Don’t flay the sheep.

And let’s not forget…

Here’s the confirmation class of Park Ridge Community Church, 1965.

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.

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Continental Drift

Really, this is big news even to me:

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!

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Observations from 7 miles there and back on the lakefront trail

1. Running with another person once in awhile probably makes me less of a misanthrope. I usually run alone (or with Abram, who, to honest, I ignore for the bulk of the run: he’s in his stroller, I’m running, we’re each doing our own thing). I listen to sermons and music and podcasts. it’s ncie. But my friend Carrie was a pretty good running companion. Also, she made me go faster.
2. 14 miles is a long way to run. Ouch. Normally, almost exactly 24 hours after a big run, I get really sore. I hurt when I limped into the parking lot (where Carrie was generously waiting for me) at the end. I preach in a congregation tomorrow where I’ve never preached before. I hope I can make it into the pulpit without assistance.
3. Anyone who says cities are devoid of natural wonders isn;t looking hard enough. I was 12 feet away from a loon today, just off the lakefront outside of the Shedd Aquarium. I also spent some time contemplating the beautiful unique markings on seagull tails. And then there were the variety of crab apple blossoms by one of the harbors.
4. Running on Navy Pier, Carrie and I were witness to those milling about outside of a girls cheer team competition. No offense, but any “sport” that involves putting your not quite 5 year old girl in hoochie, butt-hugging shorts or skirts, opaque glitter eyeshadow, and teaching her to dance like THAT is a little frightening to me. We both prayed that  our daughters (Zora and Fincher) never ask to get involved with this.
5. My sister is marrying Carrie’s brother this summer. Which means my kids get to do a flower-girl/ring-bearer gig with Carrie’s kids. All of these children have unusual, but awesome names. (Mine: Zora and Abram; Carrie’s: Caiden, Fincher, and Remke.) I’m thinking I might make awesome kid’s names a prerequisite for running with me.
6. I pooped out around mile 12. But I kept going. That’s a good thing, right?
7. I need to find a way to dictate sermons while I run. Somewhere around mile 10, I figured out what I need to with this sermon. The old Latin phrase, “Solvitur ambluando” (it is solved by walking)? Running, too!

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Shock and Ha!

(I couldn’t resist this title, har, har, har!)

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.

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Citizens of the World

Last week I fulfilled a months-old promise to Zora to make a big pot of Dutch split pea soup. She loves it. Not just for the taste, but also because, at age 3, she thought it was called “Spit Pee Soup,” and what preschooler doesn’t love a name that counts two bodily functions among its obscenity?

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.”

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Wise Child

Zora stepped out on the porch this morning to check the temperature.

“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.

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Outsiders

News reports about the New York Police Department’s intensive surveillance of Muslims after 9/11 shock me, but particularly reports that just attending a Mosque made someone a target for observation. License plate numbers were taken from cars in the lot. They wanted an informant in every mosque.

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.

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Ash Wednesday: How It All Went Down

We did it: took the kids out long past their bedtime for Ash Wednesday.

It was too much work to schlepp them downtown to the church we attend right now, so given the choices of churches I’ve never attended in our neighborhood, I went Lutheran. I think the Lutherans are good at Lent. Plus, while I love creative liturgies, sometimes too much creativity is not a good thing. And I figured the Lutherans wouldn’t play it too fast and loose.

It was a good pick, the full Ashes shebang, complete with standing in the courtyard to burn palms at the beginning.

Abram held hands with the lady sitting in the pew behind us (that kid is a flirt), and wasn’t too fussy. Zora was pretty good. Except for the point during the offering, when she was rather loudly pointing out that “this is BORING”. (Note: even a worship service which starts with 4 foot flames doesn’t qualify as exciting. Zora’s a bit of a thrill seeker.)

My kids had ashes smudged on their foreheads. And they took communion. (Zora wigged out a little after downing her cup and discovering that it was full-on wine…no intinction at this place.)

And then we all walked home together. It hailed for a few blocks. But it stopped. And Zora felt like it was warm enough to make Erik carry her coat. (A little too much wine, I think.) She practiced her skipping, and kept asking if her ashes were still intact.

The walk home was the best part of my day. Both Zora and I had temper tantrums earlier. I was wondering if we should just stay home.

But we needed this tonight.

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Lent: There’s a whole lot of work to do around here

Shrove Tuesday run: a full on illustration of why I need a season of re-examination. I’m not proud of how this all went down. (Future pastor search committees: if you thought I’d be a good fit for your pulpit because you wanted someone who was a lot like Jesus, you’ll probably be moving on to other candidates by the time you finish reading this.)

The plan was to go for 40 minutes, about 3 1/2 miles at my penguin-like pace. So I suited up for the nippy weather, wrestled poor Abram into his gear, and away we went. We should note, too that I fueled up for this run with a smoothie. Super healthy. And brownies. Note, not A brownie. Brownies plural. I will pay for that decision not only during the run, but this afternoon when Zora gets home and loudly notes that all the brownies are gone, and asks for an accounting of exactly who ate how many. Then she will (rightly) lecture me on healthy eating.

