At church, our youth group is using the day as a backdrop for their outreach.  They will be using soup pots this Sunday to collect money for the Souper Bowl of Caring—a nationwide program (started by Presbyterians) that supports programs that address hunger.

It also seems the perfect Sunday to talk about the Tim Tebow phenomenon. Why has this overtly Christian quarterback become such a polarizing figure?

I have my ideas – What are yours?  Post here, and I’ll “post” my thoughts on Sunday.

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This Sunday I am preaching about authority.  

As I have been pondering the topic, I have been thinking about who I give authority to in this life.  I have been thinking about the magazines and newspapers I read and the televised news programs I watch.  I have also been thinking about the individuals whose opinions I trust–everyone from my longtime doctor to the sharp-as-a-whip fellow at the local hardware store.

As I finish my preparations for worship, I would love for you to reflect on a couple of questions with me:

·       What or who do you consider to be authoritative?

·       Who do you trust to tell you the truth?

·       Why do you trust these sources?

Dare to share a comment; and thank you!

SBJ

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For a long time, I have heard and participated in a communal lament about our beloved PC(USA):  What is happening to us?  Why are we shrinking?  Who is to blame?  To be sure: lament and confession and repentance are an essential part of the life of faith.

Recently though, I sense the wind shifting.  Just as Isaiah and Jeremiah switched from delivering oracles of judgment to proclamations of salvation, more and more conversations in the PC(USA) sound exciting (and yes, even salvific) to me—conversations that begin with people committing to plant new churches, to partner with struggling communities of faith, to support immigrant fellowships, and to find ways to place seminary grads in outside-the-box ministry settings!

I am going to NEXT Church in Dallas because, twenty years ago, I took a vow “to be a friend among your colleagues in ministry, working with them, subject to the ordering of God’s Word and Spirit.”  I find, now more than ever, that I need “friends in ministry”—people who can help me to see, to dream, to be honest, and faithful in this calling.

I hope to see you there, my friends in Christ,

Scott Black Johnston

Teaching Elder

Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church

New York, NY

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My grandfather was a journeyman carpenter who plied his trade in the New York shipyards.  My grandmother was a clerk at Bloomingdales.  Together they raised three sons: my uncle, Robert; my father, Malcolm; and my uncle, Neil.

They were pursuing the American Dream.

Then tragedy hit.  My grandparents’ firstborn, Robert, was killed when he fell onto the subway tracks and touched the third rail.  It was terribly difficult time for the whole family, and especially my grandmother.

In telling this story, my Dad would recall the way in which a local Presbyterian congregation encircled him and his younger brother throughout the season of my grandmother’s grief.  The church plugged the two boys into theatrical productions and sports.  A spark would kindle in my Dad whenever he explained that the church that embraced them “had a bowling alley in it!”

Last Spring, I visited my friend, Patrick O’Connor, the pastor of First Presbyterian Church in Jamaica, Queens, and I explained that my grandparents belonged to a Presbyterian church in the borough, but I didn’t know which one.

“All I remember,” I told Patrick, “is that the church had a bowling alley in it.”

“Scott,” Patrick said, “this is the only Presbyterian church in Queens that has a bowling alley in it!” He checked.  Sure enough.  In the church’s records, Reverend O’Connor found the baptismal dates for my father and his brothers.

This past Sunday, I preached at First Presbyterian Church in Jamaica.  The church, planted in 1662, was celebrating its 350^th birthday.  It was a rollicking party of a worship service.

My grandparents might not recognize their old church.

The pipe organ was silent.  Music was projected on a big screen and accompanied by trumpets and drums.  Three different liturgical dance troupes performed.  It’s a different congregation with a different style of worship.  Long gone are the faded-blue-jean eyes of the Scottish immigrants.  In their place are the deep brown eyes of the African American, Afro-Caribbean, and Latino/a families that live in the neighborhood.

Youth from these families—young boys and girls from the surrounding community—were prominent in the pews.  Patrick tells me that they come to the church to play basketball and volleyball; to get tutoring and computer training; to eat at the multi-generational meal served every Thursday night; and to discover a worshipping community full of energy and love and wisdom.

