Montclair Presbyterian Church

Friends,

There are places in this world that are beautiful because God made them beautiful—think Yosemite, or an unspoiled Caribbean beach. There also are buildings made by humans that are wonderful—and would be wonderful regardless of where they were set, and here I’ll mention the Eiffel Tower and the Montclair branch of the Oakland Public Library because they both share a birthday with Montclair Presbyterian Church (I’d mention the Parthenon and the Salisbury Cathedral, but I don’t know the anniversary of their respective dedications). Then, there are places where both God’s creation and the genius of human architecture come together in ways that I find deeply moving.

San Francisco is a good example of what it looks like when people build buildings and bridges that match the created landscape, as is Mendocino (of course, on that I’m prejudiced because Mendocino is my home town, but never let it be said that for me, when it comes to my home town, familiarity has bread contempt). As much as I love both San Francisco and Mendocino, the most powerful example of this that I have experienced in my travels is around Lake Como, in Northern Italy, near where my great-grand parents (on my step-father’s side) were born. Somehow the people building cities such as Bellagio and Rezzonico knew how build settlements that developed in harmony with the mountains and lakes that were all around them, a practice that was emulated by wealthy and royal newcomers who, in later years (by which I mean during the 18 and 19th century) built impressive villas around the lake.

It seems to me that places like Lake Como, and San Francisco and Mendocino provide a nice metaphor for the spiritual life. As persons of faith we are seeking to build lives that live in harmony with God’s created order. I mean this ecologically, of course, and I also mean this socially and economically and artistically, but I’m also talking about the ways we shape our souls to match the contours of Spirit.

During Holy Week, as we remember Jesus triumphal entry, his passion, death and resurrection we are given templates for the work of building spiritual lives that live in harmony with God’s created order. Palm Sunday and the subsequent days of teaching show us how to live in the prime of our lives; the last supper shows us the importance of intimacy as we walk into the shadowlands of betrayal; the passion and crucifixion teach us about faithful sacrifice, and they assure us of God’s empathy and love as we face struggles of our own, and the resurrection is a promise that in all things, God writes the final chapter in the story of our lives, and in the end, the sun rises after the darkest night, and the warmth and color of spring follows the cold winter, hope casts out fear and in all things love abides.

Wishing You God’s Peace for Holy Week,
Ben

Last week, for the first time ever, I un-friended someone on Facebook. Some of you who follow me on social media may know this guy—his name is David and he’s someone I knew in college. When we lived across the hall from one another during our freshmen year, we had an almost constant debate running. He came from a theologically fundamentalist and politically ultraconservative home; theologically, my upbringing was in the Evangelical mainstream, and politically it was somewhere between solidly liberal and radically left-wing. Both David and I liked to debate (OK, argue) issues.

But here’s the problem. The reincarnation of our argumentative relationship was toxic online. I want my Facebook page to be a safe place and David’s brusk and sometimes bullying style made it unsafe. Still, it was hard to unfriend David. I don’t like the idea of discontinuing a relationship—even if it is an online relationship—and I want to be the kind of person who maintains friendships and sustains conversation with folks whose ideas I find offbeat, out of whack or even offensive. Our society is far too polarized and fragmented; I believe we should be moving toward one another and not away, even when we have disagreements.

So there’s my struggle: I want to be the kind of friend who relishes my connections to people who hold a variety of beliefs, but I also want my online community to feel safe. It’s an almost koan-like quandary. Perhaps I need to sit with it a while. Or, there’s this option: my Lenten discipline was to send postcards to old friends. It felt like a more authentic kind of communication and a more profound expression of friendship than is available on social media. Maybe I’ll send David a postcard.

