Hold These Stories With Care

When small groups meets in the congregation where I serve, we often use some simple “covenants of presence” that help us in our time together. One of them has to do with story telling. It affirms that “we all have a story” and that we need to “claim authorship and learn to tell it to others.” As we grow in our ability to do this, we also remember how families and communities have sacred stories within them that need to be told. Here in Vancouver, B.C. one of the most obvious signs of this is the presence of numerous totem poles throughout the city. Archeologists and historians confer that people of the First Nations have been carving poles such as these for at least five thousand years, and every one of them tells a story. This should come as no surprise to us. Jewish and Christian communities have also been telling sacred stories for thousands of years, and images have often been a powerful way to share these with the public. In the church where I worshipped on Sunday, one stained glass window told the story of Jesus as the Good Shepherd and another one depicted St. Paul preaching on Mars Hill in Athens. In that setting, it struck me that they were simply Christian totem poles made by artists from Northern Europe. But Christians who brought stories such as these to the Northwest many years ago made a terrible mistake. When they saw the totems carved by people of the First Nations, they thought that the poles, themselves, were the objects of pagan worship. So, they set out to destroy as many of them as they could. Of course, these people who came with sacred stories of their own should have known the difference! And, destroying the poles did nothing to destroy the stories they proclaimed. A descendant of the First Nations people who has started coming to worship in an outdoor church in Vancouver told his new pastor that the most important thing about sacred stories is that we hold them within us in a place where they can’t be erased. In fact, he questioned why she needed to read from the Bible each time they gathered for worship. “Don’t Christians hold these stories within them?” he asked. He went on to say that when one is gifted with a story there is always the expectation that it is held in trust. That brought me to the “covenants of trust” again, where we encourage each other to “hold these stories with care.” I have always liked them, but now these simple covenants hold even deeper meaning for me.

Vocation

Not long ago, I heard a philosopher share some interesting thoughts on the subject of vocation. We kill vocation, he said, when we assume that it is something that comes from within us. His point was that vocation is something that comes from outside of us, something that “calls us out”, as the Latin root for the word suggests. This was in my thoughts today as a gentle man told me the story of the Anglican congregation he attends in the neighborhood of Vancouver where I am staying. He showed me a picture of the first church building, which was built over one hundred years ago in a lower income part of the city where many factory and shipyard workers lived. The parishioners had scant resources, so it was hard to pay the bills. That changed, however, when congregational leaders perceived a call from God to jack up the church building, put it on skids, and move it about one half mile away to a neighborhood of growing affluence. Within a short time, people of means started attending worship, including a local tycoon who had a made his fortune in the sugar business. With his generous help, they tore down the old church building and constructed a new one that looked much more like the ones they had left in England. But of course, over time, the neighborhood continued to change. People with serious money moved on to bigger and better things, and the people that replaced them proved to be more diverse that anyone could have imagined. A testimony to this today is the presence of one of the largest GLBT communities in all of Canada. When my host explained that the congregation was now about fifty percent GLBT, he said: “At first, we didn’t go to them. They just came to us.” He said the same thing when he talked about the relationship the congregation now has with a group of people nearby who are “following a simple program aimed at freeing themselves from their addictions to drugs and alcohol.” On my walk back to the hotel, I kept thinking about how these people of faith were being “called out” in this latest stage of their journey, and how different that was from their understanding of vocation in the days when they moved the church to it's present location.

First Thoughts

From my hotel in the heart of bustling Vancouver, B.C., I look out the window and see where it all began. The story is told, first, in the sandstone and basalt cliffs of sacred land that is now called Stanley Park. In them, one observes layer upon layer of geological history dating back to the time when this piece of earth was thrust up from the sea. Beneath the cliffs, stretching into the rich coastal waters, are rocks that tell the story of aboriginal people who were the first to settle in this corner of North America. The wall formed by these rocks served as an ingenious trap for the many species of fish that sustained those first people throughout the year. Beside them today are the beautifully manicured gardens of Stanley Park. The story they tell is of a new wave of settlers from the British Isles who came here centuries later with a desire to tame this land and the people that it nourished. Walking among the flowers on this beautiful Spring day are people as diverse as all the colors and geneses that have been carefully planted. In these present day city dwellers, one observes layers of local human history that are too numerous to count. However, when I think about how they have managed to coexist, despite centuries of conflicting interests and ideals, the metaphor of layers disappears. Instead, I marvel at how the roots of all these people have become intertwined,causing them to grow together into a garden that is beautiful to behold. And, if that is true for communities, it is also true for individuals. At an art museum not far from Stanley Park, curators have put together an exhibit called “Beat Nation” that reflects a generation of artists who juxtapose urban youth culture and hip hop with Aboriginal identity. The poster for the exhibit (pictured above) made me wonder what each of our pictures would look like if they could reflect the many layers of who we are, or, better yet, the garden that we have become.

It Doesn't Hurt to Ask

In my life as a parish pastor, I am always encouraging people to ask questions. “Often,” I say, “having good questions is more important than having answers.” For many, this is liberating. I do notice, however, that it takes time to get past some of things that generally cause us to keep our questions to ourselves. That was the case for me as I stepped off the train yesterday in the center of Vancouver, B.C. There were so many things I didn’t know. Which bus would I need to take and where would I catch it? What route would it follow and how close would that come to my hotel? How much would it cost? Would I need to have exact change? And that was just for starters. Since I am on pilgrimage, I decided to be brave and to pose all these questions to real people and not to the internet. Not surprisingly, what I felt within me helped me understand why so many people are reluctant inquirers. First of all, I didn’t want to bother others or impose. Then, as more things came up, I didn’t want to come across as an ignorant fool. But, as reluctant inquirers at church so often do, I got over it. I asked a stranger on the sidewalk which bus to take and he carefully pointed out the stop on the other side of the street. I asked a coffee shop barista for information about the fare and he helped me get exact change. On the bus, I asked a young, amorous couple what route the bus took and they helped me identify the place to disembark. Moments later, at a back street Japanese restaurant, I asked the waitress to show me the right way to eat the food I had ordered. It actually felt good to depend on others in this way. O.K. It is Canada! I get that. But all this gave me a safe environment to gain confidence as an inquirer. Now, it’s on to bigger questions. And, for that too, I know I need help. In a conversation I had with a rabbi today, I even asked for help in identifying some key questions that I can walk with and pray with over the next three months. I’m on a roll!

