What is Your Favorite Season in the Church?

Dear Grayce,

Easter is my favorite season.

Matthew says on Easter morning Mary Magdalene and another woman also named Mary were going to visit the tomb where they had placed Jesus after he was killed. Can you imagine how they must have felt, Grayce? Have you ever been so sad that you wondered if you would ever feel happy again? They must have felt that way. They watched their teacher – their friend – die on the cross. He helped them feel closer to God. He taught them how to love one another. And now he was gone. Would they ever be happy again?

When they get to the grave, they feel the earth shaking. Matthew says an angel came from heaven and rolled the heavy stone that sat in front of Jesus’ tomb. Then the angel just sat on the stone, dangling his feet over the edge. His first words them were, “Do not be afraid.”

You know how you and all your friends come to the church on the Saturday before Easter and hunt eggs? If you notice, the cross in the Courtyard is draped in black on that day. The black cloth helps us remember that Jesus was still dead in the grave on that Saturday long ago. You and your church friends hunt all those brightly-colored, treat-filled eggs on the same day that Mary and her friends were crying because they were sad and afraid. I used to think that maybe we shouldn’t be hunting eggs on such a sad day. But then I saw something that changed my mind.

A few years ago we put a Memorial Garden in our Courtyard. We built a beautiful brick wall, and a grassy space where we could bury the ashes of members of our church family after they die. Sometimes when we stand next to that wall we are very sad and afraid. Someone we love has died and we miss them very much. We wonder what life will be like without people like Millard, Margot, Nick, Charles, Lillian, Gloria, John, and Betty.

When we first built the Memorial Garden, I worried children might play on it, and it would be disrespectful. When I mentioned my worries to one of our older members, she laughed and said, “I like the idea of children playing on it. One day I will be buried out there, and knowing there are children running and laughing all around me brings me joy.”

Sure enough, during the first Easter Egg Hunt after the Memorial Garden was built, I looked up and saw a child sitting on the wall laughing and counting eggs, her feet dangling off the edge.

And now every time I stand in our Memorial Garden, even when I am very sad, I remember the angel from Matthew’s Easter story, the one who sat on the stone with his feet dangling off the edge. He still speaks the same words, “Do not be afraid.”

Grayce, if you are ever sad or afraid, I hope you will remember that angel as well, and know that the promises of Easter are for you too. And if it helps, go sit on the wall in the garden, let your feet dangle off the edge, and tell God exactly how you feel. I promise you God will hear you, and God cares. I believe this, because I believe that Christ is risen. He is risen indeed! That’s why Easter is my favorite season.

Peace,

Pastor Chris

When was the church built? Why do we celebrate Communion?

Dear Myers,

When I was your age, one of my favorite things to do was sit at the big round oak table in our kitchen and eat a meal with my family. During those meals we might laugh, or cry, or be rather silent; we ate food that sometimes I liked (pork chops) and sometimes I didn’t (anything with green peppers); we talked about how school was going, or the soccer game we just played, or the plans for the next day. Sometimes at that table, we had to have hard conversations. Maybe one or more of the four of us (all boys) was in trouble, and we were all being reminded of what our parents expected of us.

If you ask me when my family was started, I might tell you about my great, great, great grandfather, who was a traveling preacher. He would ride his horse up to the front of the house and have his grandson walk with him out to the barn. As they walked with the horse, he would tell his grandson all about his travels. Those stories inspired my great grandfather not to be a preacher, but to go on an adventure to Mexico and Texas that ended with him being asked to leave town (something about hiding in a pickle barrel and being found by an angry store owner). 

Those stories, and many more like them, help me understand my family and how it got started. I know a little bit more about why we lived where we did, who all the people were I met at family gatherings, and maybe even why I felt called to be a minister. 

My family started with those people and places and stories from long ago. But I think my family was built around that oak table in the kitchen. That was where we learned how to love each other, how to forgive one another, how to be a family. 

So there are two answers to your question. The church where you and your family worship was started  in 1811 when Gideon Blackburn, a traveling preacher, rode his horse into the very small town of Franklin and got a few men and women to agree to be part of the First Presbyterian Church. And our congregation is part of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.), a family of churches that was started in 1706 in Philadelphia. And our great, great, great grandparent churches were started in places like Scotland and Switzerland and France. And even before there was such a thing as a Presbyterian Church, there was the Catholic Church, and the very earliest churches that started in homes right after the time of Jesus. So you are part of a very large church family that goes back 2,000 years. 

