Apparently, for me, home is not where the heart is.

It’s where I place my butt.

When I accepted my first Call to ministry at the First Presbyterian Church of Attica we moved from a small apartment in NYC to a huge Victorian (complete with a back staircase!).  The move was an easy one, involving a small UHaul and a stop by Bill’s grandmother’s to pick up a Dining Room set.  We grabbed furniture from my parent’s basement, and took donations from friends, and slowly assembled our new home – piece by gently-used piece.

Except…. we didn’t have a couch.  Old chairs, lovingly garbage-picked by my Dad decades earlier, yes.  Couch?  No.

And so this wonderful wee church came to our rescue and collected money for us as a ‘move in’ gift.  We took our gift certificate to Attica Furniture and bought a lovely loveseat, and then pronounced our house a home.

Twenty-some years and several years later I dragged that sofa to the curb.  It was well-used and well-loved and I cannot begin to count the books that were read while I sat on it.  It was the preferred seat for the dog, the cat and those who visited.  It was comfortable for many years – although it had several slipcovers in the last few years of its life.  In so many ways, it represented comfort and ‘home’.

Recently, the congregation at the Roselle church gave Bill and I an incredibly generous gift as we left NJ.  I knew immediately what it would be used for – and that new comfy couch now rests with two new comfortable chairs in the living room of our apartment.  It was symbolic (and somewhat amusing) that those pieces didn’t arrive until after we had been in our new place for a few weeks.   And again, it wasn’t until those pieces were in place that the place could be called ‘home’.

All of this has me reflecting on how many of us who are connected with established faith communities equate church with ‘home’.  I’ve been asked, ‘Have you found a church home?’ – i.e., ‘have you found a place where you are nourished and fed and comfortable?’  And although I don’t think there is anything wrong with that, I think it may be part of what is wrong with us as ‘church people’.  We’re looking for the Church of the Comfy Couch – a place where we can watch the world from the comfort of our microfibered soft space, when what the world needs is folks who are uncomfortable with sitting.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m grateful for soft places to land after a difficult day – and I know there are many times when the church provides that same sort of space for us.  And what of the greatest gifts we can give one another is a comfy space to rest one’s weary bones (for me, Psalm 23 is all about God providing just such a place).  But I’m not so sure that’s what the church is called to do.  Rather, I’m not sure that is the end, but rather the means to another end.

In other words – it is a wonderful and lovely thing that I associate church with comfort, but unless that comfort is balanced with a good helping of challenge, I’ve missed the mark.  Church is more than just a place to get refreshed and renewed (and to comfortably rest one’s butt)… it’s a place to be poked and prodded and spurred on to do all those incredible life-giving things we are called to do. We’re not called to go to church, but to BE the church – and that requires us to move from the comfy couch into the world.

Sometimes the relationship between a pastor and a congregation is referred to in terms of marriage.  Certainly, there’s the dating stage (for an early version of this, check out Samuel doing the cattle call with Jesse’s boys! – 1 Sam 15:34 – 16:13).  Then there’s the wedding, followed by the honeymoon period.

Then there’s life.  Hills and rocks, deaths and births.  Life.

But here’s where the analogy fails for me.  I’m leaving my congregation of 15 years, but it’s not a divorce (nor have I been cheating on them with the National Capital Presbytery!).  Nor is it a trial separation.  It certainly isn’t a death (I still have a pulse, and contrary to some, so does this small church!).

Allow me to suggest another analogy.

About 15 years ago, we met each other on the trail.  For a good long time we shared meals and experiences.  I was good at campfires, the church was good at setting up tent and making it feel like home.  We walked companionably together.  It has been good.

And now?  Now my path leads in another direction.  We will hug these next few weeks, and take the time to convey just how much we have appreciated one another, but after a bit, I’ll take down my tent and take the fork in the road.

I am forever changed by this congregation.  They helped me to understand what it meant to be bearers of the light.

You see, everywhere I’ve gone over the last 15 years I’ve told folks that I had the pleasure of being the Pastor of the first church in the world to be lit by electricity!  I couldn’t stop there.  I’d have to continue by telling folks what an incredibly quirky and lovely group I served with, and how wonderfully they bore the light.  You see, Edison had it right when he hung his Electrolier at First Pres Roselle.  These folks know what it means to bear the light – and to shine.

