A few weeks ago, my husband and I drove over to Landover, Maryland and into the parking lot of what used to be the Hechinger home improvement store. While the shell remained, the guts of the building had become the site of a fast-growing church called First Baptist Church of Glenarden, and while First Baptist has moved into a larger sanctuary seven miles up the road, the old Hechinger's building functions as a second campus for the church. The building is a marvel, not just in terms of finding new uses for abandoned retail spaces, but for the thriving, passionate church community that arose inside of it and whose members I encountered as we crossed the threshold on this particular Tuesday night to witness the baptism of our seven year old nephew. We were greeted warmly with kind words, firm handshakes, and, in several cases, hugs. As we made our way back to the baptismal chapel, I could smell the chlorine in the full-immersion baptismal font that was about half the size of a lap pool.
The room was packed, save for about 50 empty reserved seats off to the right side of the room. We joined my family and not a minute too soon as the various ministers and deacons assembled at the front of the room and we began singing a medley of hymns. There weren't any hymnals as most people knew the words, and if you didn't, you soon picked them up and joined the chorus. As we concluded the last verse of the last hymn, my sister grabbed my arm to tell me that her son and the others to be baptized were entering the room. Clad in white t-shirts, white sweatpants, and white socks, these 50 or so boys, girls, men, and women entered swiftly and softly, as if on cat paws. They took their seats and soon, one by one, they made their way up the steps to the baptismal font, stating their name and their belief that Christ had died to take away their sins. They then stepped down into the water where ministers gently submerged them in the waters of baptism. They emerged soaking wet and beaming, with a cadre of volunteers enveloping them in white towels and leading them down the steps, down the carpeted aisle that had been covered in thick plastic for the occasion and down to a warm dressing room. Once our nephew had made his way down the aisle to my sister and I, she signaled that we could all leave as families of the yet-to-be-baptized were waiting in the hallway and standing along the walls.
I heard that around 70 people had been baptized that night. That's an astonishing number considering the continuing downward membership rolls of mainline Christianity in the United States. At my own church, 70 baptisms in one day would trigger a visit from the Presiding Bishop and the entire House of Bishops, as well as coverage on the 11pm local news, and a write-up by The Washington Post and the New York Times. And a packed sanctuary on a Tuesday night? Well, that would be its own miracle.
I must admit to a little evangelism envy. When you see churches with thousands of people in attendance on a Sunday morning and hundreds of those people committing to and showing up for worship, committee meetings and Bible study throughout the work week, it's hard not to measure your own church against theirs and to ask "what are we doing wrong?" But, as the former dean of my university chapel used to warn us preaching students, I have to be careful lest I substitute heat for light. While large numbers are seductive - I mean, who doesn't want to be at a party where everyone else seems to be? - they are not the sole measure of the health of a congregation. The question, to quote a line from an old spiritual, is have you got good religion? So, if numbers, alone, aren't an accurate barometer of the state of your congregation, the level of engagement that each parishioner feels should be another component to add to the mix. In his book, Growing an Engaged Church, Albert L. Winseman defines "engagement" as:
emotional at its root, and the emotional commitment is a state of “being” that leads to rational commitment, which then leads to right “doing.”
In my personal experience at the parish and pastoral level, I define engagement as that sense of connection to the mission of your church and to the individual members of your church. Engagement exists at so many levels - it can mean greeting a parishioner when you run into them outside of church, or showing up at the hospital room of a parishioner undergoing tests just to pray with them. But, engagement is not evangelism, rather, engagement is a part of the foundation on which evangelism is built. An engaged parishioner doesn't just show up for church on Sunday, they delight in the deep connection that they experience in worshiping in their church community. They pray for each other and check in on each other because they are a family of faith. Needless to say, my sister's church has a lot of parishioners who experience high levels of engagement to their church and its people. But, engagement is hard to achieve because it requires vulnerability and trust and faith. It requires that I shed all of the things that serve as a barrier between me and the person sitting in the pew next to me and get real. It is standing up and saying to the fellow parishioner who you run into at the grocery store, "Please pray for me," and having them respond, "Let's pray together right now." When our dad was sick and in the hospital, random people from my sister's church would stop in and pray with us in his room. Some were there to visit with their own relatives, and stopped in afterwards, but others came especially to see Dad and to visit with us. This is engagement, and this is the answer to the question of how so many people could come to a church on a Tuesday night. So, have you got good religion?
Saturday, November 16, 2013
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Is Your Summer Church Vacation Permanent?
