Stewardship Sermon

A Church that Didn’t Get the Memo
Psalm 100 & Ezra 5:6-17
14.November.2010

Brothers and Sisters the Lord be with you.
And also with you.
Let us pray:
God of wisdom and life grant that we your children might know the vastness of your love, that your love has no end, that your grace can never be consumed, that you center is everywhere and your circumference is yet to be discovered so that we might live in this world as your children: loved, graced, forgiven, transformed, and healed. But Lord just as we seek not to take you for granted do not take us for granted either. We need thee, every hour we need thee. Do not hide your love, do not assume we will know about you and your love for us. In this moment come to us, speak to us through the scriptures and through life both now and forevermore. Amen.

If some authoritarian body were to write an official memo on church life today it would look something like this:

To Those Who Still Bother.

On average those in your situation close their doors at the rate of 75 a week or 4,000 per year. On average at the rate of 52,000/week of those who make up your houses of worship walk away from church altogether or 2.7 million per year. The median of those who still bother to worship is 75 a Sunday and their clergy are part-time. Of those who still bother to give 17% say they really tithe but only 3% actually tithe, the rest contribute 2.6% of their after tax income. Finally of those who still bother the recent Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life revealed atheists and agnostics know more than you about scripture and religious practices in America.

Good Luck.

J. Walter Knowitall

I am sure a similar memo was delivered to the Israelites after the Babylonian Exile. Their city was destroyed, their temple lay in charred ruins, there was in fighting between those who returned from exile and those who remained, there were those who said forget it and there were those who wanted more than anything to enter his courts with thanksgiving and praise. Eventually the Temple was built and with it Jerusalem was re-established. In the midst of the rebuilding project some Persian emmisaries asked the Israelites what on earth they were doing. They simply responded, “We are the servants of the God of heaven and earth, and we are rebuilding the house that was built many years ago…”

Last year our theme for our stewardship campaign was survival, simply put this church made it! Despite the storm, despite the loss of members, despite the loss of income, despite all of it, despite the discussions whether close up shop and relocate or dissolve, despite the uncertainty of the future of the city this church made it…and had the fortitude, courage, and audacious hope to call a new pastor. Now what?

Now what? This year I offer the Israelites’s answer as our answer, “We are the servants of the God of heaven and earth, and we are rebuilding the house that was built many years ago…”

Brothers and Sisters I ask that we live our lives and dedicate our hearts as if we didn’t get the memo, that we didn’t get the word that churches like this are not supposed to grow, succeed, or thrive. Churches like this are not supposed to focus on evangelism, stewardship, youth groups, small groups, prayer circles, reaching out to young professionals, build with and for college students, hopes a certain quarterback yearns some morning for his Baptist roots, logging in hours feeding the hungry, speaking up for the voiceless, basic Christian education, & etc. But that is exactly what we are going to have to do to get this ship moving.

We can all assert and assess that our sights are above the horizon, all signs are pointing upward: new members, increase in giving, and general sense of gonna make it.

We can all assert and assess that the needs are vast and numerous as we move forward. My thought it is to use every creative angle I can to network and leverage help and aide for this church. That means foundation grants, underwriting of programs and positions, seminary and college interns. I am going to lean on you for connections and support. I am going to lean on you for odd jobs and requests. Every day the Queen of England receives hundreds of letters – obviously she cannot answer each and every one yet she thinks it is important that each receive an answer she asked for a group of retired women to answer her letters for her. This group of women is called the Queens Ladies in Waiting. I need a group of “ladies-in-waiting” to help organize our membership lists, file away papers, help write grants, send out correspondences, make phone calls to simply say hello, check up on folk, & etc.

Paul Powell has volunteered to come on board at the start of year as a coordinator of Christian Education to help in this venture. I believe I have a post-seminary graduate intern lined up for 2011 (we need to come up with health insurance only). I believe I have several seminary intern for the summer. In the Fall an architecture class from Tulane will be looking at how to redesign our building space as a class project. And I am hoping for a few college interns in the Fall to help with the business aspects of the congregation. We are also applying for a worship and the arts grant to initiate a jazz and gospel Sunday evening vespers service or camp or early morning alternative service. We have to act like we didn’t get the memo that this type of work can’t be done.

