A Series of Reflections on Ministry
I was a Youth Retreat Leader a few years back, and passionate about engaging kids regarding their faith. But I found that many of them were reserved when it came to discussion. Embarrassed about sounding ‘dumb’ or just plain shy, my challenge was to get them to open up. So I invented an activity whereby they could submit anonymous questions about their faith. I would take those questions to the group as a springboard into discussion.
In the group that day were about 8 kids ages 9-12. Only one happened to be African-American; her name was Sky. (we all had ‘Nature Names’ for the week—I was ‘Green Bean’). So I went to through the submissions: “Do dogs go to heaven?” “What is hell?” etc. I offered them up to the group and the hands started going up. The wheels were turning. Enthusiasm and interest—this was great! Then I put my hand into the box and pulled out a question. “How did God make Black People?” As usual, I didn’t answer so much as offer it up to the group for discussion. I looked at the group, and Sky was sheepish—for I knew it was her question.
Sitting in the first row was Sun (Nature Names, remember?) whose hand was bobbing up and down in anticipation. This girl had an answer burning a hole in her pocket. I called on her and she replied with the most heartfelt sincerity: “With soya sauce.”
I think I sprained my face that day trying not to laugh.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
TIMES I KNEW THE LORD WAS WITH ME
A Series of Reflections on Ministry
A few summers ago I was working as a Youth Retreat Director at a beautiful Franciscan Retreat Center north of Toronto. I was asked to organize a summer day camp for a group of 8 kids, ages 7-12. We had about 8 children enrolled, and it was a nice group to work with—despite my first impression.
You see, one of the younger girls (we’ll call her Amy) had a serious case of Attention Deficit Disorder which made it challenging at times because she had a tendency to interrupt discussions, distracting the entire group. This was not a big deal however because most of our activities were sporty or rowdy anyways. But it did become a concern whenever we shifted gears into more contemplative exercises.
I remember one evening we did an overnight camp on the Retreat Centre grounds. We were setting up our campsite when I got an idea. The Retreat Centre had a new Labyrinth which was mowed into its tall grass. A Labyrinth is like a maze, mowed by a riding lawnmower into the tall grass, but without the problem-solving challenge of a maze. The idea is to prayerfully walk through it; its intricate pattern is there to help us to occupy the mind and relax the body, so it’s easier to become aware of the Spirit’s activity within us.
My idea was to take a small group of kids and walk the Labyrinth together. But because this was a contemplative exercise, I felt I had to be careful about who I invited—I could easily see it devolve into a game of tag, with kids shrieking and chasing each other through the intricate twists and turns.
So I discreetly motioned to 4 of the more well behaved kids to join me, hoping we would quietly slip away to the Labyrinth leaving the rowdier kids—especially Amy—behind.
But sure enough, before I had taken 2 steps I heard her voice… “Hey where you guys going? Can I come?” At that point I was on the spot and it was impossible to say no. “Sure Amy,” I said, “You can join us, but it’s important to be very calm with what we are going to do.” She enthusiastically nodded her head in agreement and we all marched towards the Labyrinth.
I have no illusions about working with kids, and I knew that asking for a time of silent reflection would be a lot. So I adjusted the exercise; we were to walk slowly into the Labyrinth, without talking to anybody else. It was a time to be alone with God. But I said, to keep God fresh in our minds, to remember why we are walking, we will stop every few minutes and say a prayer together—the Our Father—out loud.
So in we went. Walking through the intricate pattern mowed into the tall field grass. The pattern circled in on itself, twisting and turning us in all directions, all lines spiraling towards the center. The evening sun was beginning to hang low, casting a gentle golden light over us. A peaceful breeze blew in the stillness, punctuated by our little prayers.
And to my amazement, the kids were right into it. There was not a single giggle or chase or chatter. When we paused for prayer, everyone stopped, bowed their heads respectfully, and prayed aloud. I was delightfully shocked. We kept going, gingerly winding our way towards the centre. As the minutes rolled by, I had completely forgotten about my anxiety over Amy—in fact, where was she anyways?
