Sharing my writing has been a vulnerable experience. I've opened myself up for criticism and heard the other side. I've grieved about hurt I caused and retreated into myself to examine what I've done and nurse wounds. Sometimes I'm really sorry that I put my evolving faith out there. My ancestors, German Baptists and Lutherans, would be horrified, I'm sure. Some of my friends were too. And that is why I've written so little in the past year. Writing is inherently a vulnerable and scary act.
To those I hurt, I am sorry for being a source of pain. To those I met because of this blog, I am grateful. I cannot ignore or discount the conversations over coffee and new friendships that emerged because I shared my writing in this blog. In fact, my greatest lesson from blogging for almost a year was that vulnerability is a powerful force, and when people are lovingly vulnerable with one another, that is when the often-quoted verse "where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I among them" feels real. When people are lovingly vulnerable with one another, that is holy. So, I am going to try writing again. I'm scared, so it might not be much, but I've got a few things to say.
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If you keep up with this blog, you might remember me writing in my 10/6/18 and 10/27/18 posts about attending nursing home chapel with my grandpa on Sundays. One week ago today was my last Sunday with Grandpa. Here is the eulogy I delivered at his funeral. Three weeks ago Grandpa was in the hospital. His oxygen levels were dangerous, and his body was swelling. I had been sitting with him on a Sunday afternoon, and when my sister Jill arrived to do the same, I leaned in close to his face and said, "We're both here. Now you've got double trouble." Grandpa, who hadn't been saying much that day, whispered through his oxygen mask, "Double blessing." My grandpa died on Monday. He was 95 years old, and he was a blessing in my life. On Monday I had the privilege of sitting with his body and mourning the end of our relationship and the end of our rituals. As tears fell down my cheeks, I thought about how we had been bonding and what he taught me. Grandpa taught me about the blessing of work. He loved farming and even last month he and I talked about the fields and this year's late harvest. When he wasn't farming, he served at his church and on many boards. Service is work -- a different kind of work, but work nonetheless. I, too, have the blessing of work I love dearly just as my grandpa loved his work dearly. Work can bring great meaning to our lives, and I am grateful that my grandpa and I shared the blessing of work. Grandpa also taught me to honor the blessing of rest. My earliest memories place me at their home having just finished lunch and Grandpa lying on the floor right where the sunlight hit and resting before the afternoon's work. I love to do the same. I also picture Grandpa in his recliner reading the newspaper, a magazine, the mail. He worked hard, and then he rested. The Bible's creation story teaches the same rhythm that ends with rest. In his last few weeks, Grandpa rested more and more until he passed away in his sleep to enter eternal rest with God. He also taught me that creation is a blessing. From cattle to his dog Bud to many farm cats, Grandpa cared for animals. And as a farmer, Grandpa cared for plants too. Grandpa loved the farm life and shared with me the blessing of creation. I credit my farm roots, established by Grandpa, for my need to putz around my own little plot of land and get my hands dirty tending to my plants. Finally, Grandpa made sure I understood the blessing of family. After Grandma died, we frequently talked about how he missed her, and then he'd give me marriage advice. When I'd visit him at the nursing home on Sundays, toward the end of our visit, he'd tell me to go home and spend time with my family. I'd say, "I'll be back next week," to which he would reply, "Well, that'd be nice, but if you can't because your kids have something going on, that's all right too. You've got to be with your family." Every once in a while the nursing home would ask their residents questions and write their answers on handmade decorations for the wall. A year ago the question was about favorite Christmas memories, and Grandpa's decoration said, "I've always appreciated my sons and their smiles at Christmas time!" Grandpa made sure to teach me about the blessing of family. I loved my grandpa, and I'm not sure what tomorrow -- my first Sunday without him -- will feel like. But, when the waves of sadness come, I'll meditate on the word blessing. For his 95 years on earth and 42 years with me, I will end this remembrance with the same words we ended each chapel service at the nursing home with. For work, for rest, for creation, for family, for Grandpa, thanks be to God. Robert Poppens 12.8.24 12.9.19 It's 2020. My preachers are Richard Rohr and Rob Bell, and my pastors are a handful of women with whom I share my deepest joys and heartaches and who take care of my heart.
It's 2020. People don't leave their homes to hear an inspirational sermon. People minister to one another over coffee, text messages, and a meal. People serve their communities through thousands of volunteering opportunities, thousands of charities, and thousands of moments for mentoring. People find their close-knit community in clubs, neighborhoods, workplaces, and schools. It's 2020, and church is happening in millions of places, in millions of ways, for millions of people -- as it should be. Last spring someone asked me if I graduated from church or dropped out. Although the metaphor is probably inadequate, I'm a drop-out.
