Wandering No More
This is the last chapter. I can’t promise a happy Hollywood ending but maybe there’s something better.
This is the last chapter. I can’t promise a happy Hollywood ending but maybe there’s something better.
In the dozen years I have been a member of the Presbyterian Church in Canada my life has been touched and transformed by some remarkable people. Many of them have been other lay members whose friendship and inspiration have nursed life’s bruises and rekindled flagging spirits, but important in a different sense have been those called to the ministry of word and sacrament.
I’ve often described myself as a postmodern being, without being quite sure what postmodernism is. It has, however, never led me into a slough of despond.
As this series winds toward its conclusion, I find myself reflecting on the dozen-or-so years I’ve enjoyed in our church. It’s not surprising that the moments that linger are moments of laughter.
The fundamentalist religious right … the same type of sound religious principles as Osama Bin Laden,” wrote one.
Sometimes grandma on her knees can get more truth than the philosopher on his tiptoes.
Spong categorically rejects Wright’s interpretation of a supernatural God who miraculously invades the world to save us from the reality of death.
Most readers will have guessed from my wanderings that I’m on the back nine of life. As I made the turn, I hoped to make more birdies on the way home than I did on the outward nine. It depends, of course, on who’s keeping score but on m my card.
By the time you read this we’ll have become grandparents for the fourth time.
I composed this in my mind one morning while the dentist had her way with my teeth.
In a coincidence that I think was unconnected with the loss of a beloved sister-in-law during the last Christmas season, I have read two books about death and resurrection in recent weeks.
We are a religion of the word and, boy, do we hear a lot of words.
It certainly doesn’t vibrate with Christian compassion but, let’s face it, there are some people we just don’t like.
I’ve often wondered whether we all must diligently travel along the same path, desperately seeking God. Is the only truth our truth, the legacy that was recorded in the Old and New Testaments?
One of the things about joining a church, it soon became clear, is that you’re expected to serve God. Apparently that meant more than just showing up on Sundays, ruminating about the message, and dropping a few dollars in the plate. You actually gotta do something.
In my youth I became a fan of Marshall McLuhan, cryptic sage of “the medium is the message.” His thesis, as I understood it, is a useful prism through which to deconstruct the present-day plight of the churches our age calls mainstream. You know, the ones with all the puzzled faces in the few pews the are occupied. Even Presbyterian ministers are writing revolutionary essays and letters in the pages of the Record.
This marks my tenth little step along this wandering, wondering path and, though the theologians have winced and the traditionalists have shuddered, they haven’t thrown me out of the Presbyterian Church yet.
Maybe demographics explain why many of us drift into gardening as the years pass. One of my mother’s favourite stories was about the day, as a tiny diapered tot, I backed into a rose bush—so perhaps destiny is at work.
The challenge, the delight, of “doing radio” alone in a darkened studio is to make listeners of those who only hear. Dictionaries are a little ambiguous about my hair splitting, but when the reader proclaims: “Hear the word of God,” I think “listen to God’s word” might be more fruitful instruction.
The dawning new year seems a moment that needs prayer as we face the unkown ahead. I suppose there is a course about prayer I could sign up for somewhere and maybe it would be helpful, like consulting a golf pro about my backswing.