It's Not For Me

On Saturday, I co-officiated at the wedding of my sister. My partner in this venture was a Catholic priest, well-known to the groom, who prepared the couple and planned the cermony.

In the weeks leading up to the event, my sister told me that the priest would be calling me. She also told me what the scriptures would be (I was to read one of them), and that the priest and I would be sharing the homily time. The priest would go over the details with me when he called.

In the past, I've had occasion to work with a number of Catholic priests. One or two I got along with quite well. In one community in which I lived, I got along with the priest better than almost all of the protestant pastors. But other Catholic priests seemed to merely tolerate the idea of working together with a protestant pastor, and were less than enthusiastic about it.

I didn't know what this particular experience would be like, but I began to worry when the priest didn't call; not until the day before the wedding, just a few hours before the wedding rehearsal, did he call.

However, when I met him in person later that day, I discovered that he was one of the most open, friendly, and truly caring people I've ever met. No wonder the groom specifically asked him to officiate. What a pleasant experience it turned out to be!

I sometimes joke that the first non-Catholic wedding I ever attended was my own, and in fact, that's almost (but not quite) true. That's what one gets with several dozen Catholic aunts, uncles, and cousins.

As a child and teenager, it seemed a bit bizarre to me, all those Catholic rituals: the bowing, the kneeling, the sign of the cross. And the prayers that seemed almost other-worldly; I could barely understand them.

(I once read something by someone who, like me, came from a mixed Catholic/Protestant heritage. He wrote that when his Catholic cousins prayed, one could barely understand them. "Bless us O Lord, and these thy gifts..." sounded like "Blorgiforabounty.Amen." His Protestant relatives, on the other hand, prayed, "Thank you, Lord, for this meal. Thank you for those who prepared it. Thank you for the silverware that allows us to eat it. Thank you for the silversmith who forged the silverware so we could eat this meal that has been prepared..." The writer was being funny, but I can tell you from personal experience, he wasn't far off the mark.)

Growing up, I also thought it strange that they read four different scripture readings in worship. Why read all four of the scripture readings if you're only going to hear a sermon on one of them? It just confuses things.

Over time, though, I've developed a respect for many of the Catholic ways. As we prepared for the wedding, with several members of the church present as co-coordinators--and then at the wedding itself, which included two altar boys--I realized something. I realized that, as a result of living with all that high-church drama and ritual, the people around me seemed to know, almost instinctively, something that many Protestants, including me, forget: worship is all about God. I tend to plan worship services so that I and people like me can get something out of it. It's true that worship is often a blessing to those who attend and participate in it, but it's intended for God's benefit, not ours.

I'm currently re-reading a book on prayer by Robert Benson. It's called In Constant Prayer and it's part of a series of books called the "Ancient Practices" series. I'm re-reading it, because I read it for the first time a few months ago, and sometimes it takes me several readings for the information to sink in. It's not a long book, and I may read it yet again one day, a fact which suggests that perhaps I shouldn't be so quick to judge those who use the same phrases each and every time they pray.

The book is about praying the "daily office," the prayers of the church that faithful people have prayed 2, 4, or 7 times a day for centuries. The prayers are "common," that is, written down, and shared among many. They are ancient. They include psalms.

I don't currently pray every day. Well, that's not quite true, but it is true that I don't pray like this every day. It never seemed to me that I'd get much out of it. But I'd like to, because that's not really what it's about, is it?

Waiting for the Wedding to Start

Science Fair Follow Up

See previous post for the background to this.

1. The bagel was delicious.
2. It took over 3 hours to judge (and I was only responsible for judging a fraction of the entries).
3. I did not judge my son's entry.
4. My son was invited to participate in the district-wide science fair next month.

Science Fair

As everyone knows, pastors only work one day a week. Some of us are even lucky enough to be able to squeeze it down to a half-day on occasion. This may sound like the ideal job, but let me tell you, it does have its drawbacks.

My youngest son brought home a note from school yesterday. It said: "Dear Mr. Bradfield, Thank you so much for agreeing to be a judge for the school science fair. Please come to the auditorium on Thursday [that is, today] at 8:55 a.m. for an in-service on how to proceed with judging. Bagels, juice, and coffee will be provided."

First of all, what's with schools and strange times? Nothing in a public school ever starts on the hour.* And secondly, I don't drink coffee.

