January 2007

And So It Begins

Dickens got it right, I think, with his “best of times, worst of times” opening line. With this Herald I begin my turn writing “Endnotes.” Of course, that also means I’m responsible for the other forty-one pages, too. Last month I was “contributing editor”; with the new year, I’m “editor”—yet I’ll be contributing far more than ever. Go figure.

Most folks see a new year as a good thing. One of the oddities of the human mind is that no matter how many good things may have taken place in a day or a year, it’s the bad stuff we take home with us at the end. With that in mind, I’m grateful 2006 has passed. For starters, we’ve been redesigning everything in sight here at church headquarters. But certainly the year’s low point for me came in September with my mother’s death. At age eighty-four, in fairly good health until the end, and a widow for twenty-four years, she left behind a legacy of family, friends, and accomplishments. One of the most emotional experiences of my life came as my brother and I sat by her hospital bed, holding her hands as she took her final breaths.

And yet—and it was the fact there was an “and yet” that bothered me most. I was bothered that, as emotional as it was, I wasn’t bothered in a religious way. Now, I can’t imagine a better time for a faith crisis or at least some existential angst than when life intersects with “non-life.” Maybe I’ve just seen too many movies, or had my faith become so simplistic or routine that I no longer even cared to think about such things?

A couple weeks later, a message popped up in my e-mail in-box with the news that my New Testament professor from seminary had died. It had been almost thirty years since I’d sat in Lloyd Gaston’s classes, yet what is time when memory intrudes? Lloyd was responsible for a giant shift in my thinking back then by planting a seed of two little Greek words: pistis Christou.

That word “pistis” usually translates as faith (or, sometimes, trust). Its use in Romans 3:22 often leads people to conclude that faith in Christ opens the “doors of heaven” (or, more formally, “God’s righteousness”). But Lloyd (and others, I later learned) looked at it another way. The heavy lifting of salvation, he taught, is not the result of good works or “trusting in Jesus” (not that either is a bad thing, of course). Rather, it’s the faithfulness of Christ that’s the key to God’s plan of salvation—a gift of grace for eternity, here and beyond.

I know, I know—isn’t all this theology just “church talk” that gets in the way of the simple teachings of Jesus? What does it matter anyway? On a warm September afternoon, it mattered to me. A seed had taken root and after three decades had grown into a peace I didn’t recognize until I needed it. Now with a new job in a new year, I need it still.

–Richard A. Brown

End Quote

“Dwell as near as possible to the channel in which your life flows.” –Henry David Thoreau

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February 2007

Renaissance People

One of my high school English teachers had a fondness for writing pithy statements on the chalk board. Of the two I can recall, one has served me well over the years as a reporter, writer, and editor: “Be Specific.” The other one—well, not so much: “Jack of all trades, master of none.”

Consider the times, though. The U.S. educational system in the sixties was shifting its focus from well-rounded, liberal education to job training in a highly competitive world. Most everybody wanted their kids to grow up to be doctors, lawyers, scientists, engineers, or CEOs. Specialization was the name of the game. Trouble was, I never really knew what I wanted to be when I grew up.

And so I heard that “Jack of all trades” comment as a warning, if not as a put-down. I much preferred the term “Renaissance man.” That’s someone “who has wide interests and is expert in several areas.” Think DaVinci, Michelangelo, Galileo, Jefferson, Schweitzer. Sadly, there wasn’t much call for that when I graduated from university in 1973. The closest I could get was a job as a newspaper reporter.

My so-called career as a Renaissance man has found a parallel in my faith community, leading me to dabble in a lot of different areas: Restoration and Christian church history, theology, liturgy, practice of ministry, organizational structure, even church architecture. (Not surprisingly, I’ve taken aptitude tests that clearly identify me as a “big picture” guy.) That’s one thing about this church—specialization hasn’t exactly been our strongest suit. Not that we haven’t tried or wanted it, of course.

Many other churches appear to do “One Big Thing” well: Episcopalians and Anglicans—high-church liturgy; Roman Catholics—mystery; evangelicals—small groups and mega-churches (you can’t really have the latter without the former); Quakers and Mennonites—peace; Mormons—organization.”

It’s worth noting that the operational focus of many religious movements can be plotted on a continuum with “obedience” on one end and “free thinking” on the other. It would be hard to find a better example of that than with the two main branches of Latter Day Saints.

