Faith Works 7-2-16

Faith Works 7-2-16

Jeff Gill

 

Another way to preach, to teach, to listen

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A day many of us have long anticipated, with dread but also some understanding, comes today.

 

This weekend, from the Hollywood Bowl, the last Garrison Keillor hosted "A Prairie Home Companion" will air on public radio.

 

There's much that could be said about the skits, the characters, the fake ads and musical adaptations that Garrison Keillor has brought to radio, or he would say "brought back" to that aural medium, but my thoughts are mainly about the end of the monologues, and what they've meant to me and so many preachers.

 

The show will pick up again in the fall, on Saturday nights, with the thirty-something Chris Thile bringing his musical talent and quirky wit to the microphone, but Guy Noir, Lefty, and the Ketchup Advisory Board, not to mention Powermilk Biscuits, will all likely be heard no more. Rich Dworsky and many of the vocal talents will stay, so who knows, and I'm guessing there will be guest appearances, God willing, but this weekend marks the official end to a long running narration, in weekly twenty minute segments, about what Keillor calls "a quiet week in Lake Wobegon, my hometown."

 

He says of the place that it's "the little town that time forgot, and the decades cannot improve." And if you've never heard the program, you probably know the signal to the crew that he was wrapping up the story, when Keillor would say, almost (exactly) as a benediction "and that's the news from Lake Wobegon, where all the women are strong, all the men are good looking, and all the children are above average."

 

What came in between was a story, and it was a story that . . . well, there's dispute on this question. As a storyteller and public speaker myself, there's no doubt he put some time and consideration into what he was going to talk about each week.

 

But as a writer, and in the craft of storytelling whether on the page or on the stage, there are moments when, especially when you're talking about characters, not just ideas, when you are doing narration, not just description or exhortation, those people suddenly will do something or say something you, the so-called Author, did not expect. And one of the many attractions, I believe, of Keillor's monologues was the quality he communicated, even as he spoke of the most everyday of realities – dresses not fitting, cars not starting, a group of pastors on a pontoon boat – that anything at all might happen.

 

That he was, well, telling a story.

 

For good or ill, Keillor has been a major influence on a whole generation of preachers. Along with a more inductive method of communicating the Gospel, and more participatory models of teaching the Bible, Keillor came along just as there were many factors pushing back against what had been for generations the Protestant norm of preaching: a half-hour or more lecture, with three points and a summary followed by a poem or a verse of a hymn. You could sit in a pew and calculate when you could start gathering your things quietly together by noting when the pastor said "and in conclusion . . ."

 

It is a more academic model, one in preaching that survived even after college professors were no longer using it. And as parsons and evangelists were looking for a different approach than a manuscript and citations, along came the narrative uncertainty, but deeply rooted groundedness of Lake Wobegon.

 

I got a thank you note to him the last time he came through Newark, knowing he was nearing retirement, telling him what an inspiration and role model his storytelling has been to me as a Christian preacher. My unexpected delight was to receive a postcard from New York where he wrote about his challenges in teaching a Sunday school class while being on the road so often.

 

Something tells me he's not retiring from teaching that class, and I look forward to reading the books he hopes to yet write, but I know I will long remember those moments, in a darkened auditorium or simply sitting in a car with the radio on, as Keillor got to a certain point in a story, and said "and yet . . . and yet . . . and yet . . ." and I knew with a thrill and a smile that neither of us were exactly certain what he was going to say next, but that the words would come. In that very hour, he would know what to say, as the Spirit gave him voice.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him where you've heard stories that inspire you at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

Notes From My Knapsack 7-7-16

Notes From My Knapsack 7-7-16

Jeff Gill

 

The Tao of Tourism

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Many are the forms of spiritual practice, from simple prayer in a living room chair to yoga on the lawn; some visit monasteries or other sacred places, while others have a mantra or icon or focal point of some sort, even just a candle, to keep the mind under control and the spirit aimed at the divine encounter.

