Being in Community is an Endurance Sport

I took a wrong turn on my run today. Let me point out that I'm only two months into living in my new neighborhood, so when I went down one road thinking I'd end up at a place on Beacon closer to Newton I ended up closer to downtown Boston. I'd almost doubled the length of my anticipated distance for the day.

I had planned to run from my front door to the front door of the coffee shop I work at; the planned 3.6 miles was a perfect run. I had served as liturgist at church this morning and, as it was both All Saints Day and a Communion Sunday, church had run long. An hour and forty minutes, give or take a few. I was tired, but I decided earlier this year that I wasn't going to fall prey to the "Preacher's Nap" - I didn't want to sleep away the one afternoon a week I knew I wouldn't have to be working at the coffee shop or sitting in class. So I got home from church, put on my running clothes, and headed out.

I started down Kelton, thinking I'd very soon see Beacon - and that I'd be right near Marathon Sports (3.1 miles from the front door of Peet's - a marker I used a lot when I was training for my first half - I'd run from school to Marathon Sports and back, adding in some side streets to make it 7 or 8 miles on a long run day). But I wasn't right near Marathon Sports. No. By the time I reached the running store, I'd already run almost 2 miles.

I got to the Chestnut Hill Reservoir and realized that I could turn home - I'd already run most of my planned distance and I didn't need to run to Newton anyway. I could stop running, walk up the hill, get on the T, and go home.

But I didn't stop. And I think this is the one thing that running has embedded in me more than any other lesson. It's also something that came up at the career assessment I had to participate in last week (it's a requirement for ordination in the conference I belong to). The psychologist who worked with me asked a question after I told her about some hard times I'd gone through -  "Why do you always keep going?"

My response was, "I have to. I have to see it through. And underneath it all, even when things are hard, I know that in the end, it'll work out. Maybe not how I planned, but it'll work out."

I called this perseverance, determination, and will.
The psychologist suggested that it was faith.

And so I'm at the Reservoir, and I'm tired and cold because I didn't really dress for a run this long in winds this cold, and I'm contemplating turning up the hill or running the additional 3 miles out to Newton. Can I make it? Will I end up walking the rest of the way just to get on the T and come back? Why do I even need to run anymore today?

Well, I didn't need to run anymore - I got to run.
I walked a little bit but I ran much more than I walked.
And yes, of course I could make it to Newton.

It was while waiting for a crossing signal at one of the busier intersections that the thought occurred to me, this is why I will finish a marathon. It won't be because I'm a very talented runner, or ridiculously fast, or anything technical. When I finish my marathon, it will be because every molecule of my being was determined to finish. It will be because I persevered, and willed myself through the hard times. It will be because I had faith that I could make it that far. It will be because, for me, there is no other option.

Calling someone for a ride because I've gotten tired, it doesn't work for me. Even if I finish a race in the very last place - even if I limp the last mile of a 5k (like I did a few weeks ago at a race where my plantar fasciitis really presented a problem), I have to finish. And I think that goes for a lot of runners, because we know that this sport is about endurance - seeing it through.

Now what if we looked at our participation in religious communities that same way?

What if we were committed to seeing it through, even when it got hard? Even when our head was telling us it was too difficult to finish? The head likes to speak up long before the body has reached even half of what it can really give?

I think of my home church, my beloved and amazing home church, that has already done so much. They've gone through an awful lot the past year. To say it's been hard is an understatement.

Admittedly, yes, some have said this race is too much and they need to step away, to heal. I understand there is grief and pain there, and I ache for those people who have decided that, for whatever reason, the hurt outweighs the words of the covenant we each made to be members in this community of faith.

But I have also seen resiliency; people who, despite hurting, despite grieving the fractions in the community, continue to believe there is work to be done, good work, and that this congregation is still participating in it. There are those who know that faith, that being a member in a church, is sometimes running uphill with a headwind at night in the rain - and yet, they are committed to crossing that finish line.

