On Winter, courtesy of GK

A friend of mine who knows my affection for Garrison Keillor gave me a big mug with one of his quotes on it. As I just came in from the bitter cold and now gaze out on the sparkly white as a space heater attempts to thaw my feet, I thought I'd share the quote with you:

"Growing up in a place that has winter, you learn to avoid self-pity. Winter is not a personal experience, everybody else is as cold as you, so you shouldn't complain about it too much. You learn this as a kid, coming home crying from the cold, and Mother looks down and says, "It's only a little frostbite. You're okay." And thus you learn to be okay. What's done is done. Get over it. Drink your coffee. It's not the best you'll ever get but it's good enough."

Sympo 2007

I'm in complete agreement with Ron about the great delights and complete exhaustion that the Worship Symposium brings. Thankfully my role was mostly as an attender this year, though I did serve as litugist (read: ringmaster) for the Thurs/Fri evening worship services in the chapel.

I was relieved to neither preach nor present this year, as I left town after teaching Monday and got back late Wednesday night. With post-Interim fatigue coupled with trip fatigue, I was in no condition to teach anyone about anything. I wasn't in much of a condition to learn much either, so I floated around the edges of the symposium, enjoying the few sessions I went to, but mostly hanging out with friends whom I don't normally get to see or spend great lengths of time with. (You Know Who You Are. :-) )

I will say, though, that true to form the worship services I attended were just amazing. A synergy of musical styles, art, preaching, scripture, testimony, drama, etc, etc.... And there is no other group of people that sings or reads responsively as well as the 1600 people who come to this. Wow. I stood in the chapel on Thus and Fri night right in the center of organ, brass, and full four-part harmony singing Love Divine, All Love's Excelling. It was overwhelming. Trascending. I just stood in silence for parts of the hymn and soaked it in.

Now it's Monday. Second semester has begun. And the unaccompanied minor who sat behind me on a plane for four hours did indeed accomplish her goal of coughing enough germs over me so that I caught her cold. My head is full. My nose is raw. My brain is foggy. And I have 3 more hours of teaching tonight.

Sigh. But Interim is over, so tomorrow morn I can stay home and . . . grade papers.

Thanks, and a story

Thanks for all the comments regarding my future employment/ calling/ job /hobby /life. There is much pondering going on--praying, too--and even some actual interviews for actual jobs..... So join me in praying. Anything is possible. (I think that's in the Bible somewhere....)

I'm at the Sympo this week, so no more blogging will occur. But I'll just add this anecdote for your reading pleasure:

I was at the front of the security line at an aiport yesterday when the clerk turned to attend to the First Class/Elite/VIP line where an airport worker was escorting....Dennis Quaid. I looked at him and thought, "Is that Dennis Quaid? That's his name, right? What was that movie he was in with the girl and the thing with the thing...? Wasn't he married to Meg Ryan?" And then I thought, "He looks a little rough." Ballcap, unshaven, haggard.

The clerk, an African-American older woman, finishes with him and turns to me. "Dennis Quaid," she mutters under her breath to me while reviewing my boarding pass. "He looks bad. Dennis Quaid. He's havin' a hard day."

And this, for some reason, made me laugh out loud. Hard. And she said, laughing, "Hey now, don't let him hear!" And I giggled all the way through the X-ray machines.

Finishing Strong

I am delighted to report that my room full of first-years has taken on the relaxed, conversational aura that was my goal way back on January 3. Now that we are just a day away from being done with this experience, they are right where I want 'em. In fact, today we actually talked so much that they declined to watch a video explaining the mark of the beast. Seriously.

"Who is Satan?" "What is spiritual warfare?" "Why don't pastors preach on the book of Revelation?" "What was the capital of Assyria?" "What is Shibboleth?"

Ah, yes. Music to my ears.

On Monday we will join the other DCMer's for a final large-group plenary lecture in the FAC, and then return for exam review/Bible baseball and Krispy Kremes. On Tuesday morning they will turn in their "integrative essays" (a DCM requirement) and take the exam.

And just like that, it's done.

Whew. Papers to read, exams to grade, final marks to submit, but then a break---When does second semester start? The next Monday?! Are you KIDDING me?! Syllabi to tweak, copies to make, class rosters to find.... oh, and the Worship Symposium is in there, too.

A Life in Sermons

I preached twice this past weekend. (Yes, an insane scheduling move to do so during Interim, but I booked them when I thought I may need extra funds for Meli's care.)

I intended to pull out two "previously preached" sermons to use for these services, but while I knew exactly where the location of one of them was, I had to dig through my files to find the other one. (I couldn't preach the same one both places due to a variety of reasons. I will be preaching the evening one at a morning service this Sunday, though.)

So I hauled my file boxes out of the unheated and unused bedroom and dug around for a sermon I knew I had on John 2. As I sorted through the cold sheets of paper, it turned into an unanticipated walk through the last decade of my life.

