Resolutions Still Intact?

blog first published on January 11, 2017

The parking lot was full when I pulled into the gym.  Last time I went, plenty of parking spaces existed close to the door.  During the first week of the year, parking space at health centers is at a premium.   This reality is driven, no doubt, by the turning of the calendar and new year's resolutions.  It is human nature, after all, to make promises at the start of the year that we are going to change.   It is also human nature, to break these promises and remain unchanged.  It won't be long before that parking space near the door is available.

Have you ever wondered why we engage in this annual exercise of resolution making and breaking?  Isn't it a silly thing to do?  

I know that some refuse to participate in the practice.  I honor your choice; what follows is the reason why I make resolutions even though most of them I eventually break.  

I make resolutions in spite of my overall track record because I believe in change.  Specifically, I believe in my ability to make changes that will improve my life, the life of others, and make an overall positive effect on creation.  This belief does not invalidate the theological truth of being simultaneously a saint and sinner.  I know that no change that I make will eliminate my sinful nature or brokenness; Only God can repair such things.  I trust and long in my spirit for God's ultimate redemption, which will happen in God's future and according to God's timetable.

In the meanwhile, I have the ability - and the spiritual calling - to care for my body, relationships, and the world.   In a thousand decisions, great and small, each day, I do have an agency to make a difference.  What is more, my track record could use improvement.   Here is where resolutions play an important role.   Resolutions help identify those areas that we would like to see some change.  What is more,  resolutions invite our active participation in helping to bring about those needed, self-identified corrections.

What about the gym's parking lot?  This week it was full.  It didn't fill the last time that I visited.  
I should mention at this point about the last time that I visited.  It was in May before heading out on sabbatical.  Sabbatical did what it should do - it provided space away from regular routines and practices.  My gym time, which emerged out of 2015's resolutions, was not perfect but I managed to get there on a regular enough basis.  My summer travels took me away from the gym and when I came back my gym time never made it back into the schedule.  Change is difficult because it deals with creating lasting habits.  These patterns take years to form and can be dismantled overnight as life shifts and adjusts.  

Is it a fool's errand to make resolutions at the turning of a calendar year?  For what purpose, to what end do we make resolutions?  We aren't going to change anyway so why bother at all? 

We should bother because we should consider the alternative.  If we throw our hands up in the air and say 'it won't matter anyways' then we are giving up on the possibility that God is at work in our lives, making all things new.  Change is evidence that creation is an ongoing process.  Even when we find it hard to break old patterns and live in new and healthier ways - the desire to be made new itself has value.  Maybe the gym doesn't pan out, but perhaps it opens another undiscovered opportunity that will work.     

Resolutions invite experimentation into self-betterment.  Experimentation should be encouraged because it is the work of imagination and creativity.  Trying out healthier ways of living is a healthy activity unto itself.  When we combine a spiritual consciousness with our experimentation, it can be especially fruitful.   For example, adding prayer can give strength and focus.  Prayer can accompany us on our resolution-driven quest.   Prayer suggests that we are not alone in our activity but that God is along for the ride.   When we frame our resolutions in prayer, resolutions can connect with God's hope of abundant life for us.

Whether our resolutions are short-term adjustments or long-term corrections, life-changing successes or not-surprising defeats, eucharistic living invites us to give thanks to God amidst it all.  For the one who created us, continues to love us - no matter what.   When we stop and give our heartfelt thanks, we acknowledge the presence and the present of God's abiding love.   This activity allows us to honor the very gift of life itself.  That is something that is worth making resolutions and efforts to preserve.

 

Lives Open to Christmas Joy

blog first published on December 23, 2015

We are open to decorating our homes with brightly colored lights; so much so that we might even grumble about those whose houses remain dark.  We are open to family traditions; so much so that we might eat things that we don't really like.  We are open to so much that Christmas has become in our popular culture; so much so that we uncritically accept the commercialization that is readily sold in the mall and online.   We layer our holiday festivities with so many things and fill our schedules with so many commitments that we might secretly long for the calm after the storm.  I wonder, are our lives really open to Christmas and its unique joy? 

Since "JOY" is one of the tags that is associated with this time of year, it might seem a silly thing to ask, "are we open to Christmas joy?"  What meaning is there to be found in the word paring "Christmas Joy" ?

It seems to me that the answers are not to be found in either our cultural formulations of Christmas or in overused pietist  slogans such as "Jesus is the reason for the season".  If we turn to the sacred sources for our holiday observance as Christians we find something altogether different.  Nestled in the hills of Bethlehem (gospel of Luke) or in the metaphoric exchange of darkness and light (gospel of John) or in the magi's visit (gospel of Matthew) we find the entrance of God's kingdom into the struggled existence of humanity.  

Christmas Joy is not a product of human emotion but is rather a Divine gift.  It comes proclaimed in the midst of dark and broken relationships, systems, and communities.  It comes as a counterpoint to Evil, despair, and forces beyond our control.  It comes to free and break the chains of bondage, injustice, and oppression.  It comes clothed with love and grace to open new possibilities for life.  It comes in glimpses of restored existence from a God that dreams of banquets that bring all people together.

In anticipation of Christmas Joy, I look forward to the Eucharistic celebrations that I will have the privilege to take part in this week.  We will come to the table from a variety of places along the journey.  There will be familiar faces and names that I do not yet know.  There will be those who are fully engaged in the worship and others that seem somewhat uneasy about it all.  There will be those who are experiencing great loss - of loved ones, health, employment, and relationships- and others who are bombastic in happiness.  No matter, it is my expectant hope that around the table, Christmas Joy will be made known and embraced.  

What is more, it is my fervent prayer that Christmas Joy might spark a joyful response in the hearts of those who are fed with God's own presence.  As in the story of the shepherds, Christmas Joy inspired them to go and tell what God has done.  They were changed in the moment of encountering the Christ.  So may it be with us.  

Lives open to Christmas Joy are ultimately lives that respond beyond themselves.  The response of the shepherds, disciples, magi - all indicate that Christmas Joy changes life itself.  It shifts perspective, opens hearts, and makes possible life beyond fear, despair, and darkness.  It creates community that is centered in love and finds itself compelled to share that love with those outside.  This reality is one for which I pray and look forward to as we prepare for Eucharistic celebration.  To find ourselves forever changed (or at least a shift in the right direction) would be a welcome blessing.  

A New Garment

blog first published on August 27, 2016

A chasuble is a liturgical garment, similar to a large poncho, that is worn by the presider while celebrating Eucharist.  Although it has widespread use throughout the country in the Lutheran, Episcopalian, Roman Catholic and other liturgical traditions, I was surprised to find a lack of its use when I moved to the twin cities area eight years ago.  Back in New Jersey, in most Lutheran churches there was a complete set of these garments with colors appropriate to each of the seasons.  At St. James, no such closet existed.  I resigned myself at the time to 'do as they do in Rome' (or in this case as they do not do in Rome but in MN).  To my liturgically minded colleagues I would lament that I left my chasuble back in my homeland.

As I was making preparations for my sabbatical pilgrimage, I discovered that the origin of the chasuble is connected to the concept of pilgrimage and sacred journey.  It derived from the common outer traveling garment of the time (again, think poncho).  In Latin it is called a 'casula' or 'little tent'.  These factoids intrigued me as the connection between this beloved worship garment and the journey that I was about to take emerged.  It was at this point that I recalled that when we did the 75th anniversary celebration at St. James we gathered a variety of photos from the past.  As I looked at what the pastors wore back then, I saw that chasubles were in fact used in this context for many years.  There was a historical precedence for bring the garment back into use.

One of my stated hopes for the sabbatical was to return to St. James in a renewed, reanimated, and changed condition.  I anticipated that much of this transformation would be internal - a new perspective and energy.  Although it was my heartfelt wish that folks would recognize the 'new' me, I know that it is important to have external symbols and signs.  These things help announce to others that something is different.  More importantly though, these things would help me to remember the journey especially when I go back in the thick of things.  Along with anything else that I would encounter on the journey, before I left I identified two things that would serve as markers of this intentional time going forward:  a conversion of my office at St. James to a pastor's study and the use of a chasuble.  Regarding the study, I am deeply grateful for all those who were connected to this project.  It is a new and vibrant space.  Next week I will blog about my beautiful study that was gifted to me upon my return.

Back to the chasuble.  The more I thought about using one again the more I felt that it was an important way of connecting with my own past liturgical celebration (and St. James' past too for that matter) and the larger experience of other Eucharist-centric communities in other parts of the country and around the world.  Linking the renewed use of a chasuble with my pilgrimage would also provide a connection between our worship and the ongoing journey aspect of being a baptized child of God.  We are on a path with God that is remarkably "unsettled" as we engage in mission in a world whose landscape is ever changing.   Festive joy (wearing a brightly colored garment helps) is the 'eucharistic' inspired way of traveling.  With thanksgiving in our hearts we celebrate during times of happiness and sadness alike.  This is the work of all the people... One of the churches I visited had the entire worship team don colorful chasubles.  I wonder, might this be something St. James would embrace? 

