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After the family reunion, my head and heart are busy with fresh memories—like of the oldest and the youngest arriving together, the 87-year-old matriarch (Generation 1) and her 9-month-old great-grandchild (Generation 4). Very cool moment. We gather on the shores of beautiful Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. The family is large, ten Gen 2ers, my siblings and myself. Grand total of the Fossum generations who made the trip this year was 47—and we sorely missed the other 16. With one exception, we’ve come together every other summer since 1987. There was an important reason that year: the desire of our mother to see all of her children and grandchildren upon her return from two years of Peace Corps service in the Philippines. The 11 reunions since then have happened on the general familial principles of staying in touch and having lots and lots of fun.
One of the funnest aspects for me is KP duty. We do our own cooking and each meal crew is headed by a Gen 2 and staffed by in-laws, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren. The littlest team members take pride in rolling silverware, decorating napkins, and fixing plates of cookies. Kitchen conversation is lively and informative—and you never know when there might be a rubber mouse in the sink to send a certain aunt into conniptions!
And the games are fun. One year a cutthroat Sungka tournament went on day and night, through blistered knuckles, until there was a winner. My one sister and I treated our match-up like afternoon tea, totally non-competitive, just to calm things down a little. The spectator crowd soon dissipated. Water balloon volleyball is a staple and always a hoot. Refreshing, too. Email me if you want instructions. The last few years, Apples to Apples, an adjective game, is a strong draw and sometimes continues into the wee hours of the morning. Favorite quotes from one of those sessions: “Taking from my own life, ‘Going to the gym’ is nerdy.” “Chimpanzees are so idiotic. I hate them.” Another hit this year was Minute to Win It. All ages participated and the older we were the bigger fools we made of ourselves; fools for fun. Then, there’s the Fossum trivia game. “Whose favorite food is potato chips?” “Which Fossum has lived on three continents?” We’re ready for an updated version of that. The talent show seems to have gone steadily downhill since the astonishing tap dance of our 60-something mother a couple decades ago. But we’ve got talent; we definitely need to revive that event.
Family is dynamic by nature and many changes always occur in the intervening two years. For starters, everybody’s two years older and now the kids we used to take to the candy store on the lake trail are taking littler ones. At any given gathering people are making geographical moves or changing jobs or starting kindergarten or graduating from college. We’ve lost several participants to divorce, something I didn’t expect in my family, but now we Gen 2s are at the national average in that regard. (I’ve had to come to terms with being typical; I don’t know why being above average used to seem so important.) There are always babies on the way or recently born as well as significant others we’re meeting for the first time. Shockingly, one of us is mobile in a wheelchair since the last get-together, and we rally round in sorrow and caring, marveling at that one’s determination and courage. Other changes, too, cause pain and confusion, but Don Henley got it right. It’s about forgiveness. Fortunately, we seem to be blessed with plenty of that.
Time always runs out too soon. People begin arriving on Thursday afternoon, everybody’s present by Friday night, and then we gradually leave after Sunday breakfast, out by 11am to make room for the next guests. And whoever sits down next to me is just who I want to be near. But the gala was over before I found out about that nephew’s job search or caught up very well with brothers-in-law or had enough time with little ones or swam or remembered to give Mom the book I brought along which I’ll now have to mail or...
But even though our brief time together seems incomplete in some ways, the reunion is a privileged, precious piece of life, a time of roots and wings. “Roots hold me close; wings set me free…” (from Spirit of Life by Carolyn McDade)
Thank you, gracious Creator, for life and for the gift of family.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
Taming the urban jungle some more
By 8 o’clock this morning, I had cut down two trees. Real trees with trunks over two inches in diameter. I got outside early before the h and h (heat and humidity) were insufferable. A lovely breeze was breezing and I was totally up for continuing my crusade against an overgrown, unsightly yard. Plenty of elbow grease was required to make the cuts with my modest hand saw (an electric knife might have made the job easier!), and as my physical strength reached its height, I became keenly aware of power surging through me. Power. Over trees, over nature.