But the church is built every time we gather around the table, and we remember the words, “This is my body, broken for you; this is my blood, shed for you.” When we eat together, we remember this story, but we also know Jesus is with us, right here and now. Every time we eat this bread and drink from this cup, we are learning how to love each other, how to welcome all people, how to forgive one another, how to be the church. 

Paul says in the Bible that the church is the “Body of Christ.” Another biblical writer says to “let yourselves be built into a spiritual house.” Every time we celebrate Communion, we are being built by God.

Myers, I know your family eats a lot of meals at your table at home. And, knowing your family, I’m sure you laugh a whole lot. But you and your sisters are also doing something else at that table. You are being built into people who know how to love, how to forgive, how to live as children of God, how to be a family. It is a real blessing. 

It is also a real blessing to be able to share Communion in worship. And I’m really glad that you are a part of this church family, being built along with the rest of us into the Body of Christ. The next time we celebrate Communion in worship, I hope you will remember that right then, in that very moment, the church is being built, and that you are an important part of our family.

Peace,

Pastor Chris

What is Your Favorite Bible Story?

Dear Caroline,

When I decided to answer your question first, it was because I thought it would be easier than the others. It turns out to be one of the most difficult. There are so many Bible stories I love, it is hard to pick just one as a favorite. But I’m going to try.

My favorite Bible stories all have the same message. I know you have been coming to church all your life, so I bet you have sung this song a lot:

Jesus loves me,
This I know,
For the Bible tells me so.

The Bible is where I first read about how much God loves me, and some of my favorite stories are about that love, and all the things God has done to show love for the world.

God loves the world, so God called Abraham and Sarah, who were too old to have children, and tells them they will have more children than the grains of sand on the beach or the stars in the sky. When Sarah hears it, she laughs. I think she laughed because it was too wonderful for her to imagine God could love her that much. Could God’s love be that great, as great as the stars? She did have a son, and they named him Isaac, which means, “Son of Laughter.”

I love that story. But it is not my favorite.

God loves the world, so when the people ask for a king, God sends the prophet Samuel to Jesse’s house to find the king in the tiny town of Bethlehem, out in the country. Jesse had eight sons, and God told Samuel one of those sons would be the king. So each one of them comes and stands in front of Samuel, and each time Samuel thinks,”This is the one.” But God keeps saying to Samuel, “Don’t pay attention to what they look like on the outside, how big and strong they are. People may look at that sort of thing, but I look at a person’s heart.” Seven sons stand in front of Samuel, and God picks none of them. When Samuel asks where the eighth son is, Jesse has to send for him in the fields, tending the sheep. “This is the one,” says God, and that little boy David would be the greatest king of all.

I love that story. But it is not my favorite.

God loves the world, so on a dark night in that same little town of Bethlehem a baby was born to a little girl named Mary. Shepherds came to visit him, and angels sang peace on earth, and Jesus shared his room with cows and donkeys and sheep. Imagine that! God came to be with us.

I love that story. But it is not my favorite.

Caroline, before i tell you my favorite story, I want you to remember the best meal you ever had. Who was with you? What did you eat? What did you talk about?

For me, one of the best meals I ever ate happened last summer. I went to a restaurant in San Francisco that serves food from Peru. Kim, Caleb, and Chandler were there, two of my brothers, Rory and Jonathan, our friend Caesar, and your dad. We talked about everything – the half marathon race we finished that morning, our families, the food we were eating, the problems in the world, all the ideas we had for helping the world, our dreams for the future – on and on we talked and ate. The whole meal took two hours. We laughed and laughed, we discussed serious things and funny things. Your dad talked about how much he loves you and your sister, how proud he was of both of you.

As we were leaving, I had a feeling that we were not alone. I think Jesus was there at that table with us, in the joy and love we were sharing with one another. I think he is always with us at table. Sometimes we see him more clearly than others.

When Jesus died on the cross, his friends were sad, and they thought they would never see him again, that all his teachings would die with him. Two of his friends were walking back to their home in a town called Emmaus. They were so sad they hardly noticed when a stranger came walking alongside them. They began talking with one another, and the stranger starts telling Bible stories. Maybe he told them about old Abraham and Sarah and their Son of Laughter. Or perhaps he talked about David, the little boy who became a mighty king. The way he talks about God’s love is so comforting, they ask him to stay the night. And when they sit down at the table for supper, the stranger takes the bread, says a blessing, and breaks it. An amazing thing happens right then – they recognize that the stranger is Jesus, and he disappears.

