The Hospitality of Space

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From Belief to Trust

In a time of great change, the question of identity becomes critical. There was a time when it was assumed (often wrongly) that being a Presbyterian or a Methodist or a Baptist meant certain things. You could extrapolate from denominational affiliation certain doctrines, worship styles, and, to a greater or lesser degree, political affiliations and social status. Whether it was right or wrong to do so, and regardless of how accurate the assumptions were, there was a certain safety and security in knowing your identity, a security embodied in the name of the denomination on the church sign. If you ever forgot what it meant to be, say, a Presbyterian, there were curriculum resources, books, and people in Louisville ready to help you remember.

In every congregation I have served, there are people who always clamor for a class on "What Presbyterians Believe." As Diana Butler Bass writes in her new book, "Christianity After Religion," such classes are the model from an era that is fast fading away. Locating identity, whether it is personal identity or the identity of a congregation or a denomination, in questions of dogma is answering a set of questions that fewer and fewer people are asking. Bass writes, "It is not only the case that the Western world has grown weary of doctrine, but Christianity itself is changing - shifting away from being a belief-centered religion toward an experiential faith." People do not want to "believe in God;" they want to "experience God."

Bass quotes a conversation she had with a young Christian, the only young and single member of her large university town Lutheran Church: "I love this congregation. The people have become my family." She paused, and her voice dropped to a confessional whisper. "But I don't know what to say to my classmates when they ask me what I believe. Whenever I say 'I believe in Christianity,' they look at me as if I'm crazy. Besides, I don't even know if I believe 'in' Christianity or Lutheran doctrine or anything like that. I just experience how to love God and how God loves me through these people, by learning how to...sing those hymns. I don't know what to call it, but it is less about believing and more about living. Does that still count as being Christian?"

I have a number of people in the church I serve who cannot say the creed. They have come to me at various times to let me know that they find it impossible to say words they cannot affirm rationally. The virgin birth makes no sense to them; nor does the idea of ascension. For a few of them, resurrection is problematic. I ask them, "Why do you still come to church, if you cannot affirm these things?" All of them respond with variations on this theme: "I experience God here." The God they experience in this community is a God bigger than all the categories, including doctrinal categories, we may try to impose.

We may think the folks who take a pass on the Creed in worship are in the minority, and for now we might be right, though I suspect there are many who say the words while harboring their own unspoken questions. But the trend lines are clear and unequivocal - their number is increasing. The church of the 21st century will increasingly have to share its hospitality not only in its open doors but also in its openness to questioners and doubters.

I am not advocating that we dispense with doctrine or with educating our people on the meaning and value of the creeds and confessions of the church. I am not a fan of the question, "What's the least I can believe and still be a Christian?" But I do think we miss the meaning of the creeds of the church if we see them as asking "what" we believe about God instead of "how" we experience God. Douglas John Hall encourages us to retrieve the root meaning of the words "faith" and "believe," which are a matter of trust, of giving one's heart to someone - of love.

Perhaps we should stop saying "I believe" and start saying "I trust..."

I trust in God, the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth...
And I give my heart to Jesus Christ his only Son our Lord...
I trust in the Holy Spirit, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.

This is what it means to believe, to have faith. It reclaims these words from a western culture that is too eager to make belief a question of rational assent. If we begin with this basis for belief, it will enable us to move more deeply into doctrinal matters without the literalism and fundamentalism that becomes very tempting for all churches - whether they are more liberal or more conservative in nature.

Where is your faith centered - in ideas or doctrines about God, or in experiences of God, or in something else entirely? What is your relationship to the Creed or the confessions of the church? Do you say the Creed without a doubt? Do you say it reluctantly? Partially? Not at all? What about the people around you - family, friends, co-workers? What are the faith questions you hear them asking? Are they the "what do you believe about God?" questions or the "how do you experience God?" ones. And do you find your congregation (if you are part of one) open to questions, merely tolerant of them, or actively discouraging?

There is no doubt that we are entering a time of unprecedented change in the church in the United States. Though it is a time of some anxiety for those of us who try and help lead the church, I am grateful to have conversation partners like you on the journey. Peace and blessings to you as we learn together how to believe, how to trust, in the faith, hope, and love of God.

What Remains

"And now, faith, hope, and love abide - these three - and the greatest of these is love."

