Saturday, March 06, 2004
What I'm Pondering
How many people hide behind the growing term, "missional church". We can locate ourselves as christians in a post-christian country, and declare we need to be missional.
And we get rid of sundays, teaching, preaching, training, planning, and have candle, ambient music, food, and say we are missional. Or are we just hiding from what the modern church avoided all along, real mission.
As I read Roland Allen, and Vincent Donovan, and Lesslie Newbigin, I think they would see through our smoke screen of postmodern trendiness, and ask, well has getting rid of all the things from the modern church freed you for mission, real mission, serving the community and each other? Or is it great idea we hide behind to fool ourselves and cover our lack of confidence and self centredness?
From Jason Clark
How many people hide behind the growing term, "missional church". We can locate ourselves as christians in a post-christian country, and declare we need to be missional.
And we get rid of sundays, teaching, preaching, training, planning, and have candle, ambient music, food, and say we are missional. Or are we just hiding from what the modern church avoided all along, real mission.
As I read Roland Allen, and Vincent Donovan, and Lesslie Newbigin, I think they would see through our smoke screen of postmodern trendiness, and ask, well has getting rid of all the things from the modern church freed you for mission, real mission, serving the community and each other? Or is it great idea we hide behind to fool ourselves and cover our lack of confidence and self centredness?
From Jason Clark
Monday, March 01, 2004
Existential at Six
*Be warned. This is a long one.
The oldest and I were driving home the other night. As he climbed into my car, he picked up something in the backseat and said, “what in the…” He cut himself off there.
The Queen Mother has a strict ban on the phrase “what the”. She doesn’t want it to be practice for the “hell” that could come later. With this in mind, I asked him what he had just said.
“Did I hear you right?”
“Yeah, but I was going to say, ‘What in the world!’”
I saw a teachable moment here. I began to explain the correct usage for the word “hell” and that it is a real place and so forth.
A few weeks ago I had been loaned a CD from a punk band called MXPX. The boy heard it once, then claimed it for his own. The band used to be on a Christian label so I had made an assumption that there wouldn’t be any objectionable (and repeatable) words in their lyrics. Boy was I wrong. We were all listening to the disk during a Saturday morning drive when I thought I heard something. I spun it back. Sure enough. I spun it back again for the Queen Mother. If the kids hadn’t picked up on the word before, now they had heard it three times in quick succession.
I told the boy that track 21 was off limits. It was one of his favorite songs. I expected to hear a complaint. Instead, he said brightly, “O.K.” Then, “Why?”
I was not prepared to answer this question, especially in front of his little brother. That boy had his own set of five year old ethics; he didn’t need to be armed with a new word. So, I did what every good parent does, deflect and delay.
“I’ll tell you later,” I said.
It had been three weeks, and I assumed that the boy had forgotten about it, but this conversation about “hell” brought it back.
“Hey Papa, do you remember that word in the song? You told me you would tell me what it was.”
This is a big word. There something about the innocence of a six year old, and it just didn’t seem right to tarnish it, but we’ve always talked straight with our kids. Besides a kid is supposed to learn these words from their dad, right?
“Alright,” I said. “I’m trusting you with this, boy. This is just you and me. The word is…Shit.”
Long, dark pause.
“Have you ever heard it before?” I asked. I was curious about this. I know for a fact that he’s heard it before from at least one of his parents (right after she backed into a car).
“No.” Kids must have short and selective memories. “What is it?”
“Poop.”
“Huh.” He said with a soft chuckle.
I couldn’t just leave it there that this is a “bad” word. We talked about how some words are crass and ugly, not to be used as a family rule. But there is a difference between those words and using God’s name when you don’t mean it.
The best I could come up with was to ask how he would feel if I kept saying “Hey Jacks”, “Hey Jacks”, “Hey Jacks” all day long. “Annoyed,” he said. I asked him if he wouldn’t like that, how would God feel about it. I know there is more to this whole discussion, but I felt good just getting past this point.
I told him that he might, on rare occasion, hear his mother or I use a crass, ugly word, but that we really shouldn’t. He said, “Yeah, Mama’s and Papa’s can use those words because they are grown up.” That hurt.
That led us into the realm of absolutes. We talked about how using some words are not strictly prohibited by God, but they are for him by his parents. But there are some things that God prohibits, and it’s never right to do them like telling a lie.
“Do you remember that really big lie I told once?” He asked.