That is my favorite Bible story. I love it because it reminds me that every time we eat the bread and drink from the cup together – whether it is in church during the Lord’s Supper, or in our homes with our families, or in a Peruvian restaurant in San Francisco – Jesus is there. He is there because he loves us. And he wants us to love one another.

After that favorite meal in San Francisco, my love for my family and friends was stronger. And every time we eat the meal at church, which is also one of my favorites, my love for all the people in the church is stronger. Loving God and loving one another is the most important thing we can ever do, Caroline, and that’s why this story of love is my favorite.

What is your favorite Bible story? I would love to hear it, not just from you, but from everyone listening in to this letter.

May you know God’s supporting love, not only at the table, but everywhere you go.

Peace,
Pastor Chris

Childrens Questions for a Pastor

As part of the First Grade Sunday church school class at First Presbyterian, the children were invited to ask me any question they had about faith. I plan to try and answer those questions in the next several blogs during Lent.

Someone recently commented to me that she loved watching the children come forward for what we call “The Time with the Young Church.” She said the way they make their way up, sit around the baptismal font, not afraid to ask questions or share their own thoughts, says to her that they feel at home in the space, that this church is an extension of their families. I think she is right, and I would take it one step further – this church is their family. In every way, they are being formed in faith by a community that takes seriously the baptismal vows we all make each time a person passes through these waters.

I read a blog the other day that asked the question, “Why are young people leaving the church in young adulthood, after they leave for college?” One of the reasons he gave was that the church was not, in many cases, taking children and youth seriously. The church often, says the writer, cordons the children and youth off in another part of the church building, entertaining them with big programs, conducting separate worship experiences, and, worst of all, talking down to them. The author suggests that children and youth are capable of understanding much more than we think, and they are hungry for the depths of the faith. When they go off to college or enter the world of work and the complexities of life in the 21st century, they often discover they were well entertained in church, but not formed in faith. It makes it easy for them to walk away.

Wen I read things like this, I am grateful. I am grateful to be part of a community of faith that deeply values intergenerational worship and learning, that routinely places persons of all ages together in the same room, in meaningful relationships, taking seriously the contributions of all. I am also grateful to be in a church that values the faith questions all of us bring, and is not so quick to provide pat answers. In a culture – and especially a church culture – that is quick to provide certitude, and encourages persons to line up on competing sides of all kinds of issues, I am thankful to be in a place that lifts up the virtue of humility, opening a wide space for the mutual sharing of ideas.

I am reminded of the nature of this community every Ash Wednesday. Last night, I placed the ashes on the foreheads of two year olds and eighty-two years olds, some held tightly by their parents, some pushed in wheelchairs by their children. I placed the ashen cross on my daughter, my wife, and my mother as well. All of us received the same ashes. All of us heard the same words: “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” All of us – one human family, equal in our need for God’s renewing grace. This simple reality is why we value the questions, and the ones who ask them, even – especially – the little ones.

It is challenging to be a pastor in such a place, to be attentive to the questions, and to take seriously all who pose them, regardless of their age or life experience. So I am glad to have the chance to hear some of the questions from our first graders, and I invite you in the next few blogs to listen in as I try to respond, and perhaps share your own insights. After all, it is as we respond together in community that the full depth of both our questions and the answers we bring is revealed.

I wish you a holy Lent. Be bold in your questions. Be humble in your answers. Be assured of your acceptance.

On the Second Day of Christmas

On the Second Day of Christmas, I celebrate the gift of a sabbatical given to me by the congregation I serve and the Lilly Endowment’s Clergy Renewal Project. Since coming off of the four month sabbatical last August, I have been working on my reflections. I am glad on this Second Day of Christmas to be able to share the completed project, along with my deep gratitude to all who helped make it possible. A special thanks to all of you who conversed with me via this blog during the sabbatical. Those were such helpful responses, and I hope you see them reflected in the report. Let’s continue the conversation. Peace and blessings.