It's trying on the brain and the body, but we covenant to run this race together. We don't covenant to be in community only when it's easy or only when it suits us. We covenant to see each other through thick and thin, to put aside our ego, our desires, our preferences, to do the work that really needs to get done.

Of course, I compare an awful lot of being in community to running a race. But there's a huge difference: races have finish lines. There are no finish lines for our religious communities. We keep going. Once we pass one obstacle, there will, eventually, be another. No matter what. That's part of what it means to be in community together. It's when we reach those growing edges that we have to ask ourselves, "Are we going to back down or do we believe that we have the strength to endure?"

The Iona Creed

My systematics group (three very different Christians and one Unitarian Universalist) has to write a creed that we can all agree on. One of the group members showed us the Iona Creed to help spark discussion and thoughts... I think it's pretty wonderful, so I thought I'd share it in case you haven't heard it before:

We believe that God is present
in the darkness before dawn;
in the waiting and uncertainty
where fear and courage join hands,
conflict and caring link arms,
and the sun rises over barbed wire.

We believe in a with-us God
who sits down in our midst
to share our humanity.

We affirm a faith
that takes us beyond a safe place:
into action, into vulnerability
and onto the streets.

We commit ourselves to work for change
and put ourselves on the line;
to bear responsibility, take risks,
live powerfully
and face humiliation;
to stand with those on the edge;
to choose life and be used by the Spirit
for God’s new community of hope.

Amen  

Love, Love, Love... And Bring a Casserole

"Love, Love, Love... And Bring A Casserole"
Madelyn Downer
Delivered Sunday, December 30, 2012
North Branford Congregational Church, UCC

Why are we here? I don’t mean, “What is our greater purpose in the world?” I mean, literally, why are we here, in this room, this morning? What got you up, out of bed? What moved you to get in the car, to drive the five minutes or the hour to this building? To walk into this sanctuary? To sit down in that pew? Why are we here?

Perhaps you are here because this is the church your parents went to, it’s the church you’ve grown up in, and so, of course, why wouldn’t you be here? Maybe you are here because your children are growing up in this church and church is important to them so you make the time on Sunday mornings to come out. Maybe some of you are here because you’ve received no less than five emails from my mother telling you that I’d be preaching this morning. And still, perhaps you were driving down Route 80 and you thought to yourself, “Hey, that church has managed to remain standing amidst the construction. It deserves a shot.” I don’t know what brought you to this sanctuary, but I know why I got out of bed at 7 AM, badgered my family to get out the door, and come here, to this church, for our 10 AM worship service. And it has nothing to do with the fact that I’m the one preaching.

Our church’s covenant tells us a lot about why we come here to this place, what our communal goals are, and what our hopes are for the life of the church:

By the grace of God we have been called into this community of faith to be God’s people.  Through our faith, belief, and trust in the love and wisdom of God, we covenant to walk in love as Christ loved us and gave himself for us; to love our God with all our heart, mind and soul; and to love our neighbors as ourselves.  As disciples of Jesus Christ, we give ourselves to this covenant of grace and accept all the costs and joys of discipleship.  Guided by the Holy Spirit, we covenant to live all our days according to the Word of God as it is revealed in Scripture, in the lives of others, and within ourselves.[1]

Let me tell you what I hear in our covenant:

                 

                  Love.

But what does it mean for us to love? The apostle Paul, in his letter to the church at Corinth, describes the kind of love that the church is called to:

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.  Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.  It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. … And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.[2]

Now, imagine this church at Corinth: it’s a mess. There are factions in the church and no one can agree on worship practices or the responsibilities of their members. They can’t decide whether it is right and good to sing the Gloria Patri before or after they say the Lord’s prayer; one group thinks that the task of organizing the Christmas fair falls to a few and another thinks the Christmas fair should be a responsibility of the collective congregation.

And, to this jumbled up church, Paul says, “I’ve got the answer: love.” Now the love Paul is talking about is not the saccharine sort of love, the “I-loooove-your-shoes,” kind of love.

