Called

Over the past year, as I mentioned the other day, I've been in a kind of "wilderness" place ... or so it has seemed to me.  I've felt as if I have not been "spiritual" enough, perhaps, both in "devotional" terms and in practical "doing" terms.

Did I just use four Christianese-jargon-type terms in two sentences?  And put them in quotation marks, to top it off?  Egad.  Do forgive me, please!  :-)

So anyway, Father has responded.  Well, of course He has.  He responds.  Not as we expect, much of the time, but still.  This time He used two blog posts by different people.

The first post reminded me that living like a Christian and being a Christian are two very different things.  I know that, but somehow I seem to forget and get caught up in the "doing" - or at least in wanting to "do" when life's circumstances withdraw "doing" opportunities.  So God has gently pointed out to me that when He removes "doing" opportunities, it could be He is really gifting me with space to "BE."  Deeper relationship with Jesus arising out of times of solitude in which to hear from His Spirit. 

Kurt Willems at Red Letter Christians puts it this way:

"I’m done with living like a Christian.  I’m done serving the poor. I’m done going the extra mile....  I’m done visiting the sick.... I’m done loving my neighbor....

.... doing all these things won’t change the world.  That’s because the world can’t be changed unless God changes me....

I want to BE, and in the process, become a different kind of follower of Jesus....

So, yes, I’m done with living like a Christian.  I’m trading that in for living in a deeper relationship with Christ.  I want to know Jesus.  I want to hear Jesus.  I want to be empowered by Jesus.  Not simply in theory as I do the good things that he calls us to do, but as the natural outflow of intimacy with God.  The former way “gets the job done.”  The latter way changes the world."

The second post reminded me that I am not "called" to a particular ministry, or place, or job, or any of those other "callings" we often struggle so hard so discover.  My "calling" is not something for me, individually, that I must seek out.  As a believer, my calling is the calling of all believers.  It is not something we have to discover, but something that IS - and that fits right in with the BE.  Same verb!  And the longing of the One whose name is I AM. 

Sarah, at Emerging Mummy, says this:

"But we have been set apart already, by the very nature of our allegiance for the Kingdom.... we already know our calling.
And it's gorgeous and wide and meaningful and brave - right in the context and life that God has placed us.....
We are called to follow and love Jesus.
We are called to love mercy, to do justly and to walk humbly with our God.
We are called to the big nouns - like family and friendship and Church - and we are called to the big verbs - like forgiving, loving, serving, seeking, blessing. And we are often call to live out those enormous nouns and verbs in the smallest of places, making space for the Holy.
We are called to be the Image Bearers of God.
We are called to the poor and the fatherless, the widow and the hurting.
We are called to each other."
Yes.  We are called TO BE with He who is I AM.  That totally makes sense, doesn't it?

So okay.  No fear!

Overcoming my fears

Overcoming my fears?  What fears, you ask?

Primarily, my fear that I have nothing worth saying.  That there are so many great blogs out there, and so many bloggers with far more theological education, or much greater experience in church leadership, or - let's face it - just plain "better" spiritual lives.

I used to love to write about "my church journey" - and other aspects of my walk with God.  But for some time now, I've felt like I'm in a wilderness place, with nothing to write.  And yet, as you can tell with the hundreds of past posts on this blog (not to mention my website and other blogs), writing has been a lifelong passion.  And writing about my spiritual journey was center - here at the blog, in my numerous journals, in newletters and magazines.  But I've written almost nothing new for many months, other than the rare (limp) comment on other folks' blogs. And it's not just my writing on this blog that has "dried up." 

I haven't played my guitar or piano or clarinet, or even sung, for so long I can't remember the last time.  Years, at least 3 or 4, except for the odd moment.   And yet there was a time when music, especially "worship" music (hymns and choruses and all) was a wonderful part of my life.   Maybe a dangerously wonderful part, eh?

I have been reading my Bible only sporadically in the past many months, even with the hopeful motivation of a read-through-the-Bible-in-a-year plan.  And yet there was a time when I eagerly soaked up the words of God pretty much every day. 