 

I've long admired the Zen teacher Bernie Glassman's observation that any spiritual discipline that doesn't work for you on the 5:15 train home is no good. That's a Yonkers version of saying if you have to have complete silence and no people around you at all else you'll be distracted and disillusioned from your heavenly focus, then you may be missing out on at least one of the purposes of meditation, which is to not only reduce your pain and suffering, but to empower you to help reduce the pain and suffering of others.

 

Some have said that "hell is other people," but without getting into a whole long theological discussion, I'm not in that camp. Not that some of you aren't irritating. I mean, really irritating. Bless your heart.

 

So I found myself thinking, while off in a touristy area with my family, about how the experience of being a tourist, a traveler in the midst of other wanderers, can be a way of insight if practiced attentively. A way, or as has been appropriated from the Chinese, a "Tao." In this case, the tao of tourism.

 

First, there are those other people. You can learn from them, in all their diversity, self-centeredness, and pursuit of personal goals (getting that last Danish before you, for instance, at the morning scrum in the motel breakfast room), or you can despise them. As a Christian, I'm pulled up short by my Lord, who says he died for even the lady who shoved me aside to get to the waffle maker even though it's clearly not her turn. I can see that of Christ in her, and pray for her peace, or I can sit and seeth. The latter is poor for digestion, isn't it?

 

Then there's our own situation of rootlessness. One gratification of the end of a day is coming home to one's own stuff. No matter how cluttered, dysfunctional, owned or rented, it's yours and you know where to sit and how to plug in your devices. On the road, whether in a campground or a room on the third floor of a standard box o' lodgings, you end the day with a very real encounter with impermanence. I am only here for a time, I can only leave my mark in the trash can (or end up paying for room damages), and things are definitely not arranged to my convenience. Even at Disney, it's still just a temporary space in which you live. Which triggers all kinds of thoughts.

 

And finally the tao of tourism helps you think about where you're going, and why you're heading there the way you are. Is this trip necessary, our elders learned to ask in the 1940s, and now we ask it in a different, more eclectic and cafeteria sort of way. We can go so many places: why are we here? What are we after? And like the dog chasing a car, what will we do when we get it?

 

Then there's the experience of getting home and seeing it anew, but that's another day.

 

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him about what you've learned on your summer travels at knapsack77@gmail.com.

Faith Works 6-25-16

Faith Works 6-25-16

Jeff Gill

What is the attraction?

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[[[To be edited further closer to print date -- The day after the Orlando killings, there were two shot in Newark. I know (at this moment) very little about the details, but guns and violence associated with them are very much on everyone's minds these days.]]]

Reading on social media, and having many friends and associates who are progressive in their politics, and also knowing many well who are conservative, the debate over gun control and how the laws of the land should be written in the light of the Second Amendment has been loud, long, and strident.

As a preacher and leader in a faith community, I don't know that I have anything new to add to the legislative discussions. I do know that there's precious little middle ground online or in the media, but my pastoral work tells me that the vast middle ground is where most people are at least in central Ohio. Add some common-sense limits on how fast and who can obtain weapons, especially the most deadly, but if you start talking about a general ban on private ownership of firearms you're preaching to your own choir . . . and in Licking County, a pretty small choir.

But I have many friends in that choir, and in similar choruses around the country, and in some of the commentary on this subject I think there is something a parson can helpfully add.

What has come up a few times as a plaintive, but sincere cry in these debates is the question "Why do people even want these weapons?" In a time when the population shift from country to city has been decisive; as fewer people not only don't hunt, but do not know people who do; with a smaller percentage of the population having seen military service or have immediate family under arms . . . it's a relatively reasonable question. I wonder why people want to own a Hummer, but I have many friends who wonder why anyone would want to own a semi-automatic rifle.

There's a new political line out, too: "weapon of war." Clever, but disingenuous. Semi-automatic rifles have been in Model A back seats, in pick-up truck racks, and sitting behind tractor drivers for generations. They are a tool, a dangerous power tool to be sure, but just as most farmers and rural laborers have power tools in the shed out back, they have rifles out in the fields. And they shoot at things, with intent to kill. If you didn't know that, you should. There are threats to crops and flocks that farmers have to manage, and rifles are part of that.