So what if we’re a “Renaissance church”? Still, I think there is one area of expertise that is distinctly ours. I discovered it as Daily Bread editor for the past twenty years and, also, as Restoration Witness and Face to Face editor. My brain glazes over a bit trying to add up the testimonies I’ve read in that time (obviously, math isn’t one of my Renaissance areas). Let me just say, it’s a whole lot.

If there is “One Big Thing” the Community of Christ does extremely well, I believe it’s to recognize and share the movement of the Holy Spirit in our lives as individuals and as a faith community. We “listen to the Voice” and “let the Spirit lead” and openly share divine goodness and power in our midst. Now some might call us “Jack’s church.” Maybe so, but I think I’m in the right place.

—Richard A. Brown

End Quote

“You can’t have everything. Where would you put it?” —Mark Twain

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March 2007

Spring Gardens

The other night I had one of those dreams that hangs around a while afterward, that makes me wonder if it might have some deep, lasting significance. I was in a classroom with a bunch of other people, all taking turns reading from a book. But it wasn’t a book, with printed text on paper pages. It looked a little bit like a thick, layered sponge covered with multicolored images—lots of waves and curves and weird shapes. It required more focus than an ordinary book, but when I looked at the images intently I could not only read the words but understand their deepest meaning.

When I woke up, I began to wonder if I’d been given a glimpse of something truly extraordinary—a piece in a metaphysical puzzle or perhaps some new way to communicate. On the other hand, maybe all that was “speaking” to me was the spinach and chicken enchilada I’d eaten for dinner the night before. You see, I never know whether these experiences are moments of genius or goofiness. In this case, probably the latter.

When my wife and I moved into our present home fourteen years ago this June, I set out to prepare the existing garden area in the backyard. I’d always had a garden. Even when I lived on the twelfth floor of a high-rise apartment building, I grew plants in containers on the balcony. So I was really looking forward to managing such a big space. But weeds got a head start (thanks to an unusually wet spring), so it seemed like the harder I worked, the more grew in their place, and the farther behind I got. Over the course of that exhausting summer a “vision” gradually came to me of raised garden beds amid a thick layer of mulch. It took a few years, but inspiration finally morphed into reality. Sure, I still get some weeds in the mulch, but I can handle them now.

On the other hand, I haven’t had as much time the past few years to garden as I’d like. It’s a good thing I planted some perennials along the way. The daffodils are first to poke their green shoots up even before the snow has disappeared. Fortunately, Mother Nature doesn’t depend on my imagination or hard work to bring a little beauty to my yard. She loves all plants equally, however—even the ones I call weeds. I guess you could say we have to work at this gardening stuff together.

This time of year my thoughts want to turn to gardening, but something else is competing for attention: Soon, a few thousand church members will show up here in Independence for World Conference. We’ll keep busy with legislative sessions, worship, and fellowship. This year will bring something new, though: we’re going to try to discern who and what the Holy Spirit wants us to be and do.

I don’t know how that’s going to work out. The end result may be genius; it may be goofiness; it may be somewhere in between. We won’t know until we try. I just wonder if I should check with the Laurel Club to see if they’re going to serve enchiladas.

—Richard A. Brown

End Quote

“Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life’s coming attractions.” —Albert Einstein

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April 2007

Doors

“Whenever one door closes, another opens.” We’ve all heard that. We might even say God is doing the opening and closing. Normally, with a metaphor this vast, I would hardly know where to begin. Fortunately, my office is a total mess right now.

As I write this, my office doorway, one of five in an interior hallway, has disappeared. A new hole in the opposite wall looks out onto an area with about a dozen other work spaces. In January I mentioned that we’re “redesigning everything in sight here at church headquarters,” and this is but the latest step. I’m sure it will make perfect sense eventually; until then, it will take some getting used to. I might even get to like it—you never know about these things.

I don’t much like interruptions to my routine, though; who among us does? We get set in our ways, and sooner or later our patterns become ruts. Then it’s a short step before the rut is “the one right way.” In my case, it’s now impossible to get to my office the way I’ve done it for seven years. Being the kind of person I am, I can’t let this drop without looking for deeper meanings.

My thought process has led me straight to the doors of the church. Increasingly these days, the “real doorway” to a church isn’t made of wood, metal, or glass. The first place many people go to “visit” a church is a congregational Web site. And the younger the person, the more likely this is to occur.