One of the last things that I did on my sabbatical was to sew myself a chasuble.  Two things about this.  First, I have never sewed a garment before (at this point in my life, the pillow that I made in high school home economics doesn't really count).  Second, I had a lot of help from those who are well stitched in the art form.  Thanks to the skill and patience of my dear wife Katie, I completed the task at hand.  Though it is not going to be entered into any competition at the State Fair, it came out okay.      

Tomorrow, as I return to the preaching and presiding role at St. James, I will be wearing a new garment.  I look forward to coming home to worship at St. James in a new way.  Together we open a new chapter of ministry.  It is my prayer that our journey forward will retain aspects of pilgrimage and renewal for each of us and for the larger community.    

Permission granted to share with family and friends.  Copyrighted 2016. Walt Lichtenberger

Eucharistic Quilts of Many Colors

This was originally posted on October 14, 2016:

It has been an occasional eucharistic practice at St. James to spread quilts around the communion railing.  These quilts of many colors are the loving handiwork of a group of dedicated quilters who come together once a month.  As a group, they have been doing this for the last forty plus years (they don't remember when it 'officially' started, but it is the longest running outreach ministry of the parish without a close second).  With experienced fingers, the quilters have been joining bits and pieces of fabric together and tying them with yarn.  No one seems to know how many such quilts the group has made.  Counting hasn't been a priority; the whole ministry is not about accumulating good works or accomplishing goals.  Still, the magnitude of their labor is astonishing.  Do the math:  each month for about four decades they have been crafting between thirty and forty quilts.  Amazing!

Where do the quilts go?   Over the years they have been distributed through a variety of partners.  They have gone to refugees through Lutheran World Relief.  More recently, they are passed out to the homeless on the streets of the Twin Cities through a grassroots effort.   They have also been used at a local nursing home to wrap the body of deceased residents as they leave their home with dignity and love through the front door.   

Back to the Eucharistic practice of placing these quilts around the Table so that folks can kneel upon them when they participate in the meal; why would we do such a thing?   

For one, the colors and patterns of the quilts bring a sense of eclectic joy to our Eucharistic celebration.  These splashes of clashing colors have a disorienting effect as well.  The quilts both 'go with' and 'stand apart' from the carefully draped and coordinated liturgical paraments.  The intrusion of "color wheel chaos" challenges aesthetic purity and cohesion.   Though interior decorators might cringe, I welcome this disruption as it helps to keep the space of sanctuary connected to the spaces outside where we live our lives amidst joy and chaos.  

In a dramatic way, the quilts also bring the harsh reality of need outside the walls to the very center of our worshiping space.  We announce that these quilts (including the ones with children's patterns) will be going to those who are without shelter.  On cold Minnesota Sundays, the quilts face us with a reality often overlooked in the warmth of suburbia's dwellings.  We gather for Eucharist - to be fed with God's goodness - while others remain hungry and cold.     

I ask that when folks come to the Table to receive communion and kneel on the quilts that they say a prayer for those who will be receiving these gifts of warmth and care.   Of course, I don't know if people do this...  I hope that some participate in this prayer practice.   Prayer has a way of opening our hearts to both God's presence but also to our place in this world and the need of others.  If we remain hidden in the false securities of our suburban constructed reality, we will not be moved to respond to the needs of those beyond.  Our discipleship will lack a tangible outreach.   On the other hand, when we prayerfully have the courage to move beyond ourselves, we enter a different reality.  When we head in the direction of outreach, there is the potential of participating in the work that God is doing to bring about the Kingdom/Reign that Jesus inaugurated in his life, ministry, and meal practices.   

For me, the quilts of many colors help to shape eucharistic practice in a way that has the potential of opening a space for a faithful response.   It helps to 'set the Table' for a liminal encounter between the ones who receive Christ's life in bread and wine into their bodies and the broken body of Christ that is found around the table and into the world.  Needs, cares, and broken realities fill this broken body of Christ.  What the Spirit will do in this brief encounter remains to be seen.   It is my expectant hope, however, that the living nature of the eucharistic celebration is one that will ultimately not disappoint.    Restoration, re-formation, renewal, reorientation -  these are all very real possibilities and realities where the bread is broken, and the wine is poured in the name of Jesus.  

Staying in Bed- Cache Creek, British Columbia

blog first published on August 12, 2016

It is a Sunday morning and I have no motivation to rise.  It is well after 8:30 a.m. and I'm lying in bed.  My body is tired from yesterday's travel and from multiple colitis attacks.  It is cool here in my bed and the sheets feel comforting.  The morning offers a blessing - unsung, undeclared, apart from community.  And yet I miss community and the connection that it offers. 

Cache creek is a few stores and a campground on the TransCanada highway.  I'm sure that there is a church, somewhere.  The energy and courage to search out a strange community of worship is gone at this point.  So I will stay in the camper with sleeping family nearby. 

The campground outside is a flurry of activity.  Campers wake up early.  At this point in the day, breakfasts are done, dishes are being cleaned.  Outside my window I hear the retired man and his wife from Washington pack up their water hose; they are getting ready to get back on the highway.  The 'neighbor' on the other side has long since departed.  Soon, we will be left in a vacant lot of trees, water spickets, and empty fire pits.  Eventually, we too will leave and head back on the road.  

I try to focus and pray.  Close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing.  I hear the crumbling and 'popping' of gravel made by the tires of large vehicles.  Motor homes and trailers pulled by big pickups are leaving all around.  People are on the move this Sunday morning.  They are traveling east and west towards destinations unknown and in the direction of home.  

I begin to wonder about Sunday morning.  For me, worship on Sunday is assumed.  Apart from the fact that it is my calling to preach and preside, worship has become our family pattern.  On Sunday we go to church.  We go to sing and praise.  We go to hear God's Word and share in the Eucharist.  We go to connect with others who have become like family.  

In the deserts of Canada, where the rivers have left the coastal mountains and now carve deep furrows in canyons, I find myself disconnected.  I yearn for the pattern of worship to return.  I look forward to getting up and heading out on the road on the next leg of the journey.  After I visit my prayer bench, the kids will be up and it will be time to disconnect our water hose, start our engine, and travel on.

Permission granted to share with family and friends.  Copyrighted 2016. Walt Lichtenberger

Seeping Pool

blog first published on June 29, 2016

photo taken at Mesa Verde by Walt Lichtenberger

The Ancestral Pueblo people built vast cities and ceremonial complexes in the side of the sandstone cliffs of the southwest.  Although you can see the remnants of their existence throughout the region, the greatest concentration of the cliff dwellings seems to be gathered in Mesa Verde national park.  Here you can walk through Balcony House or Cliff Palace and see the walls, passageways, ladders, and aged timbers from another time.  In the centuries, long since gone, of their habitation of this place the Ancestral Pueblo people farmed the mesa tops and lived in the relative safety of the cliffs.  They used techniques of dry farming because the land is arid.  Water is still a prized commodity.  No streams run on the mesa above nor in the canyons below.  Rainfall was infrequent and insufficient for daily consumption.  So how did they get their needed water? How did they remain hydrated for generations in this remote place? 

Seeping pools.  In the back of the cliff, where the natural ceiling connects to the floor there are little pools of water.  Like a gigantic filter, the sandstone cliffs filtrate the water as gravity pulls it downwards.  It takes time, for sure, but it is a constant process so you can fill your cup in the pool and it will replenish again and again.  The water is good, cool, and refreshing.  In the back of each of the cliff dwellings at Mesa Verde, seeping pools have been found.  Though the people who lived there are long gone, remembered in only the sacred stories of the modern Pueblo people and in the reconstructions of anthropologists, the seeping pools remain.  They continue to offer the blessing of water.

What are the things that nourish and refresh our spiritual lives?  Where are the places that abundantly provide for our faith during dry and arid times?  Where are our seeping pools to be found hidden in the back of our caves and dwellings? 

For centuries, the sacraments have provided "seeping pool" daily sustenance for Christians.  In bread and wine, water and oil, thirsty souls have been refreshed.  These sacred connections come as gifts for life itself.  Instead of limited natural elements processed through thick layers of sandstone, these sacraments are embodied with the abundant life of the Creator.  Through all the changes and challenges of the ages, they remain present in the worship life of the church.  Remain and await, like a seeping pool, to be dipped into...