I paged through series of sermons and seasons of the church year. I found files of funeral meditations, folders of liturgies long past, and scrawled notes regarding prayer requests and lunch meetings. I file my sermons by tucking the manuscript pages inside of the bulletin from that day, so I found inserts welcoming new members, announcements about new babies, and litanies celebrating professions of faith and building dedications and neighborhood partnership Sundays. I found the sermon I preached at my grandfather's funeral. I read only the first few lines--reading any more than that would have prevented me from doing much else the rest of the day.

It was surprisingly emotional. I read bulletin announcements about members who had died and was immediately transported back to bedsides and funeral homes. I saw names of babies who are now playing football or singing in school musicals. I read the information sheets about new members who have since become integral parts of the church.

And, honestly, I was amazed at the number of sermons I have written and preached. My. I had vague ideas about series I have done, but individual sermons surprised me. The quality changes, too. I can easily tell the sermons of my rookie years. It's not that they're bad, uh, umm, it's just that I wouldn't preach them that way now. I can hear the younger me coming through in the pages of the sermons, and she sounds so--what's the word?--young.

Oy, what I went through in those years. There was a line from last week's episode of The Office in which a character holds up a photo of himself and says, "Oh, young Jim. There's so much I would like to warn you about and yet, alas, I cannot." I felt the same flipping through these files. So many memories, floods of emotion, rememberances of the sweet joys and aching sorrows of a decade in the pulpit.

Does it make me want to go back? Leave the classroom and step into the pulpit, take up the parish ministry once more?

Hmmm......

They speak!

First of all, a shout-out to whomever it was that was praying for my class to be healed of their mute-ness. They aren't chatting up a storm yet, but today was definitely better. And one student played The Byrds for his presentation on Ecclesiastes, telling us that when he was reading the passage he was trying to think of where he had heard that before...

The title of my course is "They Even Quote it in Wedding Crashers: Bible Knowledge for Everyday Life." My students run the spectrum from those who know nothing about the Bible (and I mean nothing) to those who have some knowledge but not a lot (most of them) to one or two who have quite a bit and want to go deeper. They are a mix of denominations and personal faith histories, too, and in reading the short faith/church bios I had them write I'm struck by how many of their families have changed churches and denominations in the course of the last 18 years. Very few have been in the same church their whole lives.

I think about what this means for congregations trying to make it, about denominational identity and doctrinal distinctiveness, about how ideas about worship and preaching are formed and re-formed, and about how some things--like basic Bible knowledge--get lost in the shuffle.

Many of my students attended Christian schools (CSI, Lutheran, Catholic, etc.) for some or all of their educations. And yet they do not know the Bible. This makes me wonder what the Bible curriculum consists of in these schools. (Does the Bible get bumped for ethics? Or world religions? I dunno. But I'm concerned.)

One student wondered why Christians need to know the facts of the Bible. Isn't faith enough? she wrote. I answered this in class: "Yes and no. Yes for eternal salvation (I believe that's in the Bible), but don't you want to learn all you can about how God has worked in the lives of his people so that you can recognize him in your own?" Hmmm. They looked at me. Hmmm.

They also quickly understood that while there has been a push toward "spirituality" in recent years, this has not been matched by a hunger for reading the Bible. The good news is, they do want to read the Bible, they just don't know how. ("Let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start. When you read, you begin with A, B, C...")

So, they're reading the Bible. Great big chunks of it. Which means that I am, too. And refreshing my knowledge of the baskets of figs in Jeremiah and the sun going back up the steps in Isaiah and the sad truth that God takes Ezekiel's wife as an object lesson for the people.

As I read today, I thought 1) I'm glad I am not a prophet (God asks them to do crazy things) and, 2) I'm glad I've never seen an angel (every time they show up people are scared witless). I've been reading so much about angels and visions that when I got up this morning and walked down the dark hallway in my stupor I actually thought, "Man, I hope I don't see an angel." It could be time to pick up something else to read for a while....

Interim 2007

So. I'm teaching Interim. Interim is a joy (usually) for students, especially those sophomores-juniors-seniors for whom the class is an ungraded elective, a month-long dip into something like "Social Psychology in Film" or "Be Fit for Life: Bike Australia".

The first-year students, however, take a graded course which weaves in the big themes of the core curriculum of the college. "Developing a Christian Mind" is the moniker for this, with most folks referring to it as "DCM." All first-years read Engaging God's World, a crash course in Creation-Fall-Redemption/Reformed-World-and-Life-View/Calvin College written by Neal Plantinga.

For the faculty, Interim involves teaching 3 hours a day for 14 days. I've had 5 sessions and I'm ready for it to be over. Jeez, this is grueling. It's especially challenging for me because I have 25 first-year students who are quiet as church mice. My teaching style is very interactive; I ask a lot of questions, want to know what they are thinking, want to engage in discussion. And there they sit. Quiet. Unspeaking. Barely breathing.

And it's not like my topic isn't one to raise discussion. I'm teaching my Interim on The Bible. Yes, the Bible, that much debated book full of the weird, wonderful and wacky. Old women give birth, young boys become kings, the oil lasts for days and the sun stands still. You'd think we'd find plenty to talk about.

