johnvano.com

Waiting on the Trumpet Blast

Christmas Eve services were absent from my childhood. It's the New Year's Eve service I remember.

Magic dangled over the precipice between today and tomorrow, history about to unfold, with the promise that nothing would never be the same again. I never really cared for change, but I liked staying up late.

The service would have been short, designed so that we'd be on our knees at the stroke of midnight. Though there was no stroke, the hands of the clock ticked silently and far away on the back wall of the sanctuary. I would sneak-a-peek (okay, many peeks), mesmerized by the distant future and determined to see it click alive with my own eyes. I understood being bathed in God's presence as a new year began, but I felt cheated that a year disappear without fanfare, the believers' eyes opening somewhere after 12:05 with a reverent amen.

Fear trapped me there on my knees. I believed God would choose the most obvious time to send His Son back to earth with a trumpet blast. Afraid I wasn't quite ready, I'd worry over my sins, watching and praying. It's silly to think the God who promised an end when we least expected it, would use the nonsynchronized hands of a church clock in Minnesota as his countdown trigger. For goodness sake, we weren't even on eastern standard time.

After a closing song, the faithful watchers were released to the basement for all kinds of sweet goodies. My friends were there, and we filled our bottomless stomachs for a king-of-the-hill match on top of a 15-foot high mound of snow pushed together by city trucks in the parking lot.

All reverance forgotten, we pushed and scraped for supremacy, our mothers calling us to the car before we could ascend the throne. 

Turn and Tell

“Turn and tell someone you’re so glad to see them this morning!!”

If you’ve spent any time in an evangelical church, you’ve surely been assaulted by grinning commands from the platform—instructions that can make even the most social of people cringe.

Telling congregants to swirl to their left and right to shake hands or repeat a trite encouragement is not likely to further the faith. Is the operating assumption here that we can’t make friends, or won’t think to greet people before or after the worship service? Must we be implored to break form within the meeting to glad-hand?

Nearly always it’s the worship leader who is guilty of this schmaltz, typically a guy on super church serum who confuses lifting praises to God with the role of cruise director on The Love Boat.

Often the statements we’re told to repeat are unnaturally long-winded. What is the degree to which I believe the phrase someone is telling me? How many people go off the reservation to say whatever they feel like, to mumble only a “hello”, or say nothing at all?

The next time you’re given these instructions—take note of the room. A handful of charged up congregants will run about, passing out hugs and conspiratorial close-talks; many will dutifully shake, smile, and mumble; even as others stand frozen and forgotten.

I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a spontaneous conversation break out between two people who didn’t already know each other. Usually obligatory handshakes are thrown around until one runs out of hands, forced to wait (a bit awkwardly) on the instigator now taking laps around the sanctuary.

It seems we could do a lot better.

Worship Well

I've never done worship well.

Like most of my contemporaries, worship means to sing with others of like mind and heart. But my heart rarely connects the way it should. I find myself straining to get the music right, to hit the notes, to not bleed the ears of the person in front of me. I watch the hand-motions of those leading the music. Sometimes they wave, conducting the voices in the hall (I have no idea what to do with these gestures), sometimes they clack at percussions or hang limply at their side, tapping the thigh on the beat. I'm easily distracted, forgetting the power of the words, the Scripture I'm singing back to God.

I know there's much more to worship. I know this because I have lept from the couch and raised my hands at a 50-yard touchdown pass and because I have leaked tears over my daughter's smile, and went to a far-off place when I smelled the pages of a new book. But in this I worship only the creature, not the Creator who is to be ever praised Amen.

grape juice

I'm staring at a thimble's worth of grape juice, contemplating the lingering, chalky taste of a bread Chiclet. I pray, trying to make sense of this centuries-old ritual. Then, in visualizing threads of thorns, pressed into his head, cutting him and making him bleed, I begin to see the import of what I hold in my hand. 

I dwell on the pain, the excruciating, senseless pain of one who was born perfect, who lived perfectly, whose life was formed in this world so that I could be made perfect.

Blood splashes on the walls of my mind, from the snickering guards who whipped my Savior, weakening him for the sacrifice, to the blood of countless sheep shed for acts of contrition long forgotten.

I take this plastic cup, it's dark red fruit, and I drink in remembrance.

First Five: The Church

This might be a continuing feature for johnvano.com. We'll call it "The First Five," a list of the first five memories that pop into my head on a subject. These impressions do not have to be profound. First up... The Church.

1. "Act your way into loving."

I remember listening to a 50-something couple in my teenage years. These were some of the hardest working, most wonderful Christians, and they shared how early in their marriage they almost divorced. They said they had fought all the time, and in order to save their marriage, they agreed to act toward the other person with the way they wished they felt. In the end, their emotions caught up with their behavior. I never forgot that.

2. "So why do you want a divorce?"