Was I using my power well? We are charged by almighty God with caring for the creation. Aren’t we supposed to be saving trees? I didn’t get into serious reflection or self-recrimination, for my action was intended exactly as good stewardship. These trees—I don’t even know what kind they are—come up volunteer and there are now 11 of them along the fence in about a 12-foot stretch. Too many to grow well and be manageable. Even so, as I sawed through that young trunk, there was a keen sense of ending a beautiful, miraculous life.
And as I cleared the space behind my tool house of invasive vines and shrubs and a big pile of yard garbage accumulated for the last couple months, a foot-long skink slithered out. Undoubtedly, the creature was every bit as startled as I, but only one of us yelped. So, predictably, I thought of vanishing habitats for our animal co-habitors and how I was taking away hers. But it’s my place, space, yard, house—property.
Which made me think of native Americans who, I’ve heard, had no concept of private property. How can anyone own the ground, the sky, the water?! I really like their outlook. How many less problems would there be in the world, how many fewer wars and conflicts if everyone ascribed to that notion and held the land as a sacred gift from the Creator to be managed and shared and handled for the common good? BTW, I am not a communist. And I am a homeowner, so I speak confessionally as well as judgmentally on this topic.
Quite a morning of reflection in my back yard on this holiday! Thank you, great God, for all of it—the trees, the saw, the strength, the skink, the property, the reflective spirit. On this Fourth of July when we celebrate freedom, may you guide me to exercise the great gift of it in accordance with your good purposes and in the knowledge of your sweet and amazing grace. Amen!
Was I using my power well? We are charged by almighty God with caring for the creation. Aren’t we supposed to be saving trees? I didn’t get into serious reflection or self-recrimination, for my action was intended exactly as good stewardship. These trees—I don’t even know what kind they are—come up volunteer and there are now 11 of them along the fence in about a 12-foot stretch. Too many to grow well and be manageable. Even so, as I sawed through that young trunk, there was a keen sense of ending a beautiful, miraculous life.
And as I cleared the space behind my tool house of invasive vines and shrubs and a big pile of yard garbage accumulated for the last couple months, a foot-long skink slithered out. Undoubtedly, the creature was every bit as startled as I, but only one of us yelped. So, predictably, I thought of vanishing habitats for our animal co-habitors and how I was taking away hers. But it’s my place, space, yard, house—property.
Which made me think of native Americans who, I’ve heard, had no concept of private property. How can anyone own the ground, the sky, the water?! I really like their outlook. How many less problems would there be in the world, how many fewer wars and conflicts if everyone ascribed to that notion and held the land as a sacred gift from the Creator to be managed and shared and handled for the common good? BTW, I am not a communist. And I am a homeowner, so I speak confessionally as well as judgmentally on this topic.
Quite a morning of reflection in my back yard on this holiday! Thank you, great God, for all of it—the trees, the saw, the strength, the skink, the property, the reflective spirit. On this Fourth of July when we celebrate freedom, may you guide me to exercise the great gift of it in accordance with your good purposes and in the knowledge of your sweet and amazing grace. Amen!
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Elvis and other interruptions
Carol and I had agreed that I would stop by for a visit around 4 on a Saturday afternoon. She wasn’t in her apartment when I got there, though, so I followed my ears to the packed activities room where a good crowd, including her, was rocking and rolling with an Elvis impersonator. Foiled again, I groused inwardly, wondering how long I would have to wait.
I am routinely irritated by interruptions, and I guess that’s not unusual. Like many of us, I’m more often than not in a “people to see, places to go” mode. On the other hand, in my maturity, I have realized that what I perceive as an interruption, an undesired stop action, is often quite the opposite.
Wow, I hope Jesus wasn’t the personality type who found interruptions irritating. A quick read of Biblical accounts recording the days of his life can give the impression that he is just strolling around looking to see whassup, utterly available to whomever and whatever appears in his pathway. So, if he was trying to get to the synagogue on time or late for a dinner date, there might have been high stress. Ha! High stress in Jesus’ life? Ya’ think?