I would have thought that having my son participate in the science fair with a project of his own would have disqualified me from being judge. However, some people think that, because I'm a pastor, I'll be fair and unbiased. Which of course, I am. You don't have to be biased to know that my son's project will outshine them all. Especially since I spent a good part of the past few days working on it with him.

Perhaps I'll show up a little late. Enjoy my cup of tea at home first. Besides, I don't need an in-service on how to judge. I already know what my judging criteria will be. Does it look like a project the kid did, or one that the parents did for him? If it appears that the kid's parents did most of the work--or at least, a greater percentage of the work than my own kid's parents did--then points will be deducted.

Yes, that's right: my own kid's project is the judging criteria.

My son reported today that a few kids brought their projects in early. One is presented on a poster-board that features a (gasp!) white background. The instructions sent home clearly state that the background should be non-white. With titles that are 3 inches tall, and subtitles that are 1 inch tall. With photos, charts and diagrams that are glued onto the display board, not taped or stapled or clipped.

Everyone knows that when it comes to science fair projects, science doesn't really matter. What really matters is the number of glue sticks one uses. My own son went through three glue sticks this week, and I had to buy extra ink cartridges for the printer because it took us too many tries to get the letters the right height. Clearly, we--I mean, he--is going to win.

In the evening, all the parents will be able to view the science fair projects at the school's annual open house. I'll be there, of course, with a proud smile on my face; and I won't even worry about the elders' meeting I'm missing. After all, I've already put in my half-day this week.

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*Never mind the fact that the church I pastor has worship services that start NOT at 10:00 or 11:00, but 10:15.

Earth Day

Weather Whiplash

Yesterday, the high temperature where I live was 100 degrees. Just a few days earlier, though, it was perfect weather for hot chocolate.

Are Mainline Churches Like Detroit?

A fellow DOC pastor has some interesting observations.

Having been ordained in a mainline denomination, working for a church going through change and having two parents who spent years working for General Motors has made me think there are similarities in the two.

Read the whole article here.

Hike Report: Tom Lucas

It's Thursday, which, under my new schedule, means another article from me. However, it's also Spring Break for my family, which calls for a different sort of article this week, although the format is certainly not unprecedented on my blog. It's a hike report of a hike I took with my friend David last weekend.

We drove up Big Tujunga Canyon to the trailhead that leads to a backpacking campsite named after Tom Lucas--"Barefoot Tom" as he was known--who roamed these parts some years ago. Despite the nickname, we did not hike barefoot; nor did we even take off our shoes at the waterfall. On a warmer day, I probably would have jumped right in, but the cool weather we've been having the past week kept me from doing so this time.

It was a beautiful waterfall, one of the most beautiful in southern California.

After taking quite a few pictures, we went further up the trail. Waterfall season is also wildflower and blossom season, and on our hike we encountered a lot of colorful displays.

The camp itself was not all that spectacular. It was on a slope and overgrown with weeds that tangled around the picnic tables and seemed to be in the process of devouring the tables altogether. Nevertheless, a group was setting up camp when we arrived. After lunch we headed back down the canyon, encountering many more backpackers intent on staying the night. Where they would all pitch their tents was anyone's guess.

Retracing our steps led us back through a grove of dogwood trees, where I experimented with some of the color settings on my camera to achieve this shot:

Here's David. The foliage is beautiful, but don't touch it; it's poison oak.

If you'd like to see more, clicking on the image below will lead to my photo album of the hike.

Tom Lucas

The Oldest Building in California

Outside the Serra Chapel at Mission San Juan Capistrano. April 14, 2009.

Happy Easter

Angeles National Forest, April 11, 2009

Christian but not Conservative

This is the type of stuff I usually read on other people's blogs. I haven't seen it on anyone's blog (yet), so I thought I'd put it here. BTW, Serene Jones, who is interviewed in this piece, is a member of the Disciples of Christ; her father was one of my seminary professors, and her sister is editor of DisciplesWorld.

Putting the Pieces Together

I understand the biological differences between males and females that lead girls to play with their dolls in a nicely contained corner of the house, while boys dump out their thousands of legos, blocks, etc. over as much of the house as possible. I understand how the spatially-oriented mind works. I even understand why: more white matter in the brain, a heavier reliance on the visual cortex, and so on. But still...