I’ll miss this church.  I know some are panicking and some are angry.  Some are grieving and some will never be able to forgive me.  I think, in part it is because they fear I’m leaving them in the dark.

But that could never be.  For they are bearers of the light.

It may feel impossible for them at times.  They may do a quick inventory (like Wesley in the Princess Bride when they are trying to stop the wedding) and realize that they are missing a vital element.  But someone in this congregation will have what they need.  And, if they are able to share that gift, then all will be blessed.

This incredible community of Misfit Toys will continue to bear the light – not because it is something they are supposed to do as a church, but it is because of who they are.  They are bearers of light in a world that so needs to see the light – and as I go my own way, I will try to bear the light as well.

The quintessential end to many a sitcom is someone staring around the room for the last time, and being the last one out, they turn off the light and lock the door.  That is not the future for the Roselle church.  Show up on a Sunday, the light will be on.  Show up on a Tuesday evening, and the light will be on (and dinner for guests will be on the stove).  Show up early in the morning, and the light will be on, and teachers will be welcoming students.

For they are bearers of the Light – and for them, I am ever-grateful.

For the last (almost!) 15 years, we’ve been through a lot together.  I arrived in Roselle in the Fall of 2000, and just as I began to feel like I had settled in, 9-11 happened and the world turned upside down.  Other disasters happened (I’m looking at you, Sandy) and people that I loved died and were buried, and babies I baptized grew up and were Confirmed.

I was asked recently about my legacy and I had to laugh.  Back in the day when ministry was measured based on building programs and budget lines, a pastor’s legacy was spelled out in numbers and photos.  The image is one of empire-building, with the clergy claiming the legacy of turf-building.  Even the word “legacy” has ties to the idea of the inheritance of money or property.

But things are different now.  It’s not been about buildings (although we’ve done some of that!) and budget as much as it has been trying to figure out what God’s desire is for this wonderful group of misfits that all fit beautifully here.  It’s worship and dinners served (potlucks and soup kitchen), it’s prayers offered for one another and laughter…. so much laughter.

It’s not about me and it has never been about me.  When the conversation turns toward “my legacy” we negate the blood, sweat and tears of an entire community. I never would have been able to be who I am in this place, if it weren’t for this place being what/who it is.  And that continues because God will continue to hold this congregation close… and God will continue to urge this congregation to move outward.  I’ve been delighted to be a part of the Good News that is preached on this corner and in this community, and I have no doubt that God will continue to work out God’s purpose here long after all of us are gone.

May 14, 2015

Dear friends,

Last night I met with the Session and asked that they dissolve the pastoral relationship between the Roselle church and myself. They have agreed, and the last Sunday that I will be in the pulpit is June 14th. On July 1st, I will begin working as the Director of Congregational Development  and Mission for the National Capital Presbytery.

There are a couple of things I need to make sure you understand.

1) I’m not leaving for another church. Frankly, you’ve all spoiled me. I don’t think there will ever BE another church. You’ve laughed and cried with me (and sometimes at me!) and we’ve been through so much change and challenge together. You have been an incredible blessing to me.

2) There is nothing Roselle has done ‘wrong’. (See item #1 above). This isn’t about rate of pay, or housing or my needing a ‘bigger’ position due to my PhD (which, you’ll remember, I don’t actually have. Yet.). This is about the Spirit tickling me and urging me to do different things and in a different place. In the same way, I trust the Spirit is already actively egging on the person who will be YOUR next pastor.

3) Most importantly – your church needs YOU more than ever right now. As I get ready to leave, there are many, many small tasks from printing bulletins to checking the answering machine that others will need to pick up. When Session members ask for help, please consider stepping forward (and don’t wait for them to call you!). This is your church.

4) There’s a process, and a partner. The Committee on Ministry will assign a liaison to work alongside you as you begin the process of Calling your next Pastor. You’re not alone.

5) Finally, our relationship changed from the moment you opened this envelope, or heard the news. Expect that there will be grief, anger, frustration, confusion and the rest as we work through the next few weeks together. These are all appropriate – feel free to express them (I will too!).

Know that I’ve been praying without ceasing for you. Please do the same for me? I’m a jumble of grief and panic but also know that trusting in God’s grace will see us all through.