Here is the link:

http://www.fpcfranklin.org/docs/Sabbatical_Report.doc

On the First Day of Christmas

I saw the heart of the universe on Christmas morning, beating strong and true. In spite of the devastating news coming from Connecticut, the disheartening developments in Washington, and the deepening turmoil in Afghanistan and Syria, I beheld the heart of all things, and it filled me with hope.

We managed to purchase a gift for our daughter she did not expect, one she wanted for a long time but did not think she would receive. I hate to admit it, but we actively deceived her, telling her that the gift she really wanted was – for lots of believable reasons – not possible this year. We wanted to preserve the surprise so we could celebrate the wonder, perhaps catch a glimpse of that beating heart beneath all things.

As she tore into the wrapping paper and unfurled the gift buried beneath the bubble wrap, her eyes widened. She could not believe it – literally saying over and over, “Are you serious?” as it dawned on her the thing she most wanted was coming to pass. That one moment of wondrous surprise and the exclamations of thanksgiving that followed were a glimpse, a magnificent look, at the beating heart of all things, the mystery of the universe, the reason for our existence.

I’m drawn more and more to theologians who talk about the mystery of the Triune God as the eternal giving and receiving of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. At root, they say, God is this spiritual community of generous hospitality that – in an act of love – spills out into the created universe. Beating beneath every rock, every mountain, every star, every drop of water is the mystery of grace. We are placed here among all this wonder in order to receive these gifts with thanksgiving and become ourselves bearers of grace. This is what it means to be created in the image of God. Much of the pain in the world is due to our inability or unwillingness to participate in our true vocation – as receivers and givers of grace.

Christmas is a celebration of the Incarnation – the daring belief that God, in an ultimate act of grace, became one with the creation, one with us, in order to reveal the heart of all things in the giving of Christ. When we give gifts to one another in these holy days, we in a small way enact and practice a way of life to which we are called all our days.

Think of the joy you feel when a gift you thoughtfully give elicits wonder and thanksgiving. Think of the way it feels to receive such a gift – the immediate sense of connection and love you feel for the gift-giver. The gifts become secondary to the relationships that produce them. The relationships deepen in the giving and receiving. Is this not a window into the very heart of God, into the beating grace that lies beneath and within all things?

Unfortunately, in our ever more materialistic culture, in an age when one of the biggest retail days of the year is the day after Christmas when people will rush into stores to return gifts, it is easy to forget what is really happening in this exchange. The gifts themselves are signs, opportunities to celebrate and embrace what lies beneath.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God…and the Word became flesh and lived among us, full of grace and truth. It always comes as surprise, this gift, even though we celebrate it every year. And we are left speechless in wonder, overflowing with thanksgiving, renewed in relationship. This is the heart of the universe, still beating strong and true – I saw it again on Christmas Day, and it fills me with hope.

All Hallow’s Eve

Chandler and I donned our best zombie make up last weekend and joined about a dozen other walking dead for a running event called the Zombie Buffet 5K. I’m a sucker for this sort of thing, and it turns out the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. So with far more joy than was probably appropriate, we chased unsuspecting runners through the autumnal hills and valleys of Nashville, gleefully eating their brains (okay, stealing their flags). When it was all done, we walked back toward our car, a cold breeze at our back, still winded from the run. Chandler put her arm around my shoulder and said, “This was so much fun, Dad!” My zombie heart melted.

I’m not sure how I became so enamored with horror books and movies, but I suspect it is partly my mother’s fault. She left Stephen King novels lying around the house when I was growing up. I don’t know that she ever suspected I was taking them to my room at night, turning on a flashlight under the covers, and shivering with delight at vampires much scarier than anything the Twilight series has conjured, possessed St. Bernards, and a prom queen to die for (literally). Images that would have sent most children my age screaming in fear for the light switch only drew me in deeper.

Halloween is a night when Christians traditionally took death less seriously. At various times in the history of the church, the world that surrounded them was full of uncertainty, insecurity, sickness, oppression, and the ever lingering threat of death. The roots of All Hallow’s Eve – the night before All Saints Day – was among a people who believed that even in the teeth of death they could live with abundant joy, because Christ had defeated death. The next day they would remember their loved ones and friends who had died; but on the night before, in deepest darkness, they shook their fists at death, dared to laugh at death, dressed up and dance and sang and ate and drank in defiance of death.

