Liminality

Faith is awe in the face of mystery. – Rudolf Otto  We gazed silently alongside an uncountable amount of people. The oddity was not in the differences of those of us present but in the symmetry of what we all felt. We were moved by something awe-some. The Grand Canyon is awe-inspiring, and it moved us by its mystery. God is the same way — always more than we can comprehend, “holy other” to our imaginations. Rudolf Otto once said people intersecting with mystery respond in one of two ways: with fear or awe. What he means is that when we bump into what we do not understand, it is both terrifying and awe-inspiring, and we either push it away or lean into it. The same is true for church. We all know people who have run away from the institutional church. They believe the church’s packaged answers no longer satisfy their complex context. They want mystery, but the church gave them fear. This fear manifests itself by ensuring a theology of certainty and, sadly, misses out on e

Not one person in our church would use the word “perfect” to describe us. We are a broken, wounded, somewhat elderly congregation looking for meaning and love. We attempt a semi-liturgical worship style with a split chancel, acolytes, and lectionary-based sermons, but the ministers do not wear robes, and we sing old gospel hymns. We have a rotating list of scripture readers who may or may not be present on their day to read. Our choir has fifteen members – we think it’s full if eight show up. Our microphones sometimes screech. Our oldest members cannot sit before the stained-glass window due to the sharp sunlight, and the AC kicks in around the offertory prayer with gusto.  But we are not dying nor struggling. We are a vibrant community of grace that holds fast to the divine-human encounter. Our mission statement is Grace Grows Here . Our administrative structure is built around this statement with three teams serving each other, the community, and the facilities (Grace

There is no lack of information in a Christian land; something else is lacking, and this is something which the one man cannot directly communicate to the other. –       Soren Kierkegaard Our job as pastors is to create space for people to interact with God.   We get paid to help them glimpse the divine. This calling takes seriously the need for transformation, but our church mediums stop short by only transferring information. Here’s what I mean: We arrive on Sunday sharing pleasantries around the coffee pot. We talk about our week, doctor’s appointments, and last night’s game. We go to Sunday school to read a biblical text and listen to the teacher speak its history. Our worship is dominated by announcements and a 45-minute sermon that is filled with information. If we come back during the week, it is no different. Ministers gather in staff meetings. Class options are subject-driven. Committees gather to re-write policies on policies. The church Twitter feed is flo

Our guide shouted, “Don’t push the river!” I was white-water rafting (poorly) down the Amazon. With the raft swirling and the water splashing, the guide’s command made about as much sense as choosing what you are supposed to do with your life at eighteen years old.  I remember thinking, “That’s dumb. How can anyone push a river?” A year later, I picked up Richard Rohr’s  Everything Belong s .  To my surprise, he has a chapter called "Don't Push the River." Turns out my river guide knew more about life and vocation than my ears could hear. According to Rohr (and my river guide), “don’t push the river” is exactly what it sounds like. If you push against the current, you will lose. In other words, for those of us trying to make something of ourselves, we think we need to go upstream. We think we can stand out by accomplishing tasks and winning awards. We interpret our successes to mean we are worthy, we are important, we belong to God. It is hard to keep this pa