Permission granted to share with family and friends.  Copyrighted 2016. Walt Lichtenberger

Time to Move Beyond All Zones of Comfort

blog first published on June 18, 2017

In the summer of 2008, a spirit of restlessness filled me.  At first, I pushed back the feeling.   Ministry was going well at Faith Lutheran.  Things had settled into a nice pattern that was consistent and effective.  Although Faith Lutheran was still technically my ‘first call,’ it felt like I had a couple of chapters of ministry there.  I would joke and say that I was on about my third call at Faith.  At the heart of what kept me excited about ministry was my partnership with Pastor Mac.  We were a team.  The spirit of collegiality that welcomed me as a VERY wet behind the ears pastor eleven years prior had been uninterrupted.  We had something special.

A year before, Pastor Mac had some serious medical issues.  He was out for a couple of months over the summer.  I led the annual trip to Sunset Gap by myself as he was recovering from surgery.   Out of his absence came two distinct and unexpected teachings.  First, after all the years of experience at Faith, I had the ability to lead a large congregation on my own.  This realization was affirming, to be sure.  Although I was missing Mac’s daily guidance and wisdom, he had imparted enough of these gifts over the years that I was able to go solo.  I was ready to lead on my own. 

Second, as I thought about the future of ministry at Faith Lutheran, I knew that I couldn’t lead there in a way that was needed by the congregation or for my growth.  For me, what kept me at Faith was the wonderful ministry partnership with which I shared with Pastor Mac.   If there came a time when I would have to serve alone or with a new partner, I would be missing too much.  At that time, the ministry at Faith would need new ideas and a fresh start.   I didn’t think that I could provide an ‘outsider’s perspective’ or a ‘beginner’s mind.’    Others might, but I would be missing too much of what once was.  The church, though it needs to be grounded in the traditions and memories of the past, must always look ahead with new vision.  Pastoral leaders need to be on the cusp of vision, seeing what is coming next down the road.  We need to dream forward and not be trying to recreate the memories of the past.  For the sake of Faith Lutheran and my sake, I needed to be open to the call of the Spirit.  It was time.

That openness led to conversations which led ultimately to a move across the country.  To say that this move was outside my comfort zone would be a silly understatement.  Most people couldn’t understand why we left the familiarity of our New Jersey home (and our family who lived nearby) to travel to places unknown north and west.  Everything about the move was new and filled with uncertain adventure.  Like the pioneers that left the east to follow their dreams for the future so did we.  In respect, what we found looked nothing like the brochures or what we thought how it would turn out.  That said, I am deeply grateful for the way that the Spirit gave us a swift kick in the britches and moved us beyond our zones of comfort.

Permission granted to share with family and friends.  Copyrighted 2017. Walt Lichtenberger

Little Hands Mattered

blog first published on June 14, 2017

There is a picture in my mind of a crowded room with dozens of volunteers and hundreds of boxes.  A small child has a can of food in his hands.  It takes an effort to carry the can from one table to another, but he was helping to sort the harvest of a community food collection.  All hands are appreciated.  Even in that busy room, little hands mattered.   The events of that day made precious memories in the heart of that young child, and his young father who happened to be a pastor.   
So many outreach ministries existed at Faith Lutheran.  From massive Food Collections in the Fall to visits with AIDS patients and monthly soup kitchens in Newark, to Interfaith Hospitality for the Homeless, to bike collections for the developing world, to Christmas sharing, to Sunset Gap mission trips, to habitat for humanity construction, to supporting a local ARC home, to a mission partnership with a congregation in Jersey City, to CROP walk, to I’m probably leaving something out.  Year round, there was an opportunity for people to serve and get involved.  These ministries had two things in common: they were hands-on, and they had a passionate person at the helm.  
The hands-on nature of the ministry was important.  When people have the opportunity to spend their time doing ministry they are happy to help out.  I noticed that fewer people were interested in sitting on a committee and talking about ministry.   People are busy.  I know from my experience that people who live in the suburbs are running in about four to five directions at any given moment.  My guess is that this is also true of those who live in the city and on farms.  Our larger culture, influenced by technology and mobility, makes multiple demands on families and individuals.  With so much going on, we need to make choices.  We want to do things that are meaningful, timely and have a positive impact on our lives (and the lives of others, too).  From my experience at Faith, the more hands-on something was, the more exciting and meaningful it was.  If the timing worked, you could get many people to commit to a single event.  
A great example of this was the annual Food Collection Pack and Sort.  On a single Saturday each year in November, thousands of dollars of food were gathered through a partnership with the local Scout troops.  This food was dropped off at Faith, and a volunteer corps of about 100 volunteers sorted the food and packed boxes for a local pantry.  We delivered the sorted boxes the next Saturday.  It was a massive effort that involved a variety of ages all working together.  We followed a well-orchestrated script that was improved each year.  Back to where I started today; I have good memories of each of my boys, wearing their Faith Nursery School shirts carrying cans of food to the sorting tables.  
Hands-on Ministry provides meaningful experiences for the faithful to put their discipleship into practice.  It can take a lot of work, and that is where the passion piece comes in.  Behind each one of the hands-on ministries at Faith was a passionate person (or people).  A whole host of people that shared their energy and passion blessed the Church in New Providence.  They had initiative, creativity, and were willing to put in the extra effort that was needed to make ministry happen.  There was a culture of empowerment.  Freedom to run with ideas existed.  Over time, the ideas accumulated to form a network of outward-focused ministry.   
What is amazing is that a limited paid staff supported this network.  The pastors provided the primary support to these passionate leaders who willingly gave of themselves.  We showed up and encouraged others to do the same.  Rarely did we have to drive these ministries.  Occasionally, we would become involved more intensively when a leader stepped down from their position.  Then, we needed to lift up another leader.  Raising up a new leadership for established ministry was made easier in the cases where there was another co-leader or someone who knew how the ministry ran.  There were times, however, where we needed to recruit brand new talent.   When this happened, the pastors needed to walk with the new leaders through the details.  We accompanied leaders as they led.  In all cases, the passion was key.  
The church is the people of God who come together as the hands, feet, and heart of Jesus.  Together we are the body of Christ active in the world.  Ministry is people-centered and people-driven.  Creating this ministry atmosphere can be difficult particularly if the pattern exists of having someone else do the ministry.  If we have people do that for us, then we put our hands in our own pockets, and the church is less than it could be (should be).  
Looking back at the photos in the album that I received as a gift from Faith Lutheran as I was leaving, a smile comes to my face.  In it, I see dozens of pictures of God’s people, of various ages, working side by side, doing ministry together.  I glad that in a few of those pictures, I notice my boys with food cans in their hands at the Fall Food Collection, or wrenches at the Pedals for Progress bike collection, or Stop Hunger posters at the CROP walk – a community was teaching the lessons of service.   I know this young pastor learned a lot about the nature of successful ministries that happen when many hands (and hearts) are engaged in meaningful work led by passionate people.   Thanks be to God!

Permission granted to share with family and friends.  Copyrighted 2017. Walt Lichtenberger

My Mentor from Sherwood Forest

On this All Saint’s Day, I remember one of the great saints in my life… Walt

blog first published on June 12, 2017

I’ve mentioned about Pastor Mac and the powerful impact that he had on me.   That influence continues in so many blessed ways.  More than a pastoral colleague, he was my pastor, mentor, confidant, and dear friend.   He taught me how to be a pastor more than all the classes I’ve attended, books I’ve read, and papers that I’ve authored.  His method of teaching was simple.  He modeled the compassion of Jesus in what he said and did.   He displayed this in not only pastoral care settings but also in meetings and through his leadership.  

When he came to serve at Faith Lutheran, he told folks that he was like “Robin Hood” – called to take from the rich and give to the poor.  At first, they laughed as they thought he was joking.  He wasn’t.  The suburban, country-club mentality was firmly entrenched at Faith in the pre-Mac years.  Prestige, image, and status weighed heavily upon the people.  They were generous enough and engaged in some outreach – as most churches do.  The focus, however, remained inwardly focused.   Pastor Mac changed this through his strong leadership and a belief that the gospel of Jesus Christ calls us beyond ourselves.  The church can never be a club of like-minded people when the hurting people of the world are right outside the door. 

I always said that Pastor Mac has the heart of a city pastor.  His heart brought him into battles and conflict when the status quo wanted to retain power and define the nature of the church.  One such struggle consisted of bringing a new ministry of providing shelter for local homeless.   It had happened a few years before I arrived at Faith Lutheran, New Providence.  A coalition of churches was being put together that would house homeless families in churches for a week at a time.  Given the nature of poverty in the area, there was a racial dimension involved.  As you might imagine, resistance rose.   Thankfully there was a small group of passionate people who saw this as a justice issue.  Pastor Mac guided the ministry through the turbulent political waters, and eventually, Faith Lutheran hosted families in the building a few times a year on a rotation with a few partner churches.  Interfaith Hospitality Ministry continues today as it is an essential part of a vast host of outreach ministries.  In fact, Interfaith Hospitality Ministry probably helped to spark additional outreach efforts and helped to turn the focus of the church outward.