Blessings,

Karen

She can’t sleep for a variety of reasons, the least of which is the death of a close friend.  The other issues that knock about in the night as she tosses and turns in her bed seem to be a toss up between what was, and what will be.

The past should be clearer than the future – and yet, it isn’t.  What was – and what she was, or even WHO she was – should be knowable.  There are ways we measure the past, and she struggles to do so using relational words.

He was my friend.  We were friends.

He was my teacher.  I was his student.

He is dead.  I am dead.

It’s the middle of the night, and the past flows into the future.

He is dead.  I may as well be dead.

She cannot pick up where she was before he came.  The others could go back to their trades – for various reasons, she cannot.  Because of the past, she is changed and her future is more than unknowable.

Without him, it is impossible.

It’s still dark.  She stretches out one last time under the covers and decides she might as well start the day.  The past and the future give way to the present.  She will gather her supplies and go to where they put his body.  She’ll figure out how to manage the grave-stone when she gets there.

One foot in front of the other.  What else can she do?

The morning comes.

I had the most unique conversation with someone last week – and the effects of that talk continued to linger.  I was reminded of its occurrence this morning, when a stranger touched on the same theme.  Allow me to muse?

The gist of both encounters were two ideas:  “If I didn’t see it, it didn’t happen”.  and its corollary is “My beliefs are tied into what I’ve seen and how I’ve processed it”.  The first is easy to understand.  The second?  Think of Chicken Little.  “I felt something fall on my head, therefore, the sky is falling.”  It doesn’t matter how many others (including experts in such esoteric field as skies falling) tell us differently.  We believe it.  We’ve seen it.  It is so.

Worse?  We share our beliefs, based on our own experience with others.  We do so not as “hey, look what I experienced, have you ever experienced something like this”, but “hey, look!  This snowball means there is no such thing as climate change!”.

Observation is the first step in the scientific method.  Folks who insist that snow in late March have moved from observation to hypothesis… but they haven’t taken the time to test their hypothesis with experimentation.  It’s a done deal!  It’s what they’ve experienced, and therefore it is so.  Without experimentation, it’s not a conclusion.

Of course, all of this coming from someone who preaches about faith might seem peculiar.  After all, isn’t that what faith is?  An experience of God that we then move to a conclusion?  Well… yes, and no.  Faith, by nature cannot be proven, however that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be tested.

Part of the reason I’m a Presbyterian is because although my individual experience is valued and affirmed, I’m also able to hold that experience up against scripture and our confessions as a test.  Heck, scripture itself suggests the wisdom of “testing the spirits” (1 John).  And, in a few weeks we’ll hear again the story of Thomas who was encouraged by Jesus to touch the wounds in his hand and side. Of course, we’re not the only folks that encourage testing and reason and debate – consider the debate of a minyan, or the passionate discourse that takes place in less-formal religious settings.  Regardless, the wisdom is there.

God alone is Lord of the conscience – but unless I have fully vetted my observations and experiences against a larger understanding, I run the risk of making my observations/feelings/thoughts as being Truth.

It’s not all about you and what you’ve seen (or have not seen).  Test the spirits.  Test your experience.  Then, let’s reason together.

On Tuesday night, the PCUSA became the largest protestant denomination to marry same-gendered couples.

I couldn’t be more proud to be a Presbyterian.

A few years back I reflected on the movement toward full inclusion (https://presbygal.wordpress.com/2011/09/29/when-we-disagree-as-presbyterians/) and sadly, there have been a number of churches that have opted to leave the denomination.  Back in September of ’11, I wrote that my joy was tempered.

Today?  It’s simply joy.  No tempering, no modification.  Pure joy.

For 36 years I’ve been aware of the discontinuity between what we as a church have preached, and how Jesus has asked us to live.

Finally, that tension has eased and has been replaced with joy.

And now… to work.

How do you measure success?

Is it the number on the scale? The number in the bank account? The finished knitting projects lining your shelves? Most of us, intellecutally, would be quick to agree that these are not the adequate measurements of a life well lived (or even a day well spent). But… deep down? Do those numbers matter?

They do, insofar as their ability to allow us to achieve success in other areas.