In my renewed (2 week long) commitment to running regularly, I’ve confirmed that sermon podcasts are, indeed, my best running companion. Plus, it turns running time into an unquestionable spiritual practice.

However, I am picky about my sermons. Snobbish and provincial, even. So I listen to a new preacher this morning, and decide I don’t like her. Partly because she’s younger than me, and it makes me jealous that she got on a podcast. (So much for spiritual practice there huh?)

After deliberating about whether or not skip this particular sermon, my mind drifts. I should find time today to buy an awesome new coloring book for Zora because I have a sort-of-job-interview meeting that she has to tag along to this afternoon. And she’s already informed me that the cafe with toys where we were planning to meet, where she had BEGGED to go for breakfast earlier this week, is really not all that awesome. I think about driving to Target later. Or maybe I’ll detour at this corner and plan on running until I get to that art supply store that’s about 2 miles away.

As my impatience with this annoying young preacher (because I’ve now decided that she is annoying) mounts, I notice my favorite looks-like-vintage-ladies-store (which goes by the name of the field of study of human behavior) ahead. Sometimes they have awesome, artsy coloring books, sometimes on sale. I’ll go in and check. This will give me an excuse to stop running (I’m just not feeling it today) and to stop listening to the annoying preacher.

Turns out they do have an awesome coloring books on sale. I buy two, one for Zora and one for the birthday party present stash, which is getting a little low. (I make a mental note to actually, finally, reply to the birthday invite for Zora for this weekend…a mommy task at which I am frequently an utterly impolite failure.)

This particular establishment also has extensive clothing sale racks. By “sale” I mean that their normally outrageous prices come down to the sort of price I would maybe consider paying for a piece of clothing.

I’ve got that interview type thing this afternoon. A new shirt would make me feel confident. Plus, I’ve been running for two weeks. I deserve it. With this rationalization, I find a shirt and further rationalize that it is mostly black and thus qualifies as what I think of as hipster-pastor-wear. I add it to the coloring books, even though I really shouldn’t be buying it.

On my way to the cash register, I pass silent mental judgment on a mother who is frustrated with her 3 year old for taking off her coat. Even as I do it, I hear the sound of my own impatient voice being unreasonable with my own children on other occasions.

I give myself some credit for continuing to run after I leave the store.

But that’s about all I can give myself credit for.

It’s Shrove Tuesday, but that’s really no excuse for the envy, sloth, gluttony, among other things, that darken my day.

I’m ready for the smudgy ashes, and for the call to a observe a holy Lent.

Wednesday can’t come soon enough.

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Talking Ashes with the Baby: Practical

My previous post laid out some of my theoretical thinking about how to talk to kids about difficult bits and pieces of theology.

Here’s how that theory plays out for me in talking about death (sadly, a big topic around here in the last year). And then, some ideas about how I’m planning to talk to Zora about Ash Wednesday.

Death and Dying

Zora, at age 5 1/2, hasn’t been completely isolated from death. Seven of her great grandparents were alive when she was born. (One of the surviving great grandmas turns 102 this year!) Three have since died. She’s been to every one of those funerals.

My grandmother died a little over a year ago. Since she lived in Chicago, this was the great grandmother she knew the best.

These have been our most helpful lines in helping her process.

We acknowledge that this is sad. It makes us sad and her sad. It makes other people we love sad. We all need to take care of each other.

We still talk about grandma. And we encourage her to talk about her.

We remind her, that even though this is sad, we don’t have to worry about grandma, because we know that God is taking care of her. Someday we will see her again, because God will take care of all of us when we die. This is my most thought-out line of discussion with Zora. I worry about heaven language because I don’t want her to think that heaven is a place with clouds and angel babies. I also want to leave room later on for talking to her about the whole New Creation concept. So I don’t want the idea of a spiritual “heaven” to get in the way of ideas about a physical re-creation.

All of this isa moving target, too. I have to explain more and more to her as she understands more and more and picks things up. Do pets go to God when they die? Is grandma watching us from heaven? etc etc

Ash Wednesday

Honestly, having covered the death thing, stuff like Ash Wednesday seems a whole lot easier.

The first thing for me about a worship ritual like Ash Wednesday: it’s about experience. And this is a GREAT one for kids because there’s a physical action built in: imposition of ashes. Even the baby gets something out of a physical action.

I’m going to give Zora some basic explanation. Probably along these lines:

This is a day when we remember that God made us. In your Bible books, it says God made the first people out of the dust of the earth. So we have dust put on our foreheads to remind us that God made us.

Some people also put dust on themselves when they are sad that things aren’t going the way they should. Like when people die. Or when people do mean things to each other.

So that dust is a reminder that God made us and that God made us to be good. And it reminds us to try to be good like God made us.

I might also bring up some things from her baptism: that we made the sign of the cross on her head with water when she was baptized, just like the ash cross.

And then, we’ll just have to see where it goes. The questions are always the fun part!

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