Missional Musing: Narrating the Transformation

In working with over 20 congregations over the past few years, I've been thinking a lot about why some of them experience "missional" transformation, and why others go through the process we offer and stay roughly the same. There are no doubt many factors, and none of them in and of themselves guarantee a shift in congregational imagination. Still, there are some things that seem to be predictive.

Here's one: congregations that have someone who can faithfully narrate a coherent story in the midst of the confusion of change fare better than others.

I think there are several reasons for this. Venturing a narrative with plot and characters brings a congregation closer to naming God as an actor in their midst. This is huge. The act of narrating also brings together a useable past with a promised future. If there is no narrative, then the past is simply a mistake, something to be discarded, and people need to hold on to aspects of their past to be able to imagine a habitable future. One more. A faithful narrative has to ring true. All narratives are selective, some details highlighted, others repressed. The ring of truth comes when the worst can be admitted out loud without foreclosing on the future. Hope.

This kind of work is an art. I am wondering whether it can be taught.

Dylan on a Sunday

If you ever go to Houston, better walk right

Keep your hands in your pockets and your gun belts tied

If you're asking for drama, if you're looking for a fight

If you ever go to Houston, boy you better walk right

These lyrics are from Dylan's latest cd, Together Through Life, which drips with Southwestern culture. I listened to it Saturday as I drove from Dallas to Houston (long story). The cd (good, but not one of my favorites) is at home on the river walk or in a taqueria or in a seedy honky-tonk with a neon lone star bottle, half burned out, shining in the window. It sweats like a hot and humid hill country night. And this might be why its not my favorite Dylan work.

Of all possible weather conditions, hot and humid is for me the worst. If hell is a dry heat, I would prefer that to Houston. So, if you want to scare me righteous, the line would be "if you lie, you'll go to Houston." After two Minnesota winters and one in Michigan, I can say with a chest full of conviction that I prefer a northern winter to a south Texas summer. Which is to say, I'd rather thaw my eye balls than endure sweaty underwear all day. (Too much information?). I simply don't understand people who hold the opposite view.

Which is why I'm so puzzled that my friends who either live there, or who have in the past, love Houston. They love it. Last Fall, I spent an evening with my son and some of his friends in downtown Houston, and I have to admit I had a lot of fun. My friends who like it find the cultural life energizing. There's stuff to do, great food, museums, concerts, night life. And for them, sweating, horrendous traffic and sharing a city with George H W Bush is not enough to overwhelm the benefits.

I will say this. Both Houston and Dallas seem pretentious to me (unlike P0rtland or Minneapolis), but at least Houston can pull it off. Pretentious in Dallas is posing. Houston wears it more comfortably. One more thing, and this is big to me, diversity in Dallas plays only as a threat. Houston embraces its cosmopolitan-ism. I am at this moment sitting in a Starbucks near the Galleria, and its one of the most ethnically diverse rooms I've ever had coffee in.

None of Dylan's songs are about a Starbucks in Houston. He's going for belt buckles, wildcatters, accordions, pentecostal manliness, and sweaty, serial romance. And that he delivers. I'll listen to it again as I drive today from Houston to the Dallas airport (long story). But at this point I'm happy that Texas and I are not Together Through Life.

Dylan on a Sunday

I started this day in Federal Way, WA. My friend, Jerry, drove me to the airport in his Toyota pick-up at 6 am. I took a commuter flight from Seattle to Portland on a prop plane manufactured in Canada. I got a shuttle from the airport to my hotel room for this evening where they let me check in early. I dumped my stuff in my room and walked to the nearest light rail stop (the Max), changed to the Gresham line at the Gateway transit center and rode it all the way to the end. That left me about a mile and a half from the East County Church of Christ, where I ministered for eleven years. I walked and arrived just in time for the opening song. After services, I walked about a mile to Edgefield, one of my favorite places in all the world, a kind of constant carnival of music, good food and beverage, golf, glass blowing, gardens, etc.

There should be a song in all of that, or two, or three.

I thought about that as I walked to Edgefield. I walked past a long stand of blackberry vines, which are omnipresent in Western Oregon and a nuisance. Except for this time of year, when they have ripe berries. And the best part of that is the smell. I used to run along trails in this area and the smell of the blackberries on the breeze made the run immensely more enjoyable.