The other day I arrived home to discover a massive construction project underway in the living room. Apparently my wife found a "really good deal" on a toy roller coaster set that, when completed, would reach over five feet tall. "It was only eight dollars at the yard sale," she proudly declared. A bargain, to be sure.

I watched as, over the course of several days, my youngest son meticulously followed the phone-book sized instruction manual to build the framework of the roller coaster. The entire living room, I should point out, was given over to this project. I also watched as his older brother "helped" by declaring it all wrong, and undoing what had been done. As this back-and-forth partnership continued, frustration began to mount, and the project came to a standstill.

Finally I picked up the instruction manual myself. It was one of those manuals that use lots of diagrams and as few words as possible, because all the words are in about ten different languages--kind of like the instructions to the table I bought from Ikea a few months ago, except a lot more complicated. I looked at the box for an age range, but couldn't find one. It was probably too big a number to translate into ten different languages.

Eventually I determined that part of the problem was that not all the pieces were there. This determination came about not by counting all the pieces; no, that would take too long. When asked how I knew pieces were missing, I said, "We can't figure it out. It's not because we're stupid. Obviously, something's wrong with the set." (I used the pronoun we, because by that time, I was hopelessly involved as a "third partner" in this venture.) My youngest son responded to my declaration by insisting, "We don't have to follow the instructions; they're just suggestions, anyway."

A truer statement I never heard. I'm not sure what part of the male brain leads to this type of reasoning, but hearing him say it brought a proud tear to my eye.

I said to him, "Do you mind if I work on it a bit? Would it be OK if I take off some of the track you've put on and redo it? I won't touch the tower and framework you've built, I just want to fix the track." Notice how sensitive I was here?

"Yeah, whatever," was the reply. Clearly he had lost interest.

I figured a few small, minor adjustments were all that was necessary. So naturally, I worked on the roller coaster for the rest of the day and into the night. Even though some (many) of the pieces were missing, I was determined that it would have a loop, just like the one in the picture on the box. Finally, it was time for a test run. I put the car on and fired up the battery-powered launchers. The car shot up over the hill, down the other side, through the loop--and got stuck at the top of the loop. One of the miniature riders slipped out of the car and fell to a horrible death. Oops.

I took the car off, squeezed the track rails ever so slightly, trying to smooth them out. I replaced the car, and tried again.

This time, the car made it through the loop and completed the entire circuit. I let out a manly whoop, which brought the boys scurrying out of bed and into the living room. I ran it again, and the boys cheered. "Dad fixed it! With a loop and everything! Just like on the box!"

Fortunately for me, they hadn't looked at the box too closely.

We ran it through a couple more times, until my wife made the boys go back to bed. Each time, the car made it all the way around the circuit, without stopping, and without losing any more riders. Amazing.

Early the next morning, before anyone else was awake, I fixed myself a cup of tea, sat down, and pondered the (almost) five foot tall roller coaster. If I could build a roller coaster, I thought, I could do anything. Perhaps I could even be able to build or revitalize a church. I thought of the various workshops and conferences I've been to which focused on revitalizing and transforming congregations. I thought of Unbinding the Gospel, the book on evangelism I've read through twice and am now reading, for the third time, with the elders of my church. I thought of the Faithful Planning process I helped lead my previous congregation through--a process that we almost, but didn't quite, finish.

And then I remembered what one conference keynoter said. She had been flown into the conference because of her success at revitalizing and transforming her own congregation. I and about 80 other pastors and lay people spent two days at a dumpy little hotel listening to her, hoping some of her wisdom and insight would rub off on us, hoping to learn the way to revitalize our own congregations.

I remember that at one point during the conference, she said that she never really had a plan. She just started doing something, and the things that didn't work, she stopped doing, but the things that did work, she kept doing. "There isn't just one right way to do this," she said. "You just gotta figure it out as you go. And what works in one location might not work in another."

The instruction books are helpful. They provide a good starting point for conversation, and have some wonderful ideas. But the pieces you have may not be the same as what the authors of the books, the "professionals," have. Just do something, and figure it out as you go.

Disclaimer: one of the photographs accompanying this essay is not of the roller coaster we built. It does appear to have come out of a box, but the folks who put it together weren't able to figure out how to put in a loop.

