The Mirror Reflected

Two sides reflected in the never ending whispering rings of the eternal waters.

The past can teach you many things for therein lies the answers that perhaps shape our path and carve out our journey. 

This past Fall Semester, I joyfully found myself in one of three courses that I have no problem taking in the early a.m: Church History. It is also a plus when the professor teaching the course is one of the students favorite and to boot, my adviser. One would not think that History is important in the wider Church but in fact how can you stand on the shoulders of those who have been called before and not understand the struggles, the challenges and the rewards that will encompass our vocational life?

Having an understanding of where you come from, so that you know where you are going is not alien to me; as I continue to reflect during this month of African American/African Descent History and Heritage we as a nomadic people must never forget the richness of our beginnings especially with our connection to the Divine.  As much as I had knowledge of history with regards to my people and where they fit in (or rather not) in this country's own beginnings, there was a difference in how Scripture ebbed and flowed with the rushing, chaotic waters of human history. Humanity at many different times, I concluded, got in God's way. Yet, there were those who truly stepped out into the darkness, motionless as night continued to vibrate into their consciousness, allowing their spirit to be open, receptive to the mysteries across the veil.

Mysticism transcended Christianity; it was a religious phenomenon of having an experience with the Creator and many of the devout names haunted my days as I poured into books on their lives: St. Teresa, Julian of Norwich and Hildergard. They were not labeled witches or of the demonic-they rambled, spoken in riddles, experienced pain, suffering and scrutiny...and were elevated, revered to be wise vessels or instruments of God.

Why then, are ancient peoples, ancient tribal practices, ancient religions shunned, ridiculed and stamped "taboo" just because they did not, or continue to not worship just as the Western World? Why then as I unravel the fabric of spirituality, no matter what beautiful, fragile string of yarn falls into my hands no matter how I join them as one-that the colors of the tapestry coexist into a river of harmony?

The picture above to the left, is Our Lady of Czestochowa, a icon of Mary and known to be a protector of the people of Poland; she is revered as Mother and forever watching, caring as a mother  would. 

A couple of days after the horrible earthquake in Haiti, Sunday to be exact I turned on CNN early that morning. As they reported how the dawn rose over the terrible devastation and the death-they also panned over women in the streets-having church service, dancing and praising God. In all this tragedy, the Haitian people came out and continued to give thanks to the Creator, repeating one line over and over.

I wept. How many of us could do the same in the midst of strife and pain?

The icon on the right is the same but she has a different name in the Haitian tradition. I shall not name her because the Haitian people have long been ridiculed and damned for continuing in their ancient ways. She is too, a strong symbol of the Haitian woman, fierce in her protection of the Haitian people. She too, is a Mother. 

How different sometimes our languages, our religions, our cultures separate us. How soon we forget that Christ celebrated and communed with us in the splendor of Creation, and we were simply..the children of God.

Lape Bondye. God's Peace.

Youth Sunday(s)

Before I was a member there, my home church used to do an annual Youth Sunday - a Sunday in which the music, leadership, readings, sermon, greeting and ushering were all taken over by the high school students. It was the one Sunday a year that many of these roles would be filled by a teenager. When the congregation called a youth pastor, one of the first things he did was put an end to this tradition. For the next few years, whenever anyone asked him why such a drastic change was made, he would say, "The youth should feel free to participate as leaders all year long. Every Sunday should be Youth Sunday."

As I've reflected on this liturgical anecdote over the last few years, I've consistently agreed with Pastor Aaron's intentions. It is possible that when we focus all that the youth have to offer into a single Sunday, we may feel like that's the best (if not only) time for them to participate as leaders in worship. On the contrary, every Sunday the leadership of the worship service - from greeters to musicians to assisting ministers - should reflect the diversity of the congregation. I've held strong to the idea that all chancel guild members do not have to be women, all ushers do not have to be men, and all acolytes do not need to be confirmation students.