This was a monumental event in Jackson’s life that I have completely forgotten about. He brought it up to me during our last Good Friday service as a sin in his life that Jesus died for. I don’t remember it, and I told him so.
I told the boy that my not remembering his lie is kind of like God’s forgetting of our sins when we ask forgiveness.
It was here that the conversation turned.
“Papa, you are a great help to me.”
“Thanks, boy. You know, I love being your Papa.”
“I love being your boy. Do you know who my favorite person is?”
“Who’s that?” I have welled up and am bursting with pride.
“Cooper.” After all that, and his little brother gets “favorite” status. Turd.
“Actually,” he continues, “Cooper and you and Mama and Josie.”
“Me too, boy. Me too.”
Then he goes fifteen on me.
“Do you know what I think about sometimes? Ah, never mind, you won’t understand.” No way. Ten years from now the kid can pull that crap, not now.
“Try me.”
“I think about what if something happened to Cooper or Josie, and I was alone.”
Ugh. Six year olds should not be allowed to think existentially. This is hard enough for an adult to make sense out of.
My friend, Tim, has this sharp little girl. She asked her mother once if mommy's die. She had a serious conversation with her daughter and told her, “Yes”. Then the little girl asked her dad if daddy's die. He said, “No.” So now they have a daughter who believes that Mommy’s die, but Daddy’s live forever.
We were getting out of the car. I put my face in front of his, forehead to forehead, and I told him that even if all of us were gone, God would always surround and engulf him. He would never be alone. I told him though that none of his family were going anywhere, that he wouldn’t be able to get alone even if he wanted to.
It was a fifteen minute drive. The same one we take all the time, and I was worn out by it. I was worn out by him, but I felt deeply these rare moments when we were both up to a conversation like this. I tucked him in that night and sang him a lullaby. Looking into his chocolate eyes, I was just grateful for him and what he teaches me and what he is making me to be.
*Be warned. This is a long one.
The oldest and I were driving home the other night. As he climbed into my car, he picked up something in the backseat and said, “what in the…” He cut himself off there.
The Queen Mother has a strict ban on the phrase “what the”. She doesn’t want it to be practice for the “hell” that could come later. With this in mind, I asked him what he had just said.
“Did I hear you right?”
“Yeah, but I was going to say, ‘What in the world!’”
I saw a teachable moment here. I began to explain the correct usage for the word “hell” and that it is a real place and so forth.
A few weeks ago I had been loaned a CD from a punk band called MXPX. The boy heard it once, then claimed it for his own. The band used to be on a Christian label so I had made an assumption that there wouldn’t be any objectionable (and repeatable) words in their lyrics. Boy was I wrong. We were all listening to the disk during a Saturday morning drive when I thought I heard something. I spun it back. Sure enough. I spun it back again for the Queen Mother. If the kids hadn’t picked up on the word before, now they had heard it three times in quick succession.
I told the boy that track 21 was off limits. It was one of his favorite songs. I expected to hear a complaint. Instead, he said brightly, “O.K.” Then, “Why?”
I was not prepared to answer this question, especially in front of his little brother. That boy had his own set of five year old ethics; he didn’t need to be armed with a new word. So, I did what every good parent does, deflect and delay.
“I’ll tell you later,” I said.
It had been three weeks, and I assumed that the boy had forgotten about it, but this conversation about “hell” brought it back.
“Hey Papa, do you remember that word in the song? You told me you would tell me what it was.”
This is a big word. There something about the innocence of a six year old, and it just didn’t seem right to tarnish it, but we’ve always talked straight with our kids. Besides a kid is supposed to learn these words from their dad, right?
“Alright,” I said. “I’m trusting you with this, boy. This is just you and me. The word is…Shit.”
Long, dark pause.
“Have you ever heard it before?” I asked. I was curious about this. I know for a fact that he’s heard it before from at least one of his parents (right after she backed into a car).
“No.” Kids must have short and selective memories. “What is it?”
“Poop.”
“Huh.” He said with a soft chuckle.
I couldn’t just leave it there that this is a “bad” word. We talked about how some words are crass and ugly, not to be used as a family rule. But there is a difference between those words and using God’s name when you don’t mean it.
The best I could come up with was to ask how he would feel if I kept saying “Hey Jacks”, “Hey Jacks”, “Hey Jacks” all day long. “Annoyed,” he said. I asked him if he wouldn’t like that, how would God feel about it. I know there is more to this whole discussion, but I felt good just getting past this point.
