Prologue: The What Before The Here

There is an anecdote in my family that tells why I was baptized as a Presbyterian. Dad had been hired at Baylor Medical. He had finished his stint in the Navy and was leaving Norfolk for Houston with my Mother and brother, Bill. Apparently my folks had been attending an Episcopalian Church because they paid a visit to the priest before leaving, asking for a recommendation of a church in Texas. I think he must have known Dad was raised Episcopalian and Mom Presbyterian, because he quipped, “Well, I don’t know any Episcopalians out there, but I do know the Presbyterian guy, and he’s great.” My brother David and I were born in Houston and have, as they say, “worn the blue hose” all our lives.

With the exception of two years teaching public school followed by four years in graduate school, my work history has been as a Presbyterian Church educator laboring in the environs of the Presbytery of Charlotte in NC. I began, as many have, serving as a generalist educator in a medium-sized church. I did a stint as a church secretary, served another congregation as DCE, then was the Administrative Director of a non-profit organization for seniors. Then came a span of time when I taught Continuing Education courses in area Community Colleges and did some supply preaching. It has become clear that God has created in me that rare animal known as an interim educator. I have done separate tours at the presbytery office as assistant to the AP for Church Development and Mission & Justice as well as in the area of Bookkeeping & Data. I completed an 18-month interim for Children at a large-membership church. I’m back at the Presbytery, as the Interim Coordinator for Communication. It helps that I am terminally curious and love to learn new things. I go where there is need and jump right in. A fellow educator refers to me as a “relief worker”: someone who knows all the jobs on the assembly line and can step up to relieve another for a break.

I will reflect on the wider implications of being a PC (USA) educator in the 21st Century in future entries.

A View From the Yellow Chair: I Get It, and It's in the Basement

Just like we have our favored places to sit, we seem to be choosing—maybe by default—the duty we will perform each week to set up or break down activities in our basement. (By the way, Portico colors are Purple Heart, Deep Green & Mustard. Some of the paraments are a flame stitch incorporating those colors.)

Silvia makes sure there is nutrition in our snacks and we watch her unpack her cooler like breaking open a treasure chest. Everybody passes through the kitchen several times as we “settle in.” We have to, because the kitchen is in the middle of our space and therefore on the way to everywhere, especially the football machine Stuart got us for the Kid’s Porch. In his quiet way, tall, tall Daniel, our keyboard player, keeps track of all the arrivals. Judy makes coffee. ‘Though she passes off other activities, this is one she keeps. I got to light candles this week. Judy also runs the AV board during worship. Rodger drove his truck around the block to put out our new sandwich boards that proclaim our presence in green and mustard. Todd picked them up. The band set up and practiced. Somebody puts water in the prayer station that uses it. Somebody turns on lamps & air conditioner. “Somebody” is generally an alias for Rodger or Judy since they are always the first ones to arrive. We do all this in reverse, including dragging out the ladder to replace the lens covers on the projectors in the ceiling, when we shut everything down.

There are always a lot of little details to take care of, but it never requires so many of us that it keeps us from tending to one another and strengthening relationships and making new friendships with visitors. Our dress code is casual. Our not-so-overstuffed chairs and sofas encourage inertia and filial lounging. Our name may be The Portico, but we are an oasis where spirits find refreshment.

A View From the Yellow Chair: The Children ARE Leading Us

It’s only been a week, but it felt like a reunion tonight. Nadine was smiling and feeling good, Alice and Lindsay are sporting new hairdo’s, Silvia’s worried about her dad and John’s waiting to see if a procedure will help his back, my Mom’s doing well this week and Dylan’s happy because his pal Gracie is in church.

To a little ribbing, some smiles and thoughtful questions, Rodger and I shared our experiences at the Emergent Convention. For me, our growing friendship with David Robertson from Memorial Drive PC in Houston was the highlight. Meeting 26 Presbyterians who have a hunger for what we share in our beloved basement immediately created a tender response in me.

I arrived to the sound of the band learning the chorus from the Convention that had just been posted on the web that same afternoon at 1:00. We sang, prayed, read a litany, compared an Old with a New Testament reading and reflected on the conference. Judging from the wide eyes on a couple of them, the children and youth were surprised that I had described their leadership in our community to folks at the convention. (See recent blog entries.) Rodger has a good sense for tying things together and gave thanks for our community and our “awful” basement to which we all hooted and disagreed. Usually when we have Communion, we pass the elements around the circle, each one serving the next, even the least ones who get a supportive hand from Mom or Dad under the weighty earthen dishes. This time, though, Rodger called up John (11) and Nicholas (9) to help serve. I was second in line and bent over to pinch my bread from the plate held by shy Nicholas, and before I could say anything to him, I heard, “This is Christ’s body broken for you.” He was whispering as if what he was saying was very important. Absolutely it was. I laid my hand on his shoulder and thanked him. As once again I leaned over to dip the bread, young John’s voice said, “This is Christ’s blood shed for you.” Oh, yes it is, Beloved. They know it and my leathery, crusty road-weary spirit blossomed in response as I thanked John, turned and fell into my yellow chair rejoicing.