I learned from Pastor Mac that congregations require leadership to escape the heavy gravitational pull of the status quo.  No one likes change, particularly change that might make us uncomfortable or require us to look at deep-seated fears and biases.  It is not that bad people that willfully resist ministry fill the church.  Rather, we are scared and afraid to lose our comfort zone.  Ironically, it is the comfort zones that pull churches toward being museums and cemeteries of the past.  Proclamation of the gospel, and the necessary experiments and efforts to live this out in tangible ways, provide the needed impetus to become outposts for mission.  It doesn’t happen overnight.  It takes years of dedication, prodding, compassion, and a willingness to fight the hard battles in Jesus’ name.    

Whenever I see a picture of ‘Robin Hood,' I think of my dear friend.  Pastor Mac was always willing to fight the battles that helped to share a greater portion outwards.  I know that this continues to be a part of his ministry at Faith Lutheran – a ministry that remains outward focused.  

I am deeply thankful for Pastor Mac – his passion and heart, his leadership skill and wisdom.  It remains a privilege to have served as one of his ‘merry men.'  

Special note:  Not too long after this memoir was published, Pastor Mac entered the Church Triumphant to be with his Lord and all the saints in light.  To say that his death has caused great grief would be an understatement.  He was an amazing man in so many ways.  I am forever grateful for the lessons he taught me and for the life in ministry that I was privileged to share with him.      

Prayer:

Gracious God,  thank you for faithful leaders, such as Pastor Mac, who help direct your church outwards.  Strengthen outreach ministry in every congregation.  Fill us with passion and compassion so that we can provide the needed energy to widely open our doors.  Through Christ, Amen.

Permission granted to share with family and friends.  Copyrighted 2017. Walt Lichtenberger

Is Our Lutheran Spice Still Needed?

blog first published on November 11, 2017

Why do there still need to be Lutherans?  In a time when there is a noticeable decline in attendance and participation in the life of churches, wouldn’t it make sense for all Christian communities to consolidate?  We are closer now than we have ever been since the start of the Reformation five hundred years ago.  In fact, the idea of Justification by God’s grace through faith no longer separates Lutherans from Roman Catholics.

After decades of ecumenical work following the Second Vatican Council, called by Pope John XXIII in 1962, the Joint Declaration on Justification was issued by the Roman Catholic Church and the Lutheran World Federation in 1999.  The following excerpt highlights the agreement:   

“The present Joint Declaration has this intention: namely, to show that on the basis of their dialogue the subscribing Lutheran churches and the Roman Catholic Church are now able to articulate a common understanding of our justification by God's grace through faith in Christ. It does not cover all that either church teaches about justification; it does encompass a consensus on basic truths of the doctrine of justification and shows that the remaining differences in its explication are no longer the occasion for doctrinal condemnations.” (you can access the complete document through the following links: http://www.vatican.va/roman_curia/pontifical_councils/chrstuni/documents/rc_pc_chrstuni_doc_31101999_cath-luth-joint-declaration_en.html or https://www.lutheranworld.org/content/resource-joint-declaration-doctrine-justification.)

It was a big step toward restoring the unity of the church and a cause of celebration.  Not only did the Lutherans and Roman Catholics come together on the very issue that sparked the division at the time of the Reformation but other Protestant denominations also followed suit.  According to Wikipedia,

“The World Methodist Council adopted the Declaration on 18 July 2006. The World Communion of Reformed Churches (representing the "80 million members of Congregational, Presbyterian, Reformed, United, Uniting, and Waldensian churches"), adopted the Declaration in 2017…On 18 July 2006, the World Methodist Council, meeting in Seoul, South Korea, voted unanimously to adopt the document.” (reference)

With such widespread agreement, which in of itself is the miraculous work of the Holy Spirit, why do we still need to be worshiping in separate communities?  Can’t we just all squeeze together into one big church with different pews?  If we share common understandings then why not a merger?

Two thoughts come to my mind.  First, historical traditions and customs remain important.  Although not central to the teaching and preaching of the gospel, each denomination and expression of Christianity has its rich background.  In a variety of cultures and experiences, Christians engaged the Incarnate Word.  Christ became ‘enfleshed’ in very different ways in Europe, North America, South America, throughout the Pacific, and on the African continent.  Of course, the process was imperfect.  Still, within each expression, each theological universe, and each adaptation the Spirit moved and revealed something of God.   What if the diversity that we have among Christians traditions is a not a defect but a divine blessing?  In that case, to let go of the particularities of tradition would be to lose something that is precious.  Instead of compromise, merger, and the inevitable ‘watered down expression,’ what if we celebrated and honored the diversity of traditions and customs deeply as the work of God?  What if we continued within our traditions in such a way that we allowed ourselves the freedom to learn from and incorporate the wisdom/experience of other traditions?  From the organic mixing and blending of Christian expressions, we would all participate in the ongoing work of the Spirit.

If a desire to celebrate and honor diversity is one reason not to seek a physical merger of all Christian communities into one megachurch, then the particularity of our separate witnesses is another.  What I mean here is that each Christian church has a particular witness and focus.  Even though all Christian churches would acknowledge that grace is an important theological concept, progressive Lutheran church bodies have placed grace at the center of teaching, ethical deliberation, proclamation, and welcome.  By grace, we have struggled through hot topics such as the ordination of women, homosexuality, abortion, advocacy, etc.   We don’t always agree – in fact, we are often in very different places when it comes to things.  But – by grace – we remain in the community.  Further, we seek to imitate God’s grace even as we know that we will fall short of all efforts. 

When a denomination lives out the particularity of its witness to Jesus Christ, there is something that benefits the larger Christian church.  For example, communities that have ordained women bear witness to the whole church that women are not only qualified to lead, preach, teach but also have a unique perspective that we all need to hear.  Though needed by all, this witness comes as a challenge and invitation to those parts of the church that continue to refuse to ordain women.  I could offer many similar examples.  Within the ELCA, the church that I continue to serve proudly, we can benefit from the prophetic witness and example of other Christian communities that are more attuned to dealing with issues of systemic racism. 

There is always something to learn (and be challenged by) from the cooperative interaction between church bodies that are moving in slightly different directions with different focuses and passions.  As long as we honor each other and seek to learn from each other (jettisoning the denominational arrogance of the past), then we have much to benefit from continuing in the particularity of witness.   

I yearn for the day that ecumenical interaction can result in the sharing of the sacraments – joining hands at the table as we share in communion.  At that table, which will more clearly reflect the heavenly banquet in which God prepares a feast for all people (Isaiah 25:6-9), we will celebrate together that the thing that unites us is Jesus’ life and God undying love.  Our unity will be found not in practice, tradition, or theology but rather in Christ above all things.  Reformation needs to continue to get to the place of that dream and beyond.

Our particularity and diversity have the potential of being good building materials available to the Spirit for this important work.   So yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus…. I mean, yes, there is a need for a Lutheran witness.  There is also a need for the witness from Roman Catholics, Methodists, Presbyterians, Reformed, Congregationalists, etc. – each of these expressions bring something that would be lost if they no longer existed.  Think of it as a complicated and wonderful jambalaya.  We will miss something if one of the spices or ingredients are left out.  Blending and working together, the ingredients lend depth and complexity that is flavorful. 

I will continue to serve as a Lutheran sous chef in the mix.  With Lutheran ‘spice’ (but not too spicy – wink) in hand, ready to season the Christian church’s witness to Jesus Christ.

Permission granted to share with family and friends.  Copyrighted 2017. Walt Lichtenberger

A Slip of the Knife

blog first published on June 15, 2017

It happened too quickly for me to react - a classic example of an accident.  I was sitting at a table with a group of men who called themselves, “Carpenter’s Carvers.”  We gathered together once a month to make wooden crosses, pectoral crosses to wear and relief crosses to hang on the wall.  These crosses were given away.   Some went to confirmation students, graduates, and seminarians.  Some went to those who lost a loved one.  The handmade crosses were always appreciated.  It was a great group.   In addition to making sawdust, we’d eat peanuts and share jokes.  It was fun and something to which I looked forward to each month; active fellowship that did something for others.

One night, I came to the group from another meeting.   They were already in progress “chipping” wood and eating peanuts.  Stories and jokes were already flowing freely around the table.   I left the bulk of my tools, my current projects, and my safety glove at home.  I must not have thought that the other meeting would have gotten out early.  I did have my carving knife and some wood, though.  I ‘jumped in’ to the conversation and peanut eating.  I began carving.   It was well into the evening, getting darker outside; you could see it through the windows. 

