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*** How was your summer? Still the dominating question. Ours was fine, filled with a couple of nice trips, lots of soccer games, no small amount of Olympics, and, of course, the conventions. And a little bit of church. When we are away, I try to go to church. “Why do you go to church when you’re on vacation,” I am sometimes asked, “especially when a big part of your job is doing just that?” That’s precisely the answer. As much as I love all of you, and as much as I love this job, I do need a break from work. But not from worship. Sometimes I go to Presbyterian churches. Sometimes I go to liturgical churches – it’s hard to get professionally worked up by a sermon, one way or another, if there isn’t one. And I am always fed in some way – by the sermon, by a prayer, by a hymn, by a lovely architectural detail, by the community itself. And I always learn something, and import learnings back here. One church I visited this summer was very difficult to find. I drove by it several times before I found it. So much for signage. There were cars in the lot, but the place was eerily quiet, and so I roamed around and around – the lack of outside signage was paralleled by the lack of internal signage. Had I been of nefarious intent, I would have made off with the china, or scarfed up another PowerPoint projector for Third Church. Finally I found a door and heard muffled music coming through it. That was the right door, but would I be entering the front or the rear, and what would my exit strategy be if it was the front? I opened the door. I was safe. I slipped in the back and had a very good experience. Another church – another door problem. I arrived, on time, this time. But the front door was locked. It’s an easy target, a locked church door, but another women and I were working hard to try to figure out how to get in the building. We checked out several other doors, and finally found an open one, at about the same time that the front door, what would be our East Avenue door, was being unlocked, about two minutes before the service’s beginning. As I was going to my seat, a woman approached me. “Chris? Chris?” "No ma’am,” I replied. “I’m not Chris.” “Well, I am supposed to meet someone named Chris.” I reiterated that I was not Chris, though at that point it would have been easier had I been. “I’m just a visitor,” I said. “Oh,” she said. And I sat down and had a very good experience. Upon leaving, a man introduced himself. “What brings you here,” he asked, which sounded a bit to me like, “Why are you here?” Just visiting, was my reply. “Oh. Why did you choose us?” “Because I’m a Presbyterian.” “Oh.” The lesson: make sure our doors are unlocked, be friendly to visitors and don’t be surprised if they show up. For any reason. Even if they are Presbyterian. Even if they are not named Chris. There are deeper lessons, lessons about who we are as a church, who God calls us to be. Some for you have said to me that you will do a lot for this church, but that you won’t serve on a committee! Well, this morning, it is too late. I am hereby convening a one-time-only meeting of the Evangelism Committee. And you are all members. The ushers have locked the doors. We will not meet again, so it’s OK if you’ve forgotten your BlackBerries, though if you use a BlackBerry you’ve probably not forgotten it. There will be no minutes. No sign-ups. Just a conversation. First agenda item – that word. Evangelism. Say it slowly. E-van-gel-is-m. It’s a good word. In fact, that’s what it means, basically, “good word.” It doesn’t mean in your face, or convert with threats of hellfire and damnation, or a particular political perspective on who Jesus is, or knocking door to door. It means “good word,” or “good news.” It is what we have received. The good word that God loves us, that Jesus redeems us, makes us whole, that the Holy Spirit sustains us, gives us power and hope. The good news that life matters, that we matter, that we can make a difference. Who would not want to know that? Who would not want to share that? A friend of mine is chucking the lectionary this year and preaching 36 sermons on Jesus. Boy, I said, that’s a whole lot of of Jesus. No rabid evangelical, he agreed. His point is that we’ve missed something. We’ve lost the story, or become so anesthetized, so pasteurized, by luke-warm preachers, that we’ve lost the passion and urgency of the story. Or we’ve become so put off by caricatures of evangelism that we’ve shrunk back from claiming it. Or we’ve been so intimidated by professional theologians and biblical scholars that we’ve forgotten that the good news is the people’s story, that we’ve surrendered the conversation to the experts. It’s another one of those words that we’ve not so sure about. Testimony. Say it slowly. Tes-ti-mo-ny. We are all evangelists, called to share. Thomas Long’s fine book called Testimony highlights many of the issues. “On the one hand, we know that our faith touches everything about life. It affects our relationships, our politics, the way we spend our money and spend our time. How strange if our faith did not show up in our every day talk. On the other hand, everybody knows that God and religion, like sex and money, are touchy matters, and speaking about faith in public always runs the risk of offense or even social rejection…No wonder many of us choose to be quiet and private about our faith, even though we know that our faith is not a quietly private matter. We can get through the day very well, thank you, without using God talk. We can coach a soccer team, take a legal deposition, chat with a neighbor, teach a math class, volunteer at a homeless shelter, write an insurance policy, or ring up a sale without thrusting our faith into the equation, at least in words – so why bring it up and run the risk of putting somebody off and being embarrassed? We are not even sure that we are the ones to speak or that we would know what to say anyway.” (Pages 3-4) I am mindful of who we are as a congregation, our personality, and the many personalities that form our collective personality. “Be who you are” is always good advice. But