Recently, a church-member couple moved to our area, and after finally deciding to transfer their membership to my congregation, they shared with me their decision-making process. They were already Community of Christ members, although the same principles probably apply to anybody searching for a new church home.

This couple found our Web site (www.colonial-hills.org), as well as some others, then narrowed their search to a few to visit in person. They loved our Web site, but to be perfectly honest, it embarrasses me as the pastor to admit we weren’t as receptive to visitors as we could be (or thought we were), at least on their first visit. We’re definitely working on that. Fortunately, they gave us a second chance. You see, it takes both an excellent Web site and a visitor-friendly atmosphere in the church foyer.

A lot of churches are spending time, energy, and money on creating and maintaining Web sites these days. If you haven’t noticed, just do a Google search. One other route to follow would be one of many sites such as www.greatchurchwebsites.org. Be advised that a $15 membership is required to fully access that excellent not-for-profit site. Clearly, there’s expertise out there, but you’ve got to be intentional. As a general rule, though, church Web sites tend to lag behind commercial ones.

In the end it makes me wonder: How many congregations have closed their doors without even realizing it? But here’s a better question: How many doors to the Community of Christ have yet to open?

—Richard A. Brown

End Quote

“The world belongs to those with the most energy.” —Alexis de Tocqueville

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May 2007

Back to the Future

I’m writing in the midst of World Conference, having one “Back to the Future” moment after another. Unlike the characters in that wonderful movie from 1985, I don’t have a nuclear-powered DeLorean to whisk me back and forth through time. But my mind and memories have been engaged in much the same thing.

I came to the Herald right after the 1986 Conference, and beginning in 1988 my Conference job became editing the daily Bulletin. This meant working afternoons, evenings, and more than a few late nights. One unintended consequence was that I missed out on full participation in the next ten Conferences (1988 through 2005). This year I was relieved of my Bulletin responsibilities to focus on my new job as Herald editor.

Twenty years of World Conferences hold a boatload of incremental change. Perhaps absence has made my memories grow stronger. Or maybe it’s just looking with fresh eyes at what’s unfolded around me. In any event, I’ve been awestruck comparing 2007 to 1986.

For example, at Saturday night’s opening session (wait a minute—Saturday night?), almost twice as many flags graced the conference chamber as two decades ago, so many they had to be hung from the balcony. The Presidency sat, almost hidden, behind the Graceland orchestra on the stage, while the Twelve and Presiding Bishopric, along with their spouses, sat in the choir loft. President Ken Robinson was an apostle in 1986, the only member of those previous quorums still serving, and even he retired this year. At least we still sang “Redeemer of Israel.” After the service I dropped by the assembly room downstairs where a spirited party by folks from all over the world was well under way in the International Village.

The next morning, during the Communion service, I couldn’t help but recall that the ’86 Conference had been the first to include women among the priesthood serving the emblems. Few in numbers then, they were advised to wear black-and-white clothing, if at all possible, to blend in with the dark-suited men. The servers who poured off the rostrum this time were gloriously multicolored, both in dress and skin tone. A few men wore dark suits, but as many or more were in shirtsleeves, with or without ties. And nobody seemed to mind.

Other changes went deeper. When our prophet-president presented counsel to the church on Sunday night, he entrusted it to the delegates to discern its value and decide, by the leadings of the Spirit, what should be done with it. Once upon a time delegates came to town eager to debate contentious legislation (in ’86, hundreds tried to rescind Doctrine and Covenants Section 156). This year the central focus was practicing spiritual discernment in small groups and mass sessions.

I find myself pondering a familiar hymn stanza: “How long we have wandered as strangers in sin/ And cried in the desert for thee….” Some might say the Spirit remains with us despite the changes. I tend to think it’s more because of them. Our wounds are healing; the path ahead beckons.

—Richard A. Brown

End Quote

“The future is what you make it.”—Dr. Emmett Brown in Back to the Future—III

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June 2007

Get To and Got To

One of the things I’ve learned as a pastor is that the “to do” list is never done. Whenever I think I’m getting close, more items get added. The same can be said for other  leaders. By and large, most are bivocational ministers, a fancy term for “I make a living getting a paycheck someplace else, but what I do in the church helps make my life worth living.”