Suddenly, it happened.  In a nanosecond, the piece of wood that I was carving broke.  The blade continued through the wood and through the first of my fingers on my left hand.  I blurted out, “Sugar!”  Quick aside: from an extremely young age, my son Noah liked to ‘help out’ in my workshop.  Although I try to keep profanity to a minimum, when I’m in the workshop I have found that a lil’ cussing seems to be effective.  With little ears around, I trained myself to replace “S@#t” with “sugar.”  The night of my carving accident, which would have been an appropriate situation to make a reference to feces, I blurted out ‘sugar.’

The knife was sharp.  The cut was deep and clean.  At first, it didn’t seem to be that big of a deal.  Strangely, it didn’t hurt.  I think my body was in shock.  The other guys sprang into action.  Someone got paper towels.  My friend Lee said, “I’ll take you to the hospital.”  My reply, “do you think I need to go?”  Multiple responses, “YES!”

So I went.  As it turned out, the ER had called in a plastic surgeon for another case.  He sewed me up.  I cut the tendon in my left pointer finger.  Months of rehab and a hand surgery later, my finger could no longer bend at the knuckle.  For the rest of my life, I was going to have a defect, a physical reminder of an accident.  Ironically, the item that I was carving was a dove.  LOL. 

So that I don’t forget, let me be sure to share a word of thanks to the guys that were there that night and helped me out.  Also, to my family, church, and those in the medical profession that supported my rehab - thanks. As I’m typing this reflection, my left pointer finger is moving rapidly with all my other digits.  The human body is amazing and durable; I have been able to compensate for a “forever frozen in a slight bend” finger.   

The experience of being maimed – even if I still can type and most people don’t notice – was unsettling.  I thought that I was invincible.  I thought that my body was fully functional.  I thought that I was careful.  The truth is, I’m not any of these things.  I have a broken body.  This side of paradise, I won’t be able to bend my finger.  Ever. 

Accidents, unintended consequences of actions, slips, breaks, cuts – our bodies tell a story.  No matter how dramatic this might be, or seemingly inconsequential to others, we embody our flawed stories.  Some of this is hidden - the scars are internal and seen by no one.  Some of this embodiment is painfully obvious, which creates its own set of challenges.   Our past experiences mark our bodies in ways that are unique and stand out for us (if no one else).  We can choose to bury these markers or use them to grow.

For me, the experience of a damaged finger has become instructive.  Practically, I know what it is like to go through physical therapy and not be able to move a part of my body no matter how hard I try.  I also know – even if it is in a small way – that accidents happen in a flash of a moment and have lasting results.  My frozen finger has taught me that I’m breakable.  I have limits too.  I can’t do everything.  Sometimes I can’t get enough strength in my left hand to open a jar or hold onto something.  I need to ask for help. 

It is important to learn and embody the virtue of humility.  Sadly, these lessons come with a hefty price tag.  For me, it came at the tip of my finger.  Sugar.  

Permission granted to share with family and friends.  Copyrighted 2017. Walt Lichtenberger

Into the Redwood Forest

blog first published on March 14, 2017

I do not occupy myself with things

too great and too marvelous for me.  Psalm 131: 1b. 

The scenic bypass left the four-lane highway, which was in itself a beautiful driving experience.  Even in the drought conditions through which California has suffered, coastal Highway 101 was spectacular.  When you get to the northwest corner of the state, the road heads inland a bit away from the famous sections of winding road on the cliff edge looking out on the ocean.   Instead of crashing surf, you see trees and mountains.  Turning off the famous north-south road, we headed into the Redwood Forest National Park.

After passing a meadow and a park gate, the road entered the forest.  Instantly, the trees vaulted to the sky.  These trees were remarkably larger and taller than what I’ve seen elsewhere.  The road honored their presence and wandered a bit, side to side, bypassing trees as it went along.  

The further we headed into the forest, the darker things became as the mammoth trees filtered the sun.  Things were also greener as brightly colored ferns blanketed the forest floor and bunched up alongside the road.  At a cut-off called “Big Tree Wayside,” I pulled the RV as far as I could off the road.  It was time to do what we had come to do – walk among ancient giants.

Whoever named the “Big Tree,” might have been lacking in imagination.  That said, this old growth giant, which is an estimated 1,500 years old, is aptly named.  The tree is certainly “Big” with a circumference of 68 feet.  Standing at its base, you have to lean your head backward as far as it goes, and you still can’t see the top.  With head back and hand at my forehead to shade the filtered sunlight, I was a loss for words.     Too great and too marvelous for me to get my head around.  How do you begin to fathom that this huge tree is as massive and as old as it is? 

When the mind and imagination lack capacity, mystery invites us into a different kind of conversation that words can not bear.  Silence is the language for such moments.  It is a sacred silence that beckons to the place where we praise God.   Humble.  Silent.  We praise the timeless Creator who watched over the seed as it broke ground, 1,500 years ago and declared it to be good.

Permission granted to share with family and friends.  Copyrighted 2017. Walt Lichtenberger

Paper Dolls and Getting it "Right"

blog first published on October 2, 2017

Paper Dolls.  Have you ever made a chain of Paper Dolls?  It requires some precision in folding the paper in just the right way.  For the link between the paper people to work properly (making them ‘hold hands’) you also need to cut in just the correct places.  Unfurling the Paper Dolls can be a magical experience; the Dolls seem to multiply and hold hands all at the same time.  But that only happens if you’ve properly done the folding and the cutting.  Paper Dolls are not that forgiving and can quickly turn from being a delight to a public exercise in futility and shame.  Look, all of our Dolls are holding hands, but yours are not!  What a maroon you are! Ha Ha!

My first tragic episode with Paper Dolls occurred when I was a Sunday School student in Kindergarten.   Bethany Lutheran Church held its Sunday School classes in the small basement.  Please forgive my memory if I get the details a little messed up – it has been a few decades since I have been there.  Kindergarteners were in a separate basement room for their instruction; the Church Council also used this small room, which had an oversized boardroom table in the center, for their meetings if I’m not mistaken. 

In my three piece Sunday suit, I went to Sunday School.  By and large, it was a positive experience because the people who took care of the Sunday School, the teachers, were great and loving people.  They are among those with whom I share words of thanks for teaching me the Christian faith.  Thinking back, more important than any lessons was the love, acceptance, and encouragement that they communicated in their words, actions, and presence.  Within a context of gratitude, I share the following story, a critique of the process of education and NOT the people involved.  After all, the people were doing the very best they could according to what I’d call standard patterns of Sunday School education. 

One day in that Kindergarten room with the big boardroom table, the lesson involved a craft.  We must have been talking about ‘being one in Christ’ or ‘loving one another’ or something like that.  Those lessons, and rightfully so, were very much repeated.  My Sunday School teacher passed out the paper and safety scissors.  Knowing Mr. Warner, he probably described the directions with his signature big smile on his face.  Fold here and here.  Smile.  Cut here and here.  The details of what followed are now largely a blur, but it didn’t go well for me.  My Paper Dolls were not following Jesus’ command to love each other and hold hands.  I remember feeling ashamed that I didn’t get it right.  I’m sure I didn’t get into trouble for doing it wrong, but that is my emotional memory of the incident.  

The situation of the unlinked Paper Dolls serves as a metaphor for me as I think back on my Christian education.  Again, I do NOT fault the dedicated volunteer teachers or the overworked pastors who were ultimately responsible for the content (and had to deal with the political reality of folks not liking what the denominational publishing house produced or wanting to switch teams and use what the Baptists were using.)  The system of Sunday School and its graduate component, Confirmation, was to educate children and youth on the basics of the faith.  The purpose was to impart the wisdom and doctrines of the church to the next generation so they could make the Paper Dolls in the right way.  Our education was done with a sense of importance so that we would grow up to be good and knowledgeable members of the church and stay out of trouble (away from drugs and jail).  My teachers taught me how to make the Paper Dolls, where to fold and how to cut.  What else was there to know? 

Looking back, however, the educational focus was not unlike the one that I experienced in school.  I had to memorize concepts, names, dates, places.  I had to comprehend and parrot back explanations on stories from the Bible.  It was like Algebra and English – Faith was just another subject in which I needed to acquire competency.  I can’t say that all the efforts – on the part of teachers, pastors, and myself – ever resulted in a deepened spirituality or connection with God.  In fact, the image of God that was encouraged was one of the big Principal in the sky who wanted to make sure that I got good grades, stayed out of trouble, and could properly cut my Paper Dolls. 