After Christmas we are going to delve into a congregation wide study on Christian practices. Over the course of Lent I am going to charge the congregation to break up into specific small groups to experiment with these Christian practices then convene after Easter and share about your experiences. The hope is to jump start the experience and practice of small groups.

In 2011 I also hope to re-connect with our sister churches in Cuba, organize a mission trip to Haiti through International Ministries, and ask every person for every hour in worship you spend an hour in mission work somewhere in the church or in the city.

All of this will take money. We are a generous giving congregation. We are on target to give approximately $270,000 from members and supporters. For a church of 125-150 active members that is a phenomenal number. We are, I am, asking for everyone of us to continue to increase our giving as much as we can for the next coming year. If you have never filled out a pledge card I challenge you to do so this year. We need as accurate financial number more than ever to form our budget this year. Historically this church, like all churches has had a hard time fulfilling its budget. My research over the past few weeks revealed countless examples of pleas by the pastor to fulfill pledges in December. My personal goal is that we begin to change the church culture of giving. That at the end of the year when we have a surplus we do not reallocate it to savings but we have a grand/excitement filled meeting where we decide how we are going to give our extra money away to missions or fund new ministry initiatives. We have to change and act like we didn’t get the memo about how to live out our calling as Christians – I think it is our only way to grow.

In closing, let me share a story. The Sunday before I started Lou Irwin preached a sermon titled A Ministry of Reconciliation. It was a fine and proper sermon. But there was something about it that I didn’t like. I suppose it was the fact that it did not fit with my own hopes and dreams of helping to reawaken a Baptist cathedral. I mean you cant grow a church with a ministry of reconciliation. It is not like I didn’t feel an affinity, even a co-dream of a ministry of reconciliation but it just didn’t seem possible. Apparently no one from the search committee gave Lou the memo about how we were going to flourish.

A few weeks ago I began preparing for this sermon and this day by looking over historical documents of this congregation. I kept coming back to the mentioning of the dedication and naming of the baptistery, this is the formal Purser Memorial Baptistery. I googled, tore up the history and safe room, and asked everyone I could if they knew anything about the men for whom the baptistery was named. All anyone could tell me is that they were Baptist ministers. Finally I unearthed some stories, finally my birddogging produced a useful find.

David Ingram Purser and John Frederick Purser were brothers, both Baptist preachers and both served, primarily, congregations in Alabama. David Ingram was a Confederate solider of the Seven Stars Artillery company and was participated in 16 hard-fought engagements. After the war he started a business and became quite wealthy. In 1870 he was ordained and because of his previous success in business never accepted a dollar for his work as a pastor.

John Frederick Purser was a minister from the start. He always lived in the shadow of his older brother but all admit that David would never have been the success he was if it weren’t for John.

In 1906 Morehouse College, in Atlanta, GA, elected its first African-American president, Dr. John Hope. Sitting on the board who elected Dr. Hope was John Frederick Purser.

Neither in 1906 or 1925 when the baptistery was memorialized in the Purser name could anyone have imagined the ministry of reconciliation that emerged from Morehouse College. In 1923 Howard Thurman graduated from Morehose, went to Rochester Theological Seminary in Rochester, NY then onto Boston University to serve as Dean of Marsh Chapel. While serving as Dean of the Chapel another Morehouse graduate and Crozer Theological Seminary graduate (both schools merged to form CRCDS, my alma mater) was pursuing academic study, his name was Martin Luther King, Jr. These two men offered America the greatest ministry of reconciliation our nation has ever known. King was obviously the public figure but Thurman was the chaplain of the civil rights movement. King carried a copy of Thurman’s most popular book Jesus and the Disinherited with him wherever he went, it was in his briefcase when he was assassinated in Memphis, TN 1968.

In this simple and ornate baptistery, named for two Baptist preachers is a legacy of a ministry of reconciliation, it is our tradition and it is our challenge and charge as a community today. In this city, in our lives, in our world.