What do you think?
Ben

True story: in the first congregation I served, there was a prominent family which always sat in the same pew, which happened to be the back pew on the side opposite the pulpit–as far away from the preacher as possible. It is a fact that the floor of the sanctuary sloped down to the corner where they sat, as if the cumulative weight of (at the time) four generations of this family had compromised the strength of the floor joists, back in the corner where they sat. Every once in a while, a visitor would arrive earlier than the family and would sit in the family’s pew, and I would watch as the members of the family arrived. Just by looking at them I could tell they were torn between wanting to welcome visitors (which genuinely they did), and being absolutely distressed at the prospect of having either to share their pew or move to a different place in the sanctuary.

Another true story: about two weeks after moving into our home in Oakland, we had our first guests up from San Jose to join us for dinner. Having negotiated the steep streets of the Oakland Hills, our friends parked their minivan across from our house. Drinks were poured, hors d’oeuvres were laid out, and we settled into the good work of having wonderful evening together. Just as we were about to gather at the table, our doorbell rang. It was our neighbor from across the street in forming us, with an aggrieved look on his face, that our company had parked in his space. It was awkward. Being new to the neighborhood, I didn’t feel empowered to tell him about how, on public streets, there is not assigned parking. Instead, I had to ask my friends to move their minivan. The experience made me feel profoundly unwelcome in the neighborhood, and even though the same neighbor–both before and after the incident–has been kind and cheerful with me, I still feel a little nervous when my friends and family park their cars on the street in front of my house.

Now, I happen to know that a lot of folk at MPC tend to sit in the same place week after week. This can be a good thing–it helps folks get to know one another, but for the sake of our floor, it might be good to try out different parts of the sanctuary from time to time, especially if a new-comer (or even a more adventurous member or friend of the family) beats you to your accustomed pew. A sure way to make a visitor feel unwelcome is to ask him or her to move to a different place, and besides, there is much to be said for sitting in a new spot. It can bring a new perspective on the experience of church and, in that way, serve as a metaphor for the adventures and wonders that can be a part of life if we will but sit in a new pew or park our car on a new stretch of curb.

Ben

Dear Friends,

My favorite bike has been in the shop for the last few weeks. I blew out my freewheel for the second time in as many months, and the folks at my bike shop were kind enough to replace the broken part for free, but—typical of warrantee work—my wheel was somewhat low on their list of priorities, so it took a while.

But on Monday I was finally back in my Brooks saddle, the bike feeling as a bike should feel, which is just a touch shy of flight. It was wonderful. The weather was perfect and my bike was tuned as well as it ever is, and the magic of the experience started creeping up from the place where the wheels roll along the pavement, and into my brain. I was infected with magical thinking, and set off to do the impossible—I tried to find a route from my house (which clings to the side of a hill just off Redwood Road) to Montclair, that wouldn’t involve any nasty hills.

The hills of Oakland have a way of disabusing the hopeful cyclist of any fantasies she or he may have of easy riding or of gentle slopes, but, trusting the magic of the morning and of the bike, I came close, by going in a way that seemed, at first, to be improbable. I rode clear down to MacArthur and then crossed on gently rolling terrain to Park Boulevard, which I rode up to Montclair—not like riding in Kansas, mind you, but much easier than riding up Redwood Road to Skyline, which is what I had been doing.

Here’s my take away: sometimes it’s good to listen to the magic. As modern people living in the a technological age, we tend to think rationally, and surely I could have found my way up Park Boulevard by way of MacArthur using a map (and I did consult a map), but it took the magic of a freshly serviced bike and a glorious day to get me inspired to explore.

So every day let us be touched by magic. Let us be filled with wonder. Let us be infused with joy, for often, when our lives are so touched, filled, and infused, we find that the source of this magic is the God who makes everything new.

God’s Peace,
Ben

Friends,

As the final days of Winter turn to Spring, taking with them the final possibility for significant rainfall this year, I find myself spiritually torn because I love this weather, yet—like every other Californian—I wish it would rain in Oakland and snow in Yosemite.

So here is the question: is it possible, at the same time, to give thanks for the sunshine and pray for rain? I hope so, because I’ve been doing both, and while it feels, at first, like these conflicting impulses cancel each other out, I’ve come to think that we need to learn to engage in opposites in order to survive in a complex world.