My prayer life has changed too.  The thing is, I still hear Father.  I still sense His presence, in some ways more surely than ever before.  I talk with him informally about all kinds of things.  Sometimes we don't chat at all, at least not with words.  Sometimes, its like we're just comfortable being together (and yes, sometimes I do get distracted, unfortunately.  Sorry, Lord...).   Astonishingly, my husband has even been praying with us.  But when it comes to formal prayer (you know, "daily devotions" and such), it's been pretty much zero.  Though yesterday I had a little chat with Father via my journal - the first time in a long while.  It was nice.  Not "deep" perhaps.  But comforting, restful, leaning on Him, holding His hand, so to speak. 

And then there's the whole "gathering with the church" thing.  As anyone who's followed this blog in the past will remember, I was once a super-duper-involved-and-committed church member.  At one time, when my kids were teens, I attended 3 services each Sunday at different churches that my various kids preferred.  Then things changed, for a number of reasons.  I realized, with great joy, that Father loves me!  That Jesus loves me.  That the Holy Spirit loves me.  That I really am a beloved child of God. 

I kind of fell into gathering with a group of Christians who mostly were living on or near the street level (you can read some of their stories on my street church pages).  I loved the way they cared for each other, helped each other, shared with each other, even though most of them had so little to begin with.  I loved our Sunday morning breakfasts, and our weekday morning coffee times.  I loved our "church" conversations and study in the word, and prayer that happened so naturally.

We still do Sunday morning breakfasts, and I go out on the streets one or two mornings a week with a friend to share Father's love in whatever ways He shows us.  I visit sometimes in their simple homes or in the hospital.  But somehow, the natural gathering times seem to have dwindled.  And while I talk with the folks at the breakfasts and on the streets and in homes, it seems like my voice has dried up too - at least my ability to say anything much that is "spiritual." 

Hubby and I have opened our home every Wednesday evening for soup and sandwiches for whoever wants to drop in.  I invite my street friends but few come.  Maybe because it's too long a walk (although I offer to give them a ride).  But others come, mostly folks who used to be enthusiastic church-goers, but aren't so much (or at all) anymore.  Folks who kind of feel "lost" but don't know where to turn.  Like me, I guess.  Folks, a lot of them, who never really "fit in" to the church environment to begin with, perhaps?  We do really enjoy our times together.  Sometimes (occasionally) we have amazing times of prayer and discussion.  Sometimes we just enjoy each other's company.  For a few weeks we all cheered on our beloved Vancouver Canucks to that final fateful NHL final game. 

(Is that church?  If it is, why do we find it so hard to get together at other times?  What about some kind of "real service?"  Etc? )  (I've been longing, so much, for REAL fellowship with Jesus and His family.)  (Whatever that means?  Dear God?)

I have to say, at one time I had great dreams, high hopes, for the "alternatives" I saw (or perhaps hoped? envisioned? planned? oh dear...) Father leading me, out of the "traditional, institutional" church, and into daily gathering with brothers and sisters and Jesus.  Maybe that's still coming.  Or maybe what's coming is something I couldn't have "dreamed up" myself, at all.  Maybe something much better.  Something that is from Father, not me or anyone else, no matter how lovely some folks' ideas sound.  Something that is truly centered on Jesus  (how far, how very far, I still have to go in that department.  Sorry again, Lord).

Maybe Father has just had to first "dry out" all the stuff in my life that I've pictured as "spiritual?"  Maybe He's had to take away those things that I "loved," those things that I was "passionate about."  Those things that, yes, I was proud about.  Oh.  I see.  Thank You, Father.  Sorry.

It's easy to say that "It's all about You."  But hard for me to see when so much of it is still about me.  And my wants.

(I suppose my fear of not having anything worth writing about, my fear that others write better, my fear that I'm not as smart or educated or experienced or ... spiritual ... I suppose those fears come out of my pride, too?  Out of my "me?)

about penandpapermama!

At http://penandpapermama.com/, my hub site, you will find an exciting variety of pages that give you an overview of my websites and blogs, and also provide information about ways I can help you out, as individuals, families, groups, or companies.