There are two basic approaches for handling “to do” lists: what you’ve “got to” do and what you “get to” do. The latter tend to be fulfilling; the former often get put off as long as possible. In my own defense, I’d like to think everybody harbors a bit of a procrastinator deep inside.

For months I’ve had a photo in my files. It was a unique experience last summer, participating in a service of baptism and confirmation for five eight-year-old boys. That’s a lot for any one worship service—ordinarily, I think, way too much. But these boys have been the best of friends for as long as they can remember. This is not the sort of “problem” we or other congregations are faced with often. We recognize what a blessing it was and, for that matter, having to schedule multiple baptismal services last summer for the same number of eight-year-old girls, too.

In thinking about all those baptisms and confirmations, I’ve begun to wonder where all these precious young children will be in ten, fifteen, or twenty years. Will they still be faithful disciples of Jesus and active members of the Community of Christ?

Much is said about the current young adult generation and their relative absence from this and other churches. Books, magazine articles, and Web sites are filled with talk about huge generational differences between twenty-somethings (and thirty- and forty-somethings) and us aging baby boomers. There’s talk of something called an emergent church. And I keep hearing the question asked, “Why don’t men like church?” For that matter, why don’t a lot of people like church? We talk about reaching out to the unchurched, but are we really prepared to open ourselves to those unfamiliar with or actively hostile to the church?

Let’s face it—organized religion has taken a beating in recent years. In part it’s because of scandals involving abuse of sex or money. Some folks just find church boring or irrelevant. When was the last time you heard somebody say they were “spiritual but not religious”? What does that mean, anyway?

I find it so easy to slide into a mindset as pastor of focusing first on what I’ve “got to” do to meet and hopefully overcome problems and challenges. And yet, if I listen closely, I hear a voice saying, “You get to pastor those boys and girls, at least for a little while, to guide them in growing up to be mature disciples. You get to represent Jesus. You get to be a channel of grace.” That’s what comes from “listening to the Voice.”

—Richard A. Brown

End Quote

“How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?” –Leroy “Satchel” Paige

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July 2007

A Gift of Life

The photo has three happy people in it: my wife, Sally, and I standing proudly next to our daughter, Beth, a new graduate of Bradley University. It could easily have been a photo of just a mother and daughter, but it wasn’t.

The Wednesday after the picture was taken on a Saturday afternoon in May marked six years since a very different day for my family. On that morning a nurse called from the transplant center in Omaha to say, “We have a liver for you.” My thirteen-week “official” wait was over; my two-year-long downward spiral due to a progressive liver disease could be reversed.

I said yes to that life-saving surgery. The transplant team called the liver a perfect match; we saw it as an answer to prayer. Trouble was, the new liver didn’t work right once it was inside me. We still do not know why. My blood failed to clot; my kidneys shut down, and everything else went downhill from there. The inescapable truth is that a failed liver transplant means you must get another liver within seven days or you die.

I had the benefit of being sedated; my family did not have that kind of help. My name went back on the wait list, this time right on top as a Status 1 patient. Three days later another liver suddenly became available. This second “perfect match” initially didn’t work all that much better than the first, but within a few days I was released from the intensive care unit. A month later I was off dialysis.

Let me jump ahead six years. I get my blood tested every two months and regularly see several doctors, each with a different specialty. I have never felt better. My liver works perfectly. What appeared impossible years ago became reality: Sally and I seated together watching Beth in her cap and gown walk across the Peoria Civic Arena stage to receive a bachelor’s degree in advertising. We would have been just as proud, of course, to watch our son, Matt, graduate three years ago from Boston University. However, he finished his studies several months early, started work in New York City, and skipped his graduation ceremony.

But this story is not simply about Beth, Matt, Sally, me, doctors, nurses, and all the people who prayed for us back then. It is about two people, still unknown to me, who died, and their families, who subsequently said yes to life. During what must have been immense grief, they agreed to give their loved ones’ organs to strangers. Is there a better definition of grace than that?

Let me be clear: those two people did not die so that I (and others) would live. They died. Tragedies happen every day, and the story could have ended there. But because dedicated men and women of science have made organ transplants commonplace, grief-stricken families now have an amazing option: to choose life. And I am grateful beyond words.

