You’ve probably seen our teens carefully completing these forms during worship adding their insights and reflections to the prayers, the children’s time, the sermons and the music.  I have the unique opportunity of reading these thoughts which I adore so much that sometimes I need to share these brilliant thoughts.

Here are just a few from February:

• “The prayers always say “we” and “our” like we’re all thinking the same thing.  I just thought today what if that’s completely wrong for some people?”
• “You shall wander far in safety.” It reminds me of the Children’s Time. I think of it as entering the unknown knowing that God is with you.”
• “I think that the prayers of the people are interesting and enlightening because although we all might not know the person, through these prayers we get to know them. It doesn’t matter whether they are directly part of our life because they go to our church, they are cared for. And by praying for others we become one community, because we all pray for the same people.”

They are brilliant theologians already, aren’t they?

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;  a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

I always read all eleven verses — including that bit about God making everything suitable in its own time (Ecclesiastes 3:1-11).  I don’t claim to understand these words.  I don’t try to explain them.  I offer them because they hint at something I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand.  Namely, life is short.  Death always comes. Sometimes too soon.

It’s a reality that strikes me every time Lent begins. In this morbid season, we step ever so slowly toward the cross.  Sure.  There’s a happy ending.  There is new life after that torturous death — but that’s not how our lives end.  When the end comes, there is no resurrection.  Not in this body.  Not in this skin.  There may be life everlasting but life as we know it ceases to be.  Lent forces me to face that reality.  Every year, I consider what the meaning of life might be.  This year, as Lent begins, I’ll ask that question with the Confirmation class.  As the season continues, I’ll get to ask those questions in an intentional study called This Season that asks those questions that we rarely ask about the end of our own lives.  Yes, we’ll talk about death.  We’ll talk about end-of-life care and what it means to have a good death, but for me, these conversations will always remind me about how I choose to live.  To talk about the reality of death — to actually finalize the draft of my will that I’ve been writing for over a year, to get that health care proxy signed and to even consider the elements of my own funeral service — I hope that the verbs we’ll use in worship each Sunday will remind me of the passion for this life.  To cherish it.  To protect it.  To make it my own.

I hope that you’ll join me on this journey. Whether you find the reminder of your own mortality in Lent or you need some loving cajoling from church friends to consider your own death or if you’re heart is full from the loss of friends and loved ones, I hope you’ll find some space to heal and wonder about what this life means.  I hope you’ll find the space among your church family to cherish and protect this life as you make it your own.

I’m not sure exactly how it happened — though I never really know how the Holy Spirit moves. I can tell you when it happens. I can tell you when I feel her. I can tell you when She appears. But, like most things in life, I can’t explain the sequence of events. Truthfully, it doesn’t matter. None of those little details that attempt to explain the mysteries of God are truly helpful. (Actually, I find those little details are more complicated. They make our understanding of God incomprehensible.) Truly, when we allow ourselves to be present, God can appear.

I wrote these words back in September after I preached without notes for the very first time. Two months later, I’ve done this couple more times. I’ve stepped out of the pulpit and tried to speak truth. I won’t tell you this is easy. It’s not. It involves more preparation. It involves actually memorizing parts of Scripture. It requires controlling my thoughts to truly focus – and try to demonstrate an aura of comfort as I try to say these words.

It happened that first Sunday in September because I was so awe-struck by what had been said and shared in our Chapel Worship that morning. I couldn’t preach the words I’d carefully prepared. I didn’t feel right. I had to try to share the good news that I had heard that morning. Since that morning in September, it hasn’t felt right to go back to the comforts of my manuscript. In preaching this way – without notes – I feel as though I’m really practicing my faith.

This is a big thing in progressive Christianity right now. We’re realizing that people of faith need to find intentional ways to practice their faith. And so, we’re playing with this possibility in our church. The kids are practicing their faith in the ways that they play in Christ Kid’s Club. There’s also a group of readers that is carefully moving through Dorothy Bass’ Practicing Our Faith to figure out how giving, hospitality and other ordinary tasks call upon the Spirit of God. During Advent, you’re all invited to pick up a crayon and draw your own prayer life. None of these practices are perfect. They all require practice where mistakes are made and surprises are found.

Truly, that’s where the Holy Spirit enters in. When we allow for mistakes, God surprises us. When we open ourselves to find God in the spaces between the words we share, God always comes. We don’t need to know how it happened. We don’t need to try to explain it. Instead, it’s simply practicing over and over again so that God can come into our midst. Of course, in this style of preaching, there are other challenges. If you didn’t hear me on Sunday morning, there is no written record. There is almost always an audio recording for your enjoyment, but I don’t have a text to share with you. Those words that were not in my notes were given to God – and it’s only She that has them now.