Anyways, as I was walking past and smelling the blackberries, I thought this is the kind of thing that would show up in a Dylan song. While the song wouldn't be about it, (or if it were, only in an oblique way) a line about berries on the wind could very well make it into a song. The power of his observations are often what make his lyrics so great.

I am not always the most observant person in the world. Some things simply evade me. So when a particular smell opens up a fist-full of memories, I want to be a poet. I want the few things that I deeply observe to have a mark on the world, to linger, to have a shared existence. And I wish most of all that I could combine that with melody, and a great middle eight, and a chorus with a subtle, but memorable hook. Today will be content with a blog post, oh underachieving today.

Dylan on a Sunday

I visited my Aunt Dorothy today (my mom's aunt, actually). She's in hospice care and so this may very well be the last time I visit with her. She's been a presence in my life. She was my 4th grade Sunday School teacher. During worship, she sat on the aisle on the second row opposite my mother on the other side of the aisle. I have told people that I learned the gospel by paying attention when Dorothy and my mother would nod during my father's sermons.

When I preached for the East County Church in Gresham, OR, Dorothy and her husband, Jess, sat on the second row as I preached. They were always dressed to the nines and became fixtures in our congregation. There was simply no one like them, especially Dorothy.

Dorothy is a Guild, one of my grandfather's younger sisters. And all of them are strong-willed, outspoken, insightful women with a more than a little bit of cantankerous mixed in. My favorite Dorothy story consists of an encounter she had with a famous Church of Christ preacher who had retired and attended the congregation she attended. He had a peculiar view of the Holy Spirit. He couldn't deny that the Bible talked about a personal indwelling of the Spirit, but he maintained that the Spirit was only active in relationship to Scripture, kind of a modified word-only position for those of you CoC'ers.

So, to demonstrate how ridiculous this position was, she bought a necktie, wrapped in in a gift box and gave it to him one Sunday after church. Once he opened it, she told him that she never wanted him to wear it. He protested. "Why would you give me a gift and expect me not to use it!" "Exactly!" she pounced. "Why would God give us the Holy Spirit and not expect us to use it."

Classic Dorothy.

I talked to her husband, Jess, yesterday on the phone. He promised Dorothy he would never put her in a home. And a few months ago, it looked like Dorothy's decline would be fast and final. But she's a tough old boot and is hanging in there. She's improved. And this could go on now indefinitely. And even thought the hospice workers come to their home periodically, along with other helpers, Jess is exhausted. He's 84, and while he's in good health, this is an ordeal.

He told me yesterday that he has fought in the war, been shot at, and had other difficulties in his life, but that this was by far the most difficult thing he's ever done. "I think I can do it, though, see it through, if I could just get a little rest."

I admire Jess. He's been married to Dorothy for 60 years and she is the more dominant figure in their relationship. I'm thinking not everything has gone his way, that he's had to swallow a few things here and there. But here he is, serving Dorothy, beyond his endurance and stamina allows. He wants more than anything to see it through to the end.

So, for Jess today, Dylan on a Sunday is When the Deal Goes Down.

In the still of the night, in the world's ancient light
Where wisdom grows up in strife
My bewildering brain, toils in vain
Through the darkness on the pathways of life
Each invisible prayer is like a cloud in the air
Tomorrow keeps turning around
We live and we die, we know not why
But I'll be with you when the deal goes down

We eat and we drink, we feel and we think
Far down the street we stray
I laugh and I cry and I'm haunted by
Things I never meant nor wished to say
The midnight rain follows the train
We all wear the same thorny crown
Soul to soul, our shadows roll
And I'll be with you when the deal goes down

Well, the moon gives light and it shines by night
When I scarcely feel the glow
We learn to live and then we forgive
O'r the road we're bound to go
More frailer than the flowers, these precious hours
That keep us so tightly bound
You come to my eyes like a vision from the skies
And I'll be with you when the deal goes down

Well, I picked up a rose and it poked through my clothes
I followed the winding stream
I heard the deafening noise, I felt transient joys
I know they're not what they seem
In this earthly domain, full of disappointment and pain
You'll never see me frown
I owe my heart to you, and that's sayin' it true
And I'll be with you when the deal goes down

Dylan on a Sunday

I noticed that Brandi Carlile is playing the White House on the 4th of July. That's got to feel like a pretty big honor. I hope she'll do her cover of "Fortunate Son." That would set them on their ears.