what might it look like for us to have a conversation, this Evangelism Committee of the whole, about who we are and who we are called to be in such a way that we might share it with others? What would it look like to invite – in ways that are consistent with who we are – others to join us? What would it look like? This is not Jesus in your face, but rather simply telling the story of this place, its importance in your life, how you find meaning here, the difference it makes to you, to others, to our community. Telling the story. Sharing. Not as intense conversionists or expert theologians. But as friends. Neighbors. Seekers. Fellow travelers. What might we share? I have no prescription. Perhaps an element of our evangelical testimony would be Paul’s message to the Roman church. Do not judge one another. Welcome everyone. In Rome, the “who’s in/who’s out” controversy was over eating meat. Some did. Some didn’t. Paul was clear. Don’t judge, for God has welcomed all. In our time, the “who’s in/who’s out” of meat eating could take on many forms: sexual orientation, political persuasion, social status, theological stripe, where your home is, what your job is, what school you go to, how long you’ve been a part of this place. Beverley Gaventa writes that when asked, Paul does not decide the specific issue, takes no sides in the meat eating debate. Rather he insists on a way that will lead to reconciliation, that the health of the believing community takes precedence over “right” belief or observance, that integrity of relationships matters more than specific religious practices, that the church is more than merely tolerant of diversity, or grudgingly accepting of difference, but is, rather, a place where differing views and practices are actively welcomed. (Texts for Preaching, Year A, pages 482-484) Don’t judge, for God has welcomed all. That is a good word I need to hear, and it is a good word worth sharing to a world that is not so sure that’s the way things are. Perhaps an element of our evangelical testimony would be Jesus’ message in Matthew’s gospel. Peter wants to know when he can stop forgiving. Seven times? Not at all, Jesus says, and his answer really indicates that Peter, nor we, should ever stop forgiving. Jesus then tells a story that grates against our legalistic, calculating sensibilities. “It’s not fair,” we shout out, and that’s exactly right. Forgiveness is not fair. If forgiveness were fair, we would all be in a boatload of trouble. Charles Cousar writes that we intellectually know how important forgiveness is, but we find it impossible to do. Forgiveness is “not a commodity to be reckoned on a calculator…it is rooted in divine forgiveness…there is no way to measure the extent of God’s generosity.” That is a good word I need to hear, and it is a good word worth sharing to a world that is not so sure that’s the way things are. Welcome and forgiveness are not always the messages the public and culture perceives when it thinks about the church. How sad, when they are at the heart of the gospel, the heart of the good word, the heart of the good news, what I’ve experienced, what you’ve experienced. I’ve spoken with Martha Langford as she comes on board, and asked her to help us all begin to have a very important conversation. How do we think about growth? A real, sustained conversation about growth? Not growth for its own sake. That would be boring, I believe, and not particularly faithful to the gospel. But growth because there are people out there who would like what we are doing in here if they wandered in. Growth because there are people out there who would make a difference in what we are doing in here. Growth because we believe there is no real “out there” and “in here.” What does that mean, Evangelism Committee? What does that mean for all of us? It means that need to look at what we do – from children and youth to outreach to worship and music – and ask the question how we welcome those already here, how we welcome those showing up, how we welcome those who don’t yet even know about us. It means that we expect visitors and aren’t surprised when they show up, and make sure they can walk in the doors – physical doors to be sure, but also the cultures we’ve developed over time – not insider cultures, but welcoming and hospitable cultures. It means we do little things – saying hello to people we don’t know, not worrying whether we should know them or not; inviting them to coffee hour, sharing, even just a little bit, of what this place means. Strategies and practices matter, and there are probably a million little things we could do. For instance, I received a welcome letter from one congregation I visited this summer just a day or so after visiting; I am still waiting for the other. But at the end of the day, this conversation is not about advertising, or branding, or open doors, or signage, or programming. Those are all important strategies and discussions we must have, because you can’t join us if you don’t know about us, and you won’t come back if you are not welcomed when you actually show up. At heart, though, this is about who we are, and how we share who we are with a world aching for the welcome and forgiveness that we’ve experienced, the welcome and forgiveness that our gospel so clearly and passionately articulates. What can you do? You can pray. You can help us think of approaches, and if you on a committee or a church group, you can think intentionally about how welcoming we are. You can think about how you have, or have not, been welcomed, and what that experience was like. You can think about the vision for this place and how it is worth sharing. And you can invite someone: not to convert, or convince, or cajole, or compel, but simply to welcome and to share. Evangelism and testimony – not such bad words after all. The great Catholic social worker Dorothy Day said that “if I have achieved anything in my life, it is because I have not been embarrassed to talk about God.” Welcomed, and forgiven, may the same be true for us, for you, and me, and all of us. Committee meeting adjourned. Amen.
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