 

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• About Pen and Paper Mama: an introduction to me, norma j hill 
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• Conversations, Reflections, and Meditations (my original website, and accompanying blog) 
• My Church Journey blog 
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• Another Chance Okanagan - website and blog about the Another Chance Street Ministry 
• The Hill Gang: website of stories and photos for family and close friends

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See you there!

thoughts on cultural identity (part 4)

But times change.  I grew up, moved away to university, moved again even farther away to my first teaching job, and married a young man in that community.  We moved again, and again, and again, as the economy dictated, and as my husband's cultural roots keep drawing him back to his islands.  In these various communities there were not any of my childhood denomination's churches, and we moved through an amazing variety of denominations with a sometimes dizzying variety of "doctrinal distinctives" and a variety of worship styles and rituals.  Some of those differences would have severely rattled a lot of folks, I'm sure, but I managed fine since the "culture" of "big tent evangelicalism" covered them all to some degree (some less than others, of course).

Sometimes I look back and wonder if the church culture was more important than the belief system.  Of course, belief system was part of the culture, come to think of it.  System, denomination, institution...  They all fit in there, didn't they?

Now as anyone who has read some of my ramblings on this blog will attest, in the past few years I've been increasingly drawn out of the comfort and identity of church culture.  Even the street ministry I gather with these days has been less churchy lately, it seems.  Though, I'm pretty sure, not less Jesus-focused.  Hmmm...  Maybe more Jesus-focused, with the demise of the programming that for a time tried to seep in?  Interesting...

Consequently, I've been feeling culture-less again.   More.  It is hard enough not having an "ethic" culture to identify with - a struggle that increased when I married a First Nations man, and watched the regrowth of his people's pride of culture, and their increasing relationship with God in ways that involve some of those cultural ways.  At the same time, I've experienced the loss of other personal identifiers - other "cultures" that took the place, in my life, of an ethnic cultural identity and pride that seemed not to exist.  Like the church culture I have already described.  And the "family disease" in which parents, aunts and uncles, cousins and siblings, nephews and nieces, have almost all been public school teachers.   Somewhere along the line, though, I became increasingly disillusioned with the educational system.  I tried alternatives like teaching at a Christian School, and home-schooling (very eclectically).  Then a planned move ended my last teaching job.  And I haven't gone back.  And at the same time, my parents died, and my five close-in-age children grew up and moved out and started families of their own.  So much for my teacher identity, and my mommy identity.

Now what?

(continued....)

thoughts on cultural identity (part 3)

Our church cultural identity included enthusiastic congregational singing, accompanied on piano.  All well-raised girls took piano lessons, of course.  As my parents explained when I wanted to take art lessons instead, "Christians don't need to be artists.  But they do need to be musical."  So I spent many tone-deaf years learning to play piano and clarinet, and being part of the church youth group "musicals."  Sadly, in the latter I was given "speaking" parts, as my natural musical-ness didn't measure up for singing.  It was a great personal tragedy, and in reality, made me an outsider to some degree.  Oh dear. 

Over the years we of course memorized many hymns.  We had a Sunday morning service hymn book of majestic, worshipful songs (red, hard-covered), a Sunday-evening service and prayer meeting hymn book with more "evangelistic" songs (green, hard-cover), and a camp-meeting hymn book of lively, evangelistic songs, and even some "youth" songs (burgundy, paper-cover).  I still have copies of the latter two!  And then of course there were Sunday-School songs, Children's Club songs, Youth group songs, and around-the-campfire-accompanied-by-guitar songs.  We weren't big on choirs, but we liked youth group musicals, men's quartets, men's and ladies' quartets, and Bible-school traveling choirs.

Summer camps were much beloved events, gathering in the extended family from far and wide.  Many folks took their annual work holidays at camp time, year after year.  Some even built their own private cabins in the denominational campground.    I remember one dear lady, Sister Smith, who attended family camp faithfully until she was 103.  She never missed a camp in well over 60 years.

Yes, I do believe that church was for many of us "our culture," our identity.  We knew who we were.  We knew what we believed (in a general way, but that's another story).  We lived in a time and place where denominationalism was important, and we wore our denominational distinctives proudly, like a badge of honor.  We giggled at jokes about how heaven would have a special area reserved for us true Christians, but deep down inside, I suspect we kind of believed it.

