom and dad made to make those magical Christmases come to life for my sister and me.
Books! My parents had been taught by their parents that even if a formal education was impossible, one could always educate one’s self through the discipline of reading. (My maternal grandfather embodied this principle with his multiple-volume library of law books which he had read cover to cover dozens of times by the time I was born in the late 1950’s. Suffice it to say, one could never win an argument with Grandpa!) At any rate, this reverence for books passed down to me through my parents. I had a library card at age six. We had a set of World Book Encyclopedias that I read like story books in our house. My parents never, ever quibbled about me using a part of my allowance to purchase the latest Hardy Boys detective novel at the department store or a new historical biography from the Scholastic Book Fair at school. I received positive reinforcement from every side for my reading obsession, and so I read, and read and read.
This early passion for books has continued throughout my adulthood. I still read and read and read. But along the way, something happened. I forgot the joy of savoring a text from start to finish (regardless of genre). Reading became more about consuming. Chewing up words. Gleaning paragraphs incessantly for the salient line, the perfect turn of phrase, the helpful tidbit of advice, the slam-dunk argument or a flawless piece of rhetoric. I became a consumer of knowledge, but I lost the ability to marinade in wisdom. Books were proliferating around me — literally taking over every conceivable inch of space (and more!) that could be devoted to holding them. I was reading faster than ever, on some sort of insane mission to do my best to defy the motto, “So many books, so little time.”
And then, last year during my sabbatical, I spent some time at a Jesuit Retreat House. On my first day there, the spiritual director assigned me the following task: “For your first two days, give your eyes and your head a break. Don’t read anything. Take a walk. Take a nap. Pray. If you absolutely have to read something, read the Bible. My guess is, you’ve forgotten how to read it for the wisdom God has dropped in it for the benefit of your soul, because you’ve been too busy trying to figure out how to write a sermon for the souls in your parish.” (Gotta love those Jesuits who can cut to the chase! God Bless St. Ignatius!)
So, I followed Bernie’s counsel.The first 24 hours, were torturous. There I was, at a retreat center (with a monster bookstore!) and I was not supposed to read! What did I do? Well, I walked. I prayed. I sat and looked at the mountains. I felt the breeze on my face. I enjoyed the warmth of the sun. I slept too. And at the end of the 48 hour reading fast, I read a book. This time slowly, thoughtfully and luxuriously. It was the best book I could remember reading in YEARS! The experience was like getting that first piece of chocolate after a Lenten fast from the stuff!
Upon my return to the “real world” of pastoral ministry, though, I began to notice how things were speeding up again. I was back to consuming words for the purpose of reformulating them to spew them back out — either in parish newsletters, blog posts or sermons. I was quickly back to the business of knowledge acquisition and steadily drifting away from the percolation of thought necessary to uncover any sort of wisdom.
Finally, about three weeks ago, I put myself on a “book fast” — no new additions to my collection for a period of ninety days, and the fast applied to all books, including the electronic variety. After a day or so on the “fast”, I decided to use this time to purge shelves of the books I now know I will either never read or never read again. I’ve been working away at this project and I can see space begin to open up around me. I feel like I can breathe again. I feel lighter. I feel free to sit and stare out the window without the constant feeling that I “should be reading”. I don’t know how much “wiser” I will be when this exercise is completed, but I am very sure the “getting of wisdom” can’t be reduced to the number of books collected or pages turned anyway.
Whew!
It’s been almost a month since I’ve sat down and “pressed” out a few words! I didn’t intend to be so long absent from my blog, but I have been completely sidetracked by a personal project. Every spare moment since the beginning of this year has been devoted to the ongoing work of de-cluttering the environments in which I work and live.
I’ve ditched (oops, RECYCLED!) all manner of paper with reckless abandon, simplified the look of my parish office by removing most of the visual clutter and cleared shelf space at the office and at home by giving away (so far) almost 100 books in the past three weeks. In the meantime, I’m now 16 days into a 90 day “book fast” in which I have pledged to purchase no new books (either paper or electronic) until at least April 9, 2012. As of today, I’m seriously thinking about extending the “fast” another 90 days…until July 8, 2012.
Why?
Well, I’ll talk about my “commodification of knowledge” tendencies in the next few days, but in the meantime, I’ll simply enjoy the feelings of peacefulness derived from being able to see my desktop and easily open the now empty lateral file cabinet and credenza drawers. I still have one major filing unit left to empty in my work space, but I’ll get to it soon enough.
And to what do I owe this little conversion toward simplicity after a lifetime of collecting “stuff”?
I can’t say, exactly…except that I was tired of feeling hemmed in by unread books, unfinished projects, unanswered e-mails and unused files. I was overstuffed with paper stuff and I needed to take drastic “paper weight loss” action. With the establishment of my clutter-free zones, I am experiencing, for the first time in years, a sense of order and a feeling of calm that is a bit difficult to describe.