I’m glad Chandler and I share this love of scary things. It’s a special father-daughter bond, to be sure. But it will also serve us well on those days when the monsters are not so imaginary and the darkness is real. On those days, may the joy we shared together remind us that darkness and death are scary indeed, but they never get the last word. The last word belongs to God.

Such good news should send us out in joy. So why not don a costume, eat some candy, tell a spooky story, and laugh it up? God’s life is stronger than death; God’s light illumines the darkest night.

For Those with Eyes to See

I do not mind camping, but I have always had a few rules – and the older I get the fewer exceptions to these rules I allow –

I do not like crowded campgrounds. Chandler and I go camping every fall. It is a tradition we have kept for over five years now. I like camping in the fall because there are fewer people. Chandler will tell you how we select our camping spot – it needs to have at least two empty spaces on each side and some proximity to the bathhouse and restrooms.

That’s rule number two – I do not generally like to have to walk down a hallway or outside to a different building to go to the restroom or take a shower. In the rare instances that I do (like on our annual camping trip), I will move heaven and earth to get the shortest walk to the cleanest restroom with the fewest people.

Rule number three – it needs to be cool at night if I am in a tent. That’s why we always go in the fall. I do not sleep well, if at all, in hot weather.

And, fourth, it needs to be quiet. Noises at night keep me awake. At home Kim and I sleep with a fan running for both the cool and the noise. It drowns out all the little sounds that might wake us up.

Which brings me to the last rule for camping, and this one is key – camp close to home. This rule is an important safeguard in case any of the above conditions suddenly come into question during the camping trip. If things go awry, you hop in the car and head to the air-conditioned, quiet, two and a half bathroom apportioned, suburban home.

I managed to make it through my sabbatical trips, of which there were many, without violating any of these rules until last week. Last week we (Kim, Chandler, and me) went on a camping trip to Yosemite with my brother Jonathan and partner Caesar and my brother Rory. Every rule was violated.

It was crowded. And by crowded I mean that you had to wait in line for everything – eating, drinking from a water fountain, shopping, using the restroom and taking a shower (see Rule #2), riding the bus – everything. There were people in every nook and cranny of the place, and they were all trying to see and do the same things as us.

We were staying in a tent village. For the uninitiated, these are standing tents with one or two beds inside, and bathhouses down the way. Did I mention it was crowded? I stood in a little gathering with other suffering men and boys every night as we waited for a shower or a toilet. We did our best to console one another with niceties, but you could see it on all the faces, the silent question, “Why am I here? Why are YOU here, standing in my way, when all I want is to take a shower in peace?”

It was hot. San Francisco is cool all the time – at least cool to this Tennessee boy – but Yosemite is not in San Francisco (who knew?!). Yosemite is basically in the Sierra Nevada, which is – wait for it – a DESERT. This means it gets hot in the day, and cools off at night. But it is not cool when it is time for bed. It is still hot. Very hot, especially in the tent.

And noisy. Some young boys from Sacramento were in the tent next to ours, and as far as I can tell, they were parentless. They talked into the designated quiet time and beyond, and when they stopped talking, they started snoring. There is no fan to drown them out since there was no electricity in the tent. So sleep was, let’s just say, elusive.

At night, when it was time to go to the bathroom, I had to make the same calculation – Do I really need to go badly enough to get out of this bed, don enough clothing to be respectable, put on shoes, and walk through the campground with one eye out for bears or mountain lions (which we were told were in abundance)? Or do I just shift around uncomfortably till morning light was enough to see any and all wildlife?

Every rule was violated.

I had a great time. Perhaps one of the best times of my life.

From the moment we drove into the park, I developed the habit of looking up. In Yosemite I am surrounded by not so much mountains as peaks. Everywhere you turn there is a new vista overshadowing whatever may be happening below. El Capitan, Half Dome, Matterhorn – the names imply power – but for me they were a point of reference. Every time I found myself getting frustrated by the circumstances below, every time I groused about this inconvenience or that irritation, someone would say, “Look up.” And when I did, I was freshly overwhelmed, and my perspective shifted. In the shadow of these peaks, the line I was standing in did not seem as important.

After I looked up, I invariably brought my eyes back down to earth with a renewed gratitude. I was with my remarkable brothers, sharing time together that is too rare in the midst of our busy lives. I was with Kim and Chandler (wishing Caleb was there too), and I recall with overwhelming thanksgiving the gifts that they are. And all the people around me – so many people – they spoke dozens of languages, and they too were looking up in awe. We were sharing this transcendent experience together, collapsing whatever barriers might exist in the shadows of the peaks.

