Clearly I’m not going to tell you that facebook is a sign of the end times or anything. In fact, lately, I’ve been joking with many of my pastor friends that I would appreciate it if they stopped giving facebook up for Lent, since my family’s finacial future may depend on whether or not people are using it.

My friend Bethany (visit her brilliant blog on inappropriate quotation marks here) just tweeted this:

“Confused by how frequently folks refer to facebook time as “wasted.” A lot of my facebook time is interacting with and supporting friends.”

I’ve been thinking about this. Maybe not coincidentally since a conversation I had with Bethany’s dad a month ago.

And her tweet is a good example of this social media phenomenon and the term “friendship”. By no stretch of the imagination could I say that Bethany is a close friend of mine. Nor her dad. In fact, I don’t think Bethany and I have ever met face to face. And I’m bummed out that just as I’m leaving the Chicago area for California, she’s headed to Chicago, where she’ll be working with a bunch of people who I happen to know in “real” life. (Hey, Bethany! Let me know if those were totally inappropriate quotation marks!)

But, she’s a friend of my friend Katherine who, after being someone I mostly knew online, has become one of my closest in the flesh friends (this friendship, by the way, never would have happened without social media). And those two, actually have a relationship that goes back to some old internet forums. Which is how Katherine met Bethany’s dad online. And why Katherine was excited when he came to speak at my church a year ago. You know how this goes.

Anyway, back to Bethany’s tweet.

I replied to her:

“w/or w/out social media, the question to be asked is: are my dealings w/ friends superficial or deep & redemptive?”

(I do hate that we mangle the language like this on twitter, but there you have it.)

The thing about social media for me is that it has been a lifesaver. I’m a pastor. This is a profession that is often professionally and socially isolating, in part because you are ripped away from the support network you develop while training to be a pastor. I value deeply those people with whom I went through seminary. And I value the other pastors who have come into my life as mentors and colleagues since then.

Of course, you don’t need the internet to keep in touch with these people. My Dad and my Grandpa are both pastors, and they managed to do it. But sometimes, those treasured moments of contact were few and far between.

(My Grandma tells the story of a time when my Grandpa was leading a tour of New Testament sights in the middle east. By some strange sequence of events involving a broken down bus and back roads, he wound up getting off his bus on a dirt road in the middle of no where in Turkey, as one of his seminary classmates got off the other bus, and the two men embraced in the middle of that road. You never know when you’re going to be able to see someone again sometimes!)

Things like blogs and facebook and twitter have allowed me to keep up relationships that might fall away as I’ve moved, as my seminary friends have moved, as time has passed. And often they’ve also enabled me to jump right back into a face to face, in the flesh moment with one of those people.

I’ve also made new friends this way. Friends of friends, people I’ve gone to conferences with, other members of organizations. And some of these people have become my dearest friends.

I’ll admit. I should check these sites less often. They are a terrible curse for the procrastinator who may have a little side of AHDH.

But there are lots of other things that I do too much of, as well. I eat too much chocolate. I listen to NPR too much (no, really, it’s a sick addiction). I am way too in love with my iphone (members of my previous youth group, who are probably not reading this, would giggle at that one, because I used to gently, I hope, poke fun at their constant need to be touching their phones). I bite my fingernails. There are times when I really shouldn’t have another glass of wine. I buy too much yarn. And let’s not get started on my cheese problem.

And there are times when I need to turn off the social media and pay attention to the in the flesh life that I am living in the here and now.

But, that doesn’t mean that social media itself is bad.

It’s how you use it. And how it uses you.

My parents grew up in a denomination that had a number of bans on social vices. Specifically: theater-going; movies; dancing; card playing and gambling (note that smoking and alcohol were OK…not every branch of Christianity had trouble with the same things).

Those bans were lifted when people pointed to the fact that it wasn’t those things in themselves that were bad (although, I’ll admit I sort of feel that way about gambling). The problem was how they could be abused and used inappropriately.

Most of the people of faith I hang around with are not of the sort who would all out ban social media in their faith communities. (Remember that pastor who banned facebook in his church because it made it too easy, he said, for people to commit adultery? And, it turns out that he was involved in a little sexual impropriety himself, perhaps with no help from facebook at all?)

But, I do have friends, like I said, who give it up for lent or talk about getting rid of it altogether.