We live in a context where Sunday Schools are currently in decline.  According to a 2015 article in USA Today;    

Between 1997 and 2004, churches lost tens of thousands of Sunday school programs, according to data from the Barna Group, and more recent studies show that enrollment has fallen across denominations. From 2004 to 2010, for example, Sunday school attendance dropped nearly 40 percent among Evangelical Lutheran churches in America and almost 8 percent among Southern Baptist churches, prompting speculation that the problem may be more than just a decline in American religiosity (https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2015/03/22/ozy-has-sun-set-on-sunday-school/25080073/)

The decline in participation in mainline churches certainly coincides with a reduction in Sunday School attendance.  With fewer people feeling a religious need to go to church, it makes sense that they won’t be sending their children to Sunday School to learn the faith.   What about the ‘drop-offs’ you say?  Didn’t we always have parents who dropped their kids off without going to worship?  Yes, but as the culture moves in a more secular direction, it is a matter of time before we see the ‘drop-off’ pattern stop.  Sadly, there is no longer a cultural value in many parts of the country for people to even have a ‘faith education.'  

My greater concern, however, is what happens after confirmation to youth and adults who remain ‘in the church.’  For most, faith education seems to stop after students ‘graduate’ confirmation.  We rightfully worry about the lack of youth participation in faith-based activities.  What we don’t concern ourselves as much with is the lack of adult participation in Bible studies and faith education.  This should be as much a concern.   Is it any wonder that our youth don’t become involved in greater numbers? Where are their parents?  

Is part of the reason for lack of participation in adult ed simply because adults see as much need for additional faith education as they have for additional math and science classes?  Education is something that you do when you are starting out.  You learn what you need to be a productive member of society, and then you go on to other things – like jobs, family, pastimes, sports, etc.   The average person knows what they need to know from their education when they were young.  That is true for reading, writing, arithmetic, and I would also guess that most would say for faith too!

But here is the catch – faith is not something we can learn once and then live with a basic competency.  Faith is not an object to be comprehended or a subject for us to master.  You can’t give a proficiency test for the faith that involves coloring in circles with a number two pencil.  Faith is more about relationships than it is about doctrines and content.  Faith is a matter of breathing and being.  Faith grows and dies in the crucible of our life experiences.  There are moments of clarity followed by deep and disturbing doubts.  Faith is formed in the spaces of our hearts, souls, interactions, as well as in our thought processes.

The notion that a child can go to six years of Sunday School, three years of Confirmation, and they are 'set' for the rest of their lives of 'faith' is preposterous, and yet that is what many in the Christian church have accepted as normative.  There is a church-wide need for us to become life-long learners and growers in faith.   It seems to me that we need to start this reform by shifting our language from education to formation.  I hope that we can begin to imagine something different, more life-giving and generative than correctly making Paper Dolls.

Permission granted to share with family and friends.  Copyrighted 2017. Walt Lichtenberger

Memory of a Dark Place

blog first published on September 11, 2016

In some ways, it seems to have been a lifetime ago and yet I will never forget.  Although fifteen years are past, the memory of that horrific day in September is as vivid and deep as the sky was blue.  It remains a memory of a dark place.     

It started out as a regular Tuesday morning.  I was at my desk at the church following up on a few things that came up during our Rally Day celebration just two days before.  The church's administrative assistant Doris came in with news that there was an accident - a plane crashed into the Twin Towers.  As we listened to the breaking news, accident morphed into an attack as a second plane struck the other building.  Our nation was under a terrorist attack right in my backyard.     

Faith Lutheran church, the place where I was serving as a pastor at the time, is nestled on top of a rolling hill in a picturesque bedroom community.  It is on the commuter rail to New York City.  On September 11, 2001, there were about two dozen folks at Faith who worked in the Towers and financial district.  As my colleague and I shifted into a pastoral care mode, we tried to make contact with our people.  The phone lines were dead.  Being the tallest structures in the metropolitan area, the Twin Towers held the cell phone antennas.  When these giants fell, we found ourselves cut off and entered the uneasy unknown.    

It was like we were suddenly thrust into a dark cave without a lantern.  The darkness deepened as people started to wander into the church office and stories began to emerge.  A working mother of two little ones who ran late that day missed her regular train into the city - a train that would have brought her right into the center of the chaos.  Sitting in our office, she was safe but shaken to her core.  A salesman who usually didn't go into the city was scheduled to meet a client later that morning downtown.  He missed that meeting but made it to the sanctuary of our church.  Another did not.  A father of three small children, who opted at the last minute to switch his Boston flight from Monday night to Tuesday morning, found himself on fatal Flight 11.  By mid-day, Pastor Mac and I were sitting in the living room of this man's widow doing what we were called to do - be a pastoral presence.  

I remember that on our return trip to the church, we saw emergency vehicles barreling down the emptied highway with sirens wailing.  Fire engines.  Ambulances. Police cars.  All heading into the city to do what they could. That night we would respond to this crises in our own way.  As a community of faith in the midst of turbulent times, we gathered for worship.  Usually, it takes weeks to prepare for and announce special worships.  On that day, in just a few hours, worship was planned and the word got out.

In a darkened and full sanctuary, the people of God gathered in their horror, confusion, anxiety, fear, anger, numbness, and uncertainty.  Absent was the confidence, arrogance, pride, and facade that can plague suburban churches.  We lit the Christ candle and clung to our hope in the resurrection.  The familiar words of Psalm 46 were spoken and heard in ways unimaginable before:

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.  Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea; though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble with its tumult.   

 In the dark cave of our communal despair, we sought the comfort and peace that passes all understanding.  From the depth of our being, we yearned for God in our corporal time of need.  We were not let down.  God was indeed in the midst of our assembly. That biblical truth of Psalm 46 was given new experience and reality.  When all else seemed to be amuck, we grasped on to our faith in God's presence and eternal care.  God gave us strength and touched the core of our spirits.  

Sitting in the darkness of that night, the Christ candle burned brightly.  Although it was only a single candle, the light of hope pierced the darkness.  In the flickering light, we were given a glimpse of what resurrection looks like.  In the hours, days, and weeks to follow, we worked as a community of candles to shine light into many dark places.  What is more, by the grace of God, we found a path that eventually led out of the cave.    

And so my memory of this dark day is one that is lifted from the terror by the strength and power of community and light.  Although it is true that we were forever changed by the evil circumstances of 9/11, it is also true that we were made anew by the graceful action of God.  It is in this light that I will be going to worship on Sunday's anniversary.  

Permission granted to share with family and friends.  Copyrighted 2016. Walt Lichtenberger

Terrifying Power and Majesty

blog first published on March 22, 2017

"On the cross, our illusions are killed off.  On the cross, our small self dies so that the true self, can emerge.  On the cross we give up the fantasy that we are in control, and the death of this fantasy is central to acceptance (Parker Palmer, The Promise of Paradox,  46)".

Before we pulled into the parking lot of the Johnson Ridge Observatory, we caught a glimpse of Mt. St. Helens in the distance.  Majestic.  A queen without an earthen crown, the horseshoe-shaped volcano was instead adorned atop with clouds.  It looked like we were going to be granted a rare audience with the mountain monarch.  

Thirty-six years and two months of time had elapsed since the fateful day when Mt. St. Helens unleashed its fury.   The parking lot, where we parked the RV, was once a forest.  You can see evidence of this previous identity surrounding the perimeter of the asphalt terrain.  Like the immovable protectors of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, gray stumps stand on guard.  Unlike their soldier counterparts, though, their appearance is less than tidy.  The top of each stump looks ragged like someone snapped a pencil.  

From the Johnson Ridge Observatory, we could see into the crater that was gouged out from the eruption.  It took only 40 seconds for the blast to travel the five and a half miles from mountain to the very spot we were standing.  A terrifying sense of futility fills my imagination; if I was standing then where I was now, would I have even known what was happening?  Escape would have been an impossibility.  Sound? Pressure?  Would I have even felt a thing as life passed away?  Would I have experienced a thousand horrible things as the shock wave crashed?  Seeing what the blast did to the trees in an instant, I don’t want to imagine what would have happened to my unrooted being had I been there.

As I stood in that place, the truth that I have experienced before when looking at a dark sky came once again.  I am small.  In the big picture, I am but a tiny pixel.  Any illusions of being the center of the universe fade quickly away.  All those moments when I have boasted of my smarts, prowess, strength, wisdom seem like the churros at a pushcart in Fantasyland; full of as many empty calories as sugary, fried dough.  The sense of being in control – the ultimate deception – also fades.  I am in about as much control as the shredded dead stumps that litter Johnson Ridge.  

At first glance, such realizations might seem depressing and to invite inaction.  If I’m not IN CONTROL then why bother?  Why even get up in the morning?   These might be the questions that pop into our minds.   They come from the place of fear.  Part of the reason we buy into the lie of being in control, propagated by our consumeristic culture, is that it can be downright scary to not.   Of course, deception is not real, and it misplaces our focus and attention from the truth.  

