First Christian Church (Disciples of Christ)

There are times in our lives when we need to clean out the attic, basement, closet, or garage and have a rummage sale.  When we returned from Europe our basement was too cluttered, dirty, and wet for me to use it to apply the water-based lacquer finish on the three stringed instruments I put together earlier this summer, so I began the task of cleaning, sorting, and drying.  The process was like an archeological dig which uncovered layers of our life together over the past 16 years.  I was forced to deal with the remnants of many projects I had completed over a decade ago, and some I have never yet finished.  We began to give away bicycles and furniture, make trips to the recycler and junkyard, and fill trash cans.  There were  tiny life preservers our girls used on canoe/water outings, leftover plumbing and electrical parts from rewiring and replumbing our circa 1900 house.  Fifteen years ago I would come home from an evening meeting, the girls would go to bed, then I would change into my jeans and work on plaster until 11:30 and get up at 6:00 a.m. the next day to start all over again.  Now I'm fortunate to stay awake through the 10:00 news, and to slog up the stairs past our girls' empty bedrooms rather than fall asleep on the couch.

Phyllis Tickle writes that the Christian Church as a whole is cleaning out its attic and having a big rummage sale just now (as we do about every 500 years), and will soon emerge stronger, leaner and more focussed.  Some of its old theology will be  abandoned, and some will be affirmed. One of the biggest questions in the church, she says,  is "What is the basis of authority?"  The exponential growth of science, the moral failure of high profile clergy, pedophile priests, the abandonment of Biblical literalism to embrace the ordination of women and homosexuals, and many other factors have raised the question of authority.  "But I would have you know, that the head of every man is Christ; and the head of the woman is the man; and the head of Christ is God."  Paul writes in 1 Corinthians 11: "Every man praying or prophesying, having his head covered, dishonoureth his head. But every woman that prayeth or prophesieth with her head uncovered dishonoureth her head." (King James version) Yet even in very congregations who insist on literal Biblical interpretation, women seldom come to worship with hats on.  We do better to ackowledge that Scripture requires interpretation and discernment in order to be understood and applied and that some parts of Scripture such as the teachings of Jesus, are given more weight than others. There is a true basis for authority but it is always more ambiguous and complicated than fundamentalist Christians will admit.  It is my opinion that in times of rapid social change many people cling to simple Biblical literalism out of fear of losing the order and authority in their lives altogether.   The church is having a huge rummage sale and it has not yet appeared what we shall keep as honored tradition and what will be re-cycled (retraditioned) and what will be discarded.  We are confident, above all, that God will keep us, every one mainline, evangelical, doubter, fundamentalist, seeker.  Love,

John

Many months ago our congregation began praying for Ashley and her family; this Spring she died of a brain tumor at age 17.  Her parents decided to come along on the trip to Costa Rica that she and her mom had planned to make.  Her death at age 17 did not define her life.  She said she was fortunate to have known how deeply she was loved; many people live long lives and never experience such fullness of life, she said- she was correct in that.  She told us that she was not afraid because she could feel the power of God in her body as a kind of warmth.  Through all of the radiation, hair loss, nausea, weakness, and chemotherapy Ashley's faith never waivered.  I don't believe God chose her to die so young so she could give such an incredible witness of faith, nor do I believe that God chose her instead of someone else because she was spiritually strong.  I do belive that God offered her all the gifts she nneeded to live as she did, and she had the courage and grace to accept them.

Most of the students on out trip wore T-shirts that were replicas of Ashley's softball jersey which were sold to help with medical expenses but more as a sign of their solidarity with her.  On the fronts the T-shirts say "Believe."  None of us needed to see those shirts, though, to be reminded that we are all still grieving.  Ashley's courageous parents told their story again and again to strangers as they became new friends.  Healing is hard work, and God's presence is felt both as comfort and abandonment as we grieve.  The Greek word for comfort (as in "the God of all Comfort who comforts us") is no wimpy sentimentality, but has the sense of "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God." 

We could tell the stories of our lives like we might tell the story of our trip to Costa Rica.  We could show slides of lizards and flowers, rainforests, and discos and accompany these with a narration of what we did and saw.  But truly our lives are not about ourselves so much as they are about what God is doing. God made us and gifted us with many abilities, with faith, with friends, with insight and experiences.  I could tell the story of our trip to Costa Rica as a travelougue about what we did, but I prefer to tell it as a Gospel of what God has done.  I could write the Gospel of Ashley or the Gospel of John Walter.  Thanks be to God. (The picture shows the front of some of the many  colors of Ashley's T-shirts worn on the trip- we're in the tour boat that took us to see the Crocodiles)

Love, John

In a mansion in Denmark we saw a collection of John Wayne memorabilia, and were pleased to recall to its owner that John Wayne was born in Iowa.  No, my middle intial  "W" doesn't stand for  Wayne but for Walter.  We rode marvelous horses up and down steep, muddy rainforest trails.  Heading uphill we leaned forward and heading downhill we leaned back and put our feet out in front like riders on a bull to aid in the horse's balance.  My horse ":Cantina" huffed up and down steep hillsand broke into a celebratory trot at the relative ease of travel after reaching each ridge top.  She blinked slowly to acknowledge my praise of her climbing efforts by my  stroking of her neck.  On a steep slope above the corral a man with bare feet and a broad-brimmed straw hat had just finished harvesting corn which was grown on narrow terraces in the same manner as coffee.  He had piled the silks and husks in the middle of the corral while we were on the trail and I guided Cantina to the pile and let her eat before I dismounted.  After a two-hour ride I felt like I'd just gotten off of a boat with sea legs. Ziplines and horses are supposed to be the means by which we penetrate the rain forest to see its wonders, but they become activities in themselves.

Me Tarzan- you Nancy.  There were eleven zip lines and one Tarzan Swing separated by several steep climbs on paths through the rain forest.  Sometimes we were 30 feet above the tops of 100-foot trees rolling along on narrow steel cables at 25-30 miles an hour.  Sometimes we were climbing 50-foot steel towers at the edge of deep ravines only to step off of them into a Tarzan Swing, to rapelle down 50 feet, or to glide on yet another zip line.  What a rush!  Facing my own mortality by stepping off of a platform was much easier than being with a dying friend and didn't make me feel any more alive.  Being frightened and going ahead anyway is empowering in any case.

John