In a similar vein, I think of clergy who have to deal with the unplanned when trying to prepare for a funeral, get to the hospital, write a sermon, be on time for a meeting, etc. Out of nowhere, a needy person stands before them. Their vocation, their profession is geared toward serving people just like this one, but…
I was about to begin my writing day a while back when the phone rang and I was needed, if possible, to care for a grandbaby who was not feeling so hot. Oh no, oh dear, my day was interrupted! I wouldn’t meet my goal—but the deadline was unchanged. Boy, did we have fun! He was well enough that we would play for a while, and then he’d stretch out his arms for me to pick him up and nestle on my chest with a sigh. Joy. Peace. And he took an extra long nap, so I did okay with my work, probably even more efficient, seizing the opportunity.
Oh, and the Elvis event worked out fine, too. Of course, I slipped in with the crowd, reveling in the campiness of the moment. The guy really sounded like Elvis, voice as low as you can go and smooth as velvet. I laughed a lot on the fast ones; he really got us swinging! Then, after lovely time with Carol, I moved on wondering why I had even thought that the show was an inconvenient nuisance. After all, I didn’t even have to go to Vegas.
I’ll bet each of us could give a long list of initially irritating interruptions that turned out to be the very stuff of life.
I am routinely irritated by interruptions, and I guess that’s not unusual. Like many of us, I’m more often than not in a “people to see, places to go” mode. On the other hand, in my maturity, I have realized that what I perceive as an interruption, an undesired stop action, is often quite the opposite.
Wow, I hope Jesus wasn’t the personality type who found interruptions irritating. A quick read of Biblical accounts recording the days of his life can give the impression that he is just strolling around looking to see whassup, utterly available to whomever and whatever appears in his pathway. So, if he was trying to get to the synagogue on time or late for a dinner date, there might have been high stress. Ha! High stress in Jesus’ life? Ya’ think?
In a similar vein, I think of clergy who have to deal with the unplanned when trying to prepare for a funeral, get to the hospital, write a sermon, be on time for a meeting, etc. Out of nowhere, a needy person stands before them. Their vocation, their profession is geared toward serving people just like this one, but…
I was about to begin my writing day a while back when the phone rang and I was needed, if possible, to care for a grandbaby who was not feeling so hot. Oh no, oh dear, my day was interrupted! I wouldn’t meet my goal—but the deadline was unchanged. Boy, did we have fun! He was well enough that we would play for a while, and then he’d stretch out his arms for me to pick him up and nestle on my chest with a sigh. Joy. Peace. And he took an extra long nap, so I did okay with my work, probably even more efficient, seizing the opportunity.
Oh, and the Elvis event worked out fine, too. Of course, I slipped in with the crowd, reveling in the campiness of the moment. The guy really sounded like Elvis, voice as low as you can go and smooth as velvet. I laughed a lot on the fast ones; he really got us swinging! Then, after lovely time with Carol, I moved on wondering why I had even thought that the show was an inconvenient nuisance. After all, I didn’t even have to go to Vegas.
I’ll bet each of us could give a long list of initially irritating interruptions that turned out to be the very stuff of life.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Taming the urban jungle
Taming the urban jungle
A friend of mine is an extreme gardener and asked me to save vines for a rustic weaving project in her ornately interesting yard. Vines? Not a problem, unfortunately. Got plenty of ‘em.
Wisteria vines, magnificently wicked, like clotheslines with knots or fistulas every so often that send out smaller roots in a circle. I used to love wisteria high in the trees with its clusters of purple blossoms, sweet smelling like lilacs. After battling it in my yard for a few years, I see it as a tree-killing, out-of-control monster, one of the woody-vined, invasive exotic plants causing problems in cities as well as undomesticated forests. “My” wisteria comes through my cyclone fence from a mother vine around a big pine tree in the next yard. I take a clippers to the new vines, reaching out like long, lacey tongues, and a few weeks later they’re “eating” my house again, twining into the vinyl siding.