Just because we join the rest of humanity in lacking complete control (as catastrophic events such volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, etc. reminds us), it doesn’t mean that the universe is empty of agency.  It does mean, however, that it does not rest within our hands.  We can’t buy it, build it, invent it, steal it, demand it, expect it, or achieve it no matter how smart, rich, privileged, documented, or ego-centric we might find ourselves.

The cross proclaims this larger reality.  Our small self, as Palmer suggests, dies along with our fantasies of control.  What remains ought not to be feared because it lives in a place that runs as deep as our fears, the essence of our created selves.  What remains after the cross wipes our whiteboard clear of its pretensions and deceptions is an open space where acceptance can blossom.

Acceptance is a spiritual reality that honors the whole of created order (including the catastrophic elements) by receiving our place in it as a gift.  We might not be the center of the universe, but we are certainly part of it.  Our tiny pixels contribute to the light of the whole picture.  Our Creator has reserved for us a place and a role – wonderfully small as it is.   As we connect with this truth, we find purpose and meaning in our lives.  What is more, when we live into the truth that we matter, along with the stars in the sky and the shock wave of a volcano, we start becoming a collaborator in the ongoing process of creation.  Fear drives withdrawal from creation.  Acceptance ignites engagement. 

On the windy slope of Johnson Ridge, I breathed a different sort of breath.  One not of horror but one that honored the magnitude of power beyond myself.   It was a breath full of promise.  

Permission granted to share with family and friends.  Copyrighted 2017. Walt Lichtenberger

A Crack in the Ice

blog first published on April 5, 2017

"Only by allowing life's contradictions to pull us open to the Spirit will we be able to live beyond the dualities that confuse and confound us - the dualities of yeas and no, day and night, right and wrong.  Life on the way of the cross is, finally, a life of liberty in the Spirit, a life of salvation or wholeness in which contradictions are transcended.  The liberation of the cross frees us not for indulgence and ease but for the discipline of serving truth without fearing the contradictions (Parker Palmer, The Promise of Paradox, 51)".

The Columbia Icefield is the largest icefield in the entire rocky mountains of North American.  It is 125 square miles in area, 330 ft to 1,198ft in depth and receives up to 280 in of snow per year.  Somewhere between 238,000 and 126,000 BCE, the icefield formed.  In human perspective; the first human civilizations began to develop between 9,000 and 7,000 BCE.   To say that the Columbia Icefield is ancient is like saying that Minnesotans like hotdish.  It goes without saying.   

The Athabasca Glacier is but one of eight major glaciers fed by the Columbia Icefields.  Ever since I was a small child, I remember hearing the stories of those who traveled to this glacier.  Through the use of a giant Arctic transport, you can drive right up onto the Athabasca Glacier.   I couldn’t wait to climb into one of these vehicles and experience it for myself. 

The snow coaches were even bigger than I imagined.  Huge.  Called “TERRA BUSES,” these massive buses carry 56 passengers and can travel on all terrains.  The low-pressure tires are the height of an average size person.  They creep along the rough and steep road that leads out onto the glacier.  What an incredible experience!  We boarded the Terra bus by ascending a ladder stair.  Once underway we traveled slightly less than the maximum speed of 25 miles per hour.  That was okay; I was not in a hurry.  I wanted to savor each glacial inch.

The Athabasca Glacier is receding at a significant rate of about 16 ft per year.  In the past one hundred twenty-five years, the glacier has lost over half its volume.  Although the leading edge (it should be called ‘receding edge’) is easily accessible from the highway, it is not safe to walk on it without a special guide.  There have been fatalities as tourists ignored the signs and fell into hidden crevasses.  The Terra Bus would take a while but would transport us safely onto the glacier.

We need to be careful about how we travel.  This truth applies to not only glacial trekking but also our daily spiritual walk.   So far, thanks to the insights from Parker Palmer’s book on Paradoxical living, we have been exploring the idea that we live our lives in the midst of contradictions.  Between the poles of good/evil, saint/sinner, conservative/liberal, yes/no, the list goes on.  Whenever we seek the truth of a particular pole without considering the opposite, we find ourselves in a place that is wanting.  Worse yet, we quickly rush to the pole of our choosing without even considering the alternate perspective.

Traveling on the coach of paradox, we slow down and nestle into the tension of opposites that can pull us apart.  At first glance, this seems counterintuitive and counterproductive.  Why would anyone willingly put themselves in the place where we hear the disheartening sound of cracking ice as a hidden crevasse suddenly appears beneath our feet.

Instead of leading to our doom, however, the crack is a point of hope.  In the place of tension is where the cross lives.  Here is also where the Spirit moves in and opens for us a place that was previously unavailable.  Here is a place for liberation.  We need not live in perpetual bondage by the lies and half-truths found at the poles.  Instead, a new path opens when the poles tug at our being.  This path is a graceful gift.  The tearing at the place of the cross is but a prelude to the new life that is born.

I have experienced this new life in my own heart as I have found my frozen and unmovable perspectives challenged.  Usually, this happens when my rigid thinking does not align with what I experience with my heart.  I might have this hard and fast judgment about a person or a place.  When I look into the eyes of a real person, I often see beyond the bondage of my heart.  I’m forced to reconsider.  At that moment a crack can be heard.  The Spirit has broken through the ice, and I enter into a new reality.  Creation is not receding but in fact expanding as I find myself available to God and others in a way I wasn’t previously.  Resurrection happens not only when we die.  Again and again, God raises us from the death of our stubbornness and short-sightedness.  Whether it happens overnight or over the course of years at a glacial pace – the Spirit moves in the direction of new life. 

Permission granted to share with family and friends.  Copyrighted 2017. Walt Lichtenberger

Have a Good Day with Jesus!

blog first published on February 15, 2017

Each week I have the pleasure of reading a Bible story for the St. James Early Education Center.  Over thirty children come into the sanctuary along with their teachers for this special time.  It is a lot of fun, and it gives me an opportunity to dust off my 'clown skills' (in the early 1990's I was trained as a clown and did a variety of kids' shows - a story for another time).  In addition to reading a Bible story, we have a little water-pouring ritual, light the big candles on the altar table, and pray.  Afterward, I will share a magic trick, silly juggling, or we will march around the church parade-style.  When it is time to leave, the children and I exchange high-fives. 

Did I mention that this is a welcome and fun addition to my day? 

A few weeks ago, as the children were leaving - waving and saying goodbye in the manner in which we usually part company - one child yelled out, "have a good day with Jesus!"  From the mouths of babes!

Have a good day with Jesus!  What a wonderful way to say goodbye.   It has stayed with me ever since.

I wonder if the children think that Jesus is in my study waiting for me to return.  Or maybe they think we are friends (which we are - btw) and hang out with each other.  Regardless, think about the image.  Think about it in Eucharistic terms.  Spending time with Jesus and having a good day; is this Real Presence?  

What if we were to think about the concept of Real Presence in light of childhood friendship?  Children are happy when they are with their friends.  One of the purposes of St. James Lutheran Early Education Center is to provide a safe place for children to not only socialize with others but also to provide a space where they can grow.  And that happens.  Friendships are nurtured and encouraged in the classroom.  The children seem happy as a result.

Again, imagine the joy of living in friendship with Jesus.  Imagine Jesus being with us, as a friend would, through the ups and downs of each day.  At work - when the day labors on, what would our friend Jesus do?  Would Jesus tell us a joke that would make our sides split?  Maybe he would share a word of encouragement that allows us to hang in there.  At home - when the joys of domestic habitation are pushed to the side to make way for the daily routine.  Would Jesus do the dishes or put a loving hand on our shoulder? 

What does friendship with Jesus entail?  Is it for our gratification and appeasement?  Or is it for our growth.  Is Jesus the kind of friend that stays beyond fair weather conditions?  Would Jesus speak to us the hard truth that allows us to confront our shortcomings and enter into the possibility of growth?

Would Jesus be the kind of friend that speaks the hard truth in love?  Would Jesus remind us that we need to extend our friendship to include that child who sits at the other end of the cafeteria table alone?  Would Jesus leave us to join the one who is alone? 

Have a nice day with Jesus - it makes me wonder and yearn for the kind of friendship with Christ that is enduring and immanently present.

Permission granted to share with family and friends.  Copyrighted 2017. Walt Lichtenberger

Beam of Light

 The following was originally posted on August 2, 2016.  It has been edited:

It was a mythical experience, straight from the pages of a Tolken novel.  The caverns were massive and filled with subterranean wonders that challenged my imagination.  According to the National Park brochure, within the largest chamber of Carlsbad Caverns you could house the entire U.S. Capitol building.  An unbelievable factoid that helped to put things in size perspective and actually made sense when you gazed upward to the ceiling.  So big.  So huge that words seem inadequate to describe the scale. 