We need to embrace the interconnectedness of a global economy, while, at the same time, investing in local communities. We need to be true to ourselves while, at the same time, being considerate of others. We need to love prodigiously, while, at the same time, for the sake of our emotional wellbeing, we must safeguard our emotions. We must practice a faith of crucifixion and resurrection.

So as Spring marches in, we might want to consider performing a rain-dance while dressed in panama hats and guayaberras. It would be an exercise in spiritual health, and—who knows—it might actually bring us a little more moisture.

God’s Peace,
Ben

Friends,

Here’s a confession only an American could make: I’m really happy the football season is over and Spring training has begun. In theory I like football. It is a game of strategy that combines great athleticism and skill. It is a team sport in which every player is needed and essential, but I don’t like what football has become, especially in the NFL. I don’t like how every team uniform in the NFL is identical, down to the knit hats the players wear on the sidelines. I don’t like the swagger and bravado players exhibit when they make a good play or score a touchdown. Most of all, I don’t like the aesthetic of violence that has permeated football. The game is necessarily rough and physical (which I like), but somehow it feels to me as if the sport has become a gladiator event designed to sate our bloodlust rather than a contest between athletes.

The arrival of baseball brings with it a slower-paced, more contemplative vibe. It’s a bit more modest too. If a football player makes a tackle, he’s likely to do a mocking dance to celebrate his having accomplished something that happens just about every play; in baseball, a slugger might hit a game-winning grand slam, in a pennant race, on his late grandmother’s birthday, and tip his cap only reluctantly.

Baseball is slow enough that listening to the game on the radio still is a pleasure. Baseball has a song everyone can sing (Take Me Out to the Ball Game); and whereas I happen to know the Pittsburg Steelers have a polka (I’ve seen Steelers fans dancing at a wedding reception and it’s wonderful), the NFL’s best effort at singing is “Are You Ready For Some Football?”, which just isn’t all that.

Anyway, bring on the Spring, and for the sake of all that is holy, PLAY BALL!

Wishing you a low ERA and a high batting average,
Ben

Friends,

As many of you know, I’ve been working on a book for as long as I’ve been the pastor of Montclair Presbyterian Church—actually my work on the book started about the same time I started talking to MPC about the possibility of moving to Oakland, and in many ways the book feels very connected to my move from San Jose to Oakland. I finished the book’s first draft during my post-Christmas vacation, and now, I’m deep into the work of working with my editor to make the book better.

Editing can be difficult work. It’s not easy to learn all the ways a manuscript needs improvement. Sometimes editing requires the removal of bits of writing that I really liked. Sometimes it means figuring out how to add ideas without disrupting the flow and balance of what already is written. Editing can be like working on a puzzle, and, like a puzzle, its end result is rewarding and satisfying, but the process can drive a person to distraction.

Because I’ve been so involved in the work of editing, its hard for me not to think about the season of Lent as an editing process. Traditionally, the season of Lent has been set aside by the church as a time to prepare for Easter by undergoing a time of spiritual revision. Lent can be thought of as a time to correct the typos of our lives, a time when we can revise the flow of our thoughts, and to clarify our hopes and dreams for a well-written tomorrow, confident in the renewal and joy that awaits us at Easter.

So I hope you will join me in the process of editing this Lent. Some of my edits will be book-related, but more of them, I hope, will be personal and spiritual; if you want to talk about spiritual and personal edits with me, please don’t hesitate to set up a time to meet with me.

Incidentally, here is what the cover of my next book will look like:

Friends,

For years, I’ve been trying to figure out how to give up the use of tantalum capacitors for Lent, and I know this is sort of weird—most people give up things like alcohol or chocolate—but there’s a reason for my desire to pursue this nerdly spiritual discipline. Tantalum capacitors are necessary components for the production of the small electronic devices all of us use every day, and tantalum is made from a substance called coltan, which, thanks to the world’s voracious appetite for cellphones and other smart devices, has become exceptionally valuable.