I grew up in a bi-religious household. My mom was, and still is, a devout Roman Catholic, and Dad was on a constant search for God on the more charismatic, conservative Christian side. What this meant for my sister and I was that Sunday mornings were spent at Mass with Mom, unless it was summer, which meant that we attended the weekly 5:00pm Saturday evening Mass. And, since we didn't take family vacation trips and rarely attended summer camp, we also were on the hook for daily weekday morning Mass with Grandma who was our babysitter since both Mom and Dad worked outside of the home.
Years later, after I had finished grad school and was living on my own, I joined a new church where I was a member of the choir, which meant that I was at church every Sunday. During the summer, we still had choir, and I was there every Sunday, unless I had to work some occasional extra hours. Soon, though, one summer, those occasional extra hours became a permanent Sunday shift and those occasional summer Sundays away from church became permanent Sundays of separation from the sanctuary for the year.
When I became engaged, my groom-to-be and I set out to find a church home that we could enjoy together. It was summertime, and as we shuttled around various houses of worship on those summer Sundays, I was struck by how empty these sanctuaries seemed during what would have been their main services during the fall. All of Christendom, it seemed, was on vacation.
In academia, I was well-versed in the idea of sabbatical - an extended break that professors took away from the daily grind of classes in order to singularly focus in on a passion project or to simply take a rest. And for the professional clergy staffing congregations, the sabbatical is a reward for the challenging work of ministry. But, for those of us filling the seats, singing in the choir, teaching Sunday school, organizing the coffee hour, greeting the visitors, and all of the other myriad and important tasks of church life, summer vacation has become our de facto sabbatical.
Now, with the arrival of September, school buses, and falling leaves, we'll all return to those church pews, like children at the end of summer break, enjoying this renewed fellowship and a happy reunion as we share what we did over the summer. And as joy-filled as these times of re-acquaintance will be, I find myself wondering if there will come a September when all of those who fled the loving arms of their churches during our summer sabbaticals will simply not return. Will those who enjoyed sand and surf and sun-kissed skin and Sunday sleep-ins for three months decide that maybe this September they'll just sit out the whole church thing? And, an even bigger question: are we right to assume that come September there will always be a church home to return to?
So tell me what you think? Have you taken a church sabbatical this summer? Does back to school mean back to church for you?
Years later, after I had finished grad school and was living on my own, I joined a new church where I was a member of the choir, which meant that I was at church every Sunday. During the summer, we still had choir, and I was there every Sunday, unless I had to work some occasional extra hours. Soon, though, one summer, those occasional extra hours became a permanent Sunday shift and those occasional summer Sundays away from church became permanent Sundays of separation from the sanctuary for the year.
When I became engaged, my groom-to-be and I set out to find a church home that we could enjoy together. It was summertime, and as we shuttled around various houses of worship on those summer Sundays, I was struck by how empty these sanctuaries seemed during what would have been their main services during the fall. All of Christendom, it seemed, was on vacation.
In academia, I was well-versed in the idea of sabbatical - an extended break that professors took away from the daily grind of classes in order to singularly focus in on a passion project or to simply take a rest. And for the professional clergy staffing congregations, the sabbatical is a reward for the challenging work of ministry. But, for those of us filling the seats, singing in the choir, teaching Sunday school, organizing the coffee hour, greeting the visitors, and all of the other myriad and important tasks of church life, summer vacation has become our de facto sabbatical.
Now, with the arrival of September, school buses, and falling leaves, we'll all return to those church pews, like children at the end of summer break, enjoying this renewed fellowship and a happy reunion as we share what we did over the summer. And as joy-filled as these times of re-acquaintance will be, I find myself wondering if there will come a September when all of those who fled the loving arms of their churches during our summer sabbaticals will simply not return. Will those who enjoyed sand and surf and sun-kissed skin and Sunday sleep-ins for three months decide that maybe this September they'll just sit out the whole church thing? And, an even bigger question: are we right to assume that come September there will always be a church home to return to?
So tell me what you think? Have you taken a church sabbatical this summer? Does back to school mean back to church for you?
Friday, August 2, 2013
What Happens at Seminary STAYS at Seminary!
Today, I saw a Facebook post from my seminary welcoming the new class of budding theologians and ministers, this, after learning earlier this week that a good friend had also decided to take the plunge and embark on a seminary education. It was twenty years ago this month that I was busily packing and preparing for the start of my own seminary education. I was a nervous and excited twenty-one year old who was in the process of adjusting my frame of reference from college student to college graduate. And now, I was having to shift again, from college graduate to seminarian.
Seminarian - just the weight of the word was imposing and mysterious. It meant so many things. A seminarian was someone in training for a life in ministry. A seminarian was someone interested in the serious study of God and faith. This wasn't undergrad where majoring in Art History was what you did because you liked Monet, yet harbored no career ambitions in the field. Being in seminary was a declaration of your vocation - hereafter known as the V-word. That I'd never used the V-word before seminary was no matter, because it would become a familiar and consistent part of my speech for the next three years, starting with my arrival on campus.