Might the future of the church in these "postmodern" days rest in this Gospel proclaimed by Paul - a Gospel centered in his own understanding of the freedom Christ brings to the world?

As I approach one month into the sabbatical, these words from Paul keep coming around, as if God is inviting me to dive more deeply into three words at the very end of a passage that too often is only read in the context of weddings. They hint at something beyond the bride and groom, something beyond bouquets and tuxedos. Paul speaks of the end of all things in this little chapter in Corinthians, when the world will be stripped down to its essentials and we will all discover together what lies beneath all that is - seen and unseen. Three things remain, says Paul, which is a way of saying these three things are the essentials, the stuff of which life - true life - consists. All else will pass away, save faith, hope, and love. And the greatest, the first of all, is love.

At the end of the month I travel to Montreal to spend a week with Douglas John Hall, Professor Emeritus in the Religion Department at McGill University. Dr. Hall is an inspiration to me; his theology has been formative for my ministry for many years. It is a gift beyond words that he has agreed to spend this time with me one on one. At eighty four years old, he continues to write, having just published a new book on the topic I am exploring entitled Waiting for Gospel. I have my copy and he and I will discuss it as part of our time together.

I continue to be moved by his assertion that the church of the future, if it is to be faithful to the Way of Jesus Christ, will operate by "a theology of faith (not sight); of hope (not finality); and of love (not power)." He believes that people outside the church are looking for a gospel of faith, hope, and love. But too often what they find are churches filled with pious certainty, closed traditions, and an infatuation with power.

Hospitality may be the natural outgrowth of an engagement with the good news beyond certitude, finality, and power; what Paul calls "a still more excellent way," the greatest of which is love.

Can we imagine - dare we imagine - the end of all things? Can we see what it may look like when we no longer gaze through a glass darkly, but face to face? We do not know ultimately what that will be like, but if our brother Paul is to be trusted, we know what will remain. Can we live even now in the light of that day? To do so would be life as it is meant to be, in God.

Staked to a Purpose

In the National Book Award winning novel, Let the Great World Spin, Corrigan, a nineteen year old college student in a Jesuit school, experiences the rhythm of worship among the Jesuit brothers -

"Mass in the early dawn. Hours of theological study. Afternoon walks through the fields. Night walks along the Barrow River, beseeching his God out under the stars. The morning prayers, the noontime prayers, the evening prayers, the complines. The glorias, the psalms, the gospel readings. They gave a rigor to his faith, it staked him to a purpose."

I went into my sabbatical already convinced that if the church was to be renewed in our day, worship will be a key part of that renewal. After my time among the brothers at Holy Cross I now believe worship will be the centerpiece of renewal. Renewal will not come from a new program purchased from the denomination or from a consultant; it will not be born of more busyness or a frenetic following after and mimicking of "successful" congregations. Renewal will come as it always has - as a gift, a grace, from the hand of God. As the church worships faithfully, creating space for the grace of God, staking itself to a purpose, we will discover our renewal in surprising places, among unexpected people, on God's time.

The real question for me, for us, is if we have the discipline, the patience - the faith in God - to be who we are even as we await who we shall be. I believe we do. I live and work among a congregation that teaches me each day what such discipline, patience, and faith looks like in the world. My experience at Holy Cross has only deepened my gratitude for the congregation and denomination through which I serve God.

At Holy Cross, the first worship service beckons not long after the dawn. Each morning my little window in the monk's cell shone bright with the rising sun. I would go to it and stare out to the east, the gently rocking waters of the Hudson shining with golden light. And then the bell would ring, summoning me to continue my early worship in the sun-drenched chapel. The bell tolls five minutes before each of the services of worship throughout the day:

1. Matins - 7:00 a.m. The word comes from a Latin phrase that means "of the morning." In Roman Catholic communities it is the last of several evening prayers called "Nocturnals." The Anglican tradition combined those evening services into one early morning worship. Like many of the services, Matins centers on the chanting of several psalms with the theme of praise.

2. Eucharist - 9:00 a.m. The community celebrates the Eucharist daily, and all guests are invited to participate. The service follows a traditional order that many Presbyterians would recognize, culminating with all the participants gathering in a circle around the Lord's Table, sharing the peace of Christ, and then taking Communion. There is a great joy permeating this service that peaks at the Table - it is a true celebration of the presence of Christ.