Let’s face it, having money doesn’t make you happy, but the lack of it (especially in regards to issues of hunger and housing) isn’t creating much happiness either. We need money. We need the scale (and our cholesterol numbers) to nudge us towards health and wholeness. These are good means to an end.

The problem comes when we begin to pursue those metrics… those ways of measuring success, as the end itself. My theory is that for many of us, we are more likely to lose sight of what is truly important when those numbers are going well. We become obsessed with those last five pounds, or that mark we’ve set for our savings… it becomes our holy grail. When we accomplish that number, then (and only then!) will we know happiness.

At some point a few decades ago, the church bought into this reasoning. Our numbers were going up… and we took pleasure in our success. Buildings, bucks and butts in the pews (how we measured success) became our pride and joy. Even today, we look back on those golden years when the Sunday School rooms were overflowing, and we needed to raise money to buy an additional dozen choir robes.

Don’t get me wrong. Buildings, bucks and butts in the pews can be important, but only if they serve as means to an end. No wonder we grieve when churches merge and close because ‘the congregation grew too small’ to support its building and staff. We grieve the loss of what we worship.

Wouldn’t it be an extraordinary thing if a church merged with another not because its numbers in the pews had grown too small, but because its understanding of God’s vision for the church had grown too big for those walls? If we decided that the means (buildings and bucks) no longer helped to shape the ‘ends’ (folks in good relationship with God and one another)? What would happen if we figured out that by closing some doors, more hearts might open? What if we’ve been measuring success by the wrong metrics?

After all, what really is our goal? (And who sets that goal?)!

I think this is our work as a church and as a society. We need to evaluate and change our understanding of what is important and what we define as success. Ultimately, it is what defines us as human.

We rotate the version of the Gospel that’s read each year.  I’m so glad this Christmas is a Luke year.

For the uninitiated – there are four Gospels, but only two tell the story of Jesus’ birth.  Well, John tells of his arrival, but there are no swaddling clothes, shepherds or the other cast members.  In John’s Gospel it’s all very expansive and spiritual and deep.

Not Luke.   Luke is much more down to earth.  When I read Luke’s version, I’m almost positive I can almost feel the scratchiness of the hay and the warm baby smell mixing with cow patties.  Luke lets Matthew (one of the other Gospel writers) go on and on about prophecies and where Jesus fits in the grand scheme of things.  Matthew speaks of Kings and visiting dignitaries, and when I read Matthew’s version I hear the angels singing the Hallelujah chorus:  “King of Kings and Lord of Lords!”

Not so with Luke.  Here we have visiting shepherds (cue the Little Drummer Boy – the version with Bowie and Bing, if you must know).  They didn’t follow a star from foreign lands, they were out with their sheep when the angels sang the story.

And the angels!  In Matthew – the angel appears to Joseph and in Luke, the angel appears to Mary… Mary who as an unwed mother is perhaps more on the fringe of society than anyone else in the story.

While Matthew booms to the nations that this child is the one the prophets spoke of and that Kings will bow to….Luke tells a story that brings the marginalized (the critters, the shepherds, the women) close to the baby and whispers in their ears that this Peace on Earth is for them.

There are years I’m grateful for Matthew’s version of the story.  But this year?  This year when we even have to have a discussion about whether Black Lives Matter, this year when we hear of children gunned down in a school (and remember our own sad version of this story), this year as we watched part of Africa fall to Ebola… this year I need to hear Luke.  I need to remember the baby born for those marginalized in our world.  I need to be present at that manger, and breathe in the smells of the farm and the miraculous smell of newborn hope.

Won’t you join me there?

I’ve seen a few quips on my Facebook feed about the senseless violence in Ferguson, follow the announcement of the verdict.

It’s all senseless.  All of it.

It’s senseless to burn stores to the ground and it’s senseless to defend a system that equates value with skin color.

It’s senseless to armchair quarterback a Grand Jury’s decision, and it’s senseless to ignore the larger context of systemic racism.

This story will fade, but there will be another one with similar senseless motifs in the near future unless we begin to work on problems that are deeper and broader than a single event in Missouri.

I’m not wise enough to know how to tackle those deeper issues on a broad scale.  I do know what I can do in my own backyard.  I also know that the church has something to say about all of this… and we need to find the words and the courage to say them.