But, as it is wont to do, my internship experience is once again challenging my theoretical ideals. This past Sunday was, in fact, Youth Sunday at Good Shepherd. There was a jazz band comprised of high school brass players, a young women's chorus, a string quartet, an Old Testament reading arranged for three lectors, and a chancel drama (written by yours truly) for the sermon. All of this was done by the High School students. They also acted as greeters, worship leaders, organists, communion assistants, and ushers. In all, there were 55 high school youth actively participating in the service. It was one of the most moving worship services I've seen at Good Shepherd, simply due to the massive amount of dedication and sincere desire to be a part of the liturgy from all those teenage children of God. And, it was an amazing expression of faith for the adults of the congregation, who were able to witness God's love through the special leadership on Sunday.

I'm still against the idea that youth can only participate in certain aspects of worship on one chosen Sunday a year; however, I learned this week that a marker-Sunday - to show how one section of the population is vital to the congregation's life - can be a positive means to create more diverse leadership on the other 51 Sundays. The string quartet is already planning their next chance to lead the congregational music, and the brass group will probably return soon, too.

So, now I'm thinking we need to have a Grandmother's Sunday next. Who knows what talents the Holy Spirit will shine her light on in that vital portion of the church's population?

Family Pastor Take 2

So last week I was talking about being the family pastor, right?

It continues.

This last week, my cousin's friend/her kids' sitter died at age 36. This woman, Kelly, was like a second mother to my two little cousins. I liked, respected, and admired her as I am very close to my cousin and lived with her and her family during CPE. They are my home away from home. And Kelly just died one morning last week. To say it was a shock does little to expound upon the situation. She left behind a husband and three young girls.

So I'm thinking more about grief as I continue to grieve my own grandmother and to an extent, Kelly. I went to my home away from home this last weekend. And I thought, do I go as cousin and pseudo sister or as family pastor? What about the questions about how to tell the 3 year old who loves Kelly that he won't get to see her again? What about my own grief?

The best answer I can give is that I went as myself... with my own grief, with my pastoral care skills, with my love for my family. There's no easy answer for when to be pastor and when not to be. Regardless, I can never unlearn the things I have learned as I have become pastor. It is a part of me.

On Being a Visitor

The strangest thing for me about being a senior is figuring out what to do with myself on Sunday mornings. For the first time in my seminary career, for the first time in my life, really, I have nowhere I am expected to be on a Sunday. The last two years I’ve had field education requirements on Sundays, and even before seminary I was part of church communities that would miss me and note my absence. With this new found freedom and the knowledge that my Sundays would soon be scheduled for the rest of the foreseeable future, I decided to take some time to explore a variety of congregations and experience different styles.

“This will be great,” I thought to myself as I developed this plan. “I’ll get to see what other congregations are doing, experience new forms of worship, expand my horizons a bit.” So I picked my first place, a small nondenominational congregation a couple of blocks from my apartment, and I headed out.

What I had not taken into account was how incredibly frightening it is to enter the doors of a new community. I figured, I’m a seminarian, I go to worship all the time, I like worship, this will be easy. I could not have been more wrong. As I walked up to the front door of the church, I felt my heart racing. What if the worship is uncomfortable? What if our politics don’t line up? What if our theology is different? It was a communion Sunday, what if our beliefs didn’t line up, was I welcome at the table? All these questions masked the major one, what if they don’t like me, what if I’m not welcome? I stood in the entryway frantically searching the bulletin, trying to gather the confidence to walk into the sanctuary.

In the end it was a lovely service and a nice group of people, but I learned a lot from my fear that day. It was for me a reminder of the risk we ask people to take when we invite them to join us for worship. No matter how welcoming we are, how hospitable, how visitor-friendly, it still requires a huge risk on the part of visitors to step through the doors of a congregation on a Sunday. I hope as I look ahead to my own pastoral ministry I can find ways to honor the risk that is taken by new people to join a worshiping community and to express my profound gratefulness to everyone who has the courage to walk through the door.

Wine and Wine-skins

As I write this, I am sitting here at my girlfriend’s house listening to a YouTube video of a children’s choir sing a cover of “Fireflies” by Owl City...in parts! Not only is it fun for me to hear so many young voices singing such a sweet tune (in my opinion), but I am a huge fan of the creativity and the opportunity to take a popular song and make an enjoyable choral experience from it. Another one of my favorite choral covers is the song “Africa” by Toto. It’s already a great song, arguably one of my favorites, but the choral cover made it even more enjoyable for me to listen to. I also similarly enjoy the cover of “Africa” by Straight No Chaser, especially their Christmas rendition.

