A Community at Risk
May 13, 2007
Did you see the story in the Post last week about the enormous and unstable star that could explode in our neighborhood? You can provide your own Tom Cruise punchline here, but I’m talking about a real star in our galactic neighborhood that could go supernova imminently. Imminently could be in galactic time – you know, like the time that the federal government moves or the Presbyterian Church makes changes. I’m not sure.
In any case, when the star explodes it could spew radioactive stardust in our direction. I read that notice to the family over breakfast and Cheryl said, “well, it will save George Bush some work.” That line got me to thinking about relative risk and what we have to worry about.
We don’t typically associate “church” and risk, especially in mainline Protestant circles where we’ve long-since stopped talking about the risk of going to hell if you don’t have the correct beliefs or don’t attend the right church. The queen’s recent visit to Jamestown reminded me of the rules they had for church attendance in the early years of the settlement: if you missed worship once you lost your rations for a week; two times and you were flogged. I think it eventually became a hanging offense at some point. Those folks learned to associate church and risk, I’m sure.
Looking at if from a different perspective, it is said in theological circles that the church is one generation away from extinction. Then again, that has always been the case. In our day it’s no different in this respect than it was for the church in Acts. They were one generation from going out of business and so are we. If they didn’t share the gospel story with a new generation, it would cease to be shared. If we don’t share the gospel story with a new generation, it will cease to be shared.
The gospel itself is always at risk, and therefore the community defined by that good news is also always at risk.
That risk feels particularly acute in our time. Declining attendance and membership in mainline churches underscores the risk. Here at Clarendon, the fact that we have for too long lived with a deficit budget certainly makes clear the risk that the church in this little corner of the world could die.
The risk is real; it is imminent. Now I don’t know if that is imminent in galactic time or some other time. I hope that it is in God’s time, and I have faith that in God’s eyes the church in this place is worth saving.
But the risk is real, and it raises some critical questions for us. If we were in the insurance business we would talk about risk and reward; in the life of the church it will be more faithful to think in terms of call and response.
We’re pretty clear about the particular calling to and identity of this community. Through much discernment by congregation, by session, by pastoral nominating committee, through redeveloping and mission discernment, we are clear that Clarendon Presbyterian Church has a distinctive calling to be a community of progressive Christian witness marked by prophetic leadership in the broader community, Christian hospitality and radical welcome to people long excluded by the church and society, and Christ-centered community shaped and informed by the simple commandment that we love one another as Christ has loved us.
There is no question about who we are, the only question is how shall we be the people we have been called to be? That is a question of risk.
The church is at risk if we do not live into our callings here, and, in a profound way, our souls are at risk as well.
I suppose this is the point at which, in a different sort of congregation, the preacher might start warning about hell. And, well, if hell means alienation from our true selves and the divine source of our lives, then hell is precisely what we’re talking about now. That is always the risk of not living into our callings.
So, how shall we be the people we have been called to be?
Look at the stories from scripture this morning. What’s going on in them? Radically risk taking. Jesus is healing when he has no business healing. It’s difficult for us to imagine how culturally inappropriate Jesus’ actions were, given that not only is every hospital but also every 7-11 and most everything in between open on whatever day any religious tradition might consider the Sabbath. Suffice it to say, his actions broke with tradition in provocative ways. Likewise, in Acts, Paul is empowering one whom he has no business empowering – a woman, for God’s sake. Boundaries are being broken here. The gospel is breaking down the barriers: the gospel of love. The simple message that you are loved by God knows no borders or barriers; it is for everyone at all times and all places. No human rules or marks of exclusion can stand against the power of love.
Our calling is to take that message with us everywhere. In particular, as church, to take it into communities at risk of not hearing it. For example, in the coming weeks, we have the opportunity to take that message to the streets of DC in the Pride Parade – it’s simple, it’s fun, and more to the point, it is what we are called to do. Likewise, that same week, we have the opportunity to take that message into interfaith worship down in Alexandria as a sponsoring congregation of the first Northern Virginia Pride worship service. It’s simple, it’s fun, and more to the point, it is what we are called to do.
On a somewhat grander scale, we are developing a mission initiative named CALL: the Center for the Advancement of Lifelong Leadership. At the heart of CALL is the same simple gospel conviction: that we are loved, and called to live out of that love.
All around us in the Metro corridor are thousands of people who have not heard and do not know that simple good news, and they live in hells of the culture’s creation because we have failed to share that gospel message.
In particular, in our ministry context in highly educated, affluent Arlington County, the hell of the culture’s creation is perhaps best named in Henry Thoreau’s evocative phrase: “lives of quiet desperation.” As his friend Emerson put, “things are in the saddle riding humankind.” We live in a community of material wealth and spiritual poverty, rich in things but poor in meaning and destitute of community.