3. Diurnum - Noon. The word "Diurnum" means "of the day." This is a service unique to the Anglican monastic tradition. It is a simple service, centered in the reading of psalms. At the heart of the worship is ten minutes of silence. The silence took me off-guard the first day; it seemed to last much longer. By the time I left, I looked forward to this service and that long silence more than any other.

4. Vespers - 5:00 p.m. Vespers occurs right before supper, and is characterized with more singing than any other worship. All the prayers, psalms, and scripture readings are intoned, and there are a good number of hymns. I entered the supper hall each evening with a song of peace in my head that often stayed with me into the night.

5. Compline - 8:05 p.m. All the lamps in the chapel are lit, and the worship space is cast in shadows. The service is more subdued, filled again with psalms and hymns. The theme of the service is thanksgiving, and it takes on the character of a preparation, not only for the sleep of this particular evening, but also for the sleep we will all enter in death. The service ends with the worship leader sprinkling baptismal water on all the participants. We leave the service in silence, which will be kept for the next twelve hours. We walk out of that space and into the night with a powerful reminder of our baptisms, water droplets still visible on our heads and clothing.

In between these times of worship I met with a small group of Christians from a diversity of traditions, each of us seeking what it means to serve within the church at a time when Christianity is no longer at the center of the culture. Diana Butler Bass walked us through her book, Christianity after Religion, a sobering snapshot of current conditions and a hope-filled invitation to courageous exploration of a future beyond establishment.

At one point, Dr. Bass said, "Churches need to move beyond simply asking "Who are we?" and begin asking, "Who are we, in God?" The prepositional phrase, "in God," changes our task from one of discovering a niche market or doing church the way we do politics - polling ourselves to gauge how we feel at any given moment. Instead, our eyes are turned away from us and toward God. Who are we, in God? Without adding the prepositional phrase, we fall prey to our modern propensity to make everything about us. With it, we are reminded that "spiritual journeys are entwined with the great 'I AM.' 'In God,' orients our selfhood in a larger relationship; we are ourselves, but we are not isolated individuals, we exist 'in' something." And then she said something that brought all the experiences of the week together in a moment of clarity that shone like the early morning sun through my window - "Christians do not worship to be entertained; Christians listen to sermons, sing, partake of bread and wine in community to be in Jesus."

The purpose of worship is to locate ourselves in the God we know in Jesus Christ. It is only as we are staked to this purpose, only as we come out of ourselves and understand ourselves in relationship to God that we will discover who we are in God. It is in this discovery that the seeds of renewal lie. They have been there all along. Like the tolling of the bell across the waters of the Hudson, God summons us to our highest call in the world - the worship of God's name. May worship imbue all our hours with joy, and may we find ourselves staked to its purpose.

Welcoming the Stranger: Five Rules According to the Benedictines

1. The Vision Thing. The community lives by the common vision of welcoming the stranger as an act of faith and discipleship. A sign in front of the church that says, "All are welcome" is no guarantee that all are really welcome. The people of the church - from the staff to the lay leaders to the members, the youngest to the oldest - have to see hospitality as a value and a priority.

The Benedictines live by the Rule of St. Benedict that "All who present themselves are to be welcomed as Christ, for he himself will say, 'I was a stranger, and you welcomed me.'" Their actions are grounded in a theological vision of Christ's church and the Kingdom of God. Our efforts at hospitality are likewise not for the purpose of growing the church or expanding the giving base, but because it is our calling in the world. The Risen Christ is loose in the world, and his presence is in all we meet, including - especially - the stranger. So to truly welcome the stranger is to welcome Christ.

In addition to the monastery, I was able to worship on Sunday at Riverside Church. It was a rainy day, and without an umbrella I was soaked by the time I walked from the Subway station to the church. I was about five minutes late, and entered the sanctuary dripping onto the tile, shuffling to find a pew. The congregation was singing the opening hymn, and as soon as I got to my pew, a woman on the other end walked down to me and handed me her hymnal, opened to the hymn She pointed to the stanza we were singing and then went back to her side of the pew. As the final hymn began, it became clear to me that the wrong hymn number was printed in the bulletin, and the minute I realized it, I heard a murmuring throughout the sanctuary, everyone calling out quietly to those around them the correct number.

This kind of attention to the needs of the other, of the stranger, is not something that can be programmed; it emerges from a community that sees hospitality as it's calling in the world.