That’s when I looked up.
There she was. Having made her way to the centre of the Labyrinth, Amy was now on her knees with her head cocked towards the sky. Her arms were outstretched and her hands were in a gesture of praise. She swayed her head left to right with her eyes tightly shut. She was saying ever so softly, “Thank you God, thank you Jesus. Thank you God, Thank you Jesus.”
Was this the same child I was trying to prevent joining us—the one I felt would most likely ruin it for the group? There wasn’t a single child there who wasn’t touched by Amy’s act of praise that day. And in that Labyrinth the Holy Spirit taught me a powerful lesson: never to give up on any of God’s children—especially those who have the greatest of challenges.
A few summers ago I was working as a Youth Retreat Director at a beautiful Franciscan Retreat Center north of Toronto. I was asked to organize a summer day camp for a group of 8 kids, ages 7-12. We had about 8 children enrolled, and it was a nice group to work with—despite my first impression.
You see, one of the younger girls (we’ll call her Amy) had a serious case of Attention Deficit Disorder which made it challenging at times because she had a tendency to interrupt discussions, distracting the entire group. This was not a big deal however because most of our activities were sporty or rowdy anyways. But it did become a concern whenever we shifted gears into more contemplative exercises.
I remember one evening we did an overnight camp on the Retreat Centre grounds. We were setting up our campsite when I got an idea. The Retreat Centre had a new Labyrinth which was mowed into its tall grass. A Labyrinth is like a maze, mowed by a riding lawnmower into the tall grass, but without the problem-solving challenge of a maze. The idea is to prayerfully walk through it; its intricate pattern is there to help us to occupy the mind and relax the body, so it’s easier to become aware of the Spirit’s activity within us.
My idea was to take a small group of kids and walk the Labyrinth together. But because this was a contemplative exercise, I felt I had to be careful about who I invited—I could easily see it devolve into a game of tag, with kids shrieking and chasing each other through the intricate twists and turns.
So I discreetly motioned to 4 of the more well behaved kids to join me, hoping we would quietly slip away to the Labyrinth leaving the rowdier kids—especially Amy—behind.
But sure enough, before I had taken 2 steps I heard her voice… “Hey where you guys going? Can I come?” At that point I was on the spot and it was impossible to say no. “Sure Amy,” I said, “You can join us, but it’s important to be very calm with what we are going to do.” She enthusiastically nodded her head in agreement and we all marched towards the Labyrinth.
I have no illusions about working with kids, and I knew that asking for a time of silent reflection would be a lot. So I adjusted the exercise; we were to walk slowly into the Labyrinth, without talking to anybody else. It was a time to be alone with God. But I said, to keep God fresh in our minds, to remember why we are walking, we will stop every few minutes and say a prayer together—the Our Father—out loud.
So in we went. Walking through the intricate pattern mowed into the tall field grass. The pattern circled in on itself, twisting and turning us in all directions, all lines spiraling towards the center. The evening sun was beginning to hang low, casting a gentle golden light over us. A peaceful breeze blew in the stillness, punctuated by our little prayers.
And to my amazement, the kids were right into it. There was not a single giggle or chase or chatter. When we paused for prayer, everyone stopped, bowed their heads respectfully, and prayed aloud. I was delightfully shocked. We kept going, gingerly winding our way towards the centre. As the minutes rolled by, I had completely forgotten about my anxiety over Amy—in fact, where was she anyways?
That’s when I looked up.
There she was. Having made her way to the centre of the Labyrinth, Amy was now on her knees with her head cocked towards the sky. Her arms were outstretched and her hands were in a gesture of praise. She swayed her head left to right with her eyes tightly shut. She was saying ever so softly, “Thank you God, thank you Jesus. Thank you God, Thank you Jesus.”
