Montclair Presbyterian Church

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