Virginia Creeper vines, much more polite, thin and red and easy to pull up, also climb high into the trees, decorating them with their five-leaved, um, leaves.
And then there are the vines of the Evil Plant, my name since I don’t know the botanical name for this insidious, thorned monstrosity which also moves along under the ground in ropes, popping up in the middle of the grass, the edge of the grass, everywhere! Indiscriminately climbs up fences and trees and garbage cans and poles, making bushy formations with its shiny green leaves. Its vines are big and strong enough for Tarzan to swing on. Oo, ouch, except for the thorn issue.
English Ivy vines, my favorite, a lovely ground cover, but also something to control. Maintenance trimming year by year is important or this vine, too, will cover and destroy. But English Ivy vines behave, they respond to trimming and can be shaped and add beauty and class to flower beds and yard corners.
Poison ivy vines, which I will not pass on for the craft project! Again, these come into my yard from a neighbor’s, and I’ve already had an unpleasant bout with their poison when pulling the new, young ones up early in the spring. Now, I spray them with a vinegar-salt-detergent mixture, which dries up the visible plant but doesn’t seem to eradicate them down to the roots.
Think of all this in my yard when I live a pleasant walk from the state capital building! Good grief. The four yards that adjoin mine are not well-attended, hence…
I’m gaining a great deal as I try to solve the problem: getting to know my neighbors better, talking to “the city” and enlisting their services in the battle, discovering great online resources (controlling wisteria) and learning lots about plant pests. All advice welcome!
A friend of mine is an extreme gardener and asked me to save vines for a rustic weaving project in her ornately interesting yard. Vines? Not a problem, unfortunately. Got plenty of ‘em.
Wisteria vines, magnificently wicked, like clotheslines with knots or fistulas every so often that send out smaller roots in a circle. I used to love wisteria high in the trees with its clusters of purple blossoms, sweet smelling like lilacs. After battling it in my yard for a few years, I see it as a tree-killing, out-of-control monster, one of the woody-vined, invasive exotic plants causing problems in cities as well as undomesticated forests. “My” wisteria comes through my cyclone fence from a mother vine around a big pine tree in the next yard. I take a clippers to the new vines, reaching out like long, lacey tongues, and a few weeks later they’re “eating” my house again, twining into the vinyl siding.
Virginia Creeper vines, much more polite, thin and red and easy to pull up, also climb high into the trees, decorating them with their five-leaved, um, leaves.
And then there are the vines of the Evil Plant, my name since I don’t know the botanical name for this insidious, thorned monstrosity which also moves along under the ground in ropes, popping up in the middle of the grass, the edge of the grass, everywhere! Indiscriminately climbs up fences and trees and garbage cans and poles, making bushy formations with its shiny green leaves. Its vines are big and strong enough for Tarzan to swing on. Oo, ouch, except for the thorn issue.
English Ivy vines, my favorite, a lovely ground cover, but also something to control. Maintenance trimming year by year is important or this vine, too, will cover and destroy. But English Ivy vines behave, they respond to trimming and can be shaped and add beauty and class to flower beds and yard corners.
Poison ivy vines, which I will not pass on for the craft project! Again, these come into my yard from a neighbor’s, and I’ve already had an unpleasant bout with their poison when pulling the new, young ones up early in the spring. Now, I spray them with a vinegar-salt-detergent mixture, which dries up the visible plant but doesn’t seem to eradicate them down to the roots.
Think of all this in my yard when I live a pleasant walk from the state capital building! Good grief. The four yards that adjoin mine are not well-attended, hence…
I’m gaining a great deal as I try to solve the problem: getting to know my neighbors better, talking to “the city” and enlisting their services in the battle, discovering great online resources (controlling wisteria) and learning lots about plant pests. All advice welcome!