Stewardship is not about giving money to keep the lights on, to pay the pastor, to mow the grass although your giving does ensure all of that. Stewardship is about giving so that we can be the people God has called us to be, is desiring us to be, is challenging us to be. This congregation has a ministry of reconciliation. The memo says you cant grow a church with that tradition, challenge, and ministry. But we are going forward as if we didn’t get that memo. We are going to grow with integrity, with grace, with love, with an intentional ministry of reconciliation. Reconciliation is where God is at work in this world, may we be a part of God’s work too. Amen & Amen.

A Counter Intuitive Profession

It has been a great year thus far, a stressful year (every hair cut witnesses gray hairs), and a fast year. I am at least 10lbs heavier than when I arrived (like the Mike Myer's SNL character Middle-Aged-Man, 'I'm Workin' On It!') And I have at least enough material for three novels - yes, from just one year.

We have adjusted to Central Standard Time, vistas with no hills, valleys or granite outcroppings, french bread made by German bakers, chicory coffee, seafood, beignets (I can even spell that right on the first try), drive thru daiquiri shops, no open container laws, beer and wine at little league games, street cars, house rattling thunder storms, lighting that stays in the air long enough for you to snap a picture, lizards, spontaneous gatherings of friends, parades, marching clubs and dinner parties, Pimm's cups, people saying alright when i say hello to them, lack of New England apples, okra, jambalaya, gumbo - in all varieties, boudain - where have you been all my life?, people not planning, roast beef poboys, to name just a few.

But the hardest adjustment has been the reading the people at church while delivering a sermon. One would think people are people and how people interact with a sermon in Lincoln, RI or Athens, WV or St. Albans, WV or Scott Depot, WV or Rochester, NY would be universally, somewhat, the same. But they aint.

Everytime I think oh brother I really blew that the sermon. Or man hopefully they'll give me a mulligan. Or I hope the adage you're only as good as your last sermon is not true. This has happened a couple of times here recently but afterwards I find that what I was feeling was completely wrong. I have pondered this for some time: is the culture really that different? do they just not get me? do they not know what to do with me? is my style that different? Then this evening I came to the probably conclusion: I'm just not used to a church actually listening. This is not to say that every other place I preached in didn't listen or pay attention. Sure there were folk who would rake me over the coals or offer the best words of encouragement, or simply made me feel amazing with their compliments. But there is a level of difference when vast majority of folk actually listening.

On the one hand it would be great if they didn't listen that much (more room for half-hearted sermons, indeed). But on the other hand I am thrilled and intimidated that they listen. It makes the writing process much more enjoyable. What other art form has this kind of weekly feedback and interaction? What kind of artist has the confidence knowing that if he or she pours their heart, soul and mind into a piece of art a group of people will take their creation seriously? The job may be counter intuitive, but it is a fascinating job.

One year down, and many more to go...

From Bait to Good Times: Tribute to my first crawfish boil.

Shortly after I moved from Providence, RI, to this great city in July

2009, a parishioner made the cautionary comment concerning the food here, “Watch out, this city will thicken you.” Man, was he spot-on. I thought I had this city whipped; I thought Lent would be my time to reclaim my physicality. I vowed to abstain from alcohol (yes, I’m that kind of Baptist) and to stay away from sweets.

But the dinner party invitations wouldn’t cease. Plus, how could I not celebrate in March the absence of bitter winds, piles of snow and the gloom they bring? So I adopted my wife’s Lenten pledge to stop yelling at the kids (we have three under the age of 9; you try not yelling for 40 days and 40 nights)!

We made it through Lent okay. In fact, it was the first Lent-Easter season that did not exhaust me. High holidays take their toll on religious professionals. I took up running on the streetcar tracks -- the daily near-collisions with the front ends of autos don’t even faze me anymore -- scaled back on my weekly testing of neighborhood po-boy shops and came to peace with the realization that I do not have to sample every variety of bread pudding by end of my first year here. I seemed to find a balance with the gastronomical offerings of this city and the limits of my wardrobe.

But there was one important -- no, necessary -- offering that I had to force myself to participate in: a crawfish boil.