I wrapped up the teaching on the first five books and asked the room, "So, does anyone have any remaining questions about the Torah?"

Silence.

The Torah, people.

Sigh.

I'm like the babysitter who's run out of ideas. Today we watched Veggie Tales.

Tomorrow, though, it's their turn. Over the next 10 days, each student has to present on a book of the Bible. My turn to sit. And stare. And not speak. Heh, heh, heh.

Epiphanies

Christmastide is over and the day of Epiphany is passed. (That was January 6, in case you didn't have it marked on your calendar.) On the evening of Epiphany I had the privilege of joining a group of diners to converse with N.T. (Tom) Wright, the bishop of Durham. Tom Wright has published many books on matters of theology and biblical studies. A prolific writer and a clear thinker and an animated lecturer, he is also a very nice man.

He was in town to speak at the January Series, the award-winning lecture series hosted by Calvin. He stayed on to speak all day Saturday on the sacraments. Had it been me, by Saturday night I would have been ready for a cup of tea by a roaring fire. Tom, however, was still able to field questions and give really fascinating answers at 8:47p.

Part of my enjoyment of this meal came from sitting next to Nixon McMillen, the interim rector at Grace Episcopal and, therefore, the one who presided over President Ford's funeral. I noted his name and he said that the jokes had been coming all week: "Ford Pardons Nixon; Nixon buries Ford." Apparently, rectors of Grace have known this was coming ever since Ford left office. About every six months or so the honor guard would practice with the casket. Each rector was given a Secret Service background check. And when Betty Ford dies, they will do it all over again (though I'm guessing with a little less flourish).

He said that the whole service was permeated with the Spirit. He also said that the assistant to Dick Cheney was a warm and funny guy, that Cheney and Rumsfeld and Carter sang the hymns by heart, and that one of the honor guards covenanted to pray for him throughout the service.

At the end of our meal, June suggested that we keep the program because the one's from Ford's funeral were on eBay for $5000. Choir members and even Nixon did not get copies of the actual program.

My program from the meal with NT Wright is magnetted on my fridge, reminding me of a lovely evening, great conversation, and the chance to sit and listen to a wonderful theologian who has the heart of a pastor.

As if this wasn't enough to zazz up my weekend, last night my dear friend June and I went to the Calvin Alumni Choir concert. Wow. Their guest director this fall was Duane Davis, who stretched them to sing a piece by Bobby McFerrin (yes, the guy who sings "Don't Worry Be Happy") and an amazing gospel-esque piece that wove together Jesus, Lover of My Soul with Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring. The soloist for both of these pieces was Mark Jackson, a former student of Davis' who has sung Rent on Broadway and in London. The concert would have been really good without these pieces, but with them....a whole 'nother level. Fabulous.

So now it's Monday afternoon and I need to prep for my Interim class tomorrow. I'll write more on that later.

On the Tenth Day of Christmas...

We buried a president. I don't know if the rest of the country has been as wrapped up in the events surrounding the death of President Gerald R. Ford, but here in Grand Rapids this has captivated us.
Hearing people eulogize his integrity and virtue, hearing of his deep faith and of his love for his wife, I can't help feeling deep attachment for him. He was a Christian, played football for Michigan, and let his golden retriever, Liberty, hang out in the oval office. He and I had similar loves. (I'll let his attachment to Dick Cheney be balanced out by his deep friendship with Jimmy Carter.)

Ford is the first president I remember, and that only vaguely. I do remember the day Carter beat him. All of us South Side Christian grade schoolers with Republican parents (that is, about 99.8% of us) wondered anxiously what this might mean. The rumor on the playground--seriously!--was that Carter would make us go to school on Saturdays.

I visited Ford's museum on a class trip in 5th grade. I remember reading a note there that had been sent by a voter who declared that he would not vote for Ford again because of his pardon of Nixon. Another note said, "We understand why you did this. But couldn't this have waited until after the election?" When asked recently why he pardoned Nixon, Ford said simply, "He was my friend." He also knew that it would cost him the election.

I'll let the historians banter over that. In my life Ford's lasting effect is seen in the 8-year-old brown-eyed blonde who is presenting sleeping on the floor next to me. The images of the Ford family playing with Liberty captivated my imagination. I was pretty young when I declared to my parents that when I was old enough, I was going to have a golden retreiver too.

Jerry helped heal a nation, to be sure, and Maureen Dowd (among others) is less than enthusiastic for the staffers he left behind, but for me on this starlit evening in Grand Rapids, I remember President Ford as a key part of my childhood and a tangible influence on my present. Meli and I went out to greet the motorcade when it arrived from Washington. We joined the mass on 28th Street and found a perfect spot with few people. When the car carrying the littlest grandchildren went by, they saw Meli and waved. I waved back. I think Liberty would be pleased. Her owner, too.

Rest in peace, Mr. President.