That might be a good thing to do. I really should “fast” from social media myself sometimes.

But it’s not the thing itself that is the problem. As with so very many aspects of our human condition, it’s what we do with the thing.

One more story about this: my husband’s Grandpa Orville, as a farmer in Northern Wisconsin, helped start the telephone coop in his area. One time, he had to go out and install a phone at the home of an Amish family. The gentleman asked him to put it on the porch. Orville pointed out that it was an odd place for a phone. But the man said he wanted it on the porch so that “I can use it, but it can’t use me.”

The solution is not to ban things, unless we are so deeply addicted that there’s no other way. But to recognize and evaluate how we use it to order our lives in a way that helps us to live in the fulness God intended, and helps us love others into that same fulness.

Overall, when the sun is shining and life is good, I’m quick to say that Church belongs to Jesus, and it’ll survive in spite of us.

But, there are times when I’ve been reading a bit too much about the decline of the Church: how we aren’t doing it right anymore, the pews are emptier and emptier; young adults are absent from our congregations; churches are closing; there will be fewer and fewer positions for “professional” pastors. (And, darn it, what am I supposed to do about that when I was encouraged to shoot straight from college to seminary and into the ministry? My job skills are a little limited!)

And, on top of that, I start to wonder if I am hip enough to be one of the professionals who will survive. Plus, it’s really hard sometimes to do this and be a Mom (have you heard about our horrible nanny saga?); and my baby didn’t sleep last night and I’m tired and he won’t take his afternoon nap, so I can’t catch up on phone calls or work on my sermon.

Did I mention that my husband is moving us across the country and I have to navigate a whole new region of the country and figure out if there’s a place I can serve?

And…and…and…yes, this is the anxiety speaking.

But then, I sit down at my desk, and see this little slip of paper that escaped from a pile of files I organized yesterday:

It’s the announcement of my ordination in the Ebenezer Christian Reformed Church bulletin (my home church during college and seminary). My Grandma Garry clipped it for me. She would give her grandkids envelopes of things she’d clipped, things she thought related to their lives. I think it was part of how she prayed for us. I also know that she clipped and saved those things that made her particularly proud.

And I start to think. Someone wrote that: “God’s faithful provision of leadership for the church.” Someone thought that of my, that I was God’s faithful provision. Chuck and Millie were sent on behalf of an entire congregation.

My Grandma, who grew up in a church that would never DREAM of ordaining a woman, would spit fire at anyone who suggested that her granddaughter perhaps was a little too female to be a pastor (and, spit she did, because I was ordained into a denomination that was still figuring this out while I was in seminary).

There were people who invested in a scholarship for women students at my seminary, and invested in me becoming a minister.

Not to mention other family members, the good church people, classmates, friends, mentors who affirmed my call and pushed me along the path when I wasn’t sure.

I have no idea, most days, what “church” will look like down the road. But there are a whole lot of people standing behind me who pushed me forward because they thought I was part of this faithful provision.

So I’d probably better get off my sorry, anxiety filled rear and get to work on that sermon and start thinking about polishing up my resume for some place somewhere in California that, eventually, somehow, needs someone like me.

Because I’m sure my Grandma and whole lot of other good and faithful saints would be spitting fire if I just threw up my hands in frustration.

My first baby, Zora, was easy in the begetting. (I’ll just leave it at that.) Number two: not so much.

Erik and I planned, in our not so infinite wisdom, to have kids a bit closer together. Maybe two years apart? But as Zora approached four years old, the plan wasn’t working out so well. Our first baby was old enough that she was verbally begging us for a sibling. We decided to get the medical people involved.

The short version of this is that we really only had to dip our toe into the world of fertility treatments. I hesitate to use the term “infertility” because I don’t want to demean the level of struggle and pain that a much longer sojourn toward a baby is for many people.

And, this post is not about what it took medically to get us pregnant. It’s about the day in May when I found out, for certain, that the beautiful change had taken hold.

The call from your clinic, when you are in the midst of this, is the monthly moment of truth. You might be in the car, driving off on a short road trip. Or at at your desk slogging through an e-mail inbox. Or in the grocery store. Chances are, you’re somewhere mundane, because the truth is that most of life is mundane.