—Richard A. Brown

End Quote

“Don’t take your organs to heaven… heaven knows we need them here!” —bumper sticker

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August 2007

A Matter of Perspective

Rocky the flying squirrel is safe. And he is back in his old neighborhood.

No, not the Rocky of cartoon fame, the good pal of Bullwinkle and the nemesis of Boris and Natasha. This “Rocky” is a young squirrel who appeared one day in June scurrying around the meditation garden at the Temple here in Independence, Missouri. It’s a two-story drop from the Temple rooftop to the garden floor, which is enclosed on all four sides by glass and stone. That’s a good jump for a squirrel (or as we are apt to say here at church headquarters, a “giant leap of faith”).

It took several days before Rocky could be successfully and humanely lured into a cage trap. He was last seen heading for the heavily treed grounds and parking lot adjacent to the building. Granted, this little news story is about as important as the latest update on Paris Hilton’s whereabouts. But I bring it up for a reason.

I’m not a big fan of squirrels. You can add rabbits to that list, too, and while you are at it, include deer. I do a little gardening, or at least try to. Those critters do not elicit exclamations of “Oh, how cute” from me. Anymore, I don’t even bother growing lettuce, cabbage, carrots, or peas. This year I’ve discovered a new truth: the more hosta leaves look like lettuce, the more likely I will find them chewed down to their stems. Although I haven’t discovered deer in my backyard yet, I have seen them close by in my neighborhood. I figure it’s just a matter of time.

I fully realize that by publishing this little diatribe, I am exposing myself as an old grump—a Mr.McGregor to cute little Peter Rabbit or Elmer Fudd to wily Bugs Bunny. (Please note: I do not own any plaid jackets, hats with earflaps, or shotguns.)

I resign myself to the sad realization that the critters I see as pests and varmints (yes, that’s the correct spelling—I looked it up in the dictionary after my spellchecker highlighted it without the letter “n”) others consider adorable. Listen up folks—as far as I am concerned, they are rabbits and hares, not bunnies.

While I’m on this little rant, there are big differences between those two animals. Rabbits are born furless and unable to see or move independently. When older they form social groups (males will fight to become dominant) and their fur remains the same color year-round. On the other hand, hares at birth have fur, their eyes are open, they begin to move soon after that (their parents often abandon them within hours), their fur changes color from summer to winter, and they only get together to mate. I know this is way more than you need or want to know about these animals, but I hated to waste a good Google search.

And so, in the end what does it matter? Perhaps very little. Or maybe it’s just good for me to realize that God created differences among all creatures and let it go at that. If it is good enough for God, it should be good enough for me, too.

—Richard A. Brown

End Quote

“When learning about life and people, make no more assumptions than are absolutely necessary. Ask and observe.” —William of Occam, English philosopher

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September 2007

Immigrants and Emigrants

Elsewhere in this magazine you will find the church’s new Statement on Immigration Issues in the United States. It is a thoughtful document. Still, some folks may ask why the leaders of an international church are “meddling” in such a contentious issue. Shouldn’t they just leave that debate to the politicians?

Immigration is a huge hot-button issue throughout the world. It raises political, social, and economic questions, including the future of an estimated 12 million “undocumented aliens” currently in the USA. There is general agreement the current situation is a mess. Congress is deadlocked. The debate is, to say the least, volatile. Maybe that is exactly why faith communities should be part of the conversation.

I cannot provide any big answers. But what I can do is tell my own story. I am a citizen of two countries, the United States and Canada—the latter by birth and the former by naturalization. I do not remember crossing the bridge from Windsor to Detroit in 1955. As a four-year-old with two older brothers, I am certain I was in the middle of the backseat, though. My family, like others in this church then, was “gathering to Zion.” The church and the world were far different a half century ago, and what was appropriate (and fairly easy to do) back then is not that way today.

Growing up in a small Missouri town I knew I was different, being both a Canadian and a member of the smallest church in town. I recall, in particular, the way so many childhood friends responded when they first discovered I was a “resident alien”: “But you can never be president!” True enough, the U.S. Constitution does require presidents to be native born. But let us be honest; could any of them really grow up to become president either?