Was this the same child I was trying to prevent joining us—the one I felt would most likely ruin it for the group? There wasn’t a single child there who wasn’t touched by Amy’s act of praise that day. And in that Labyrinth the Holy Spirit taught me a powerful lesson: never to give up on any of God’s children—especially those who have the greatest of challenges.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
THE REDEEMING MOMENT
"Jesus summoned the Twelve and began to send them out two by two
and gave them authority over unclean spirits.
He instructed them to take nothing for the journey
but a walking stick — no food, no sack, no money in their belts."
(Mark 6:7-13)
It seems hard to imagine Jesus speaking to US. I mean, never mind going out on an indefinite journey without food and money—I have a hard enough time getting through a single morning without a Tim Horton’s.
But I don’t think Jesus calling us all into becoming survivalist preachers, nor do I think that is the best way to minister today. I don’t know about you, but even as a Christian I get a little squeemish about the guy at the downtown bus stop who stands on a milk crate preaching to folks passing by. But hey that’s just me...
I do believe however, that we are all called to live out our vocations in ANY circumstance we might find ourselves in. It happens right here, in the midst of our lives. And it does not have to be a massive heroic feat. Even the littlest things, done in the spirit of love, can transform the world around us.
Let me give you an example that has really left an impression on me from one of my former Jesuit professors. It's a story I will never forget. My professor’s name was Gordon, and he was moving from his Jesuit community in Toronto to live for the summer at a Jesuit retreat house in Guelph. Now he needed to call the retreat center regarding travel his arrangements; he was taking the train and would have all his possessions in a trunk and needed a pickup. So he called Guelph to speak to the nun in charge about this. But when he called, a strange man answered the phone, in a low, barely audible voice.
"Hello", said the man.
"Hello," said my professor, "this is Fr Gordon calling about my travel arrangements…."
A long pause ensued.
"Hmmmgh." said the man.
Gordon paused again.
"Who is this?"
Another long pause. The voice on the other end said nothing.
"It's OK, I'll call back for Sister Kate later."
Startled, Gordon hung up the phone. He then checked the number to make sure he dialled right—and he did. But then he caught himself; and as he puts it, did a “mini-discernment". He couldn’t put his finger on it but something did not feel right about the situation.
So he called back.
And again, the barely audible, "Hello..."
This time, despite his unease, Gordon simply said with his everyday voice; "Hi this is Father Gordon, could you please let Sister Kate know Ill be arriving at 2pm tomorrow and will need a ride from the station..."
The voice again, after pausing, uttered a barely audible, "Hmmgh."
"Well thank you very much." Said Gordon cheerfully, and hung up.
Well the next day Gordon arrived on the train with his massive trunk and a bunch of duffel bags, hoping that he wouldn’t be stranded. He stood on the platform and sure enough spotted Sister Kate by her very distinct habit.
But standing out in the crowd even more distinctly was a man walking just beside her. The man wore a black nylon mask wrapped completely around his head and face, except for a slit just around the eyes.
But to understand what this all means we need to back up.
About 2yrs year earlier this man had tried to commit suicide, but failed. Instead of shooting himself through the head and dying, he ended up shooting his face off. And he survived.
He went through rounds of facial reconstruction, but there was little doctors could do. So understandably, he pulled away from life. Though he survived the suicide attempt he completely withdrew into his own world. His social worker thought the retreat centre would be a good place to begin the emotional healing—that is—if it was ever to be expected.
His withdrawal from life became so intense that even though he could speak, he chose silence. And though mobile, he chose to never leave the grounds. The months and years kept passing and there was no progress. He was frozen in a moment.
That is, until Gordon’s phone call.
You see, it was a huge breakthrough for him to even answer the phone that day for Sister Kate. And he took great pride in relaying the message about the visitor arriving the next day—so much so that he decided he would even accompany her to the station. He understood that this stranger on the other end of the phone had trusted him with this tiny but important piece of information, and he wanted to be there to see that this person was picked up.
This little incident turned out to be a huge breakthrough that would allow his healing process to unfold. He began to engage the world again.
