Thanksgiving Over the Coffee

As I sit here drinking a big mug of coffee, following a very full Sunday that included a bunch of baptisms, I found it necessary to rewrite the baptismal Thanksgiving over the Water. With a nod to coffee. Enjoy! (or not, it's up to you)

We thank you, Almighty God, for the gift of Coffee. Over it the Holy Spirit of Caffeine moved in the beginning of the morning. Through it you led the children of exhaustion out of their bondage in bed into the land of the living. In it your Son Jesus received the baptism of Java and was anointed by the Holy Spirit as the Barista, the Coffee Pot, to lead us, through his death and resurrection, from the bondage of blah into everlasting joy.

We thank you, Father, for the wonder of coffee. Without it, we are buried with Christ in his death. With it, we share in his resurrection. Through it we are reborn by caffeine. Therefore in joyful obedience to your mug, we bring into his fellowship those who come to him with a giant carafe, baptizing them in the name of the Bean, and of the Grinder, and of the Filter.

Now sanctify this coffee, we pray you, by the power of your Holy Spirit, that those who here are cleansed from mediocrity and born again may continue for ever in the risen life of Coffee, our savior.

To him, to you, and to our caffeination, be all honor and glory, now and for ever. Amen

In Good Faith: Christmas Rising

 Merry Christmas! Here's a column I wrote for the local paper. 

Christmas Rising

One of the great things about living in South Florida in December is the ability to take morning

walks along the beach. I mean, technically I could have done this when I lived in New England, but it would have been a lot less pleasant. Jack Frost nipping at your nose, and all that. Frankly, I really don’t need to see my breath ever again.

But I love taking our dogs for walks on the beach every morning and watching the sunrise. Like snowflakes — which I also don’t miss — no two sunrises are alike. The interplay between light and clouds, horizon and sky leads to infinite possibilities and a kaleidoscope of ever-changing hues. If you ever wonder whether there is, in fact, a God, I highly recommend daily walks along the beach. And this has absolutely nothing to do with that whole “footprints in the sand” business. 

One of the things I can’t help but notice on these walks is the number of people holding up cell phones to capture the moment. At one level, I get it. When we experience stunning beauty, we want to capture it, or memorialize it by adding it to our phone’s camera roll. We want to relive special moments, or what I would consider glimpses of glory, over and over again.

Of course, there are two problems with this. First, despite all the advances in cell phone technology, our amateur images can’t possibly capture the wonder of creation. They can’t recreate what your eyes see and what your heart experiences when the sun breaks the plane on the horizon at the dawn of a new day. 

And second, I want to yell in my best grumpy old man voice, “Put down your phones! Look at the beauty that surrounds you!” I don’t do this, though. Mostly because it would scare the dogs. I simply wish people would delight in the natural beauty of the earth rather than trying to be the next great Instagram influencer. 

One of the great spiritual gifts is the joy of wonder. Not trying to capture an image of wonder, but simply the wonder itself. Christmas is a season of wonder. I don’t mean this in the “It’s the most wonderful time of the year” kind of way. Because that just makes me think of a car commercial. Nissan, I think. 

But to revel in the “wonders of his love,” as we sing in Joy to the World, is at the heart of the nativity story. The shepherds quake, the angels sing, and the world rejoices as God enters the world in human form. For Christians, the Son of Righteousness shines brighter than even the sun itself. And all we can do is gaze in wide wonder as the Christ child is born anew in our hearts and in our world.

However and wherever you celebrate Christmas this year, whether with us at Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach or at another spiritual home, please know that you yourself are a wonder of God’s love. The same God who created the heavens and the earth, the moon and sun and stars, also created you and loves you with deep and reckless abandon. 

Through the birth of God’s son, a light truly does shine in the darkness at Christmas. May the wonders of his love be with you and your loved ones this holy season.

Photo credit: Juergen Roth 

Unsolicited Christmas Sermon Advice

For clergy all over the world, ’tis the season to stress about what to say on Christmas Eve. The

criteria for preachers is simple. Your sermon should be: welcoming, insightful, funny, profound, moving, relatable, invitational, and short. No big deal, right?

Having preached over 20 Christmas Eve (and Christmas Day!) sermons over the years, I thought I’d share some unsolicited advice for preachers. I’ve surely violated some of these over the years, so please don’t take this as homiletical self-righteousness. Just a few tips I’ve picked up along the way. 

Most of these are probably obvious. But, having also listened to a number of Christmas sermons over the years, they may not be as obvious as one might expect. The thing is, Christmas Eve should be a night not just of tradition, but of transformation. And preachers have a unique opportunity to share the gospel with many who are yearning to hear a word of hope. 

1. Keep it short. This is not the time to try to say everything you ever learned about Christmas. That’s for the pre-Christmas dinner grace that you will be inevitably asked to say.

2. Let Scripture and music do the heavy lifting. Generally speaking, our preaching can’t hold a candle to how people will be moved by St. Luke’s account of the birth narrative, or the singing of the familiar carols. We all know that nobody leaves church humming the sermon.

3. Avoid words like homoousious. You may be really jazzed that Jesus is “of the same substance as the Father.” So am I! But this is not be the time for a Greek word study. Save that for your popular 18-week series on the Nicene Creed.

4. Don’t throw Santa under the bus at the pageant service. Actually at any service. You just never know who may be nestled in those pews at Midnight Mass.

5. Preach the gospel. In the end, that’s all that really matters. “Christ the Savior is born.” 

6. Connect through story. If you don’t have a personal story of how love came down at Christmas and changed your life, that’s fine. Just lean on the nativity story. That never fails (“greatest story ever told” and all that). 