Hope in the Wilderness

It's Holy Week, when our thoughts center on the week leading up to the crucifixion. It is a somber mood, when even the place of worship is stripped of its decorations. And yet today, I saw the lilies that were delivered, ready for use on Sunday morning. Like flowers in a desert wilderness--a sign of hope and promised joy.

Siesta

Joshua Tree National Park, March 29, 2009

Tasting Tea

Remember, my new schedule: articles on Thursdays, photographs whenever. Here's this week's article...

I got up early, fixed myself a cup of green tea, and sat down at the table. I opened a book I've been reading. The title of the book is Sabbath. I searched for the spot where'd I'd left off, since I hadn't bothered to locate a bookmark when I last read. As I did so, I thought about the previous day, and how it didn't quite go according to plan.

The plan was to spend some quiet time by myself. It was the one day of the week that I didn't have any obligations. A day to restore my soul. A day of rest.

It was also a day in which my wife would be leaving to spend the weekend with my sister, who was having a sort of bachelorette party. I realized that my wife would need a ride to my sister's house, which was about twenty miles away, but that this should still allow me to have some uninterrupted time to myself before the kids were out of school; then, the plan was to do something fun with them in the evening.

As we were getting ready to leave, my wife said she needed some items from the store, and asked if I would pick them up on my way home. Turns out they were the type of things that are only available at a big grocery store, the kind of store that requires a half-hour commitment just to find the item you're looking for. While I was there, I grabbed some other items we needed, then waited as patiently as I could while the customer ahead of me in line unloaded her cart so slowly that the cashier had to wait between each scan for the customer to put each item on the conveyor belt. I thought about offering to unload her cart for her, but my mood was already beginning to sour.

It was noon when I parked in front of the house. Still a few hours to myself, I thought as I began unload what turned out to be four bags of groceries. As I opened the door to the house, the phone began to ring; I rushed to set the groceries down and answered the phone. It was my son's school; he wasn't feeling well, and he had a fever of 99.4, and they wanted me to come pick him up.

99.4? Is that even a fever? At the thought of losing the last few hours of my "sabbath," I felt my own temperature rise to at least that.

Well, I went and picked him up from school. It was lunch time, and the kids were out on the playground, except for my little boy who was in the nurse's office. The office worker said that lunch was over in "30 seconds," and we could go to his classroom and wait for his teacher so that he could get his backpack and take it home.

So we walked to the classroom and waited. I thought of the frozen food I hadn't yet put away at home. After five minutes, I asked my son, "when does lunch end?"

"Not for twenty minutes," he said.

We went back to the office. "Oh, I'm sorry," said the office worker. "I read the schedule wrong. I'll call the janitor to let you in." Back to the classroom.

When we got home, my son watched a movie, while I (after putting the groceries away) attempted to salvage some of my day, but my mood was too sour. All I could think about was what I had lost on this day. When my son asked me to play a board game, I said no, because I wanted part of "my" day, but by this point, "my" day was nothing but a miserable exercise in self-pity.

At 3:00, I went to pick up my other son from school. Naturally, he had an after-school activity that I wasn't aware of. After waiting for 15 minutes, I went home, and returned to pick him up at 4:00.

With these thoughts in my head, I continued thinking about my day when I realized that my cup of tea was half empty. Half empty, and I hadn't even tasted it. My mind was still stuck in yesterday. I took another sip, slowly, and this time tasted the tea. I was surprised at how good it tasted. How could I have drunk half the cup already without even tasting it?

Slowly, I took another sip. I closed my eyes as the warm liquid passed over my taste buds. Ahh, that's good.

I thought again of the previous day. You know, I said to myself, it wasn't all that bad. In fact, the only thing that I could really see that went wrong was my attitude. I spent the whole day focusing on what I was missing, instead of focusing on what I had. What blessings had I received yesterday? What good was there, if only I had noticed it? I had a wife who got along well with my sister, who actually enjoyed spending time with her and didn't just pretend to--now that is a blessing! I have two wonderful sons who do well in school, who enjoy extracurricular activities (which, in this case, involves writing of all things), and who have adults at the school who care for them. I had the opportunity yesterday, as I do every day, to show my love to my children, to provide for them, and to spend time with them.

I knew that I could add to this list for quite some time. Instead, I took another sip of tea, and gave thanks to God for how good it was.