There are hunters. Even today, many of them. And not all hunting is one big blast in the fall to "get your deer," although that's all most people hear about once a year.

My mother remembers during rationing in the 40s that, when the meat coupons ran out, her father the high school principal would take his shotgun to work, lean it in the corner of his office (yeah, just think about that one!), and on the way home go by a certain grove he had privileges in and shoot a few squirrels. Mom eats stew carefully to this day.

And if you have served in the US armed forces, you learned something that started: "This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine." My M-16A1 had, if memory serves, the serial number 5145159. I learned how, in the dark, bare-handed, how to field strip, clean, and reassemble that weapon. If I were to buy an AR-15 today, I could probably still close my eyes and break it down. For those baffled by the popularity of those semi-automatic rifles, I think that's your answer in a nutshell. Millions start out already knowing how to use and care for that model.

Finally, there's target shooting. If you've never handled guns, I understand your puzzlement, but for those who are used to them, it is – and I do not say this lightly, or flippantly, but by way of explanation – a form of meditation. To control the breathing, your movements, to slow yourself down and center on the target at the end of your sights, and to put your shot into the bullseye: it is a very peaceful practice. And the methodical work of cleaning and stowing away your gear is a kind of ritual act that itself is very peaceful, and peace giving.

I believe we will see some new restrictions and controls over who and how can obtain weapons, but if we as a community are to reach those decisions in consensus, I think it's important for those who know nothing about guns to learn a bit about why those who own them feel as they do. It's about understanding, and we all could use some better understanding of each other in this dialogue.

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him what your community of faith is saying and doing this summer at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.  

Faith Works 6-18-16

Faith Works 6-18-16

Jeff Gill

 

You are not alone

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In this column, I want to speak personally, sort of.

 

I am a pastor, a preacher of the Christian gospel, a minister with standing in a particular religious tradition, and I serve a congregation in Newark.

 

My own faith community, both the larger body of which we're a part, and the local church of which I'm a member, is not doctrinal. Outside of a personal confession of faith in Jesus Christ, you don't have to subscribe to a list of specific beliefs or practices in order to join. There are traditions of how we are Christian together, such as weekly communion, and in baptism by immersion of those who are of an age or condition where they can make that confession of faith for themselves (often called "believer's baptism"), and there are more uniquely local traditions we have in our church (shredded chicken sandwiches at many events, hamloaf when we're more formal, letting the minister swipe the first deviled egg at potlucks), but in general, we are free to discuss and debate what we mean by "the Trinity" or how the action of the Holy Spirit informs a believer's understanding of the Scriptures or many other subjects that divide various religious communities.

 

Some of those points of distinction have to do with people like me, clergy if you will, or ministers or evangelists or what have you. The longer history of my Restoration Movement forbears tends to avoid the term "Rev." for ourselves, although my branch of the movement came to terms with it a couple of generations ago. The question around it has to do with the belief affirmed in some churches that once ordained to Christian ministry you are, yourself, sacramentally set-apart, and so those churches rightly state that by referring to "The Reverend So-and-so." But the prefix "Rev." has become a professional recognition that you did your advanced seminary training as part of ordination to ministry, just as "Dr." is used for medical professionals or "Esq." as a suffix can be applied to lawyers. I don't ask for the title, but if it's used I don't fuss.

 

But I'm not, in my own eyes or in those of my church, someone who is intrinsically to be revered. I am the preaching and teaching elder in our congregation, an elder among the elders of the local church, with my role set-apart and supported so that I can put the time in to study and teach and communicate the faith. Not as a sacramental and authoritative voice, but as the baseline teacher for the community.

 

That teaching represents the congregation, and since I'm a public teacher in many roles, not the least of which is this column, I try to make it clear when I'm speaking as and for "Jeff" and when I'm representing Newark Central Christian. They put up with a great deal from me, and I appreciate the forbearance!