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Missing Madeleine L'Engle
Madeleine L’Engle died in September of 2007. I still miss her. She has enrichened my spiritual life immeasurably. She was the main presenter at a symposium I attended at Christian Theological Seminary in Indianapolis c. 1997. Being with her and actually meeting her was a thrill. When she was near the end of her life, I checked the obituaries regularly and, on this one day, there she was, gone. Even though expectant, I missed her immediately, with a sense that the universe was changed. But recently, I had something of a reunion with her that was ever so fun and rich. Here’s what happened:
At the end of the Lenten season several weeks ago, an appeal went out a few days prior to my women’s monthly circle meeting for someone to present the program. If nobody responded, the hostess for the evening, a high school math teacher, might have us doing arithmetic. Some responded they’d rather do math than give a program, but I always have a program up my sleeve. Shoot, I was “born in the briar patch” of giving programs. “Sure,” I said. “Be glad to,” confident in the knowledge that the facilitator is only part of what happens; between me and my circle sisters, I knew we’d have something unique and meaningful.
A couple hours before meeting time, I grabbed Madeleine’s The Irrational Season, a treasure of spiritual reflections, original poetry, and rich anecdotes framed by the liturgical church year. I turned to Lent; actually, I think Lent fell out in my hands. The book is my second bible, worn and tattered from using it for studies and classes and personal devotions for over 30 years. Ah, yes, I remembered as I perused the chapter. For Lent, Madeleine used the Beatitudes.
So we started the program by me reading the “Blessed are the…” part, and the group completing, “…for they shall be…” That worked beautifully. Next, we listened to the verses set to music by Sweet Honey in the Rock. Perfect touch. Then, I read a brief excerpt of what Madeleine had written about each one, pausing each time for responses from the group. Great participation, from our hearts, from the day. The final quotation from Madeleine was, “There is the power of life and death in his mercy, and it is good to remember this each time we receive the power of his mercy in the bread and wine.” A short poem by Ann Weems, “Communion,” from Kneeling in Jerusalem, wrapped things up beautifully. Many thanks to all these women for a very cool program!
At the end of the Lenten season several weeks ago, an appeal went out a few days prior to my women’s monthly circle meeting for someone to present the program. If nobody responded, the hostess for the evening, a high school math teacher, might have us doing arithmetic. Some responded they’d rather do math than give a program, but I always have a program up my sleeve. Shoot, I was “born in the briar patch” of giving programs. “Sure,” I said. “Be glad to,” confident in the knowledge that the facilitator is only part of what happens; between me and my circle sisters, I knew we’d have something unique and meaningful.
A couple hours before meeting time, I grabbed Madeleine’s The Irrational Season, a treasure of spiritual reflections, original poetry, and rich anecdotes framed by the liturgical church year. I turned to Lent; actually, I think Lent fell out in my hands. The book is my second bible, worn and tattered from using it for studies and classes and personal devotions for over 30 years. Ah, yes, I remembered as I perused the chapter. For Lent, Madeleine used the Beatitudes.
So we started the program by me reading the “Blessed are the…” part, and the group completing, “…for they shall be…” That worked beautifully. Next, we listened to the verses set to music by Sweet Honey in the Rock. Perfect touch. Then, I read a brief excerpt of what Madeleine had written about each one, pausing each time for responses from the group. Great participation, from our hearts, from the day. The final quotation from Madeleine was, “There is the power of life and death in his mercy, and it is good to remember this each time we receive the power of his mercy in the bread and wine.” A short poem by Ann Weems, “Communion,” from Kneeling in Jerusalem, wrapped things up beautifully. Many thanks to all these women for a very cool program!
Friday, March 18, 2011
Great fun at Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary
Great fun at Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary this morning! Dr. Shauna Hannan and her homiletics (preaching) students graciously welcomed me. Then, I managed to establish a comfortable rapport with a silly gaffe right at the outset. First on my outline was to have us sing two little musical versions of Psalm 118:24, This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it. We sang the first, but when I tried to lead the second tune, my mind was blankety-blank; so, I had them sit down with a promise to insert it at any time if I remembered it. After a few minutes, I thought I had it, so I interrupted myself and had them stand again and sing along in a rousing rendition of the second song—except that it was the first one again. A good laugh together served to make my point that preaching is an act of joy at the privilege of sharing the gospel. (Now, unstressed with full oxygen supply to my brain, I can remember both ditties quite handily.)