When I arrived for orientation, it was a bit like walking into one of those after-work networking events, where the room is filled with people grouped into little clumps feverishly introducing themselves, playing the "do you know___?" or "have you read___?" or "what did you think of ____?" game. It's the intellectual's version of the 15-year-old girl eye roll/stare down, in which one instantly sizes up the other. Looking around the room I saw a lot of people around my parents' age, which, at the time, was in their fifties. Some of these people had adult children and even grandchildren. Some of them were retired from their careers, and some had grown children and even grandchildren. They were active in their home churches and they welcomed the new challenges of a seminary education.
There was an even larger presence of people that were in their late twenties/early thirties who I'll call "The Superstars." A lot of this group had been on mission trips, and they liked to toss out terms like "CPE" and "Tillichian". These were the guys with the face stubble, corduroy jacket, Seattle grunge/pre-Hipster, look - you know, the smart but nerdy guys who would one day be the "cool" professors who would make religious studies and theology the next big thing. Their female equivalents were the womyn's studies, religious femme fatales, listening to Tori Amos and seeking to dismantle the dysfunctional church and its fixation with a male-only God. Both sides played nice, but you knew that at any moment, they would throw down "Anchorman" style in a Boston back-alley if there was a discussion of the phallic elements of the traditional pulpit architectural design.
And then, there were the 40-somethings, most of whom were married, or recently divorced. A lot of them had children, and almost all of them had left jobs and careers in order to follow their call to ministry to seminary. I felt the worst for these people. Some of them had relocated into an expensive city with husbands or wives and children in tow, sacrificing annual salaries, health benefits, and their established networks of support (extended family, friends, neighbors, churches). I also, though, admired them and I was jealous of their faith and their faithfulness. They truly believed! And they didn't waste a minute of their time. They studied the hardest, and with a laser focus on the practical applications of what they learned. They spoke with the most passion and conviction about their lives in the church and their dreams for the church. They were and remain for me inspirational.
By the end of that day, I knew that seminary would be the most interesting place I had ever been. It was as if I were lifting the veil on a place that had been shrouded in the deepest of mystery, you know, like that first time you see a drag queen with her wig off but still in her dress! I remember when I was in the first grade in Catholic school, our teacher was Sister Dorothy, the coolest nun EVER! She was always in good spirits, and constantly encouraging us to do our best and to enjoy life. One day before the Christmas break, we were having a classroom party with cookies and Kool-Aid punch when, high on all of that high-fructose corn syrup, we fell on Sister Dorothy, tickling her and taking off her veil, and then we saw it - Sister Dorothy apparently had HAIR on her head!!!??
Still laughing as we helped her up, she retrieved the veil and the bobby pens now scattered at her feet, and reattached her veil. But it didn't matter, we had seen her humanity, had seen behind the veil. I would have that same feeling during my time at seminary. So, for all of you beginning your seminary journey, don't be afraid to see what's behind the veil. It can overwhelm you as new mysteries are revealed during your education. But, don't let "seminary" intimidate you, oh, and don't tickle a nun - they're not all as nice as Sister Dorothy:)
Seminarian - just the weight of the word was imposing and mysterious. It meant so many things. A seminarian was someone in training for a life in ministry. A seminarian was someone interested in the serious study of God and faith. This wasn't undergrad where majoring in Art History was what you did because you liked Monet, yet harbored no career ambitions in the field. Being in seminary was a declaration of your vocation - hereafter known as the V-word. That I'd never used the V-word before seminary was no matter, because it would become a familiar and consistent part of my speech for the next three years, starting with my arrival on campus.
When I arrived for orientation, it was a bit like walking into one of those after-work networking events, where the room is filled with people grouped into little clumps feverishly introducing themselves, playing the "do you know___?" or "have you read___?" or "what did you think of ____?" game. It's the intellectual's version of the 15-year-old girl eye roll/stare down, in which one instantly sizes up the other. Looking around the room I saw a lot of people around my parents' age, which, at the time, was in their fifties. Some of these people had adult children and even grandchildren. Some of them were retired from their careers, and some had grown children and even grandchildren. They were active in their home churches and they welcomed the new challenges of a seminary education.