But, in this case, for the call when the nurse said, “Yes!” I was somewhere perfect. It was a monday in May, and we drove the 45 minutes to my parents condo in a highrise that backs up onto a sandy beach on the North Side of Chicago. I had gone down to the beach alone.

I wanted some time. I had a strong suspicion, backed up by certain calendar-related physical evidence, that this month might be the month. So I was sitting alone on the beach. It was warm, but not too warm. There was barely anyone out there. The cars running on Lake Shore Drive, just south of the beach, blended in with the little waves. With your back to the city, Lake Michigan went on and on.

My phone rang.

The nurse said, “Congratulations…”

I don’t know what I said next, or what she said. I worried that I didn’t sound excited enough because I didn’t whoop or holler.

But I do remember the exact way that the sand by my toes looked. I remember the little bits and pieces of shell, mixed up with pebbles and flat beads of sea glass. I remember the lake smell, part life, part rot. I remember that the sun was only a little warm.

And I remember that I waited a few minutes to call my husband and then my Mom. Because for just a few minutes, it was just my news.

Abram is 15 months old now. He is, without question, beautiful. Strangers stop in their tracks when he smiles at them. His sister says he’s the thing she’s proudest of (although she hates the mess he makes of her stuff). Now that he’s walking, I’m going to make sure he gets as much time as possible on that beach, in the sand, in the water, with the city behind us and the big lake stretching out to forever.

Less than 10 confirmed their faith. But it was beautiful, each coming forward in turn with their family and adults from the congregation who have mentored and taught and walked with them, kneeling, with the weight of those faithful hands on their shoulders and heads.

I’ve been thinking about the next thing for me and for the church lately (our impending move to the west coast seems a little like taking a time machine about 10 years ahead in church history).

And I agree with many people that the models of how we do church will and have to change.

But meanwhile, we shouldn’t forget: there are still families bringing their children to these “traditional” (whatever that means in a religion with a 2000 year history!) churches; there are still pastors and church leaders and good faithful people working to bring people up in the faith.

And even if there are only 8 instead of 30 on confirmation Sunday, that is something to be celebrated amidst the panic and questions about the future of the mainline. In fact, the responsibilities of those 8 are so much greater than of the 30, don’t you think?

We’re putting our hands on them and putting them in the hands of a God who has been faithful to us for 2000 years of tumultuous history.

I know the future of the church looks different maybe than these churches. But they are still doing good and faithful work. And we can’t forget that.

The Schemper-Vorhes family is moving to California!

About this time last year, Erik and I were signing a lease for an apartment in Chicago and plotting the move from St. Charles to the city. We had a (flexible-ish) plan that didn’t involve leaving Chicago, at least for a couple of years.

Last week, Erik accepted a position at Facebook, in Menlo Park, CA. This was not exactly part of the plan.

Erik leaves for California on Mothers’ Day. The kids and I will be here until just short of mid September while I finish out my current position. (yes, this is just a bit of a logistical nightmare. But we can do it!)

And then we become Californians.

I am sad about leaving Chicago. It’s been home since I was 15. I have lots of family here. I have lovely friends. I have a beautiful neighborhood, and a 5 year who love to ride the CTA. I can go for a run, from my house, around Wrigley Field and back. There’s a beautiful lake. And hot dogs. And quirky politicians.

But, I’m a little excited. My Dad’s family is from California. In fact, my Grandpa gifts his grandchildren each with a subscription to Sunset Magazine (only 2 of his 11 grandkids live in California), to tempt us back. My Aunt Fran and Uncle Len will be my closest relatives, and we think they’re wonderful. Erik has a lovely cousin and family there, too. It’s a gorgeous part of the country. We get to learn a new city! I’m really more scared of tornadoes than I am of earthquakes.

So, here we go! If you’re one of my Chicago people, please promise to hang out with me this summer. (I’ll probably be happy to have some adult conversation!) If you live in the Bay Area, we need some new friends!

I just learned something about preaching from that great practical theologian, Judah Friedlander. (He’s currently on the TV show 30 Rock.)

A local afternoon newstalk program just brought him in on their discussion about the increasing raunchiness of TV shows (and, before you draw any conclusions, this would be the supposedly liberal side of the news, my local NPR station!)