That got me to thinking about what Dylan would do on the 4th of July (mostly because I write this blog). As I write this, he's about to go on stage in Ireland. I doubt he'll sing America the Beautiful, but I could be wrong. I imagine Dylan at this point avoiding anything that would seem like a statement, even if he thought not singing America the Beautiful would be a statement. He might play the White House on the 4th of July, but he would gloss the day, give no indication of its significance. Not make it a big deal, one way or another. At least, that's what I imagine.

One consistent thing about Dylan's music, at least his recent stuff, is that he brooks no idolatries. He writes from inside the details of life these days, not from a stance above it that would allow him some universalizing critique. There are no ideologies or utopias. There is nothing in life that doesn't have another side to it. Dylan is not likely to sermonize. He's more likely to undo you with irony, to let your project fall by its own weight.

I'm more comfortable with this view of life. I missed the patriotic gene somewhere. It's not that I'm not thankful for the life I have, and I know a big part of that is because I live in an impressive country that's gotten a lot of things right. I'm under no pretense that somehow I've earned or deserve the prosperity I enjoy. I've traveled enough to know how much I take for granted. I'm no America basher (though two weeks in Uganda is more than enough to sponsor some real Western guilt).

But I'll also have to admit that Toby Keith turns my stomach and you'll never catch me mouthing the words to a Lee Greenwood song. And if you want to get under my skin at church, talk about America as a Christian nation. I've only rarely enjoyed fireworks (I know, this is kind of grinchy), and parades make me very, very tired. I'm just not constitutionally cut out to be patriotic.

But I'm also wary of hyper-patriotism. I think it is one of the easiest places to set up idolatries, to use God's name for our own aspirations, especially when you're the most "powerful" nation in the world. I hope President Obama prays before he commits troops. But I also hopes he keeps that to himself, lest someone confuse our cause with God's.

I do plan on watching fireworks tonight. And I will give thanks for what we share as a nation. And if I hear Brandi Carlile sing, America the Beautiful, I imagine it will even deliver a goose bump, for which I'll be thankful.

Music to Write By

I wrote my master's thesis in the Summer of 1984 in a dark library cubicle. I wrote in long hand. The fingernail on my right index finger still bears a slight deformity from the ordeal. I would spend entire days alone writing, my only company a cassette player and head phones. I had four sides of music that got me through the thesis. Steely Dan, James Taylor, Supertramp, and Pat Benatar (yes, Pat Benatar).

Supertramp and Benatar were opposite sides of the same cassette, and they were particularly helpful in keeping me writing. Clearly, they were different. Supertramp was better when I needed to formulate an argument. Early in the day stuff. Even in The Quietest Moments, Can't Stop the Loverboy, Long Way Home. But when I had the argument and just needed to crank, it was Benatar. To the beats of Never Wanna Leave You, Heartbreaker, and Hit Me With Your Best Shot, I wrote about Elias Smith and post-revolutionary American Christianity.

So, as I prepare to drop into a concentrated dissertation mode, I ritually prepared by making three playlists. I needed some new music, something that would keep me interested enough to sit on one place for awhile. So, playlist one consists of a mix of some of my new favorites from their most recent cd's--DMB, Avett Brothers, Jakob Dylan, Wilco, Pearl Jam. The second playlist is the muse cd, when I'm searching for the writing line. It's soothing stuff, and as it turns out all female voices. Sarah McLachlan, Rachael Yamagata, Kim Taylor, Over the Rhine, Lucinda Williams, Brandi Carlile. And then there's the rocker, the get it done, crank it outm finish the footnotes, cd. Tom Petty, Kings of Leon, Gov't Mule, Raconteurs, M. Ward, Spoon, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. And for a touch with the summer of '84, Benatar's, Never Gonna Leave You and Supertramp's, Give a Little Bit, made the lists.

