Tom walked into my office looking glum. He tossed his backpack on the floor, fell into a chair by my desk, sighed, and then rummaged through his bag for the registrar’s form. Tom is a first-year seminary student, and I’m his counselor. We walked through the courses he would be taking, most of them part of our core curriculum. Tom’s lack of enthusiasm was screaming at me. Finally I took the bait: “So, Tom, what’s the matter?” His hands went up in the air as he shot back, “What’s the deal with all of these required courses? When do we get to study things that are relevant?” Ah, I thought, the old “Let’s make thousands of years of inherited tradition relevant to me” argument. I’d just had a similar conversation with a woman in the congregation where I serve, who wondered why we repeat the “same old creed” each Sunday.
After having worked for several years as a youth pastor, I recently
accepted a call to be an interim solo pastor. One weekend, Sara, a
beloved saint of the church, died after a long battle with Alzheimer's.
On Sunday morning I was standing in the choir room discussing plans for
the funeral when Jonathan—a high school sophomore—walked in.
Could loneliness be as contagious as the H1N1 virus? Is loneliness dangerous to the public’s health? Usually we think of “infection” or “contagion” only in relation to medical viruses and define lonely people as those who keep their feelings to themselves.
In my 45th year, I “came to my senses in a dark forest." Somehow my life had once again veered out of control, though not in the usual sense: not morally. In that sphere, I was looking pretty good. I was teaching at a university and was a published writer. After a challenging stint as a single mother, I’d made a go of it with a new marriage. Most important, after a decade of deliberate, repetitive sinning, I’d repented and returned to the church. I was bashfully pleased with myself and content with my life.
I was speaking at a Methodist clergy gathering when a pastor told me
that at first the hotel had not been excited about hosting the group,
since its members weren’t going to run up any kind of bar bill. But then
the hotel manager noted that they had more than made that up in how
much was spent on dessert. The Methodists were welcome there anytime.
Brian Darweesh and Reem Younes had a simple, civil wedding as Syrian refugees in Lebanon. They had fled from their homes in Syria due to violence and a threat on Darweesh’s life. Two Mennonite congregations in Winnipeg, Manitoba, sponsored their immigration to Canada. A little over a year after the civil wedding, the two Canadian congregations threw the couple a wedding ceremony, complete with a wedding dress for Younes and a Syrian dessert. “She married the man of her dreams . . . but [until now] she didn’t get to have the wedding of her dreams,” a congregational representative said (Mennonite World Review, October 16).