As I anticipated, the seminarians offered their insights and responses to enrichen our time together. Those steeped in the liturgical tradition helped to define the seasons of the church year and The Revised Common Lectionary for classmates unaccustomed to those practices. Sharing from their own experiences, they commented on why and how liturgy and lectionary deepen meaning in their worship and in their lives.
I encouraged them to use fiction as they develop sermons. One way is to read novels where the situations may not be true but are, mostly, from real life and more typical than one might expect, at first glance, to the lives of those they serve. Another way I suggested--actually creating fiction, in the form of modern parables or brief stories that connect with Bible-based gospel in strong and moving ways.
At Dr. Hannan’s suggestion, I explained the process I use for each lectionary-based entry I write, offering my process as my way and acknowledging that they will each find their own modus operandi. But there are common denominators important to any method devised: studying scripture, utilizing the many resources available for biblical background and theological reflection, allowing time (if/when possible amidst the demands of parish ministry) for ideas to percolate and synthesize, and turning it all over to the Holy Spirit through prayer and supplication (especially late on a Saturday night!). Sometimes, I duly noted, this process can seem dull and irrelevant, but follow your discipline anyway, trusting that God is at work. Eventually, usually, the sparks will start flying!
The final segment of my presentation was a reading of The Second Sunday of Easter from Sunday by Sunday II with an eye to recognizing connections to the gospel lesson, John 20:19-31. I had forgotten to have the scripture read at the outset and was most appreciative when Dr. Hannan inquired if we would be reading it. Her alert intervention helped me maintain the integrity and smooth flow of the activity. After the class, she asked me if I had chosen the John 20 text because I’d seen in the syllabus that it is the assigned text for the sermon the students will be writing and delivering this spring. The answer was no; I had not noticed that. Out of around 170 possible readings from my books, I just “happened” to choose their assigned text. Wow. Lovely.
Yes, I enjoyed this event immensely. I like the podium, the microphone. Making mistakes is not a big deal to me because 1) I make so many and 2) the average group is quite forgiving and bloopers just add to the fun. The best part was meeting these earnest individuals, brothers and sisters in Christ, companions on the journey. The tip-top of that has to be meeting Jason and discovering that we were both born in Woodstock, Illinois—a generation apart—at the old hospital! Wow, again. Connecting and reconnecting with people I’ve met here and there over the years who are now in this class which I got to address was very special. And, of course, meeting new friends, some of whom have already started reading Sunday by Sunday and are really into Rose Harris and her people and her faith is a double wow. I am very grateful for this experience in my life, very glad that I said, “Yes!”
As I anticipated, the seminarians offered their insights and responses to enrichen our time together. Those steeped in the liturgical tradition helped to define the seasons of the church year and The Revised Common Lectionary for classmates unaccustomed to those practices. Sharing from their own experiences, they commented on why and how liturgy and lectionary deepen meaning in their worship and in their lives.
I encouraged them to use fiction as they develop sermons. One way is to read novels where the situations may not be true but are, mostly, from real life and more typical than one might expect, at first glance, to the lives of those they serve. Another way I suggested--actually creating fiction, in the form of modern parables or brief stories that connect with Bible-based gospel in strong and moving ways.
At Dr. Hannan’s suggestion, I explained the process I use for each lectionary-based entry I write, offering my process as my way and acknowledging that they will each find their own modus operandi. But there are common denominators important to any method devised: studying scripture, utilizing the many resources available for biblical background and theological reflection, allowing time (if/when possible amidst the demands of parish ministry) for ideas to percolate and synthesize, and turning it all over to the Holy Spirit through prayer and supplication (especially late on a Saturday night!). Sometimes, I duly noted, this process can seem dull and irrelevant, but follow your discipline anyway, trusting that God is at work. Eventually, usually, the sparks will start flying!