So, now that I have avoided actual dissertation work by writing about my playlists, back to congregational soteriological imagination.

Over the Rhine on a Sunday

I spent the better part of this week in Nashville for the Christian Scholar's Conference at Lipscomb University. It started several years ago as a conference primarily for biblical scholars in Church of Christ affiliated universities. It had fallen on lean times until revived a few years ago (with a big effort on the part of my friend, David Fleer). The revival has included a broader emphasis both academically and ecumenically. Natural scientists, humanities professors, social scientists, etc, now form sessions where papers are presented, books reviewed, and the like. And plenary sessions now find a common focus and typically feature top scholars in their field regardless of denominational affiliation.

This year's focus was on the Arts and Christian faith. The plenary speakers were outstanding. And there were real examples of Christian art, including a performance of the play "Doubt" (also a Meryl Streep movie). But my favorite event of the weekend was the Friday evening performance of Tokens. Tokens is a live radio-show in the spirit of Prairie Home Companion with a definite Nashville flavor and an explicit theological emphasis.

Lee Camp, a theology prof at Lipscomb, is the genius behind Tokens. He narrates the evening, ala Garrison Keillor. There's a blue-grass band of first rate Nashville session mucisians, a radio troupe of actors, and guest musicians. Camp also did interviews, one with the investigative reporter whose work led to the conviction of the murderer in Medgar Evers' civil rights case, and another with Rodney Clapp, a Christian publisher who has just written a book on Johnny Cash. Tokens is first class in every respect. And that includes the theology. It's not in any way preachy, but at the same time it is relevant and poignant. Much of it is carried by the sketches and the music, and so sneaks up on you over the course of the evening until Camp brings more fully into view through his artful commentary. (Way to go Lee!)

My favorite part of the evening was the music of Over the Rhine. I had never heard of them and didn't know any of their music. They are a husband-wife team, Linford Detweiler (piano) and Karin Bergquist (guitar and vocals), from Ohio who have been making music for over 15 years. Itunes classifies their music alternately as pop or rock, indicating the difficulty of placing them in a niche. Detweiler is an accomplished pianist, his beautiful playing ranging from a classical feel, to torch music, to jazz. Detweiler's voice is equally impressive. She takes charge of a song, whether its honky-tonk, jazz, or ballad. She's got range, both vocally and emotionally.

The description of her voice on their website is perfect. "Bergquist’s torchy, devil-may-care voice, brimming with Midwestern soul, unafraid to lay bare every emotional resonance. And again, there’s the life-and-death commitment dripping from her every word. 'I’m either into it or I’m not, because there’s no faking it with me,' Bergquist notes. 'Life’s way too short for that.'”

I was overwhelmed by their last song of the evening, The Trumpet Child. Detweiler's jazz piano and Bergquist's gripping vocal left me no place to go. I was inside every note. There's nothing like live music, and truly nothing like a great live performance, which this one was. The lyrics are outstanding.

The trumpet he will use to blow
Is being fashioned out of fire
The mouthpiece is a glowing coal
The bell a burst of wild desire

The trumpet child will riff on love
Thelonious notes from up above
He’ll improvise a kingdom come
Accompanied by a different drum

The trumpet child will banquet here
Until the lost are truly found
A thousand days, a thousand years
Nobody knows for sure how long

Kingdom sentiments in the language of jazz. This is how I like my theology in music. Poetic, evocative, surprising. Again, I like how their website says it: "'Believe me, we don’t want to waste anybody’s time,' elaborates Detweiler. 'When we stop believing we’re doing our best work, we’re done. Every song has to be good, every record has to be great, every concert has to have some spiritual significance—something that we can’t quantify, something bigger than all of us.'”

Today I bought this song and their cd, The Drunkard's Prayer. My first favorite is "Little Did I Know."

Little did I know
That I almost let you go
Until I caught a glimpse of life
without you

Little did I know
How deep these roots had grown
Until I felt the earth quake here
without you

And this ache is gonna break me love
Until you come back home
Right or wrong
There is no home without you

And these eyes are never gonna dry
I never knew how I could cry
Until I thought I'd really lost you

Little did I know that I almost let you go
Until I caught a glimpse of life

without you