Shortly after we married, my wife and I decided we should switch churches. It was something I'd never done before (either than for a move, or to follow my dad around as he took a new pastorate), but we did so for two reasons: 1) I had grown very frustrated with the obstacles to service in this particular church which had become a bit rigid in its practice and 2) I was coming off a period of mega-service to my peers (the singles) and there wasn't a group of young marrieds to nurture my wife and I as we got started. I still have regrets about this decision, because I'm loyal, hate to give up, hate to hurt people, and wonder if I could've stuck it out and tried to make a difference. Anyway, I heard through the grapevine that the senior pastor was disappointed about our decision, so I went to him with the desire to bless him. My goal was to encourage him, ignoring the problems I saw, in order to leave him with good feelings and a thank you. After I had shared how much his church meant to me, he turned to me and said, "So why do you want a divorce?"

3. Praying in the New Year

In my first church--the church my parents were raised in--there was a tradition that I am sure was common to many churches of the 1970's and 80's, the midnight prayer service on New Year's Eve. This event was our response to the revelery of parties and fireworks. I always wondered what it would be like to see Dick Clark count down the New Year, instead, I was on my knees, peeking at the wall clock to see if Jesus would come storming back when the clock struck midnight. Afterwards, we'd play king-of-the-hill on the 30-foot-high mound of snow in the back parking lot.

4. Sunshine for Sunday

Growing up, there was always camp meeting. Boys and Girls Camp, Teen Camp, and Family Camp. Our denomination's family campground was a magical place, complete with an underground tunnel connecting the two parts. The tabernacle (where we met for services) was set on a hill, with the seats ramping upward from the front platform. Behind the preacher and choir was a large window that looked out on the water, and the sides of the tabernacle were screen windows that let in the cool breeze of the night. I think this is why I've always been restless in a windowless sanctuary.

5. "I can still see a little bit of the Bible."

When I was probably in fifth grade, long past the point of knowing everything there was to know in church, I can remember giving our pastor's wife a hard time during a Sunday School lesson she substitute taught for us. She was one of the world's great beauties, even as a 10-year-old I could recognize this, and I remember wanting to tease her and show my comfort level with her to the rest of the class (this was also the year I won "class clown" in my middle school). She was illustrating how we often neglect the Bible because we've covered it up with so many distractions, and to show this she had covered her Bible with various magazines, toys, etc. Spying an edge of the Bible still uncovered, I said, "Well I can still see a little bit right there." It's interesting... for far too long, that's how I lived... distracted, while keeping a corner of the Bible visible.

So I'm Fallible

In case you needed more evidence of my fallibility--I was just proven wrong with my 2008 baseball predictions. Turns out the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim did have the stuff to win the AL West. You may remember, I made a huge leap of faith by selecting the Texas Rangers. This defied all the evidence (I'm not even sure it's fair to call this faith), as I hoped we might see someone besides the Angels representing the west this year. The Rangers have improved--great offense, intriguing stars (Kinsler, Hamilton), and Nolan Ryan overseeing their improving pitchers--but not enough for this year.

I Also Met with Angels

It was also my first night for the Wednesday night program at our new church. I won't get into why we have a new church, but suffice it to say, I am going to find some intriguing things of note as I get introduced to the new one. The rest of my family has been going on Wednesday nights for a year now (with the exception of summer), and now with us decided about our church home, I'm throwing down the gauntlet and getting involved in more than just the Sunday mornings, too.

As we Christians hypothesize about the state of the American church, it was interesting to note the make-up of my demographic tonight, or the lack thereof. The adults had several options: 1) Involvement in the children's program, 2) Choir, 3) After dinner clean-up crew, 4) Video series on parenting, or 5) Book study on the holiness of grace. I chose "grace"--thinking I could use more fidelity in my faith. This too, was where most of the non-singers gravitated. The room was full--about 30 of us--and we began by confessing a "harmless" sin to one another. Most opted for critical spirit, gossip, procrastination, anger, while I was the lone ranger... citing my efforts to pray unceasingly (I can only get as far as 9 a.m.).

It was a good discussion which served to prove the facilitator's point--that overcoming sin, or any moral improvement is ultimately impossible outside the power of Christ. The solution to our fall-shortness is in fact method-less, in that we are to abide in Christ. I found the discussion and the Scripture useful and welcome here at midweek.

...and I Met with Pirates

As I looked around the room, we were a motley sort--about 25 of us were easily over 60, complete with gnarled toes, pinched faces, and tired jokes. A few others were solidly 40ish--including the teacher, a Dennis Millery person (there was also a Larry Bud Melman and a Tony Danza among us), there were two of us that were late 30's (myself included), and one perhaps late 20's. Nothing wrong with that... but we should do better. We have the words of life here (and in many other good churches around the counrty), but those of us in the career years are staying away.

I Met with Brewers, Too

After the study I went across the street to Barnes and Noble for a 90-minute writing session where I was waited on by a doubly-pierced (in his lip) barrista, witnessed a women's book club disperse, listened to a pair of young girls chatter in Japanese, watched a couple of black youths being mentored by a guy my age, and saw another guy my age enjoying free periodicals while he drank his coffee. Wouldn't it be great if I could get some of these folks across the street sometime?