Stop. Look. Listen.

Most of my days are filled with meetings and appointments. That’s just the way it is. What I don’t realize, perhaps, is how much I continue to process all of that in the moments in between. I wondered about that today as I sat in a coffee shop. The difference, today, is that I am making the first small step out of work into a three-month sabbatical. Normally, I have one day off every week where I can allow myself to be immersed in another environment. That’s a gift! But, I have to admit that I still allow my brain to be a bit preoccupied on those days. Today, however, it seems to be the immediate environment that "occupies" my brain more fully, and, likewise, my senses. Unconsciously, I take note of the way people are interacting with each other. I wonder how the old woman with the dog has become so familiar with the young barista. I really notice what people are wearing, and not just the outdoor gear which usually gets my attention. I breath in the chemistry of perfumes emanating from the table next to me. I gaze at the art on the walls. Of course, this is how I want it to be every day! I want to be a daily pilgrim who is fully immersed in the thick environment of sights, sounds, smells, stories, and all that “is” around me. For now, I’ll just allow it to happen. Later, I’ll learn how to bring more of that back into the world of meetings and appointments.

On the Road Again

On the first day of a pilgrim journey into the heart of a Northwest metropolis, I am remembering something that historians have written about for centuries. It has to do with the relationship between nomadic and sedentary people. We are told that most civilizations have been deeply influenced by an ongoing struggle between the two. But here’s the deal. Both groups need each other. From one generation to the next, there is an interdependence that can’t be denied. With bag and ticket in hand, I am mindful of that today. I am a nomad going to be among the city dwellers of Vancouver, British Columbia. So, I wonder. What will that interdependence look like? I know I will need them to house me, feed me, guide me, and protect me while I am there. But, what do I bring to them? In many ways, pilgrims appear to be useless creatures. Yes, we put money into the local economy. That’s something. But I want to know what else there is- what else is possible. The way to find out, of course, is to venture forth.

At Our Best

Along the pilgrim road to Santiago de Compostella, images of Santiago (Saint James)are seen everywhere. The two most common ones are of "Saint James the Pilgrim" and "Saint James the Moor Slayer". Often, the two images are even seen side-by-side, like at the entrance to a church. To me, it is a symbol of how people of faith can take something as sacred as pilgrimage and turn it into something as profane as a crusade. I thought about this when I was asked to write an article for a local newspaper in response to the question: "What does your faith tradition teach you about interfaith relations?" At our best, we are Saint James the Pilgrim and at our worst we are Saint James the Moor Slayer. It is sad to acknowledge that the two often exist side-by-side within us and within our religious communities, like those two images above the same church door. However, whenever Saint James the Pilgrim emerges to the forefront I am given profound hope. I guess this is another way of saying what I wrote in the article for the newspaper. Here is what I submitted:

When we are at our best, Christians follow Christ’s example of radical inclusiveness and unconditional love and grace for all people. At our best, we remember his loving way of interacting with people of other cultures and other faith traditions and we seek to do the same. At our best, we live in the promise that God desires all people to be saved and we let that shape our lives in profound ways. At our best, we follow our baptismal calling to work for justice and peace in all the earth. When we are at our worst, Christians turn Christ’s inclusive promises into exclusive claims about who will be saved and who will be condemned. At our worst, we use select passages from the story of a non-violent Messiah to justify our own violence and our own addiction to retributive justice. At our worst, we even take the cross, a symbol of the world’s violence toward God, and we carry into battle as a sign of triumph over our enemies.
When we are at our best, Lutheran Christians put the Gospel of grace alone above everything else. At our best, we join Martin Luther in challenging every system of hierarchy and privilege that places some people above others while assuming its own special favor with God. At our best, we are leaders in the movement toward interfaith dialog and understanding that is gaining momentum in many parts of the world today. When we are at our worst, Lutheran Christians succumb to the same human frailties that burdened our leader. At our worst, we look like an aging Martin Luther who wrote the “Treatise Against the Jews” and who cringed at the thought of a Moslem presence in Western Europe. At our worst, we have taken these signs of human weakness and used them to justify our own xenophobia or our complacency when this finds expression in acts of hatred and violence.
A Lutheran way of understanding all of this is to say that we are, at the same time, saints and sinners. In other words, we are all, by nature, sinful and we are all, by God’s grace, made holy. In this abundant grace, we are also turned outward to the world around us. We are set free from the fear of judgment so that we can commit our whole lives to loving and serving our neighbor and to proclaiming this Gospel of grace in word and deed. Personally, I find this to be the most helpful and hopeful thing that we can bring to the question of “What does your faith tradition teach us about interfaith relations?” In every circumstance, it is a way of seeing that takes the focus off of who is in and who is out, or who is right and who is wrong. When Martin Luther died, some say that a piece of paper upon which he had scribbled his last words was pulled from his pocket. It simply said “We are all beggars, it is true.”