The Israelites received the Law from Moses from the mountain. Jesus preached to his followers the Way that leads to life from the mount and was enveloped in light with Moses and Elijah on the mountain we’ve come to call “Transfiguration.” I understand it all a little better after my time among those magnificent cliffs.

An ancient Christian says, “God above us, God beneath us, God around us, God within us.” I catch a hint of what this means standing beneath the peaks. God is ever present, transcendent and immanent, without and within. No matter the circumstances, God is there. If there is suffering, God is there. If there is joy, God is there. In life and in death, God is there.

If the cross means anything, it is this – God is present with us in the midst of life, even to the point of death. Like the mighty mountains of Yosemite, God’s presence frames our lives, and, if we have eyes to see, can grant us a new perspective and a new peace. When the “rules” we so carefully construct to preserve ourselves, our comfort, our security, our status, and our lives, come crashing down – that is the time to look up.

As my sabbatical comes to a close shortly, I give thanks for this and so many other experiences that have opened my eyes afresh to the presence of Christ all around. I thank the congregation I serve, whom I miss and look forward to seeing soon. And I thank the Lilly Endowment for having the confidence in our vision to fund it in its entirety. I hope the things I have experienced and learned will help me “look up” more often.

The Gift of Silence

Whatever the future holds for the church and the nation and the world, I think silence will have to play a significant part in it.

I know this runs against the current pattern of our common thinking and living. I am typing right now on a device that never ceases to amaze me with its ability to both educate and distract. I can push a button and have all the news of the day, along with the opinions of more people than I could possibly read with any depth at my fingertips. Any question I might have I can get answered by merely typing into Google, or looking at Wikipedia, or asking Siri.

I attended an event a number of years ago in a setting that prides itself on lack of cell phone coverage. Once you got down into the valley, you might as well turn off all outside connections, because they would not work. Those were some amazing years, with heartfelt and genuine community built among the participants, much of which was made possible – one has to imagine – because of the lack of distractions.

Now that same event takes place on a college campus, with live Tweeting and constant Facebook updates. I know community still happens (one only has to read the Tweets and status updates to see that), and no doubt the event still changes lives. I am aware that the World Wide Web offers its own brand of togetherness, and I may be hopelessly behind the times. But I feel a sense of loss in knowing that one more space, one more opportunity for people to unplug and connect in a different kind of way – absent 140 character blurbs and incessant chatter about nothing – is now lost to the world. What will be the price of such loss? One price I fear is the loss of any kind of depth, and with it, the chance for true wisdom.

I spent the first part of my sabbatical in a monastery, surrounded by silence. And in these final days I am alone in a small mountain cabin, surrounded by trees, the only sound the occasional rain and the birds who come up on the porch to feed their babies in a small nest. It would be a lie to say it is easy, this silence. It is not. The lure of technology – including the iPad I am writing on right now – is ever present, offering its narcotic. It is not easy. But it is necessary.

At a recent lecture, I heard Phyllis Tickle describe most Americans as “bone-tired” when they come home at the end of the day, filled to the brim with information and noise, opinion and hyperbole, but very little wisdom.

If the church has a place in the coming so-called “post-Christian” era, surely it will be in the cultivation of a counter-cultural wisdom, an antidote to frenetic busyness and noise. Perhaps one of the gifts we can offer this bone-tired world is the gift of silence.

I am grateful to the congregation I serve – a place rich in the gifts of silence and wisdom – for the grace of this time apart to experience quiet spaces and the gentle voice of God within them. I look forward to returning to them, so that we can together discern how the gift of Sabbath might be offered to the world God loves and for which Christ died.

Four Weddings and a Church

In the evening in Montreal in our hotel, Chandler and I watch cable television when a promo piece comes on for a show called “Four Weddings.” Chandler says, “This is one of my favorite shows! We have to watch it.” Thinking it had to be better than the one we were watching – a show involving hidden cameras following unwitting people in order to critique their eccentric fashion choices – I agreed. For the next thirty minutes I got an exclusive look at one small corner of the church in its new disestablished state.