My life took a curious twist at age twenty-three when I moved back to Canada. (In case anyone is wondering, the Vietnam-era military draft ended the year before.) I haven’t told many people why I returned “home,” mostly because I feared they would think I was crazy—and at the time even I wondered a little bit about my sanity. I somehow felt God wanted me to go to British Columbia. I didn’t know why or what might come of it. I couldn’t explain it. But it was definitely an adventure. Thirty years later I can say without a doubt I did the right thing. My six years in Vancouver formed me as an adult and as a member and minister in this faith community. And I met my future wife at the Samish Island campground.

I do not claim special acquaintance with the Holy Spirit, by any means. I do accept the power and presence of Mystery. Because of that, I accept that matters of faith can deeply impact political, social, economic, and even legal realities. That is not to support or rationalize anybody else’s actions. But it helps explain why I have always had a fondness for Ephesians 2:19: “So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God” (NRSV).

—Richard A. Brown

End Quote

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore….” –from the poem “The New Colossus” by Emma Lazarus, and inscribed at the base of the Statue of Liberty

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October 2007

Woulda, Shoulda, Coulda

“Hi, my name is Rich, and I’m an ex-pastor.”

It’s tempting to introduce myself that way, using the form familiarized by Alcoholics Anonymous. Granted, I don’t consider myself an “addict,” but maybe “recovering” wouldn’t be a bad word to use. One reason I say that is that once you’ve served as a pastor in this church, you can never get it out of your system entirely.

Late last winter I told members of my pastorate that my fourth year in the job would be my last. A large part of my decision came from realizing the difficulty of pastoring a large (325-member) congregation while also working full time as editor of the church’s monthly magazine. I saw my life was edging toward being “all church, all the time,” and that was not good. And so we started a pastor “search and discernment” process that eventually ended with a nominee who was elected to the post the last Sunday in August. He genuinely feels called to this responsibility, and I am confident he is the right person for the job.

While others in the congregation focused their attention on this important task, I began an informal self-examination of what I had learned, mistakes I had made, and insights into this important congregational leadership role. I don’t pretend this has universal application in the Community of Christ or even that it’s at all profound.

At some point in all this I opened my Bible and read from the book of Acts the apostle Paul’s parting thoughts to church leaders in Ephesus:

“And so this is good-bye. You’re not going to see me again, nor I you, you whom I have gone among for so long proclaiming the news of God’s inaugurated kingdom. I’ve done my best for you, given you my all, held back nothing of God’s will for you. Now it’s up to you. Be on your toes—both for yourselves and your congregation of sheep. The Holy Spirit has put you in charge of these people—God’s people they are—to guard and protect them. God himself thought they were worth dying for.” —Acts 20:25–28  The Message

I’m sure pastoring a church a couple thousand years ago was a challenging, often-difficult, and complex task—just as it is in the twenty-first century. But what interests me about Paul’s advice is that he singled out what he thought was most important, which I’ve highlighted in the quoted passage: Shepherds guard and protect the sheep. Let’s skip any discussion of the literal nature of shepherds and sheep, at least for a moment. God believes these “sheep” were worth dying for, and so should we.

I wonder, then, if perhaps I gave too much attention to chairing meetings, coordinating programs and ministries, even preaching sermons, and not enough attention to mentoring, empowering, teaching, and otherwise “growing” disciples. Where should I have placed my best and most frequent efforts—as leader of “church as institution” or “church as community”? I’m not going to beat myself up over these questions. But I do think a little self-examination is good, especially for a recovering pastor.

—Richard A. Brown

End Quote

“If the rate of change inside an organization is less than the rate of change outside an organization, their end is in sight.” —Jack Welch, former CEO of General Electric

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November 2007

Ah, Books!

My first paying job as a young teenager was shelving books at the public library on Main Street in my small hometown. In hindsight, that makes perfect sense. I’m a reading junkie. My office bookshelves are filled, and stacks of newer books are piled around my desk and work area. Internet access is among my greatest temptations.

One of my favorite moments from a trip to New York City in August was discovering a bookstore called “The Strand” as I emerged from the Fulton Street subway station in lower Manhattan. It was the best bookstore I’d ever entered. I could have lingered all day. Imagine my surprise to learn that store was merely the Strand Annex; the big store was at 12^th and Broadway. On my next trip to the Big Apple….

Earlier this summer my wife and I stopped by a public library in a medium-sized town in northern Missouri during a camping trip. Libraries are also good places to check your e-mail in-box. Although we were granted fifteen minutes of time on computer number six at this library, it was an incident taking place at the checkout desk involving another patron that sticks with me today.