 

We also have the usual round of communications that I am de facto the "editor" of. Twice a week devotionals online by email and to a Facebook page, which often include prayer notes and short-term announcements, a monthly newsletter in electronic and print form, and Sunday's print bulletin serves many forms.

 

And we have a sign out front on the road. Truth be told, that's the "publication" seen by more people than all the others put together. 90 characters (including spaces) and just enough limits on what letters we have in quantity to make it tricky at times. What I choose to put out there speaks for us, and often I think, and pray over what I'm saying there as much as I do in the entire monthly "Newark Christian" newsletter.

 

This past week, our sign said "We pray with Orlando – We stand with our LGBT brothers & sisters."

 

I think that statement, in its brevity and simplicity, speaks for us. I hope I speak truly for our whole congregation. There are many views in our fellowship about the right use of the gift of sexuality; I've spoken before and will again about my concerns over the state of the family and the changes our culture is going through in relationships and child-rearing and responsibility. But there can be no doubt, no question, no hesitation, I would say clearly, that we as a Christian community – and I pray that we all as a wider community – stand with any group threatened and made to feel fearful simply because of who they are.

 

No one should feel alone at such a time as this.

 

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him what your community of faith is saying and doing this summer at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.  

Notes From My Knapsack 6-23-16

Notes From My Knapsack 6-23-16

Jeff Gill

 

Waiting for a light to change, or go on...

___

 

What did you learn from your experience?

 

That question kept coming up in the wake of my column about spending a month following the speed limit. To briefly recap, I spent the month of May trying my level best to observe the posted speed limit wherever I went. 55 out on the highway to Newark, 70 on into Columbus, 35 on the main drags and 25 or even 20 where applicable.

 

And I got honked at. A lot.

 

Not complaining, just saying.

 

I will freely admit it was an experiment, and it's over, and I'm not doing quite the same thing anymore. We all learn, even from driver's ed teachers, that there's basically a "cushion" out there, and unless there's a "Strictly Enforced" sign attached below the speed limit placard, or allowing for weather or other special conditions, you're not going to get a ticket for going 59 miles an hour in a 55 zone, and so on. How much of a cushion you think the Flying Tire Salesmen or local constabulary allow is up to you to estimate.

 

But what did I learn? A good question. Did I learn I generally drive too fast? That's the kind of answer you're supposed to reply with. But I didn't, and still don't think so.

 

Less congenially, I will say that you all drive too darn fast. You just do. Maybe not you, but it sure seems like it's most of you. Not to go all Andy Rooney on y'all, but this experiment made it even more apparent that turn signal usage is at a minimum, getting passed on Newark-Granville Road is not as unusual as it should be (yes, on double-lines, too), and the general impatience, agitation, and near-insistence that getting somewhere faster is a constitutional right leaves me as depressed as a Republican after listening to a Trump speech.

 

For the most part, we all just need to ease up, share the road, and calm down. A lot.

 

What I worry will sound contradictory is that the other thing I learned is that following speed limits strictly is a real pain in the tookus. I was constantly trying to figure out exactly what it was in any given stretch, and I'm almost of a mind to say there needs to be some attention given to rationalization of speed limit postings.

 

It jumps up, then backs down again, and suddenly pops up. Having the experience I do in village governance, I have a sneaking suspicion that not a few of these changes in posted speed limits have to do with who in that area has been able to make a loud enough fuss for long enough to get a change made.

 

It could also be the case that, to simplify things, more speed limits should be made lower. And I might still need to slow down myself. My experiment showed me over and over again that people who jerked forward, honked, passed, swerved around to my right at intersections where I didn't turn on red fast enough, et cetera et cetera . . . they generally were just getting out of their car as I pulled in next to them at the same destination, smiled at them, and walked in seconds behind the one in a hurry. Some of you know who you are.

 

It's just a good time this summer for us all to try it. Slow down.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; he's usually in a hurry, but tries not to rush whenever he can. Tell him your high-speed troubles at knapsack77@gmail.com or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.