Tomorrow I am honored to preach at the ordination of Tim Barone in Colorado Springs, CO. Tim has been a seminary fieldworker of mine for the past few years. It's been a pleasure to know him and see him grow as a man and a future pastor. His ordination publicly commences his pastoral ministry. God-willing it will be a decades long. He's from Colorado, but his first call is to Thunder Bay, Ontario (yes, that's in Canada).
While St. Louis has its drawbacks (tropically humid summers), I do get the vantage point of seeing a larger church body at work. I get to work with seminarians who get practical, residential fieldwork education in my church. I get to see them sent out across the country (and Canada), and count them brothers in the ministry. This may sound silly, but this reminds me the Church is bigger than my church. There are congregations of Christians in Thunder Bay, Ontario. They too have a mission. And now a pastor I know goes to serve them. This is humbling because it prods me to remember who the Senior Pastor of the church is. He holds together this ragged band of Christians, the Church militant, scattered globally (and in Canada).
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A sermon on a Christian ethic of work. Preached June 16th, 2013. II Thessalonians 1:10-12.
There’s a difference between what you want to do and what you’re called to do. As a boy, I wanted to be a pro basketball player. I was in 8th grade when I realized I would not make the NBA. I remember the day. It was crushing. I really believed I would grow, improve, win, get signed, and follow in the footsteps of my athletic idols. It was devastating for a tall, gangly, awkward 8th grade boy to realize that he wouldn’t be able to do what he wanted to do. I imagine what would happen if 34-year-old Jeff would have visited 14-year-old Jeff. The older Jeff comes to the adolescent and says, “I know you want to be a pro basketball player, but let me tell you what God will call you do to. You will be a husband, a father of four, a pastor, and own a house.” And to that, junior high Jeff says, “Ewe, gross.” God, forgive me for the speed with which I attack a day. Pardon my frantic busyness. Call me again when, at the end of a day, I fail to find my way back to you. Dispel in me the myth that my work is more important than yours. Rid my routines of worthless activity that occupies time but produces vanity. Bring me to times of rest, a gift from you. And call me to faithful and fruitful work. In the name of Jesus, Amen.
For years I have intentionally resisted Twitter. Why do I need one more distraction? For reasons related to balance and Sabbath, I didn't feel it would be healthy. But under peer pressure and some protest, I have given in. My attempts at being Amish have failed. And now I tweet. "You win, Twitter. Are you happy now?!" I want to thank Pope Benedict for making me feel completely out of touch when, at 84 years old, he began tweeting two years ago. He was the first pope to do so. I'd also like to thank 82-year-old Warren Buffet for his inspiration. He started tweeting over a month ago. His first tweet? "Warren is in the house." I guess I am too. Check me out @jeffcloeter. We all struggle against a human propensity to worry about the future. I know very few people who are completely content with the present and have no qualms about what is to come.
Will I have a job? Will I complete the project? Will my family be OK? Will I be successful? Will I have enough? Will I find a spouse? Will we have children? Will my dad get better? Will the pain ever go away? We worry because uncertainty exists. The past may be factual, but the future is always speculative. While it's prudent to prepare for the future, it's too easy for healthy planning to slip into worry. Then we find ourselves living in the future, consumed with what will be instead of what is. We miss life in the present tense because we're rushing ahead to live in the future. In his poem "A Prayer in Spring," Robert Frost writes: Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today; And give us not to think so far away As the uncertain harvest; keep us here. There was a church in Roman Macedonia in the first century. A city called Thessalonica. They were concerned that maybe they missed the future already and Jesus had returned for the Last Day. Had they missed it? And they were so concerned with the Last Day (certainly a noble concern) that they began to release their present duties. Idleness and apathy set in. So Paul wrote a couple letters in which he exhorts them to present work. He says, "That our God may make you worthy of his calling and may fulfill every resolve for good and every work of faith by his power" (II Thess. 1:11-12). God is working in you presently, to do good things now. Worrying about the future strips us of the capacity to truly be attentive to our present calling. When we recognize this, we release the obession with "what could be," and we live where we are now. God will work the harvest. Now is the time for tilling and planting. Concern yourself with the present tasks and trust that future results fall within the governance of the Living God. What has God given you to do today? Take joy in the work set before you presently. We moved into a new house last week. It's a 100-year-old brick two family flat that we converted into a single family home. After living in tight quarters (with one bathroom), our family is in awe of the open space, 10 foot ceilings, and a garage the size of a small warehouse. Eight years ago, I was sold on living in a small house. Reasonable mortgage payments. Less to clean and maintain. And I always felt like the pastor needed to live in a small house to show humility. Like a vow of poverty, a small house could be a badge of modesty. A large house could be perceived as gaudy, excessive, and materialistic. But two things happened. First my family grew, and people started feeling sorry for me. Instead of saying, "Look how humble our pastor is," they said, "Our poor pastor" as they walked in to find kids stacked like sardines and a line to use the toilet. (My son: "Dad, can I pee in the backyard?") Modesty turned to pity. And maybe my modesty was misplaced. Second, we invited fewer people into our home, and when we did it was a challenge. We had a group of seminarians and their wives over last fall. We pieced together one long table that spanned two rooms and trapped nine people along a wall for three hours. There are a number of New Testament references to hospitality (Rom. 12:13; Heb. 13:2; I Pet. 4:9). In fact, being hospitable is a qualification for being an elder, or pastor (I Tim. 3:2). Opening your home is a tangible way to express love and faith. When you've sat on my couch, ate at my table, and drank my beer, you're "in." Because of the potential for hospitality, we looked for houses with open floor plans, accessibility, and adequate space. We live in a society wrought with broken homes and lonely people. Hospitality is one way to show acceptance and love to those unfamiliar with such forces. A stable, secure, and open home provides a venue for our family to care for our neighbors. More important than the bricks and mortar, the home provides the space for us to put our faith and values on display. We realize that God has given us a massive house. The shock still hasn't worn off that we live here. We feel greatly compelled to leverage this house for the good of others. Give me examples of how you do hospitality. |
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