7. Please don’t forget to tell people Jesus loves them. Because it’s true. And also because people — especially those who don’t attend church regularly — don’t hear this nearly enough.

Preachers, know that I am praying for you this holy season. When you speak faithfully from the heart, the people in your congregation will indeed see a great light. Wherever you serve, thank you for your ministry. It makes a difference. And it matters. 

Merry (almost) Christmas!

PS. The image above is of St. John's Church in Hingham, MA (a place I preached 14 of those Christmas sermons).

The Danger of Church Nostalgia

I’m increasingly convinced that ecclesiastical nostalgia is the greatest threat to church growth.

When we treat faith like a decorative Precious Moments figurine, rather than as a life-transforming force, we domesticate its power. And a tamed faith, is really no faith at all.

Now, there are different types of nostalgia that arise in churches. Take the classic question, “Why don’t we have a children’s choir anymore?” There’s nostalgia for a time before social media, before the over-scheduling of children, before the rise of helicopter parenting. 

But if you dig deep enough, every church has parishioners who want a return to the 1950s church model. Still! Even if they never experienced it themselves! A place where the sheer number of post-war births had every parish scrambling to build a new Sunday School wing. And for some reason put large stages in their parish halls. 

Of course, nostalgia also papers over reality. It’s selective memory, bathed in what we hope to remember and not necessarily that which actually happened. 

In the case of the church, things weren’t necessarily better “back then.” First of all, the church’s glory days may not actually have been as glorious as we imagine — check the attendance figures in the old parish registers. But beyond that, lots of people went to church not because they took seriously the teachings of Jesus Christ but because…everyone else was going. It’s just what you did. 

The truth is that this stubborn question, "Why don’t we have a children’s choir anymore?” can also be used as a not-so-subtle dig at current church leadership: “Why aren’t you bringing in more young families? Why aren’t the pews full every Sunday? Why aren’t the collection plates overflowing? You must be doing this wrong. And by the way, what ever happened to mite boxes?!” 

The rosy, if unrealistic, memories of how things used to be hold up a bar that present-day congregations can't possibly measure up to. And that's not good for anyone.

Which leads us to a more personal nostalgia in the form of childhood memories rooted in experiences at church, but not necessarily connected to faith. I get a lot of people who proudly tell me, "I was baptized at this church! This church means so much to me!" And I love that. But often when I ask about their faith or their ongoing spiritual life, I get blank stares or mumbled responses about how they should really start going again. 

Look, people exist on a wide continuum of faith. This isn't to judge anyone's spiritual journey. But I'm always sad when I meet someone whose faith never really left the realm of ecclesiastical nostalgia.

Again, this isn’t to denigrate anyone’s fond memories of going to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve with their late father and falling asleep in the back of the Chevy station wagon on the ride home. Sometimes sweet memories do lead one down the path of a vibrant and engaged faith. After all, with God all things are possible.

But here's the reality:

A nostalgic faith is a comfortable faith. It doesn’t challenge us or push us to change. 

A nostalgic faith is a contented faith. It doesn’t invite us to seek a deeper relationship with Jesus. 

A nostalgic faith is a conservative faith — not in the political sense — but in the sense that it conserves and turns the past into an idol.

I guess all of this is to invite the question, is nostalgia informing your faith in a way that crowds out the possibility of personal and ecclesiastical transformation? We all bring a degree of religious nostalgia to the eucharistic table. But are there layers we might shed to foster growth in our parishes and in ourselves?

Ready or not, God is leading us into the future. The good news is that it's a future brimming with hope and possibility.

Administering Communion - It's not about you!

As long as I'm in the blogging mood -- hello 2007! -- let's talk about administering communion. 

First of all, there is no greater joy or privilege as a priest than sharing the sacrament with God's people. I love watching the whole community come up to the communion rail with outstretched hands. There are small hands still awash in colorful paint from the latest Sunday School project; arthritic, wrinkled hands; rough hands that have worked hard all week; lotion-smoothed hands adorned with rings; nondescript middle-aged hands that might have a paper cut from shuffling papers. But everyone is reaching out to receive the same thing: Jesus. 

With this in mind, and I know this will come across as judgy to some, if you're a priest, for the love of God, please don't:

1. Say the person's name. This is not about you or your relationship with the communicant. This is a holy moment between the person receiving the eucharist and Jesus. You're merely a conduit, so get out of the way! Also, how do you think it makes the visitor at the rail feel when you say everyone's name but theirs? Excluded!

2. Touch or grasp the person's hand. Or shoulder. Or any part of their body. This is not some intimate moment between the priest and the communicant. This is an intimate moment between the person and Jesus. Just give them the sacrament and...get out of the way! 

3. Slowly press the host into the person's hand while gazing deeply into their eyes. Again, it's not about you or your personal relationship with the person receiving communion. Plus, this is just creepy!

4. Change the words of administration. I've heard various things over the years from both priests and chalice bearers. Stick to the Prayer Book! There's a reason these particular words are said by the whole church. "Changing it up," is a distraction for the person receiving the sacrament. Save your innovation for the guitar mass that will surely bring in the youth.

5. Have a conversation. This isn't the time for chit chat or joking around. Seriously. Save it for coffee hour.

Remember, receiving the sacrament should be a moment of transformation. When we reach out our hearts as well as our hands to receive the living Christ, an astounding thing happens! Burdens are lifted, sins are forgiven, grace amazes, joy thrives, and peace abounds. Our role is simply to give space for that to happen, to allow God's grace and love to work in the hearts of all who reach out their hands to receive Jesus. 

The holy mysteries of the Eucharist are both sufficient and life-giving. And thanks be to God for that.