For the uninitiated, “Four Weddings” pits four brides in a competition, the winner of which receives an all-expenses paid “dream honeymoon.” Each bride’s wedding will be judged by the other three brides on such areas as venue, food, entertainment, and – yes! – the pastor (or other officiant). They rate the overall experience from one to ten, and the bride with the most points wins.

I will leave for now the distasteful – even creepy – spectacle of a ceremony that should be a celebration of love and joy among family and friends being opened to reality show cameras and a numbering system similar to the Olympics.

What most fascinated me were the specific criticisms of the various brides, particularly as they related to the “venue” (read “church”) and “officiant” (read “pastor”). Inevitably, if the wedding was happening in a more traditional setting, presided over by a pastor or priest, one or more of the brides would appear befuddled. “He was dressed like royalty,” sneered one bride about the priest in full vestments while the camera slowly panned up and down. About another pastor who was preaching from Galatians – “I had no idea what he was talking about – this is supposed to be about the couple, not whatever he was saying.”

On the other hand, pastors were praised who spent their time talking about the couple, sharing cute stories about how they met, personal quirks, and an occasional joke. These were celebrated as more hip because they understood the real meaning of the ceremony, narrowly defined as these two human beings and the love they feel for each other.

I asked Chandler, “Is this how they talk about all the pastors?”

“Pretty much,” she replied.

“What would you say the main complaint is about them?” I asked, knowing already I would not like what I heard.

“That they go on too long about stuff not related to the bride and groom. You know, too ‘preachy’”.

“Too preachy?! But they’re PREACHERS for God’s sake!” I was exasperated, and it was late, so I continued –

“This is nothing more than a celebration of narcissism. It is not all about the bride and groom, no matter what the “wedding machine” tries to tell you. They are in a church. They have a Christian pastor officiating the wedding. It should be a worship service. They should be focused on God. To focus on themselves alone is a rather small canvass, don’t you think, on which to paint their future. This is just selfishness. No telling how much they are paying for all this spectacle. They should spend less time planning the wedding and more time planning their marriage.”

I thought I made my point rather well, and waited, somewhat out of breath, for Chandler’s accolades and agreement.

“Well, duh, Dad. What do you expect them to be? Not everyone’s Presbyterian, you know. Most people aren’t even religious.”

The youth of our time are, to paraphrase Annie Dillard, more “sufficiently aware of conditions” in our post-Christendom era. I had traveled all the way to Montreal in order to experience and reflect on what the church might look like in a time when more and more people do not claim allegiance to any church, and my sixteen year old daughter became one of my primary teachers. She had reacted with more compassion, openness, and, yes, hospitality toward the children of God on the television screen than had I, and she opened a new understanding of hospitality with her simple question, “What do you expect them to be?”

If I expect them to be fully formed disciples of Jesus Christ and spend all my time sneering at those who are not while huddled with the like-minded behind the stained glass windows of the church, then those stained glass windows will slowly close in on me. Likewise, if I cater to the whims of a largely shallow and superficial culture in order to be “relevant” or, worse, “to grow a church,” then the power of gospel is diluted and the church ceases to be the church, becoming yet one more social club or special interest group that lives and dies by public opinion and polling.

But there is another way, beyond a self-imposed Christian ghetto or an anything goes capitulation.

The brides on the show (and the grooms hidden in the shadows) may not be aware of it, but they are beloved, and not just by their fiancés and their families and friends. They are beloved by a God who created them, who pursues them, in spite of their selfishness, in spite of the brokenness which they share with us all, and who will never cease this loving pursuit. The longing they feel for this love is what lies deep within and behind all the flailing about on display in the frenetic search for “the perfect wedding.”

But they will not hear this word if it is spoken from high and haughty places. They will not hear it if it is spoken from a position of privilege, as if we alone have found the only proper way. They will only hear it if we can speak to them where they are, not where we want them to be, and speak a word of humility and authenticity.

This may be the biggest challenge facing the church in our time – how to engage a culture like the one exhibited on “Four Weddings” with an alternative word that acknowledges our common humanity while also calling us to go deeper.

I think this happens – albeit imperfectly – each time we open the doors wide and gather around font, table, and pulpit, proclaiming a God who did not stand at a distance from humanity, but came in Christ and suffered the cross for the sake of the whole broken beloved world. I hear the Lord saying to this pastor so prone to forgetting – “Now go and do likewise.”