And it all started with a simple phone call, a reflection, and a decision to trust—yes, call it an act of faith.
So the point is to not be discouraged by a calling that seems impossible to fulfill. Don’t worry if you can’t just quit your job tomorrow and open up an orphanage in Africa. God knows there’s enough healing to be done all around us; in our own communities, in our own families and in our relationships.
But that healing out there begins when we make the decision to carry the Lord’s will inside of us. When, like my professor, we can catch ourselves in the middle of the busyness all around us and say, “Hey, that doesn’t feel right. What is God asking of me in this moment? How can this exchange—in this line up at the grocery story, or my interaction with my elderly neighbour—how can this moment be offered up unto God.”
My advice? Stay prayerful and close to Jesus, and I guarantee that when the moment comes, you will know.
and gave them authority over unclean spirits.
He instructed them to take nothing for the journey
but a walking stick — no food, no sack, no money in their belts."
(Mark 6:7-13)
It seems hard to imagine Jesus speaking to US. I mean, never mind going out on an indefinite journey without food and money—I have a hard enough time getting through a single morning without a Tim Horton’s.
But I don’t think Jesus calling us all into becoming survivalist preachers, nor do I think that is the best way to minister today. I don’t know about you, but even as a Christian I get a little squeemish about the guy at the downtown bus stop who stands on a milk crate preaching to folks passing by. But hey that’s just me...
I do believe however, that we are all called to live out our vocations in ANY circumstance we might find ourselves in. It happens right here, in the midst of our lives. And it does not have to be a massive heroic feat. Even the littlest things, done in the spirit of love, can transform the world around us.
Let me give you an example that has really left an impression on me from one of my former Jesuit professors. It's a story I will never forget. My professor’s name was Gordon, and he was moving from his Jesuit community in Toronto to live for the summer at a Jesuit retreat house in Guelph. Now he needed to call the retreat center regarding travel his arrangements; he was taking the train and would have all his possessions in a trunk and needed a pickup. So he called Guelph to speak to the nun in charge about this. But when he called, a strange man answered the phone, in a low, barely audible voice.
"Hello", said the man.
"Hello," said my professor, "this is Fr Gordon calling about my travel arrangements…."
A long pause ensued.
"Hmmmgh." said the man.
Gordon paused again.
"Who is this?"
Another long pause. The voice on the other end said nothing.
"It's OK, I'll call back for Sister Kate later."
Startled, Gordon hung up the phone. He then checked the number to make sure he dialled right—and he did. But then he caught himself; and as he puts it, did a “mini-discernment". He couldn’t put his finger on it but something did not feel right about the situation.
So he called back.
And again, the barely audible, "Hello..."
This time, despite his unease, Gordon simply said with his everyday voice; "Hi this is Father Gordon, could you please let Sister Kate know Ill be arriving at 2pm tomorrow and will need a ride from the station..."
The voice again, after pausing, uttered a barely audible, "Hmmgh."
"Well thank you very much." Said Gordon cheerfully, and hung up.
Well the next day Gordon arrived on the train with his massive trunk and a bunch of duffel bags, hoping that he wouldn’t be stranded. He stood on the platform and sure enough spotted Sister Kate by her very distinct habit.
But standing out in the crowd even more distinctly was a man walking just beside her. The man wore a black nylon mask wrapped completely around his head and face, except for a slit just around the eyes.
But to understand what this all means we need to back up.
About 2yrs year earlier this man had tried to commit suicide, but failed. Instead of shooting himself through the head and dying, he ended up shooting his face off. And he survived.
He went through rounds of facial reconstruction, but there was little doctors could do. So understandably, he pulled away from life. Though he survived the suicide attempt he completely withdrew into his own world. His social worker thought the retreat centre would be a good place to begin the emotional healing—that is—if it was ever to be expected.
His withdrawal from life became so intense that even though he could speak, he chose silence. And though mobile, he chose to never leave the grounds. The months and years kept passing and there was no progress. He was frozen in a moment.
