A couple of weeks I got a message that our Conference monthly newspaper was doing an article on the trip to Scotland by the History and Archives group. They wanted to know if I'd like to write something about my trip.
Well, that night I wrote a 500 word reflection on my stay at Iona in May and emailed it to them the next morning. Got my copy of the November Advocate yesterday and it has the article about the History and Archives trip, but not mine. I am so crushed. O.K., so maybe it was more like 550 words I send in, and the style is different than what they normally publish, and there probably was a lot more current church news to report. But, not even a "Thanks but no thanks?"
I have decided to stop writing altogether. No more articles, no more sermons, no more blog posts. In fact, you aren't even reading this. However, if you'd like to read "the article with no rejection slip," I posted it on my Checked Luggage blog. Let me know what you think. The future of my laptop is at stake.
Showing posts with label Story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Story. Show all posts
Friday, November 2, 2007
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Sermon Evolution
This Sunday I preached a sermon written by my wife. People ask us sometimes if we share sermons. We rarely do. We preach in different settings and we usually see different things in the lectionary that we want to address. We have been known to fight over good illustrations, however.
The sermon in question began last week when Cynthia said she wanted something different for their outdoor service. I suddenly remembered something lodged in my brain from about ten years ago. A church member back then told me of a sermon preached by a pastor in Texas that had an unusual beginning. It was the pastor's first sermon in the church and he began with a re-telling of the story of the three pigs. These pigs, however, went out to build churches, one using memories, one using dreams, and I forgot what the third one was.
Cynthia liked the idea and we came up with a) people's desires, b) right belief, and c) people who love. Off she went to write, and wow, I think she nailed it. After reading it, I knew I was going to use it myself, for our Tailgate Sunday. You can read it here.
I guess the story idea really belongs to that preacher in Texas, but ideas and sermons evolve. Since it is story form it would kill the effect to say, this idea is not original. But some might say you have to give proper credit. Guess I feel differently about it. I fully understand the guidelines of attribution and plagiarism in the academic world. You should be evaluated on your own work.
But I've got a question about the way it all shakes out in the practice of preaching. In a real sense, we all need to do our own work. But our own work is usually an amalgamation of things we've heard and read throughout our lives. Seems to me that as long as we're all trying to proclaim the good news as best we can, there's not much of an issue over the common usage. There are a lot of "borrowed" stories and ideas that circulate. It's the whole issue of personal credit or profit from the material that generates the problem. If I want to reap personal benefits from my material, I've got to put a fence around it to keep others from tracking across it. And when I've done that, am I still "preaching?"
The sermon in question began last week when Cynthia said she wanted something different for their outdoor service. I suddenly remembered something lodged in my brain from about ten years ago. A church member back then told me of a sermon preached by a pastor in Texas that had an unusual beginning. It was the pastor's first sermon in the church and he began with a re-telling of the story of the three pigs. These pigs, however, went out to build churches, one using memories, one using dreams, and I forgot what the third one was.
Cynthia liked the idea and we came up with a) people's desires, b) right belief, and c) people who love. Off she went to write, and wow, I think she nailed it. After reading it, I knew I was going to use it myself, for our Tailgate Sunday. You can read it here.
I guess the story idea really belongs to that preacher in Texas, but ideas and sermons evolve. Since it is story form it would kill the effect to say, this idea is not original. But some might say you have to give proper credit. Guess I feel differently about it. I fully understand the guidelines of attribution and plagiarism in the academic world. You should be evaluated on your own work.
But I've got a question about the way it all shakes out in the practice of preaching. In a real sense, we all need to do our own work. But our own work is usually an amalgamation of things we've heard and read throughout our lives. Seems to me that as long as we're all trying to proclaim the good news as best we can, there's not much of an issue over the common usage. There are a lot of "borrowed" stories and ideas that circulate. It's the whole issue of personal credit or profit from the material that generates the problem. If I want to reap personal benefits from my material, I've got to put a fence around it to keep others from tracking across it. And when I've done that, am I still "preaching?"
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Mr. Dan's Encounter
There are some small moments in life you just don't want to slip away. Here's one of them. At Trinity the choir processes into the sanctuary for the second service. I do the announcements and centering prayer at the front. Then during the congregational greeting I go down the side aisle to join the choir and liturgist for the processional hymn. 
As the first words of the hymn are sung, the cross bearer starts down the aisle, followed by two torch bearers, then the choir and finally the worship leaders. If we have an infant baptism, the family walks in between the choir and worship leaders.
A third of the way from the front, on the left side of the aisle, stands Mr. Dan, a kind man of medium statue, in his 90's. He and his wife always sit in that pew and he likes the aisle seat. During the processional, Mr. Dan makes a three-quarter turn in his seat so he can watch. With the smile of anticipation on his face each week, he reminds me of a child at a parade. Once I pass him by, he turns to the front and begins worship.
Occasionally the procession comes to a halt near the front as choir members ascend the steps to the chancel. This happened just this past Sunday when a family was in front of me, entering for their infant son's baptism. They stopped for a moment right beside Mr. Dan. The child was facing Mr. Dan and it seemed as if both their faces lit up with delightful recognition instantaneously.
The child kicked as Mr. Dan reached out tentatively to touch his booted foot. And then in a moment it was over. The processional continued. The family entered the front pew. As I passed by Mr. Dan, he had turned to say something to his wife. I supposed he was sharing his joy of his encounter.