The final segment of my presentation was a reading of The Second Sunday of Easter from Sunday by Sunday II with an eye to recognizing connections to the gospel lesson, John 20:19-31. I had forgotten to have the scripture read at the outset and was most appreciative when Dr. Hannan inquired if we would be reading it. Her alert intervention helped me maintain the integrity and smooth flow of the activity. After the class, she asked me if I had chosen the John 20 text because I’d seen in the syllabus that it is the assigned text for the sermon the students will be writing and delivering this spring. The answer was no; I had not noticed that. Out of around 170 possible readings from my books, I just “happened” to choose their assigned text. Wow. Lovely.
Yes, I enjoyed this event immensely. I like the podium, the microphone. Making mistakes is not a big deal to me because 1) I make so many and 2) the average group is quite forgiving and bloopers just add to the fun. The best part was meeting these earnest individuals, brothers and sisters in Christ, companions on the journey. The tip-top of that has to be meeting Jason and discovering that we were both born in Woodstock, Illinois—a generation apart—at the old hospital! Wow, again. Connecting and reconnecting with people I’ve met here and there over the years who are now in this class which I got to address was very special. And, of course, meeting new friends, some of whom have already started reading Sunday by Sunday and are really into Rose Harris and her people and her faith is a double wow. I am very grateful for this experience in my life, very glad that I said, “Yes!”
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
I will be making a presentation to a seminary class
I will be making a presentation to a seminary class in preaching in a couple days. Dr. Shauna Hannan’s invitation to talk with her basic homiletics class at Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary honors and excites me. Christian Proclamation is the course title, and Dr. Hannan has asked me to use my Sunday by Sunday series and writing experiences to talk about "Preaching and the Christian Year" and "Scripture and Preaching." The 32 students represent several denominations, some with strong liturgical traditions and others more free wheeling in worship.
Already, I have great admiration for these future preachers even though I haven’t met most of them. What courage, to be willing to proclaim the Word of God! Their presence in seminary indicates a seriousness about the disciplines required to perform this holy task: deep study of Scripture; prayer; contextual awareness and sensitivity; devotion to a God who creates, loves, saves, sustains, and inspires us; and enthusiasm about sharing that great news.
My input is only part of the experience, of course. Another part of the equation is the students, and I am eager to hear their responses and observations. And then, there is the presence and the promptings of the Holy Spirit. I expect that we will have great fun as we learn together and share the joy of our common faith.
I’m a bit apprehensive about the opportunity--about being well-prepared and relevant. But, again, it doesn’t all depend on me. This thought from Marjorie Hewitt Suchocki in The Whispered Word, quoted in one of the course textbooks is calming and helps us maintain a proper perspective on our efforts: “For all you know, God may find a mustard seed in your miserable sermon for someone’s consolation…”
On Friday, I’ll blog about what happened!
Already, I have great admiration for these future preachers even though I haven’t met most of them. What courage, to be willing to proclaim the Word of God! Their presence in seminary indicates a seriousness about the disciplines required to perform this holy task: deep study of Scripture; prayer; contextual awareness and sensitivity; devotion to a God who creates, loves, saves, sustains, and inspires us; and enthusiasm about sharing that great news.
My input is only part of the experience, of course. Another part of the equation is the students, and I am eager to hear their responses and observations. And then, there is the presence and the promptings of the Holy Spirit. I expect that we will have great fun as we learn together and share the joy of our common faith.
I’m a bit apprehensive about the opportunity--about being well-prepared and relevant. But, again, it doesn’t all depend on me. This thought from Marjorie Hewitt Suchocki in The Whispered Word, quoted in one of the course textbooks is calming and helps us maintain a proper perspective on our efforts: “For all you know, God may find a mustard seed in your miserable sermon for someone’s consolation…”
On Friday, I’ll blog about what happened!
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