When I think about these things, my mind wanders to the parable in the Synoptic Gospels about the new wine and wine-skins. Jesus explains how no one should put a new wine into old wineskins but that the new wine needs new wineskins and that is how it will be preserved. This is a great metaphor for how our experience is shaped by and continues to shape the frameworks that we use. When a cover song is created, a first instinct seems to be placing the new wine of the performer into the perceived parameters of what can and can’t be done in a musical performance.

Personally, I know I feel like I need to burst out of those parameters and create a new wineskin for the music that I will attempt to create. Whether it’s using different instruments, insertion of interludes, or even a different tempo, the new wineskin of our experience can bring revelation and contextuality to whatever new wine (or old, note that Jesus does not give a parameter for an old wine in new wineskins) we might encounter in our lives.

P.S. Check out the Africa cover I am referencing here: http://vimeo.com/5263071


Perpetuum Jazzile - Africa (live, HQ) from rokelvisar on Vimeo.

Until Next Friday!

My Ancestors Calling, My People continue to Roam

As the semester has once more taken flight, I almost forgot for a moment the significance of this month until one of my classmates asked me a question as I settled in my seat for another rousing lecture time in Israel's Prophets.

"What's the proper name for Black History Month?" 

Quite honestly, as I pondered this it could be many things for a people without truly a place to go home to. It could be African Heritage Descent Month or African American History Month, or simply Black History as it always has been. For me, the color black is a deepness and a void; our origins go farther than the dying embers flickering in the night yet our direction, our purpose is vast and seamless, almost lost in chaos. 

We are a people without a country, without a religion, without our language, culture..without a cornerstone in our lives. We continually have roamed throughout the ages, restless, searching for acceptance and affirmation. 

Our spirits are etched in a puzzle, where our ancestors love us fiercely not for us to lose our identity, to impart the wisdom that has bonded us to Creation and connected us with the stars. 

It is a part of my very being that continues to haunt me, whispering "Never forget". Sometimes in our confusion we cry out to Our Creator and ask the question "What is the purpose that I am here now?" We lament why our people were torn from the serenity of our home and dragged across the waters, waters that were supposed to be life affirming, healing and instead turned into waters of despair in a river, an ocean of tears. 

And yet, it is the drums that continually sing out the rhythms of grace and love from Our Creator, from God that give us hope. To walk out into the blackness of night and listen, listen! as Creation answers back pouring out the knowledge that is eternal...that God has not forgotten God's People. 

I did not forget that it was the month to celebrate my ancestry, as my classmate asked that question, rather I live and breathe and carry my ancestors with me.

Lape Bondye, God's Peace.

Senior Pastor for a Week

This past week, I finally got a real taste of what being a solo senior pastor is like. My supervisor took his usual January vacation and quite literally left the keys with me. Now, I've definitely had a good sampling of pastoral duties during the past month, but to have all of those duties, and then some, on my shoulders for a week was an absolutely new experience. I was in charge of all the Bible studies and the Pastor's confirmation class (as well as my own classes); I was in charge of knowing everything about who was in the hospital, who was going home, and who needed prayer; I was in charge of the entire liturgy, from the sermon right down to the need to coordinate back-up organists due to extenuating circumstances (of course, we went without the Eucharist on Sunday, and everything went smoothly with our organist!); I was in charge of locking up, of unlocking, and of grabbing a shovel if it snowed on Sunday morning (it didn't!); and most importantly, I was in charge of making sure the bulletin was correct before it went to the presses. Okay, so maybe that last part wasn't the "most" important, but it was still important!

Put on your Pastor Hat!

It was, in short, a week-long learning experience unlike any other. It was the second busiest week of my internship so far, and I loved it. If this is what the ministry is going to be like, I cannot wait. I know some of those tasks sound mundane or even unnecessary, but I have always enjoyed doing background work: the myriad of little details that can go unnoticed but are vital to making things happen.

I am glad that I was able to experience this first-hand immersion into being a solo pastor before I graduate from seminary. Granted, all of internship has been a blessing that is preparing me for my ordained calling, but it's nice to be given the keys for a week. I'm pretty sure I brought it back in one piece, too.