Come to think of it, I bet my grandparents would recognize their church.

Standing in that pulpit this past Sunday, I looked down at the baptismal font that claimed my Dad and his brothers and probably most of the young people currently in that sanctuary, and I thought, not much has changed.  Not much at all.

First Presbyterian in Jamaica still shelters the people of its neighborhood with the good news of Jesus Christ.

Thanks be to God.

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The premise of the “I Spy” books is simple, but captivating.  Each page contains the photograph of an elaborate scene.  Picture a sandy beach strewn with the debris of a shipwreck.  Alongside the picture is a list of items that readers are challenged to locate: “I spy a hook, a saw, and a castle door.”

The “I Spy” books are a godsend to parents on long car trips.  My kids love the treasure hunt; although, they will be the first to tell you that the payoff isn’t quick.  It takes time and a practiced eye to study the intricate images and to find the prizes embedded within.

This week I have been thinking that the church is like an “I Spy” picture.  To the uninitiated (the visitor—the newcomer trying out church for the first time), a Sunday morning at FAPC can look like a complicated jumble.  Yet, over time, if a person is willing to sit still long enough, if a person lingers over what is going on, she or he can start to see things in the midst of the hubbub.

I spy a six-year-old telling her mother the story of Noah’s ark.  I spy a deacon with his arm around a woman who just lost her father.  I spy a homeless man asking for a MetroCard.  I spy an usher kindly taking the man back to Joe’s office.  I spy a circle of people holding hands in the vestry—praying for shut-ins who will not be able to make it to worship that day.

The longer we are at it, the more we see.

In fact, if we keep at it, if we stare long enough, we might start seeing other patterns in the hodgepodge.  We might catch ourselves saying:  I spy grace.  I spy reverence.  I spy redemption.

This Sunday is the first Sunday in the season of Epiphany.  For early Christians, season of “Epiphany” was a time to celebrate the light of Jesus being revealed to the world.  Working on my sermon this week, it occurred to me that the testimony of early Christians might be boiled down to one exceedingly basic sentence:

I spy God.

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The incarnate Word is with us
is still speaking, is present
always, yet leaves no sign
but everything that is.

Christmas blessings!

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I also encourage you to attend worship services wherever you may be this Christmas Eve. (See FAPC’s worship schedule here.)

Now, believe me, I have heard a slew of reasons as to why this is a bad idea:

• I wouldn’t know where to go.
• It’s hard to get somebody to take me.
• It would disrupt my family’s present-opening routine.
• My brother-in-law will scoff.
• The worship at the nearby church is unfamiliar.
• The local pastor is a nut!

Still, I want to put in a good word for your finding a place (ministerial “nut” free) to worship with other Christians. This is not about demonstrating holiness to your kin. Nor is it to fulfill a sense of duty. Eat your spiritual broccoli! No. Not that.

Go to explore. Over the years, I have stumbled on some pretty amazing Christmas Eve services in churches that are off the beaten path. Yes, there have been some peculiar services too. Still, both stirred my spirit (or at least made me think) in ways that the 40th viewing of “Home Alone” never could.

More than anything, I encourage you to go because it is what Christians do on December 24.

I know that sounds like I am asking you to get in line and be a good lemming. But I think it goes deeper than that.

In the year 2000, my wife Amy and I were in Florence for Christmas. (I was working on study grant.)  On Christmas Eve, she stayed at our apartment with our toddler, but I wandered out to find a church. Before long, I stumbled on a little parish with services underway. I couldn’t read the program. I had no idea what the priest was saying. I almost gave up.

Then the congregation started singing, and I knew the music. It was “Silent Night.” It brought tears to my eyes.

My friends, there are 2.1 billion Christians in the world. Sometime this Saturday most of them will worship. In every language on this blue-green planet, people will sing “Silent Night.”

I love the hush that settles over a congregation at the end of that carol. It seems, for one still moment, like goodwill toward all and peace on earth might actually be possible.