After wandering and wondering at the 750 ft. level underground for over an hour, it was time to ascend to see the light of day.  We had two choices.  We could take the elevator, which we had used to descend.  There was a hour wait as the elevator could only take eight people at a time and there was a crowd on line.  The other option was to trek up the mile and a half path that led to the natural entrance to the caverns.  This was the historical route that the original spelunkers took with their candle lanterns to enter into the fascinating underworld.    To me, the choice was a classic "no-brain-er".  Not only didn't I want to wait on a long line of whining people but the opportunity to ascend using the trail of discovery was too much to pass up.    Thankfully, the rest of the family agreed.  Adventure awaited and we were not about to pass it up. 

With great enthusiasm, we started up the dimly lit path that meanders around boulders the size of houses.  Again the scope and the scale of the caverns is hard to relate.  As we got closer to the top, the chambers became no smaller.  What must those early explorers have thought as they descended down this way?  With only a lantern to guide their inquisitive spirit, what must it have been like to see cavernous spaces open to one another?  Walking out, I knew a secret that they couldn't have imagined upon their first descent - there was a Capitol-sized chamber yet to come!

Having been underground for a couple of hours our eyes had adjusted to the darkness.  The lighting was sufficient for us to safely navigate but it wasn't bright.  On our approach to the natural entrance we turned a corner on the switch-back trail, past another enormous rock, and encountered something that was delightfully unexpected.  There was a bluish beam of light that came from the surface.  This ray brought sunshine and warmth into what was otherwise a dark and damp place.  So pronounced was this beam that it seemed to be solid.  Like a spotlight in a theater as the show is about to begin, it focused my attention.  Where there is light, there is life and possibility. 

I take light for granted.  In the morning, it is there.  Although most of my day is illuminated by the sun, I  rarely give it second thought.  It is just the way things are.  On the way out of Carlsbad Caverns, as the beam of natural light pierced the darkness of my journey to the surface, I saw things a bit differently.  Light is a gift to an unappreciative planet.  Light is not to be assumed.  Light is to be treasured and seen as the blessing for which it is given.  In the bible, light is a created reality, put into the darkened space in order to provide order mid the chaos.  Later on, Jesus is metaphorically declared to be the light of the world - giving hope and illuminating the very path of God. 

What would it look like if we were to give thanks each morning for the light of day?  What if we were to appreciate the natural splendor of creation beginning with the sun itself?  On rainy or cloudy days when the suns rays are obscured, perhaps we could take the opportunity to reflect on how life would be if we were 'sun-less'.  The massive beam of light that travels through space and warms our planet is a regular blessing for all who live on this wonderful creation.  It is a blessing even for the creatures who live underground and find themselves illuminated for a few hours.

Permission granted to share with family and friends.  Copyrighted, 2016. Walt Lichtenberger

Hidden Sunset

blog first published on July 26, 2016

It was a beautiful evening on the beach. The waves were gently lapping at the extended shoreline. Thanks to the Eco-friendly policies of this California state park, bunches of seaweed were allowed to gather on the sand. Seagulls were flying above while their Sandpiper cousins were racing after the receding tide. Though it was well after eight o'clock local time, the sun was still high in the sky. But like all courses of nature, the golden orb followed the celestial script and began to descend. As the sun lowered its color became more orange and fiery. Far from impotent, its rays cast a golden patina to the waves. At one point it looked like the waves had been touched by Midas himself. Spectacular.

Mesmerized by the show before my very eyes, I couldn't help but be overtaken with a sense of wonder and adoration. Who would set such things into place? The passing of day to night was so dramatically enacted that I couldn't help but join the praises of the Psalmist; "Yours is the day, yours also the night; you established the luminaries and the sun. (Psalm 74:16)"

Through my eyes of faith, which look for the handiwork of the Creator, I couldn't help but give thanks for this glorious glimpse. And it wasn't over. The sun still didn't sink into the Pacific Ocean. Anticipatory praise was mounting. The camera was ready. My eyes and heart were waiting for a sensory treat.

It was at this point that something unexpected occurred. A cloud, previously unnoticed, swallowed up the setting sun. Although the waves retained their golden hue, the sun was hidden from view. At first, I consoled myself with the kind of false assurances that are often given to placate a child when they are distressed. Surely the cloud will dissipate in time for the sun to reappear. The sun will shine through, just you wait and see. It will shine for the purpose of setting gloriously before my eyes! In spite of my internal optimism the situation didn't correct itself. Instead of watching the sun dissolve into the ocean, I was watching a cloud. A dense and gray cloud was all that was to be seen. I waited until it was clear that my picture perfect sunset was hidden.

How often are sunsets hidden from our sight? Putting aside the times that we don't even take the chance to stop and look, how many times do we find ourselves disappointed by the way things turned out? How many times has our anticipation and praise fallen because things didn't work out the way that we thought they would? How many times has the gap between our hopes and reality been too large?

Disappointment, whether it comes from looking at a thick and colorless cloud cover or from the stark realization that things didn't go our way, is hard to accept. Yet it is a normal and even regular part of life. This is as much a biblical truth as the glossy praises of adoration. If you read through the book of Psalms you will hear about sunsets displayed and hidden, of joy and sorrow, of disappointment and fulfillment. It is in this context that these ancient texts declare God to the be the creator of the heavens and the earth.

In a culture of instant gratification and numbing intoxicants, it would do us well to reclaim the faith found in the Psalms. Instead of asking God; "what have you done for me lately? Or the equally obnoxious demand; "show me a glimpse of your presence or glory, then I will believe!" Perhaps a better strategy would simply be to rest in the mystery of things beyond our control and comprehension. Trust that the completeness of God is beyond that of our ever incomplete lives. Trust that the force and beauty of sunsets is being taken care of without our participation. Trust in the God of hidden sunsets and wisdom that refuses to be fully anticipated or put into a box. Trust in what is hidden from sight, mind, imagination. Trust and ultimately join the song of the universe in praise and adoration.

Old Tire Guys

blog first published on February 1, 2017

Two decades have passed since I saw most of them.  We were both younger then.  I was in college, working at my Dad's tire warehouse during the summer months.  They were at the height of their wheeling and dealing careers.  Most came to pick up their tires, although we delivered tires to a few of them.  As a group, they remain an interesting bunch - like character actors cast in gritty 'real life' roles.   They could spin a yarn or a joke or a creative string of profanity with the best of them.   Although I was not cut out for a life of working with tires, I enjoyed being in the presence of these 'tire guys.'  
Last week, at my Uncle John's funeral, they came out.   Since the closing of the family tire business two years ago, none of these people were 'still in business' with my family.   They didn't need to come to the funeral home to show their respect.  There was no monetary or business benefit to coming out on a busy Thursday night.   None of the major tire companies, whose products my family sold over the years, were present.  It was "just business" for them, nothing personal.  When that business concluded, so did the personal connection.   Not so with the old tire guys.  They came.
My respect for these, somewhat rough around the edges, men overflows.  It was more than 'good to see' them.  It brought back memories.  What is more, their presence was a precious treasure to my Dad and brother (who carries on the family tire mantle).  In showing up, these men bore witness to a fundamental truth about business, about life; relationships are central.  For the old tire guys, the relationships forged in the harsh and competitive tire industry of North Jersey meant more than just the bottom line.   They were a thread in the daily fabric of life itself.  And that is where the rubber meets the road.
As I continue to reflect on the Eucharistic life, this is important.  The regular encounters that we have with others, even in business transactions, create a web of relationships.  In this web, we live our lives with all their joys and sorrows, ups and downs, triumphs and failures.  Where there are relationships, there is a potential to enter into holy mysteries.  For God is about relationships.  Christian communities are invited to embody God's love in relationships within the church.   Christ commands, calls, and cajoles Christians to share in tangible ways with each other the kind of love that Jesus experiences from God.  "Going to church" is important because it is our engagement in loving relationships with other believers.  Lest we think that this action is exclusive to or reserved for church, Christ invites us beyond the church for participation in a larger web of relationships.   These relationships are holy in so far as they embody Jesus' love, grace, respect, trust.  They find sacred grounding in the values of Jesus, not in the doctrines of Christianity.    
If I were to mention to the 'old tire guys' that they were part of something holy or sacred, they would certainly have a few choice words for me (remember their proclivity for stringing together creative profanity).  My Uncle certainly didn't subscribe to inclinations of holy living.  Nonetheless, holy living transcends even our characterizations of it.  
When life is honored and lived in relationships - even if those who are relationally connected don't acknowledge or agree - there is something that is holy; there is something of God in the living.   Eucharistic living comes as we recognize and celebrate the holiness of all life.  Eucharistic living is a Christian approach to life that is open to connections both within and beyond the church; God is God of all life, Christian and non-Chrisitian.  
Roll on 'old tire guys,' roll on!