There was an even larger presence of people that were in their late twenties/early thirties who I'll call "The Superstars." A lot of this group had been on mission trips, and they liked to toss out terms like "CPE" and "Tillichian". These were the guys with the face stubble, corduroy jacket, Seattle grunge/pre-Hipster, look - you know, the smart but nerdy guys who would one day be the "cool" professors who would make religious studies and theology the next big thing. Their female equivalents were the womyn's studies, religious femme fatales, listening to Tori Amos and seeking to dismantle the dysfunctional church and its fixation with a male-only God. Both sides played nice, but you knew that at any moment, they would throw down "Anchorman" style in a Boston back-alley if there was a discussion of the phallic elements of the traditional pulpit architectural design.
And then, there were the 40-somethings, most of whom were married, or recently divorced. A lot of them had children, and almost all of them had left jobs and careers in order to follow their call to ministry to seminary. I felt the worst for these people. Some of them had relocated into an expensive city with husbands or wives and children in tow, sacrificing annual salaries, health benefits, and their established networks of support (extended family, friends, neighbors, churches). I also, though, admired them and I was jealous of their faith and their faithfulness. They truly believed! And they didn't waste a minute of their time. They studied the hardest, and with a laser focus on the practical applications of what they learned. They spoke with the most passion and conviction about their lives in the church and their dreams for the church. They were and remain for me inspirational.
By the end of that day, I knew that seminary would be the most interesting place I had ever been. It was as if I were lifting the veil on a place that had been shrouded in the deepest of mystery, you know, like that first time you see a drag queen with her wig off but still in her dress! I remember when I was in the first grade in Catholic school, our teacher was Sister Dorothy, the coolest nun EVER! She was always in good spirits, and constantly encouraging us to do our best and to enjoy life. One day before the Christmas break, we were having a classroom party with cookies and Kool-Aid punch when, high on all of that high-fructose corn syrup, we fell on Sister Dorothy, tickling her and taking off her veil, and then we saw it - Sister Dorothy apparently had HAIR on her head!!!??
Still laughing as we helped her up, she retrieved the veil and the bobby pens now scattered at her feet, and reattached her veil. But it didn't matter, we had seen her humanity, had seen behind the veil. I would have that same feeling during my time at seminary. So, for all of you beginning your seminary journey, don't be afraid to see what's behind the veil. It can overwhelm you as new mysteries are revealed during your education. But, don't let "seminary" intimidate you, oh, and don't tickle a nun - they're not all as nice as Sister Dorothy:)
Monday, July 29, 2013
Welcome to Confessions of a Former Seminarian!
This past Sunday, I attended Alfred Street Baptist Church in Old Town Alexandria, VA. While I am not a member of Alfred Street, I have several friends who attend and, over the years, they've invited me to come and worship with them. As I walked up the front steps of the church, a smiling young woman opened the door for me, and the wondrous cold smack of air conditioning hit me square in the face as I entered the church lobby. The sanctuary was just beyond it - a wood paneled A-frame - packed with worshipers and dotted along the middle and side aisles that ran the length of the church an army of ushers, all women and clad in all-white, their gloved hands directing traffic into the pews with precision and grace.
As I took my seat, I noted the music filling every inch of air around me. Up front, behind the altar, stood the choir, in robes of midnight blue with gold piping, singing the songs of my youth - old, steady gospel hymns. Anchored above were two large screens which scrolled the words of the songs, which was great if your memory needed a gentle reminder, and even better if you wanted to clap your hands and sing, and when they got to "It's a Highway to Heaven", I was up on my feet, tears in my eyes, remembering how my father had loved this song and missing him so very much. I had come home, to a spiritual place that I had been longing to see.
It's amazing how easily your spiritual life can go stagnant. I mean, I'm an active church member and a seminary graduate, so I should be in top spiritual shape! But, seminary was 20 years ago, and keeping spiritually fit isn't easy when work and family, and all of the highs and lows of church life intervene. This blog will focus on how we struggle with faith and religion, and our individual quests to find our spiritual home. So let's begin.
As I took my seat, I noted the music filling every inch of air around me. Up front, behind the altar, stood the choir, in robes of midnight blue with gold piping, singing the songs of my youth - old, steady gospel hymns. Anchored above were two large screens which scrolled the words of the songs, which was great if your memory needed a gentle reminder, and even better if you wanted to clap your hands and sing, and when they got to "It's a Highway to Heaven", I was up on my feet, tears in my eyes, remembering how my father had loved this song and missing him so very much. I had come home, to a spiritual place that I had been longing to see.
It's amazing how easily your spiritual life can go stagnant. I mean, I'm an active church member and a seminary graduate, so I should be in top spiritual shape! But, seminary was 20 years ago, and keeping spiritually fit isn't easy when work and family, and all of the highs and lows of church life intervene. This blog will focus on how we struggle with faith and religion, and our individual quests to find our spiritual home. So let's begin.
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