That is, until Gordon’s phone call.
You see, it was a huge breakthrough for him to even answer the phone that day for Sister Kate. And he took great pride in relaying the message about the visitor arriving the next day—so much so that he decided he would even accompany her to the station. He understood that this stranger on the other end of the phone had trusted him with this tiny but important piece of information, and he wanted to be there to see that this person was picked up.
This little incident turned out to be a huge breakthrough that would allow his healing process to unfold. He began to engage the world again.
And it all started with a simple phone call, a reflection, and a decision to trust—yes, call it an act of faith.
So the point is to not be discouraged by a calling that seems impossible to fulfill. Don’t worry if you can’t just quit your job tomorrow and open up an orphanage in Africa. God knows there’s enough healing to be done all around us; in our own communities, in our own families and in our relationships.
But that healing out there begins when we make the decision to carry the Lord’s will inside of us. When, like my professor, we can catch ourselves in the middle of the busyness all around us and say, “Hey, that doesn’t feel right. What is God asking of me in this moment? How can this exchange—in this line up at the grocery story, or my interaction with my elderly neighbour—how can this moment be offered up unto God.”
My advice? Stay prayerful and close to Jesus, and I guarantee that when the moment comes, you will know.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
The Dividends of Mercy
Isn't it true that our instinct is to pull away from difficult people?
Think of all those people that rub you the wrong way. What do we typically do? Instinctively, we put them in a little box, label it (occasionally reflecting upon it with disdain), file it away in our mental attic, then when forced to deal with that person we pinch our noses and count the minutes until the encounter is over.
And of course there is that last critical stage: We scratch our heads and wonder why our spiritual growth feels so stunted. Maybe, we think, we need to go on retreat? Maybe read another spiritual book? Maybe change churches? ...etc.
I'm sorry to report it doesn't work that way.
Spiritual growth involves gently entering into communion with those difficult persons with open and merciful hearts. That is the redeeming yet challenging work of the cross.
However I can assure you it is transformative; not only for those difficult persons (whose behavior has probably produced a lot of self-alienation already), but for the practitioner of mercy, whose heart is sure to be enlarged in the process.
The heart is like any other muscle; work it and it will grow--and conversely--use it or lose it.
Think of all those people that rub you the wrong way. What do we typically do? Instinctively, we put them in a little box, label it (occasionally reflecting upon it with disdain), file it away in our mental attic, then when forced to deal with that person we pinch our noses and count the minutes until the encounter is over.
And of course there is that last critical stage: We scratch our heads and wonder why our spiritual growth feels so stunted. Maybe, we think, we need to go on retreat? Maybe read another spiritual book? Maybe change churches? ...etc.
I'm sorry to report it doesn't work that way.
Spiritual growth involves gently entering into communion with those difficult persons with open and merciful hearts. That is the redeeming yet challenging work of the cross.
However I can assure you it is transformative; not only for those difficult persons (whose behavior has probably produced a lot of self-alienation already), but for the practitioner of mercy, whose heart is sure to be enlarged in the process.
The heart is like any other muscle; work it and it will grow--and conversely--use it or lose it.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
CHRISTIANITY: THE ART OF DYING?
There’s a new book floating around called "The Book of Dead Philosophers" by Prof. Simon Critchley. It’s a cheeky retrospective of what 200 of the most famous philosophers and theologians think about death and ultimate meaning, from the Ancient Greeks to the Post-Moderns. Included in the mix is St Paul, St Augustine, and St Anthony.