I think the seeds for this work were planted while on sabbatical. For two and a half months, I didn’t worry about papers and e-mails and files. Sheer bliss. When I returned to work, within two weeks I was feeling “overwhelmed”. And honestly, why would any parishioner want to confide in a priest who is harried, stressed and/or chronically disorganized? Aren’t clergy called to model a different way of life for those in their care?
I don’t know how long the cleaning mojo will last, but I’m going to hold on with all my might. I’ll keep you posted! Promise.
Plenty of people are writing the story of 2011 — what happened, who died, what started, what ended — the story in events, pictures and people. Plenty of other people are offering all the usual advice about appropriate resolutions for the new year, while simultaneously explaining to us the likelihood most (if not all) of our resolutions will come to naught — good intentions dashed to pieces on the rocky shores of day to day living. Sure, the “last day of the year” and the “first day of the year” are arbitrary. A “new year” begins tomorrow only because of the tacit agreement throughout most of the world to observe it as so.
I think I’ve learned a few lessons this year, though, and as I think back over the previous 365 days, it seemed “meet and right” (and maybe even my “bounden duty”) to reflect on what 2011 has taught me. Here goes:
I learned that I’m happiest when working on a “big goal”. The Tour de DioMil (http://www.tourdediomil.weebly.com) was my sabbatical project and represented the biggest physical challenge of any sort I had ever undertaken. The goal of raising a bunch of money for three charities, meeting my fellow Episcopalians throughout southern Wisconsin and seeing the countryside in the process was an idea that “came to me” — and unlike so many previous big ideas — I actually followed through on this one! In the end, I had the privilege of riding 538 miles in nine days (with two rest days), and together with other participants in the Tour and the steadfast support of Trinity Church in Wauwatosa, WI, we raised a bit over $20,000 in the process. The memories of those two weeks will remain with me as long as I have a memory.
I learned that I don’t have to do all the work — that others will help if asked. For all the joy that the Tour represented for me, it would have never happened were it not for the consistent and dedicated work of LOTS of people! Details aren’t generally my passion, but I was delighted to discover that other folks were willing to help me realize my dream…and that there were plenty of people who were energized by the goal.
I learned that I love to meet new people and experience new places. My trip to Ireland was my first ever trip outside of the United States. I learned so much about hospitality while I was there, as a guest in a little village of 300. I really learned the value of neighborliness, of slowing down, and of relishing a meal with friends. I can hardly wait for my next trip and I look forward to going with my family next time! This is a great, big world. It’s so easy to let our world get smaller and smaller. And at the risk of sounding trite, I want my mind to expand through the last (hopefully) half of my life, not constrict with the opinions and attitudes that result from cultural myopia.
I learned that I do better work when I take care of myself. OK, there has been so much written about this in the wellness field, it should be a given, but the tendency toward cranking out lots of hours in hopes of somehow proving something to others is an addictive-like behavior that is glorified in our culture and deeply embedded in my family of origin. I’m doing better since my return from sabbatical in October, but there’s still some opportunity for improvement.
I learned that I can say “No” and the world won’t end. Upon my return from sabbatical, I stopped doing some things that I had been doing — things that were time/energy consuming, but gave me very little satisfaction in return. When I jettisoned those things from my schedule, I discovered the joy that came from being just a bit less harried and rushed.
I learned that time invested in one’s primary relationships is indispensable for the growth of those relationships. There is no “quality” time without “quantity” time. Sometimes the most important thing one can do is to do nothing at all with the people with whom we share our lives. As a priest, I often pray with folks during their last days and hours in this life — and the cliche is true — no one ever says, “You know, Gary, I wish I had spend more time at work.” This year, I began to learn that lesson for myself too.
Finally, I learned that I’d rather be known as a person of prayer than an “effective rector”. Now, I don’t think those two things are mutually exclusive, but during my sabbatical, I came to understand it’s easier to do “rector-stuff” than it is to sit still and pray. Of course, once I identified my desire to be a better “pray-er” I began to confront my struggles with the enterprise. So, I haven’t arrived as a person of prayer, but I think I’m a bit further down the path.
As I look back over the year — with its ups and downs; things done and left undone; successes and failures — I’m delighted to report I’m facing into the waning hours of 2011 with a feeling of settledness that hasn’t often been a part of my internal emotional wiring. In a break from years past, I haven’t crafted a long list of resolutions to carry with me into tomorrow. Instead, I’m going to endeavor to take my 2011 lessons into 2012. I resolve to build on those lessons and see where the Spirit leads. That should be enough.
soulwerker 