(continued...)

thoughts on cultural identity (part 2)

All of my life, I have felt "culture-less."  Growing up, many of my friends were first- or second-generation immigrants.  I watched them simultaneously take pride in their new Canadian-ness, and also in the language, social rituals (like those amazing Italian weddings!), foods, national costumes, and religious practices of their former homelands.  They were proud hypenated-Canadians!

Me?  I came from long lines of British descent, mostly several generations Canadian.  The only uniqueness I could see was in my paternal grandfather, who had immigrated from England, and spoke with an accent very much like the Queen - and which I tried to emulate without much success.  But.  Generally, we spoke boring Canadian English.  We wore clothes from the Simpsons Sears and Eatons catalogs, those bastions of Canadian fashion back in the day.  We ate boring meat and potatoes and vegetables.

And we faithfully attended a rather plain Protestant church (though Grandpa attended the Anglican Church, which made me rather jealous).  Plain as it might have been, compared to the exotic glimpses I sometimes got of my friends' Catholic or Anglican or even Pentecostal religious roots, looking back it now seems to me that if our family had a distinctive culture at all, it was found in the culture of our church.

There, we were "distinctive" to some degree.  And proud of it, to some extent, I dare say.  We had plain, undecorated walls in our church building; no icons or statues for us.  We sang to the accompaniment of piano, rather than to organ music like in "those mainline churches."  We went to church numerous times a week.  On Sunday alone, there was Sunday School, Sunday morning service, Sunday dinner (at home, with company of course), Sunday afternoon siesta (for the old folks; us young 'uns were told to read the Sunday School paper or play quietly in the yard), and Sunday evening service.  Worldly entertainments, like swimming or ball games, were verboten:  one must not threaten the sanctity of the Lord's Day.  During the week, we went to Wednesday night prayer meeting, Thursday night childrens' club, Friday night youth group.

Summer brought Family Bible Camp, followed the next week by Childrens' Bible Camp.  Winter featured periodic week-or-two-long marathons of nightly services led by visiting evangelists.  And sometimes \Young People's weekend camps, and/or Men's and Ladies' Retreats when those became fashionable.

We had our dress codes (and oh my goodness, did I ever get a dressing-down by one of the elder sisters in the congregation when I dared, at about age 14, to wear the slightest bit of pale blue eyeshadow to church one Sunday morning).  At summer camp, us girls could wear pants or modest (long, loose) shorts for activities, but we all dressed to the nines for daily services.  No excuses allowed.  Us young folks were allowed, reluctantly by the elderly ladies, to be semi-fashionable so long as we weren't faddish, and so long as we maintained solid codes of modesty.  In my younger years, ladies and girls wore hats and gloves, though that practice gradually fell away.

continued....  (Anyone out there relating?)

thoughts on cultural identity (part 1)

Yesterday I listened to an interview of one of Canada's First Nations chiefs.  He spoke of how for 500 years missionaries have brought Christianity to First Nations people, yet only 3 per cent have truly accepted.  He noted that most missionaries insisted that the aboriginal peoples must, to become Christians, give up all that related to their culture, and take on the missionaries' format of church.  They demanded the new believers give up their regalia, their drums and music, their language.  They informed them that those things were evil.

The chief described how this approach stripped the new believers of what made them the unique people the Creator designed them to be.  It removed them from the places God had planted them.  This missionizing approach worked hand-in-hand with the aim of the government to "assimilate" the native peoples.  Generations of children were removed from the influence of their families and their peoples, to residential schools (often operated by churches), where they were meant to be transformed into nice little white-man-Christians. 

Of course none of this information is new.  The results of these missionary efforts are well known.  My own husband spent some of his childhood years in residential school, and I see every day the outcomes of that experience on him and on his people.  But watching the interview (you can watch it here, here, and here - 3 parts) made me think about the value of our cultural roots, and how that fits in with our identity in Christ.  More and more, First Nations peoples are embracing Jesus, and re-embracing their culture at the same time.  What does that mean for me?  What does my culture, my identity, have to do with my relationship with Jesus?

The next few posts will explore some of those thoughts.