By the Rev. Jon Rieley-Goddard

    Dear friends,

    As usual, my mind is a jumble of thoughts, aware of a jumble of feelings.

    On the one hand, I worry constantly about the future of our church (our little church, as one dear and since departed woman put it from her hospital bed).

    On the other hand, I realize that our time on earth is an eye-blink, a blip on the screen, an instant of time not to be repeated.

    On both hands, I struggle to remember that ...

    1. I am not the messiah.
    2. God lives.
    3. Christ builds the Church.

    When I was a seminary student, I learned the importance of being a non-anxious presence in a church. Being sure about things, whether you are or not, is part of being an effective leader, and this is a sacred trust, because to say something from the position of power that I am granted in our system demands care and integrity, and love – and sometimes a creativity borne of longing and desire. Since seminary, I have seen time and again how the saying of something can lodge in the minds of those who hear, even if the statement isn’t true. If you have people’s ears and eyes, you are next door to having their hearts and minds. For this reason, I speak with care, love, and integrity.

    And longing and desire.

    Remember the quirky, crazy, beret-topped Iraqi information minister, who up to the day before he disappeared, as American soldiers came into Baghdad in great numbers, would say to the cameras things such as this:

    There are no American infidels in the capital.

    Words have the power to create reality as much as words have the ability to comment upon reality.

***

     In some American Indian myths, Coyote stomps on Nothing until the World appears.

***

    Waide was a wonderful churchman. He was one of our gatekeepers, sitting in one of the chairs in the back of the Sanctuary on Sundays, and inquiring after any visitors, so he could point them out to me and tell me to be sure and say hello. It was at his funeral last month that I first began to wrestle with the idea that instead of being more afraid that ever, with the addition of yet another wrenching loss to our little church, that I could simply celebrate life and not worry so much, since after all ...

    1. I am not the messiah.
    2. God lives.
    3. Christ builds the Church.

    Don’t misunderstand. I worry because I am in the position in our system, our little church, where one worries. If a church is a wheel, I’m at the hub. And believe me, a church is a wheel. We go around and around in the church year, which is always different and at the same time always the same; we go to all sorts of places, and we go nowhere; we’re always here on Sunday. It sometimes seems like the trip out and the trip back are both uphill.

    The church is a wheel, and I’m at the hub. So I worry.

    Our gains are not keeping up with our losses.

    The boiler is shot.

    The Stock Market ain’t what she used to be.

    My worries got worries of their own that I don’t even know about.

***

    The Sunday after Waide’s funeral I was still wrestling with the awareness about worry. It’s like having a picnic on the edge of a volcano, I preached to those of you who were there. It’s beautiful, and perilous, and there is nowhere else I want to be, though I know that any moment could be my last. My office sits right above the boiler. It could have gone out with a blaze of glory, and didn’t.

***

    Dad, I used to say, can you give me a ride to the basketball game tomorrow night.

    I don’t know, Dad would answer, I might be dead by then.

    I guess that was his way of saying OK. Words like that stick with you, though.

    After his mother’s funeral, as we were walking toward the hearse, he said to me, You’ll do that someday.

    What, I replied. Die?

    No, be a minister.

    Dad was a man of few words, and most of them were words of either wisdom or love.

***

    Maybe it wasn’t nice to say stuff like I could be dead by then to one’s adolescent son. I’m over that part, though. I assume it had something to do with the hard times Dad had every winter. Basketball season was always the time when he, a logging truck owner-driver, was out of work because of the wet weather. He wasn’t good at down time. Still, who could put a price tag on the other comment, the blessing he gave me when I was wondering what to do with myself and having some hard times of my own. You’ll do that someday, he said.

    He was right, you know. We could be dead by morning. It’s not a pleasant thought, and not a thought that trips lightly from my typing fingers as I sit here at the computer and write this letter to you, wondering how I will convince you that this is a letter of hope.

    This is a letter of hope, you know, because it is. I have your eyes and ears, and I say to your mind and heart, this is a letter of hope.

***

    One of my favorite hymns goes like this:

    My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness.

    Once in a while, I forget, and begin worrying like the messiah, wondering when the Big Guy is going to get back in touch, and forgetting to act as though Christ has been praying for us.

    As a matter of fact, I forget almost more often than I remember, and I worry a lot more often than I rejoice.

    After all ... . Well, you know that litany – the volcano, the fears about the morning, the boiler, the Stock Market, and all the rest.

    I am my father’s son. He taught me stern, bleak things about life, and things so beautiful that it makes my heart ache to remember them.

***

The Jews have a saying: Next year in Jerusalem!

***

    I’d like to continue, but it’s time for a potluck. Four laughing and smiling brothers and sisters just came through the church door. Life is good, God is good. Ain’t nowhere else I want to be but here, come what may.

    My brothers and sisters in Christ: We do sit at the lip of a volcano called the Human Condition. There’s no cure for that, thanks be to God. And the boiler is shot, and the Stock Market ain’t feeling so good. And all the rest, including the Big Three (sing it with me):

    1. I am not the messiah.
    2. God lives.
    3. Christ builds the Church.

    Those four brothers and sisters in the big room next to my Study are still laughing and carrying on. They aren’t worried about tomorrow. They’re in the moment, loving one another, writing unawares my sermon that I’ll preach in an hour or so for Maundy Thursday: Love one another!

    Wish you were here!

     Blessings and peace,

      Pastor Jon