I told him that he might, on rare occasion, hear his mother or I use a crass, ugly word, but that we really shouldn’t. He said, “Yeah, Mama’s and Papa’s can use those words because they are grown up.” That hurt.
That led us into the realm of absolutes. We talked about how using some words are not strictly prohibited by God, but they are for him by his parents. But there are some things that God prohibits, and it’s never right to do them like telling a lie.
“Do you remember that really big lie I told once?” He asked.
This was a monumental event in Jackson’s life that I have completely forgotten about. He brought it up to me during our last Good Friday service as a sin in his life that Jesus died for. I don’t remember it, and I told him so.
I told the boy that my not remembering his lie is kind of like God’s forgetting of our sins when we ask forgiveness.
It was here that the conversation turned.
“Papa, you are a great help to me.”
“Thanks, boy. You know, I love being your Papa.”
“I love being your boy. Do you know who my favorite person is?”
“Who’s that?” I have welled up and am bursting with pride.
“Cooper.” After all that, and his little brother gets “favorite” status. Turd.
“Actually,” he continues, “Cooper and you and Mama and Josie.”
“Me too, boy. Me too.”
Then he goes fifteen on me.
“Do you know what I think about sometimes? Ah, never mind, you won’t understand.” No way. Ten years from now the kid can pull that crap, not now.
“Try me.”
“I think about what if something happened to Cooper or Josie, and I was alone.”
Ugh. Six year olds should not be allowed to think existentially. This is hard enough for an adult to make sense out of.
My friend, Tim, has this sharp little girl. She asked her mother once if mommy's die. She had a serious conversation with her daughter and told her, “Yes”. Then the little girl asked her dad if daddy's die. He said, “No.” So now they have a daughter who believes that Mommy’s die, but Daddy’s live forever.
We were getting out of the car. I put my face in front of his, forehead to forehead, and I told him that even if all of us were gone, God would always surround and engulf him. He would never be alone. I told him though that none of his family were going anywhere, that he wouldn’t be able to get alone even if he wanted to.
It was a fifteen minute drive. The same one we take all the time, and I was worn out by it. I was worn out by him, but I felt deeply these rare moments when we were both up to a conversation like this. I tucked him in that night and sang him a lullaby. Looking into his chocolate eyes, I was just grateful for him and what he teaches me and what he is making me to be.
A Time For Poets
After all the seas are cross'd (and they seem already cross'd)
After the great captains and engineers have accomplished their work
After the noble inventors, after the scientists, the chemists, the geologists, the ethnologists,
Finally comes the poet worthy of that name
The true son of God shall come, singing His songs.Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass
To address the issue of truth greatly reduced requires us to be poets who speak against the prose world. The terms of that phrase are readily misunderstood. By prose I refer to a world that is organized in simple formulae, so that even pastoral prayers and love letters sound like memos. By poetry, I do not mean rhyme, rhythm or meter, but language that moves like Bob Gibson's fast ball, that jumps at the right moment, that breaks open old worlds of surprise.. (this part I can't hear). Poetic speech is the only proclamation worth doing in a situation of reductionism. The only proclamation .. that is worthy of the name preaching is not moral instruction, or problem solving, or doctrinal clarification. It is not good advice, nor is it romantic caressing, not is it a ... It is rather the ready, steady, surprising proposal that the real world in which God invites us to live is not the one made available by the rulers of this age.
Walter Brueggemann, Finally Comes The Poet
After all the seas are cross'd (and they seem already cross'd)
After the great captains and engineers have accomplished their work
After the noble inventors, after the scientists, the chemists, the geologists, the ethnologists,
Finally comes the poet worthy of that name
The true son of God shall come, singing His songs.Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass
To address the issue of truth greatly reduced requires us to be poets who speak against the prose world. The terms of that phrase are readily misunderstood. By prose I refer to a world that is organized in simple formulae, so that even pastoral prayers and love letters sound like memos. By poetry, I do not mean rhyme, rhythm or meter, but language that moves like Bob Gibson's fast ball, that jumps at the right moment, that breaks open old worlds of surprise.. (this part I can't hear). Poetic speech is the only proclamation worth doing in a situation of reductionism. The only proclamation .. that is worthy of the name preaching is not moral instruction, or problem solving, or doctrinal clarification. It is not good advice, nor is it romantic caressing, not is it a ... It is rather the ready, steady, surprising proposal that the real world in which God invites us to live is not the one made available by the rulers of this age.
Walter Brueggemann, Finally Comes The Poet