Even though the moment doesn’t last, that doesn’t mean it isn’t real. It transcends cultures and divisions of every sort, and that is worth noting, worth remembering, worth carrying around in our hearts wherever we may be this Christmas Eve.

In this spirit, I encourage you to post where you will be on Christmas Eve here on this blog.  Let’s see all the places, big and small, far and wide, where people are visiting the manger tomorrow night!

Merry Christmas, my friends,

SBJ

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Enjoy, my friends.

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One sunny afternoon, our group ascended a hilltop near the ruins of Ephesus. Arriving at the summit, our guide for the day informed us that we were there to view “The House of Mary” — the home of the Madonna during the last years of her life.

As we walked through the chapel on the site, a parishioner asked me, “Scott, is there any historical evidence that Mary ever lived here?” Raising an eyebrow, I scoffed.

I must have set off an alarm of some sort, tripped a skepticism meter. Because before I could take another step, a priest swooped down on us from a nearby alcove and shushed me.

“All right,” I thought, “I’ll keep quiet. After all, Mary is your deal, not mine.”

For centuries that is more or less how Protestants have dealt with Mary. We have stood at a distance, watching our Roman Catholic brothers and sisters honor her image, extol her virtues, and pray for her mercy.

We may wonder in private about all those “Hail Marys,” but that’s as far as it goes. After all, she’s your deal, not ours.

More and more though, I think we’ve made — I’ve made — a mistake. Of course, we should respect other Christians’ piety, but we shouldn’t shy away from Mary. She’s too important. She’s too compelling.

Mary stands at the heart of this holy season.

The final leg of our journey to Christmas always begins with Mary — a poor, pregnant teenager who takes counsel with angels. True, this is the place in the story where modern, scientifically minded people often get hung up.

But I wonder if, in obsessing over biology, we miss the point.

Tell, me good readers, what does Mary mean to you?  How do you relate (or not) to the mother of Jesus?

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Maybe you saw it, too. Members of an eclectic family gather for a feast. (All of them, of course, are wearing Hilfiger clothes.)  Happy music is playing. No one seems stressed out. Not a bit. Instead, these handsome people, chic and aloof in their sunglasses, are way too cool to be anxious.

When wild stuff happens, they stay amazingly composed. In one version, a young girl drives away in an old station wagon, dragging the family feast behind. But it doesn’t mess with their ultra-calm.

In the closing shot, one fellow looks into the camera, raises an eyebrow and with a sly smile asks, “Don’cha just love the holidays?”

The first couple of times through, I liked these ads. The scenes are eye-catching and funny — a mini-farce acted out by pretty hipsters. The message seems harmless: “Don’t get too stressed out by the holidays. Drink wine. Wear Tommy Hilfiger. Be cool.”

It makes sense. The holidays are stressful. Our families are less than perfect. Nobody really has a Norman Rockwell Christmas.

So, why not camp it up, and drink it up, and salute the absurdity of it all? Surely that’s better than a family fracas: hurt feelings, slammed doors, tears shed?

There’s just one problem. That isn’t real either! It is laced with just as much denial as a glowing portrait of a perfect family gathered around the perfect tree. Both sorts of denial are, I believe, equally corrosive. Both are inadequate. Both will let you down when the going really gets rough.

This past week has been a tough one. I have been listening to some mightily difficult stories — people dealing with fractured marriages and ailing parents and struggling children. Like every other leader of a nonprofit under the sun, I have looked at our books and wrung my hands over tight finances. I have wept on learning that one of my parishioners, a true pillar of the church and a dear friend of mine, was discovered dead in her apartment yesterday morning.

Honestly, none of these things — real things, real struggles — can be covered up with a good pair of sunglasses or by pretending that everything is really fine.

That’s why I am looking forward to Sunday.

At their core, Advent and Christmas tell the story of God’s arrival. Every hymn, every carol and every scriptural text in this season point toward the One who refuses to be aloof and distant — the One who chose (who still chooses) to enter into the mess of life with us.

I am clinging to that news. It’s better than Hilfiger. It’s better even than Rockwell.

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