In the Presbyterian Church, being decent and orderly in all things, we have a process for preparation for ministry, and if you are seriously considering ordained ministry of word and sacrament you will quickly find yourself meeting with a Presbytery committee on preparation for ministry. I vividly recall my first such meeting, about a dozen years ago, in the library of Maxwell Street Presbyterian Church in Lexington, Ky. There was a minister-member of that committee named Dick, who had taken it upon himself to give ever inquirer a good grilling. He was the gate keeper.
I will never forget his question to me: what drives you? I reacted against the question in ways that I’m sure Dick did not expect or understand. You see, this was Lexington in the mid 90s. The town was dominated by the figure of Rick Pitino, the basketball coach at UK. In Kentucky, the UK hoops coach sits at the right hand of God, or higher in a good year. Pitino was the most driven person I’ve ever seen, and I really couldn’t stand him. I did not want to think of myself as driven in any way shape or form. I could not answer Dick’s question, because it felt like he was asking, “in what way are you like Rick Pitino?”
While obviously I navigated the process successfully in time, it saddens me to think back on that moment because it underscored the deeply impoverished language of call and discernment that plagues the church still and even more so the culture at large. We do not know how to speak to one another of our callings, of our vocation, of listening for the still small voice and discerning those thin places where our deepest joy intersects with the world’s deep need.
I know now that Dick was only trying to help. I also know now, after a dozen years of study, experience, and discernment exactly what drives me – although I seldom, if ever, use that word still. I’d rather talk about passion, or about what is sacred to me. But, with a nod to a now-retired colleague whose question has haunted me for more than a decade, let me declare to you what drives me. I am driven by the desire to journey with others through the spirit-filled and wondrous path of discerning vocation, and I am convinced that that this community – the congregation of Clarendon Presbyterian Church – is uniquely equipped to give birth to an institutional capacity to help dozens, then hundreds and eventually thousands of people discern their own call to the work of justice, compassion and community restoration.
Because I feel driven, I can go on about this at length. There is so much to say about the need in our community, about our own capacities and gifts in this area, about the work of discernment that has led us to this moment, about processes and programs, about finances and support. Moreover, as this is a sermon, there is so clearly so much that can be said about call and vocation related to the stories of scripture – including quite clearly the ones we’ve read this morning.
But I want to hear your thoughts and your questions, so I’ll close by circling back round to the beginning. The risks before us do not include a large likelihood of being turned to stardust in a blast of gamma rays, but they do include a significant likelihood of being reduced to memory if we do not live more fully into our calling to be the church progressive, inclusive and diverse at Clarendon. The time of discerning call is rapidly being fulfilled, and the time of fulfilling our calling is upon us. Let’s live into it together. Amen.
Did you see the story in the Post last week about the enormous and unstable star that could explode in our neighborhood? You can provide your own Tom Cruise punchline here, but I’m talking about a real star in our galactic neighborhood that could go supernova imminently. Imminently could be in galactic time – you know, like the time that the federal government moves or the Presbyterian Church makes changes. I’m not sure.
In any case, when the star explodes it could spew radioactive stardust in our direction. I read that notice to the family over breakfast and Cheryl said, “well, it will save George Bush some work.” That line got me to thinking about relative risk and what we have to worry about.
We don’t typically associate “church” and risk, especially in mainline Protestant circles where we’ve long-since stopped talking about the risk of going to hell if you don’t have the correct beliefs or don’t attend the right church. The queen’s recent visit to Jamestown reminded me of the rules they had for church attendance in the early years of the settlement: if you missed worship once you lost your rations for a week; two times and you were flogged. I think it eventually became a hanging offense at some point. Those folks learned to associate church and risk, I’m sure.
Looking at if from a different perspective, it is said in theological circles that the church is one generation away from extinction. Then again, that has always been the case. In our day it’s no different in this respect than it was for the church in Acts. They were one generation from going out of business and so are we. If they didn’t share the gospel story with a new generation, it would cease to be shared. If we don’t share the gospel story with a new generation, it will cease to be shared.
The gospel itself is always at risk, and therefore the community defined by that good news is also always at risk.
That risk feels particularly acute in our time. Declining attendance and membership in mainline churches underscores the risk. Here at Clarendon, the fact that we have for too long lived with a deficit budget certainly makes clear the risk that the church in this little corner of the world could die.
The risk is real; it is imminent. Now I don’t know if that is imminent in galactic time or some other time. I hope that it is in God’s time, and I have faith that in God’s eyes the church in this place is worth saving.
But the risk is real, and it raises some critical questions for us. If we were in the insurance business we would talk about risk and reward; in the life of the church it will be more faithful to think in terms of call and response.
We’re pretty clear about the particular calling to and identity of this community. Through much discernment by congregation, by session, by pastoral nominating committee, through redeveloping and mission discernment, we are clear that Clarendon Presbyterian Church has a distinctive calling to be a community of progressive Christian witness marked by prophetic leadership in the broader community, Christian hospitality and radical welcome to people long excluded by the church and society, and Christ-centered community shaped and informed by the simple commandment that we love one another as Christ has loved us.
There is no question about who we are, the only question is how shall we be the people we have been called to be? That is a question of risk.