Growing up in West Virginia I would pass idle hours overturning rocks in the creeks to catch “crawdads” (the WV equivalent of crawfish). After I amassed enough to fill my tin bucket, I would walk to the river or to the nearest pond and start fishing. Crawdads were bait. Never in a million years would I have dreamed of eating them. Largemouth bass, pike, and even channel cats ate them; humans didn’t. I’d eat a mountain oyster before I ate a crawdad.

So imagine my surprise when I saw large quantities of “mudbugs” at the grocery store, high-dollar restaurants with them on the menu, and locally made screen-printed T-shirts advising folk to pinch da tail and suck da head.

I knew, however, that if I am to officially call this place home I would have to suspend my better judgment and dig in.

Hearing and receiving no invitations, I formed my own crawfish boil under the disguise of a church picnic. The day came: 70s, light breeze and blue skies at The Fly. When I arrived, the chef was already boiling. I moseyed over, picked one of the critters up, stared at it, put it down, and started nursing an Abita. This wasn’t going to be easy.

Soon the piles of the small red crustaceans were poured on the table and into buckets. Folk grabbed a plastic pitcher and began piling gargantuan helpings onto humongous plastic trays. I watched in amazement; I could not believe folk were being so greedy and gluttonous.

Then came my turn. I smugly placed only four or five on my plate, thinking I would display proper manners. I twisted the tail, tore at the second vertebrae and popped the meat into my mouth: fantastic! In a matter of minutes I had cleared my plate and realized why folk had served themselves such heaping portions.

It wasn’t clam cakes at Point Judith, RI, with the waves of the upper Atlantic crashing against shore. Nope, it was better. Crawfish, corn on the cob, sausage, garlic on saltines, the Mississippi, and new friends. Spicy, messy, and thickening – a great way to spend a Saturday afternoon. I did not suck the head. I’ll need a few more amber beverages before that. Next time, perhaps.

When you see me running my now-necessary 7 miles on the streetcar tracks and I happen to run in front of your automobile, don’t honk or display your favorite number. Instead have a moment of sympathy for a citizen of this city who is enjoying it a little too much.

The Rabbi Made Me Do It

Last Thursday I went out to lunch with my colleagues: the Presbyterian pastor (the nice one), Episcopalian rector, and the Rabbi. As we walked down the street to the restaurant the Rabbi casually said: "So are you going to preach on something big on Easter Sunday, making any big stances?" In a hushed and slow tone I responded, "wwwwweeeellll I am completing my sermon series on renewal." He replied, "Oh great then this will be your apotheosis, the culminating sermon." Again in a hushed and slow tone I responded "ssssssuuuurrrrreee."

Being Thursday I had pretty much finished my sermon. It was a nice sermon, a good Easter sermon - nothing great, no great stands, nothing out of the ordinary. But after lunch I quickly scrapped my sermon and started over from square one. Easter - the biggest day of the year, an unusual day for preaching, an expectant crowd. Is it a day to play it safe? No.

I wrestled with ideas, possibilities, and directives. Then the sermon emerged and I wrote like mad Thursday night after the service, all day Friday, a good portion of Saturday while watching the WVU vs Duke game, and early on Sunday morning. The result? Validation.

I have never poured myself into a sermon like that before. I received the most positive response to a sermon in my life. I can safely say every other Easter sermon I preached was a safe sermon. Usually after Easter I am wiped out, no energy or stamina for the week after. Usually I take a week's vacation just to recover. Granted I was tired after this Easter but not wiped out. In fact I felt surprisingly refreshed, I even woke up at 6am on Easter Monday morning (which is a school holiday here in New Orleans!) The unexpected experience of energy was a result of the validation I experienced as a preacher. The folk appreciated the work I did and the content I offered.

Taking chances in ministry are not, on the whole, looked highly upon. But I think the time for playing it safe are over, we need to take broader and deeper chances as preachers. It is risky, sure but I think there are expectant ears awaiting.

Thanks to the Rabbi!

More Shameless Self-Promotion and Another GreatS Saints Article

I will alert folk of the outcome sometime tomorrow afternoon. I am apprehensive that about the outcome.

Go here for more details.

And for another great article of the Saints as a metaphor for hope and resurgence.