It was just a small, easily unnoticed moment, yet I stepped up into the chancel a different man than when I began the processional in the narthex. Maybe it's stretching it to say I'd witnessed a holy moment of encounter, but the delight on Mr. Dan's face was imprinted in my mind. Perhaps it's just the sprinkling of grace on the family of God.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
A Different Kind of Eye
I learned through my own cousins that Cousin Willie was in town. At age 9, I was the youngest of the gaggle of Taylor kids that played in the yard after church. When church ended, there wasn’t the rush to get to a meal. While our parents visited with one another, we played chase, with the church sign being base. And we had our talk as well.
With large families of relatives living nearby, there were more cousins than I could keep up with. But Cousin Willie was one I hadn’t heard about before. Ronnie, Uncle Joe’s son, whispered the initial report to us. Now Uncle Joe, my dad’s brother, was the one who kept us many evenings on the porch wide-eyed with stories about people and strange events - like the woman who woke up from a coma after they’d laid her out for the funeral wake. Uncle Joe straddled the border between our secure domestic lives, and the strange, shady, and dangerous world beyond our parent’s control. So if Ronnie’s report had come from Uncle Joe, I was listening, and already believing.
I heard that Cousin Willie was a hobo. The son of my Great Aunt Ida, he’d run away as a teenager to live life riding the rails. The story was that he survived day to day, seeing the country from a boxcar. His hobo days came to an end however, when he got his foot tangled in a coupling one day, and in a battle with the train for his life, lost his foot. Then Ronnie leaned in to tell us in confidence, “And he’s got a glass eye. He lost his real eye in a knife fight.”
The next Saturday Uncle Joe was bringing Willie out to our little farm for a visit. From all I’d heard, I was somewhat fearful, but also fascinated. In my mind I saw a big, muscular, rough looking guy, with scars and maybe a tattoo, limping on his artificial leg, and staring you down with the “evil eye.” A nine-year-olds mind can be fairly creative.
What I actually saw that Saturday was a old, tall, gaunt man, with a gentle demeanor. He spoke softly and talked with my parents about people I didn’t know. He even talked religion, a familiar topic with my folks. I sat on the brick hearth across the room from him, staring at his eyes, and wondering when and how he took the glass one out to clean it. It would be years before I’d realize that I was the one with the faulty eyes, not Willie.
Cousin Willie didn’t turn out to be the fearful marauder I had imagined. He was just a man, a relative, who still needed family as much as any of us. And I was getting an early lesson on seeing people for who they are – beyond the gossip, behind the stereotypes, and beneath the masks. It’s a lesson I keep learning – we are each fearfully and wonderfully made by a loving God who calls us God’s own children – if we but have the eyes to see.
The stories of Jesus have this in common, he saw people not only for who they were, but also for who God intended them to be. He saw beyond their faults, behind their failures, and beneath their fears. He saw them with eyes of love, and that alone brought hope and transformation.
God, keep us from having “glassy” eyes. Eyes that appear to see, but that really comprehend nothing. God, give us your eyes to see your children in our world. Amen.
With large families of relatives living nearby, there were more cousins than I could keep up with. But Cousin Willie was one I hadn’t heard about before. Ronnie, Uncle Joe’s son, whispered the initial report to us. Now Uncle Joe, my dad’s brother, was the one who kept us many evenings on the porch wide-eyed with stories about people and strange events - like the woman who woke up from a coma after they’d laid her out for the funeral wake. Uncle Joe straddled the border between our secure domestic lives, and the strange, shady, and dangerous world beyond our parent’s control. So if Ronnie’s report had come from Uncle Joe, I was listening, and already believing.
I heard that Cousin Willie was a hobo. The son of my Great Aunt Ida, he’d run away as a teenager to live life riding the rails. The story was that he survived day to day, seeing the country from a boxcar. His hobo days came to an end however, when he got his foot tangled in a coupling one day, and in a battle with the train for his life, lost his foot. Then Ronnie leaned in to tell us in confidence, “And he’s got a glass eye. He lost his real eye in a knife fight.”
The next Saturday Uncle Joe was bringing Willie out to our little farm for a visit. From all I’d heard, I was somewhat fearful, but also fascinated. In my mind I saw a big, muscular, rough looking guy, with scars and maybe a tattoo, limping on his artificial leg, and staring you down with the “evil eye.” A nine-year-olds mind can be fairly creative.
What I actually saw that Saturday was a old, tall, gaunt man, with a gentle demeanor. He spoke softly and talked with my parents about people I didn’t know. He even talked religion, a familiar topic with my folks. I sat on the brick hearth across the room from him, staring at his eyes, and wondering when and how he took the glass one out to clean it. It would be years before I’d realize that I was the one with the faulty eyes, not Willie.
Cousin Willie didn’t turn out to be the fearful marauder I had imagined. He was just a man, a relative, who still needed family as much as any of us. And I was getting an early lesson on seeing people for who they are – beyond the gossip, behind the stereotypes, and beneath the masks. It’s a lesson I keep learning – we are each fearfully and wonderfully made by a loving God who calls us God’s own children – if we but have the eyes to see.
The stories of Jesus have this in common, he saw people not only for who they were, but also for who God intended them to be. He saw beyond their faults, behind their failures, and beneath their fears. He saw them with eyes of love, and that alone brought hope and transformation.
God, keep us from having “glassy” eyes. Eyes that appear to see, but that really comprehend nothing. God, give us your eyes to see your children in our world. Amen.
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