The church is at risk if we do not live into our callings here, and, in a profound way, our souls are at risk as well.
I suppose this is the point at which, in a different sort of congregation, the preacher might start warning about hell. And, well, if hell means alienation from our true selves and the divine source of our lives, then hell is precisely what we’re talking about now. That is always the risk of not living into our callings.
So, how shall we be the people we have been called to be?
Look at the stories from scripture this morning. What’s going on in them? Radically risk taking. Jesus is healing when he has no business healing. It’s difficult for us to imagine how culturally inappropriate Jesus’ actions were, given that not only is every hospital but also every 7-11 and most everything in between open on whatever day any religious tradition might consider the Sabbath. Suffice it to say, his actions broke with tradition in provocative ways. Likewise, in Acts, Paul is empowering one whom he has no business empowering – a woman, for God’s sake. Boundaries are being broken here. The gospel is breaking down the barriers: the gospel of love. The simple message that you are loved by God knows no borders or barriers; it is for everyone at all times and all places. No human rules or marks of exclusion can stand against the power of love.
Our calling is to take that message with us everywhere. In particular, as church, to take it into communities at risk of not hearing it. For example, in the coming weeks, we have the opportunity to take that message to the streets of DC in the Pride Parade – it’s simple, it’s fun, and more to the point, it is what we are called to do. Likewise, that same week, we have the opportunity to take that message into interfaith worship down in Alexandria as a sponsoring congregation of the first Northern Virginia Pride worship service. It’s simple, it’s fun, and more to the point, it is what we are called to do.
On a somewhat grander scale, we are developing a mission initiative named CALL: the Center for the Advancement of Lifelong Leadership. At the heart of CALL is the same simple gospel conviction: that we are loved, and called to live out of that love.
All around us in the Metro corridor are thousands of people who have not heard and do not know that simple good news, and they live in hells of the culture’s creation because we have failed to share that gospel message.
In particular, in our ministry context in highly educated, affluent Arlington County, the hell of the culture’s creation is perhaps best named in Henry Thoreau’s evocative phrase: “lives of quiet desperation.” As his friend Emerson put, “things are in the saddle riding humankind.” We live in a community of material wealth and spiritual poverty, rich in things but poor in meaning and destitute of community.
In the Presbyterian Church, being decent and orderly in all things, we have a process for preparation for ministry, and if you are seriously considering ordained ministry of word and sacrament you will quickly find yourself meeting with a Presbytery committee on preparation for ministry. I vividly recall my first such meeting, about a dozen years ago, in the library of Maxwell Street Presbyterian Church in Lexington, Ky. There was a minister-member of that committee named Dick, who had taken it upon himself to give ever inquirer a good grilling. He was the gate keeper.
I will never forget his question to me: what drives you? I reacted against the question in ways that I’m sure Dick did not expect or understand. You see, this was Lexington in the mid 90s. The town was dominated by the figure of Rick Pitino, the basketball coach at UK. In Kentucky, the UK hoops coach sits at the right hand of God, or higher in a good year. Pitino was the most driven person I’ve ever seen, and I really couldn’t stand him. I did not want to think of myself as driven in any way shape or form. I could not answer Dick’s question, because it felt like he was asking, “in what way are you like Rick Pitino?”
While obviously I navigated the process successfully in time, it saddens me to think back on that moment because it underscored the deeply impoverished language of call and discernment that plagues the church still and even more so the culture at large. We do not know how to speak to one another of our callings, of our vocation, of listening for the still small voice and discerning those thin places where our deepest joy intersects with the world’s deep need.
I know now that Dick was only trying to help. I also know now, after a dozen years of study, experience, and discernment exactly what drives me – although I seldom, if ever, use that word still. I’d rather talk about passion, or about what is sacred to me. But, with a nod to a now-retired colleague whose question has haunted me for more than a decade, let me declare to you what drives me. I am driven by the desire to journey with others through the spirit-filled and wondrous path of discerning vocation, and I am convinced that that this community – the congregation of Clarendon Presbyterian Church – is uniquely equipped to give birth to an institutional capacity to help dozens, then hundreds and eventually thousands of people discern their own call to the work of justice, compassion and community restoration.
Because I feel driven, I can go on about this at length. There is so much to say about the need in our community, about our own capacities and gifts in this area, about the work of discernment that has led us to this moment, about processes and programs, about finances and support. Moreover, as this is a sermon, there is so clearly so much that can be said about call and vocation related to the stories of scripture – including quite clearly the ones we’ve read this morning.
But I want to hear your thoughts and your questions, so I’ll close by circling back round to the beginning. The risks before us do not include a large likelihood of being turned to stardust in a blast of gamma rays, but they do include a significant likelihood of being reduced to memory if we do not live more fully into our calling to be the church progressive, inclusive and diverse at Clarendon. The time of discerning call is rapidly being fulfilled, and the time of fulfilling our calling is upon us. Let’s live into it together. Amen.
posted by David Ensign at
12:51 PM
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