2. The Bulletin as Hospitality. The worship bulletin (or screen for those congregations that use them in place of a bulletin) is a vital means of welcome. For churches that continue to worship out of deep wells of tradition, like the Benedictines and some Presbyterians, these traditions must be made accessible to all, especially to those who may be experiencing them for the first time. Every moment of worship should be printed (or projected), even those we think "everyone" knows. Doing so communicates that this is not a closed tradition or a mystery reserved for insiders, but is open and available to all.

At Holy Cross, every moment of worship is explained, which was helpful for me since I do not worship in the Anglican tradition. The explanations were not only about logistics (sit here, stand here), but were theological (why we sit here or stand there). Multiple times, verbally and in writing, all guests are encouraged to participate in the liturgy. However, we were not forced to participate. To sit in silence for the duration of the service was acceptable, and the monks made sure we knew that silent participation was a valid means of worship as well. Worship lies at the center of the life of the community, and regardless of how we worship, the richness of our liturgy should be readily available to all.

3. Handrails, Elevators, and Gluten-Free Bread. These are not rules so much as they are the outgrowth of Rule #1 above, but I include it separately because in our current age it seems especially important to recognize that hospitality extends to those with physical challenges.

The monastery was a very old building, but the community spent a significant amount of time and money making it accessible to all. And this accessibility was not something that became important for them in recent times with the advent of laws to insure it. The monks joked during orientation that everyone would need to treat the old elevator with care. It was built in the middle of the last century. Before it was ever politically correct or required by law, the Benedict rules of hospitality, grounded in a theological vision, compelled the community to make the entire building accessible to all.

All churches that embrace hospitality will conduct regular inventories to ascertain that all people, regardless of physical or mental challenges, are able to worship and participate fully in the life of the community.

4. Table Fellowship is not Just About the Food. Don't get me wrong, just like at First Presbyterian the food at Holy Cross was amazing. But the presence of food alone is no guarantee that fellowship is happening. Every communi establishes unwritten table rules, and these rules are where welcome or exclusion are most deeply felt. Regardless of what a community writes on its website or in its bulletin, at table the true values of the community become clear for all to see. We are called as congregations to be care-full in the ways we eat together, and willing to examine how our table habits either welcome or exclude the stranger.

5. Be Who You Are. Being all things to all people is not genuine hospitality. As a guest at Holy Cross, I would have been offended if the monks had changed who they were or their way of worshipping in order to make a Presbyterian feel more at home. I was a guest there because I wanted to experience their way of worship and their common life. I think too many churches in all of the traditions have spent the better part of the last thirty to forty years diluting and dumbing down their traditions and calling it hospitality. It is not working, I think, because it doesn't ring true to the guests who come into our houses of worship.

  The Benedictines are far from perfect. But they have at the core of their way of life a simple rule - all strangers are to be received as Christ. It is a rule that I think holds the key to the revitalization of the Christian church. I am grateful for all the ways the church I serve seeks to welcome the stranger, and I look forward to exploring with the, how we might embody this simple Benedictine, this simply Christian, way of being the church in the world.

Hospitality: Lessons from the Benedictines

The first sign of hospitality may be unintentional, but the affect on me is real - incense. The smell of incense is not overpowering, but subtle, as if the years of daily worship in this community have left small traces of themselves soaked in the old wood. Every nook of the place gives off the smell of worship.

The use of incense in worship in the Catholic, Anglican, and Orthodox Traditions date to the fourth century CE. It finds it's origins in ancient Jewish worship, hints of which we can detect in the Psalms - "Let my prayers rise to you as incense." It is the smell of prayer, a sign in the here and now of what we hope for in the time to come, when we will be surrounded by prayer continually, when all our words, all our breath, will be prayer. To walk into the Benedictine monastery is to be confronted - wordlessly - with the mystery of communion with God.

As soon as I am in the door, Brother Alfonso smiles and extends his hand, directing me to the main office to register. What seems a chance encounter reveals itself on closer inspection to be an intentional act of welcome. No sooner am I finished registering than Brother Alfonso appears again and asks if I would like a tour of the facility before I take my bags to my room. He walks me through every room, sharing a bit of history and letting me know exactly where everything I need is located. Along the way, he shares some of his own story. He began his vocation in this same monastery forty six years ago. He was part of a number of other communities over his life, and now was assigned back where he began, at Holy Cross. "They have probably brought me back here to die," he says with a laugh. "But I can't think of anywhere I'd rather breathe my last." As he spoke, we breathed in the incense, and the words he spoke mixed with the smells, testifying to the promises of God.