A woman, probably in her sixties, wanted to check out a particular novel so she would have something to read in the hospital. She was scheduled for surgery of some sort the next day, and it required a few days of in-hospital recuperation. The library had the book. Unfortunately, the woman who wanted it did not have a library card. She was informed that she could apply for a card and pay the $20 fee. But library rules strictly required that cards be mailed to new patrons. The librarian who shared this information reminded me of some librarians I knew back in the sixties. (I need a disclaimer here that I have known wonderful librarians all my life, too.)

There would be no rule bending on this July day, especially once the librarian learned the prospective patron lived in a nearby town. The librarian shared why that was important: “You people there turned down the levy in the last election anyway!” The fact the woman had voted for it was of no consequence. She left the library in tears without her novel. I hope she at least got a few hospital visitors to help pass her “bookless” days.

A few weeks after this incident my wife and I were in Boulder, Colorado, and I took a break from a wonderful street fair to pop in to the nearby public library. It’s a large, modern, beautiful building, and I had hardly stepped into the front lobby when I discovered a dozen computer stations dedicated to Internet use. There were even more beyond the security entrance. This library was a center for art, music, and community gatherings of all sorts.

The trend with libraries (both public and university) has shifted toward the Boulder model. A recent news report highlighted the fast-growing number of libraries with their own Starbucks. That makes perfect sense to me, having enjoyed them in Borders and Barnes & Noble. I guess you could even say coffee shops in libraries are becoming the rule. That’s the thing about rules; they can change.

—Richard A. Brown

End Quote

“Any idiot can face a crisis; it is this day-to-day living that wears you out.” –Anton Chekhov

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December 2007

Christmas Pageantry

Each year a question crops up. What’s the best way to describe the season: Advent, pre-Christmas, the Christmas season, the holidays, or simply the holiday shopping season?

That debate could fill anybody’s Sunday school hour. For those of us who have grown up in a Christian church, there is another option: Christmas pageant time. For as long as I can remember, the Sunday evening before Christmas brought these annual (pardon the expression) “bathrobe dramas.” I say that only because I usually ended up as a shepherd, and that was the costume of choice.

Matthew and Luke’s different birth stories were jumbled together, perhaps to make as many roles as possible. The plum roles, of course, were Joseph and Mary. But shepherds, wisemen, angels, an innkeeper, and an assortment of animals were needed, too. If a congregation had many children, you might find Roman soldiers, King Herod, and an innkeeper’s wife (actually, the Gospels don’t even mention an innkeeper, much less a spouse, but that’s not the point anyway).

Christmas pageant season isn’t about historical or scriptural accuracy so much as it’s about finding something for everybody to do. Sure, there’s a pecking order. Who wouldn’t rather be an angel (what a great line: “Fear not!”) than a donkey in the stable? In time you might get a speaking role before you outgrew participating. Preteens and their parents today expect a higher level of technical wizardry, though, even in church productions. And so bathrobe dramas don’t hold the charm they once did. Some kids today might not even have a bathrobe; Spiderman pajamas just don’t work in the same way.

Many years ago I co-directed a production one step up from the traditional kind. It was a play within a play about kids (and their adult director) dealing with all kinds of obstacles in putting on a traditional pageant. We still have a cassette tape of that musical production somewhere at home. (Please note the “technical wizardry” reference above.)

Recently I came across an intriguing suggestion in another magazine—something akin to a third-, fourth-, or maybe fifth-generation pageant. It appeals to the creative, metaphor-loving side of my brain. Why not base a Christmas pageant on the “other birth account of Christ”—chapter one of the Gospel of John.

Just think about the imagery: the “pre-existent Word” through which everything was created, the “True Light” breaking forth into the world, and the Word born not of flesh and blood but of God. And all of it coming into a world that “knew him not.” Of course, in this church we have more choices, thanks to Joseph Smith’s inspired changes to John’s opening chapter—the “gospel preached through the Son.”

This is heavy stuff, theologically speaking. To organize it into a Christmas pageant would take incredible planning and creativity. It’s certainly more complicated than saying, “You’re an angel; you’re a donkey.” And it’s probably not something to start thinking about the first week in December. But it might still make for a unique Sunday school class.

—Richard A. Brown

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“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” —Martin Luther King Jr.