The point was made that many shows mistake shock for humor: that the sex, poop, pee, body part, and fart jokes that are taking over many TV shows, are not actually funny. They are just titillating. Or shocking. As Friedlander said, “9/11: shocking. Not funny.” (That’s a harsh example, I know. But it drives home the point.)

Not that I’ve heard many sermons that contain fart and poop jokes, but…

Preachers need to remember that what they say in their sermon needs to have a point beyond shock value. Or, to put it more gently, keeping people awake. On a TV comedy, the point is humor. (And, I’ll admit: there’s a time and a place for a little well-done raunchy humor.)

When preaching, the point is kerygma (going beyond teaching, witnessing to the gospel, in a way that moves people, my probably questionable definition). You can use all sorts of techniques to do this. Humor. Irony. Theological playfulness. Unexpected illustrations. I could go on…

But if the point of any of those things is just to startle people for the sake of novelty and waking them up, it’s not kerygma.

Two days later, there was a Flemish beef stew in the slow cooker. Zora, overcome with joy at the aroma, asked, “Is it split pea soup?” I explained, no it was not. But it was a recipe from a place close to where split pea soup comes from.

Zora was sure, then, that she would like this meal, too, since she is Dutch, and she likes split pea soup and this stew was from nearby.

Last night, we ordered Thai food (Zora’s request. I’ve done something right, I guess, if my kid request Thai rather pizza when we order out!)

And as she and Abram put away an order of spring rolls, Zora says, “Mom, I think Abram and me can be Thai and Dutch. Because we really like Thai food, too.”

“Mom! Mom!’ She came running back into the house, excited.

“You HAVE TO come outside! It’s so peaceful. No one’s talking outside, and there are birds, lots of birds. Migratoring back to Chicago!”

With 5 minutes to change Abram’s diaper and wrestle him into his outerwear, make sure I had my wallet and keys, I had no time for peace on the porch (Oh, the irony…) I suggested that she could put on her coat and take her backpack and sit on the porch until Abram and I came out the door and we walked to school.

So she did. Entranced by the cool,  almost-spring air. And the birds.

On our walk, I told her that I was glad she started her day with some peace.

“I think I’ve been kind of crabby lately because I haven’t been finding enough peaceful places. Like my office. My chair and my books in there were supposed to be my peaceful place. I need to go there more, don’t I?” I said.

She is so wise.

As a clergy-person, that bothers me. Houses of worship are no place for that sort of government behavior. If someone was taking down all the plate numbers in your church parking lot, how would you feel? I’d feel like making a little visit to the local police station, wearing my clerical collar.

When I was a seminary student, studying at the denominational seminary of the little, historically Dutch-American denomination I was raised in and started ministry in, we learned something in a church history class that honestly floored me. (This was about a year before 9/11, I think.)

During World War I, understandably, many English-speaking Americans couldn’t tell the difference between Dutch and German. Of course, the fact that the Germans refer to themselves as “Deutsch.” Besides, they looked pretty similar, these big pale people, so, better safe than sorry, Dutch-speaking people were under suspicion of being sympathetic at best to the Germans. (Full disclosure: there was some fierce debate among some Dutch in America at the time about who to support in the war.)

The state of Iowa actually passed legislation that made it illegal for a worship service to be held in any language other than English. And while some places didn’t enforce this, others did. There were places where law enforcement officers attended church to make sure there was nothing but English spoken.

Meanwhile, “Dutch” churches that refused to put an American flag at the front of their sanctuary, made their children memorize the Heidelberg Catechism in Dutch, and worshipped in Dutch, were suspect.

During the course of that war, many congregations did begin to use English more and more. Partly because, a couple of generations into immigration (this group was not the early New Amsterdam Dutch of the Colonial era, but a later migratory group), their children and grandchildren were speaking English. But it was also because these churches realized that they needed to do things like string up an American flag and learn some hymns in English so that their neighbors would accept them.

While this was no where near the scale of surveillance and discrimination we’ve seen against Muslims in this country in the pst decade, when I hear about Muslim places of worship being suspect, I immediately am reminded that something small but similar happened to my religious great great grandparents. I’m guessing it wasn’t so great for actual German congregations in Iowa, either!

We have historically, as a nation, been capable before of discrimination against a religious group. How quickly we assimilate, and, sadly, join in casting suspicion on people who are different from us.

The thing is, except for a very few truly Native Americans, we were all immigrants once.