Brian, a former student of mine, once wrote, "I have skipped classes to go home and read a book or watch a documentary. If there is a better testament to the failure of school than that, I can't think of one." The same has been said of church. I and many of my friends have skipped church to practice our faith through means that felt more authentic, community focused, and true to the faith than what we found in the church building. For years we found ourselves dipping out before we eventually dropped out. What can be done? At the school where I've taught for almost 20 years, we are reducing our drop-out rate by responding to the individual student, rather than the whole group. When we are at our best, our at-risk students (and really aren't we all at risk?) know they are each seen and they each matter. And, it's those deep, personal connections that can make all the difference. It's those deep, personal connections that make all the difference at church as well. I was blessed by some deep, personal connections at my former churches, and I miss those. Sometimes, though, even personal connections cannot overcome systemic issues. And, no matter how hard the leaders try, some drop outs are inevitable at school and at church. When asked the question, I also chose drop-out because I have felt the shame of a drop-out. I have seen myself as a person who couldn't handle what many others seem to find easy and rewarding. I have felt like I gave up and took the easy way out. I know that church will never be completely easy -- no organization is -- but I decided just over two years ago that church doesn't need to be that hard. And, maybe the easier option is easier because it's where I'm meant to be. Leaving my church brought some guilt and shame for me -- as well as some pain for the people I left. Dropping out was also hard because the typical church was woven into my culture and history for four decades. Yet, leaving my church also forced me into greater ownership of my faith. So, when all is said and done, I did drop out of a church. Yet, I have no plans to drop out of the church. In the beginning, we were disillusioned by our church experiences. We longed for a place to experience belonging, to imagine other ways church can look, to grow deeper in our faith, and to find support for our work as the hands and feet of Jesus in this world. Year one was both refreshing and hard as we learned how to love one another. We found rest and safety while we also negotiated how to move forward and address our differences. Year two, we evolved to find our rhythms and establish some roots. We began to use the lectionary as a guide for our discussions and meditations, and we made changes to enhance the children's experience, especially emphasizing our relationships with them. Year three, we continue to evolve. Our demographics have shifted, making us less homogeneous, which has enhanced the experience. The children are staying with the adults with more frequency. We are still learning how to best love one another and God as we face demanding careers, serious health issues, and challenging relationships. In reflection, I can't help but to think about roots and ruts. Roots provide stability and nourishment while ruts keep us in one spot and limit our perspective. As a house church community, we value the roots and steer clear of the ruts. Our rhythms, routines, and rituals have value; our constant evolution has value; and we aim to honor both. My prayer for our little house church is that when all is said and done, we can say we maintained our roots and steered clear of the ruts. And just like the rest of God's creation, we never stopped evolving. White, middle class, teacher, Christian, American, college graduate -- in this land, I am dripping with privilege. And in few places does that truth become more obvious than when I tell my story of leaving church. I have a home where I can host large gatherings and the resources to feed those who come. I have the education and resources to continually learn about and study my faith. I have connections to people who have a similar vision for our house church experiment. I have time to read lots of books and listen to lots of podcasts about faith. I acknowledge that I am privileged. Those of us who have privilege must use that privilege to the benefit of others, especially others with less privilege. And, ironically, that is why I write about leaving the typical church. I do not write to steal people from traditional churches. That would be ridiculous. Home church is not desired by many, and as my own experience shows, it's not possible (or at least really difficult) for many. So, why write?
To those who read this blog, thank you for your grace. I might look back at my posts and be proud or embarrassed one day. Regardless, thank you for honoring my journey as I honor my journey as well. In that, I feel most privileged. Take care, Gina My son was a 10-year-old 4th grader when we left traditional church for a smaller, more intimate experience. He thought it was weird but was open to trying. What feelings did you have when Dad and I first made the transition from traditional church to a home setting? First, I was like, "Okay, I'll try it." Then, I loved it because I got to make new friends. What are your feelings now, 2 years later? I like the friendships. I like how everyone's a community, and it's more open so you can say what's on your mind instead of a pastor reading passages and I can't talk. When we split up into younger kids and older kids with different adults teaching us and getting to know us, I get to learn a lesson in creative ways. How are you taking your faith into your own hands? I go to Wednesday night youth group at a church in our neighborhood with several of my friends. Would you look for a similar experience when you're on your own someday? Yes. I like being more active. I can move. At a normal church, I just sit there and listen. What would you like to say to other kids leaving traditional church for a small faith group? It's fun. It's a lot more fun than you think it'll be. Try it. Try something new, and if you don't like it, tell your parents. My 15-year-old daughter was a 13-year-old 8th grader when we left traditional church. The transition was hardest on her. Here are her reflections. What feelings did you have when Dad and I first made the transition from traditional church to a home group? I was mad because you decided to change and I didn't want to, but because you are my parents, I felt I had no choice. I didn't see much good that would come from it. Unlike you and Dad who had a problem with the whole set up, I liked our former church and didn't have any