The value of coltan is problematic because one of the places where coltan is most abundant is in the Congo River Delta in Africa, a place where civil unrest, protracted warfare, and the breakdown of functioning government is made worse by the fact that various warring armies are funding their violence (and getting rich in the process) from the mining of coltan in the territories they control. Thus, the electronic devices I own are helping subsidize warfare, and that makes me profoundly uncomfortable.

But I’m not able to give up my use of electronic devices. I use a computer and sometimes an iPad to write. The phones at work are made with tantalum capacitors, and while at home I own a rotary phone, I no longer have a land line in which to plug in and for that reason my only telephone option is a cellphone made with tantalum capacitors. The only way for me to give up tantalum is to go dark and off the grid, which I’m not prepared to do.

So this year during Lent I’m not going to give up tantalum, but I will choose not to use tantalum at least symbolically. This Lent I’m going to try to send 40 postcards to friends and family members—that’s one postcard for each day of Lent. I have a small collection of unused antique postcards which I will put to use, and I hope this discipline will give me the opportunity to reconnect with folks with whom I haven’t talked in a while. We’ll see how it goes.

I appreciate your prayers as I take this symbolic stand against the violence generated by my consumption of tantalum capacitors, and if you happen to have any old and unused postcards sitting around I’m a few short of 40, and I’d be happy to take any donations.

God’s Peace,
Ben

Friends,

Here are a couple of reasons why last Sunday was truly amazing.

1. During my time at MPC, last Sunday probably was the highest attendance we’ve had, and it was Super Bowl Sunday. Most congregations record their lowest attendance of the year on Super Bowl Sunday, even on the West Coast, but you, dear folks from MPC, have figured out that a person can go to Celebration on Sunday and still get home in time to lay out a nice veggie platter before kickoff. Thank you!
2. After Celebration I had a conversation in which someone pointed out a weakness in my sermon, and it was an enjoyable conversation. Most pastors–and I’m no exception—dread hearing critiques of their sermons while sipping coffee after church (compliments are always welcome, but most preachers would rather hear push back later in the week). But this conversation was different. The person with whom I spoke was friendly and thoughtful, and he was as interested in hearing what I had to say as he was in sharing his ideas. And here’s the best part: I wasn’t surprised to be having the conversation. I’ve come to expect a rich and respectful exchange of ideas at Montclair Presbyterian Church. It’s part of why I love being your pastor.

I know that the fortunes of congregations ebb and flow. There are seasons of stress and times when goodwill and joy abound. I’m grateful to be with you in an exciting season, and hopeful when I think of all that may happen in the months and years to come.

Warmly,
Ben

Friends,

In celebration on Sunday, January 18th, I used a prayer that was written by Martin Luther King, and after the service, some used a white-card to suggest that I print the text of the prayer in the Contact. It seemed like a good idea to me; here is the prayer:

Oh God, our gracious, heavenly Father, we thank Thee for the creative insights in the universe. We thank Thee for the lives of great saints and prophets in the past, who have revealed to us that we can stand up amid the problems and difficulties and trials of life and not give in. We thank Thee for our fore-parents, who’ve given us something in the midst of the darkness of exploitation and oppression to keep going. And grant that we will go on with the proper faith and the proper determination of will, so that we will be able to make a creative contribution to this world and in our lives. In the name and spirit of Jesus we pray. Amen. (Found at “Thou, Dear God: The Prayers of Martin Luther King, Jr.” Beliefnet.com http://www.beliefnet.com/Faiths/Christianity/Galleries/Thou-Dear-God.aspx?p=15#6CLhcaZGOOSqzF0i.99 )

I cannot promise to respond to every white card communication as directly (or as efficiently) as I just responded here, but please know that we read each and every white card that comes into the office. It is a good way for church members and friends to share ideas with those of us who work at the church, and we always enjoy it when you tell us what we’re doing right.

Let’s keep talking!
Ben