This book is extremely provocative for Christians. It firstly charges that Christianity is essentially death-oriented, and then it takes an accusatory swipe at Christians for ignoring their vocation to ‘die while living.’ Here’s the passage that initially struck me (from Critchley’s entry on St Paul):
"What dies on the cross is not just Jesus, the God-Man, but our former sinful death-bound existence. Through the identification with the passion of the Christ Christians die to their selves in order to be born to eternal life. Thus to put the central paradox of Christianity at its most stark, Jesus puts death to death and in dying to for our sins we are reborn into life. To be a Christian then is to think of nothing else but death, for it is only through meditation on morality that the path to salvation may be sought." (The Book of dead Philosophers, p.70)
This is hardline, yet Orthodox Christian theology. It is put bluntly, but since Critchley’s book is centred on death, his hyperbole is understandable. But in terms of emphasis, Critchley has it all backwards. He’s looking at the glass being half empty, whereas I think it is more fruitful to look at it optimistically, emphasizing not so much the death part as the rebirth into life. In the words of Jesus;
"As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father's commandments and abide in his love. I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete. This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you." (Jn 16)
This to me is the best rejoinder to the death-centric charge of Critchley. Jesus comes not to morbidly focus our hearts on death, but to bring us to a richer, fuller, deeper life in God--and that God's life may be in us.
But its where Critchley goes with this that bugs me, taking a swipe at that infamous straw man, the nameless mass of ‘hypocrite Christians’;
"Christianity is about nothing other than getting ready to die. It is a rigorous training for death, a kind of death in life that places little value on longevity. Christianity is a way of becoming reconciled to the brevity of human life and giving up the desire for worldly goods, wealth and power. Nothing is more inimical to most people who call themselves Christian than true Christianity. This is because they are actually leading quietly desperate atheist lives bound by a desire for longevity and a terror of annihilation." (The Book of Dead Philosophers p.248)
Thankfully we have non-religious super-Christians like Critchley to chastise us back to a Kierkegaardian purity. How he so intimately knows (never mind diagnose) the collective Christian soul is beyond me. However I would temper this gross generalization with a grain of generosity; it is better to be on the right path—though at an early stage of the journey—than to be lost in the woods altogether.
This book is extremely provocative for Christians. It firstly charges that Christianity is essentially death-oriented, and then it takes an accusatory swipe at Christians for ignoring their vocation to ‘die while living.’ Here’s the passage that initially struck me (from Critchley’s entry on St Paul):
"What dies on the cross is not just Jesus, the God-Man, but our former sinful death-bound existence. Through the identification with the passion of the Christ Christians die to their selves in order to be born to eternal life. Thus to put the central paradox of Christianity at its most stark, Jesus puts death to death and in dying to for our sins we are reborn into life. To be a Christian then is to think of nothing else but death, for it is only through meditation on morality that the path to salvation may be sought." (The Book of dead Philosophers, p.70)
This is hardline, yet Orthodox Christian theology. It is put bluntly, but since Critchley’s book is centred on death, his hyperbole is understandable. But in terms of emphasis, Critchley has it all backwards. He’s looking at the glass being half empty, whereas I think it is more fruitful to look at it optimistically, emphasizing not so much the death part as the rebirth into life. In the words of Jesus;
"As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father's commandments and abide in his love. I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete. This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you." (Jn 16)
This to me is the best rejoinder to the death-centric charge of Critchley. Jesus comes not to morbidly focus our hearts on death, but to bring us to a richer, fuller, deeper life in God--and that God's life may be in us.
But its where Critchley goes with this that bugs me, taking a swipe at that infamous straw man, the nameless mass of ‘hypocrite Christians’;
"Christianity is about nothing other than getting ready to die. It is a rigorous training for death, a kind of death in life that places little value on longevity. Christianity is a way of becoming reconciled to the brevity of human life and giving up the desire for worldly goods, wealth and power. Nothing is more inimical to most people who call themselves Christian than true Christianity. This is because they are actually leading quietly desperate atheist lives bound by a desire for longevity and a terror of annihilation." (The Book of Dead Philosophers p.248)
Thankfully we have non-religious super-Christians like Critchley to chastise us back to a Kierkegaardian purity. How he so intimately knows (never mind diagnose) the collective Christian soul is beyond me. However I would temper this gross generalization with a grain of generosity; it is better to be on the right path—though at an early stage of the journey—than to be lost in the woods altogether.
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