problems with it except for one staffing decision and their reaction to a trans-kid. What are your feelings now, 2 years later? I like it. It's good. I still miss some things from normal church such as praise and worship time with so many people and the idea of a Sunday morning and getting all dressed up, but I like how ours is an open conversation and getting closer with people, almost having a second family. It pushes us to take our faith into our own hands. I have to make it happen, rather than just going to what is already scheduled. I like how the parents took the initiative to create this. Saturday nights are also easier than Sunday mornings. How are you taking your faith into your own hands? I read my Bible every night. I started a Bible study with friends. I fill my life with Christian music and others things of faith, even my clothing and jewelry. That's a way for me to share the gospel. I also go to youth group on my own at my former church. Would you look for a similar experience when you're on your own someday? If I did, I'd also go to church on Sundays because I really love the worship part of church. Now I get it on Wednesday nights at youth group, but when I'm older, I won't have youth group. What would you like to say to other teens moving into a small faith gathering experience like ours? Be open minded. Even if you think it isn't enough, realize you can do other things as well. It's a really cool experience you should at least try. We sat in the parking lot at 11:30 that night, twenty or so parents enjoying one another's company and honoring the community formed through youth sports. In those moments of reflection, joy, and camaraderie, a parent leaned into me and quietly asked, "Are you religious or spiritual?" I didn't answer right away because I knew my response would be cliché. And again, "Are you religious or spiritual?" "Well, spiritual." "No, you're not." I went to bed knowing my friend was right and wondering what the most honest response is for me. The next morning I woke up still contemplating the question. May I claim a third option? Contemplative. Merriam-Webster says contemplation, the action of a contemplative, is (1) "concentration on spiritual things as a form of private devotion" and (2) "a state of mystical awareness of God's being." Fr. Richard Rohr, whose meditations I read daily, posted this about contemplatives on July 2, 2015: "They come to enjoy God, others and even themselves, and do not need to pick fights in their minds about everything." St. Gregory the Great said that the contemplative life is to focus on "the love of God and neighbor" and also to "rest from all exterior action." I am most peace-filled when I contemplate God and the unknown, as well as when I sweep out every thought and leave my mind empty. The unknown leads me to faith. The emptiness makes space for peace. Contemplative admits that there's a lot I don't know, and I'm so okay with that. To my parking lot friend (and really to all of you), let's keep talking and contemplating. I'm a poor representative of the religious and will never reach spiritual. But, I'm contemplating, and I'm at peace with that. Rachel and I met when our firstborns were only one. We were getting settled in our marriages, starter homes, and motherhood. As we connected through the newness of this "settled" life, we also discovered similarities in our childhoods, politics, and faith. I grew up among some people who spoke poorly of Catholics. My own parents, a lifelong Baptist and a Lutheran turned Baptist, emphasized the importance of learning about the differences within the Christian tradition; other people in my life, though, were less gracious. I suspect many Catholics have had similar experiences but in the reverse. Interestingly, I've never asked Rachel, who is the most faithful Catholic I know. If she says yes, I'll feel sad about the pervasiveness of that experience, and if she says no, I'll be sickened by such one-sided animosity. Almost 14 years after first meeting, Rachel and I have changed. In politics, our paths have diverged. As mothers, she is raising a teenager, a baby, and 5 others in between, while I'm nurturing just the 2 I had as our friendship was in infancy. Catholicism has led her to a deeper connection with God, while I've deepened my faith by leaving the traditional church. Our two roads diverged; our love and respect for each other have not. We all need Rachels in our lives. We all need diverse friendships to remind us that different is not scary but interesting and that all people have something to teach us. God is the author of diversity. Too often we make sense of the world through dualistic thinking that prefers clear distinctions of winners and losers and who is in versus who is out, but I have a feeling God is bigger than dualism. Relationships that embrace diversity will involve difficult conversations at times, but they will be conversations--not arguments--and they will be meaningful conversations that move us to love deeply and learn wholeheartedly about others, ourselves, and God. This summer my son has fallen in love with the song "Zombie" by the Cranberries, the famous protest song about the conflict in Northern Ireland from the 1960s-'90s that was largely political but often described as Protestants versus Catholics. My favorite lines follow. "When the violence causes silence / We must be mistaken." Not only should we avoid violence as a result of our diversity but also silence. We must hear each other's stories and know that we will be better for it. May you not only avoid violence but also silence in our diverse world. May you be blessed by diverse friendships. May you all have a Rachel. Take care, G!n@ PS. The extra link this week is the recording of a sermon by Pastor Dave Campbell. In it he says, "Sometimes what is going to form our spiritual lives most is watching God work. It's not necessarily praying more, it's not necessarily adding a Bible study to your life, and it's maybe not even coming to church more. But, it's placing yourself close in the presence of God to gaze upon [God] and to see what [God's] doing because [God's] doing a million things outside of this building, and I think our spiritual lives suffer when we don't place ourselves in those spaces to just watch God work. And sometimes I think we don't get to watch God work because we're trying to work for Him. ...So maybe the spiritual life isn't about addition. Maybe the spiritual life is about presence. Maybe it's about being still. Maybe it's about getting rid of some things. ...So, I wonder if addition actually comes through subtraction." That, my friends, brought me to tears this week. Thanks, Dave. |