After the tour, he lets me know there will be an orientation later that night where our group will be able to ask questions. "We will tell you what we do here, and what we don't do." It was clear that I am part of the "we." I will be part of this community, bound by the covenants and rules that bound these brothers.

At orientation we learned about The Great Silence. Beginning after the last worship of the day, we will be silent for twelve hours - no conversation, no "noise-making" of any kind, and strong discouragement of any electronics. In fact, the monks did not allow speaking on cell phones anywhere within the buildings at any time. All phones are to be used outside only. All meals are to be taken together, anwether monks ask us to be present before the meals so we can pray as a group for our food. Breakfast occurs during The Great Silence, so there is no conversation. Lunch begins in silence so we can listen to a reading. The monks read through a variety of books this way through the year. There is no saving of seats. I saw someone try to save a seat one time. One of the brothers spoke to her quietly, and I didn't see that happen again. The monks sit among the guests during meals, and this is one of the best times to converse with them. Supper is the liveliest meal, with lots of laughter echoing in the dining hall.

I will blog a little later about the worship life of this community. For now, though, I wonder about the lessons the Benedictines can teach an old Presbyterian like me about hospitality outside of the sanctuary. A few things come to mind based on my brief sojourn, and I will share them tomorrow - The Top Five Benedictine Rules for Welcoming the Stranger.

I give thanks for the generous, authentic hospitality given to me by my brothers at Holy Cross. Every time I smell incense, I will remember them. And when I remember them, I will experience again the grace of God poured out through their community, and my prayers of praise will rise like incense before God.

The Big Apple Benedictines

I met St.Benedict on the 33 Q bus from LaGuardia Airport to Jackson Heights. He was hard of hearing. It wasn't until he leaned over and asked me to repeat myself twice that I saw the large hearing aids protruding from his head.

"Is the last stop on this route going to get me to the #7 train?" I asked, trying hard to avoid sounding as desperate as I felt. I was beginning to realize how poor my map reading skills were, and all the stops looked the same to me.

"I'm not sure...Hold on." He got out his phone and started thumbing through information. Then he turned to another guy behind him - "Does the 7 train leave from Jackson Heights and 24th?" Getting confirmation, he turned back to me. "You want to get off two stops up."

The next stop, he got off the bus and started walking down the street. As the driver was closing the doors, Benedict turned around quickly, ran back to the door of the bus, came inside, and yelled, "Sorry man, this is your stop. Come on." I got off the bus, and followed his out-stretched arm as he pointed across the street. "Just take those stairs to the Number 7 train."

I saw Benedict again as I was preparing to slide my Metro Card and go through the turnstiles. She yelled, "You want to go on the other side. That's the wrong way." I guess she saw my confused look - how did she know where I wanted to go? "Weren't you going to Grand Central?" She was also on the bus, but I hadn't noticed her. She had overheard the conversation.

Finally seated on the train, I felt more comfortable. I knew the trains had a map with each stop indicated, and it would be easy to spot Grand Central. When the train began stopping at what I assumed was Grand Central terminal, I started to get up, and, in a sudden flash of insecurity, asked the man sitting next to the door, "This is Grand Central, right?"

"No, " he replied, then added, in broken English, "I tell you. You watch me. I tell you. "

For the next three stops, as the train would slow down, I would look up and see St.Benedict there, shaking his head. Finally, on the third stop, he nodded and smiled, and I made my way through the door.

After a long, sunny train trip along the Hudson River and a short cab ride from the train station, I walked through the doors of Holy Cross Monastery. Posted there is a portion of the Rule of Saint Benedict - "All guests are to be welcomed as Christ, for he himself will say, 'I was a stranger and you welcomed me.'" But by the time I got within the safe confines of the monastery, nestled in among the trees of rural New York, I had already been welcomed in the middle of the city, stranger that I am, in the Benedictine Way, which is to say the Way of Christ.

I sought retreat in order to discover more the path of hospitality. I thought it might help show the way I and the church I serve could strengthen our faithful witness in these rapidly changing times. But the people on the public buses and trains of New York City showed it to me ahead of time, in a place where it was not expected and could not be reciprocated. It was an act of sheer grace.

Christ is present wherever grace abounds, whether he is acknowledged or not. I give thanks for his presence shining through the hospitality of the city.