As Christians, as a congregation, we are called to a radical sort of love. And this kind of love – kind, trusting, not boastful – it’s not an easy task we’re given.

We are called to a big, heavy, important kind of love – a love that asks us to work for each other, instead of for ourselves. Is this a challenge that we are up to? Perhaps that kind of love is too much to ask for. Maybe there’s too much hurt, maybe the rift is too wide, for that love to exist.

But a good metaphor for love, I find, is spray foam insulation. It doesn’t matter how big the crack is, the foam will expand to fill it.

Sometimes the crack won’t be big enough, and the foam will seep out through the seams, there’s just so much of it.

And love is like that, if there is a rift, a deep chasm of hurt, love will fill it. Love needs a bit more attention than spray foam insulation, but if the love is attentive, it can do the job; it can mend the crack.

Paul calls for the spray-foam kind of love. Love that listens during heated committee meetings, when one side wants a traditional Christmas pageant and one side wants an out-of-the-box pageant. Love that reaches out with a hand on a shoulder, despite whether or not the person next to us shares the hope that, one day, our congregation would become an open and affirming place to worship. It is love that continues to embrace members of our church family, even if, at the moment, for whatever reason, they’re not here to return that embrace.

Are we up to that challenge?

This kind of love is something that this congregation has historically been good at. When people ask me to describe my home church, I often say that our covenant could better be summed up in seven words: Love. Love. Love. And bring a casserole.

I can remember times when I’d walk into my house and I’d smell something delicious cooking in the crock-pot. I’d get excited that dinner was going to be awesome, only to have my mom pack up that dinner and drive it to a church member’s house. “They’re going through a hard time. This will help.” And my mom would head off into the night, leaving me, my sister, and my brother to chicken tenders and tater tots. When church meetings or events – like our annual Holly Fair – are approaching, you’ll often find my mother in the kitchen, trying to figure out what, exactly, the recipe means by “julienne” and whether or not using her immersion blender to mix eggs and flour will result in the same dough consistency. Yeah, I poke a lot of fun at my mom, here, but, after the laughter, what I’m hoping you’ll understand is, she’s taught me what this kind of love means.

It’s the kind of love that goes out of its way when a member of our church family, another part of our very own body, as Paul would say, is hurting. It’s the kind of love that puts aside the fact that, normally, we’d never be found baking in the kitchen when American Idol was on.

The kind of love Paul describes, the kind of love we are called to live, is a self-sacrificing kind of love. A love that asks for our time, our patience, our humility, our whole selves.

It’s not always going to be easy. Sometimes loving our congregation is going to require much more of ourselves than a casserole dish. Sometimes, when we’re in the same state as the church at Corinth, even greeting someone on Sunday morning is going to be hard.

When I was a deacon, there would be nights I’d get home and, I swore, I would not speak to such and such a person on Sunday morning. They’d shot down my idea, they’d disagreed. But, let’s face it, Sunday morning would come and, whether or not the youth group has been allowed to have a worship service complete with pyrotechnics, that other church member would still be here. And, well, I’ve never been great at holding grudges anyway.  What I’m saying is – this love that Jesus exemplified, that we strive to embody – is a love that transcends our self.

Paul compares the members of a church to the parts of a body. The nose cannot smell all by itself. Well, sure it can, but the smell can’t be perceived without the brain. And what good is the brain if it’s just a brain and there’s no heart or lungs to keep it going. What good are any of our internal organs without a rib cage to keep them in or skin to protect them?

So let’s put it this way: Our body, the church, has a use for every part, for every member of the congregation. The ear and the foot may not work toward the same task, but they are, nonetheless, both necessary.

Dear ones, we are called to a radical kind of love – one that asks us to look beyond our selves, to see that we are one part of a larger body, with a bigger purpose. Love is the cornerstone of this church. Love is the gritty work to which we are committed. I’ve seen our congregation do it before; so let us rise to answer Love’s call once again – Love. Love. Love. And bring a casserole.

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[1] NBCC Covenant, adopted November 20, 1988.

[2] 1 Cor. 13:4-13