Children’s Ministry? You bet. They are ministering to us, and our Village is raising each child whether they are 9, 28, 43 or 52.

Tonight Dylan added miming drumming with sticks to keep the beat, and Gracie’s head swayed back and forth keeping time while the light glinted off the copper locks that covered her face.

It was my turn to blow out candles.

A View From the Yellow Chair: Not Pilgrim, But Nomad

5/20/05 Nashville, TN Emerging Church Conference

As I look back on my 16 years as a Church Educator in the Presbytery of Charlotte, I have come to recognize that God has steadily recreated me as that rare creature, an interim educator. I go where the need is within the presbytery. It is only today, however, that I have identified my journey as not of a pilgrim who moves from one place to a predetermined destination, but as a nomad who wanders within a specific area, gathering, gleaning, replanting, renewing. I’ll give some history of that in my Prologue.

For the latter half of those 16 years, my spirit has been restless. I have felt as if I spoke in some uncommon dialect and was only partially understood by those around me. And that, indeed, is how it has been. Now that I am part of the community known as The Portico, I have a new language. I am a postmodern and didn’t know it. I have been thinking, and creating and communicating as part of the Emergent Church and had no idea.

At this moment I am looking out over the Nashville skyline, remembering those whom I have met at this conference, who hunger for the Church Emergent. Who labor in traditional settings and wish that their faith communities could catch on, catch up, and quickly. And of the Presbyterian folk who will say it, (because all here have committed to being in conversation about this scary, exciting time,) that the PC(USA) as we know it will be very different about 15 years from now.

I am proud to gather and worship as part of The Portico. I am thrilled to be in a place at a time when being part of the Body of Christ in a fun, funky, holy basement in the Elizabeth neighborhood, means starting by building community. That our work is not to meet quotas, track numbers, or write programs, but to grow in our intimacy with one another, enjoy our safe place, to worship creatively in a relaxed atmosphere, and most of all, to listen with anticipation for the Holy Spirit's song of who we are becoming.

My yellow chair is not a front row seat, but The Portico is. We ride the crest of a wave.

A View From the Yellow Chair: Stewards of a One-Way Street

OR Never Too Young to Offer Hospitality

Becky was coming. After weeks of urging her to visit, she found a Sunday evening when she could come to Portico. I had explained to her how to find the church (It can be confusing) and she thought she’d try to get there on her own. By the time I arrived, Becky was relaxing in a chair and I could tell all had introduced themselves and gone about their setting up duties. A couple folks even tried to introduce me. This made us smile, yet I must admit this is a favor for which I am usually grateful, being a little on the shy side myself.

With enthusiasm, Becky told me how she had driven around the block (two sides bounded by a curving one-way street) three times, uncertain as where to park or enter the church. This was before Rodger installed our beautiful, handmade Purple Heart wood sign beside the door. John and Christopher (both 11) were outside and saw her hesitation, immediately asking if she looked for the Portico, showed her where to park and personally escorted her inside. Yay!

A couple weeks before this, the third or fourth meeting of Portico, Lindsay (then 13) introduced herself to me and to a friend, saying, “I know we’re all gathered in the kitchen talking and eating, but we’re really not a clique. Don’t feel like you have to stay out here in the main room. Please come join us.”

The ownership our young ones feel about our basement is wonderful. They will not only help you through the right door, they will make sure you get something yummy to snack on or drink, introduce you to maybe one or two adults, then happily give you the grand tour.

Pumping up hospitality at your place? Come let our “team” show you how it’s done.

The Yellow Chair: Our Chief Celebrant OR My Turn to Write About Dylan and Embarass His Mother

Every winter brings its round of colds, flu and other incapacitators. This year was different only in that it seemed to take a couple extra days to shake the sinus infection when I’d started treating it early. Anyway, if I am honest, the reason the “doldrums” hung on a little longer than usual this year was because the Smiths (a family of four) were passing the bugs around and weren’t in church as often. So I missed Dylan. Dylan is about to turn five and I call him our chief celebrant because he is always visible up front during worship and is so intent on everything going on around him that he helps me focus. He is comfortable participating in worship and I miss him when he is not there.

As much as is possible in a t-shaped room, we have worship in the round. Because of past retreats and seminary classes, I have come to treasure in worship being able to see shining faces of people I care for rather than the backs of heads. From the front wall we have a one-step thrust platform. Probably one of the reasons the yellow chair has become my perch is because it gives me the best view of Dylan in the spot where he begins worship. He will spread out his coloring book or what ever holds his interest in that moment on the stage left lip of the thrust. Often he is there during our opening songs, and if he isn’t singing with enthusiasm, he is keeping the beat with his head. It’s easy to make the connection that his dad is our drummer.

Dylan understands the rhythm of worship. We have Communion every week and as soon as Rodger begins the Words of Institution, Dylan pops up to stand only partly patiently, mostly wiggling with anticipation, right beside Rodger to be the first in line. Since we usually use intinction, Dylan has developed a fun little left-hand-palm-up-over-the-shoulder-don’t-let-the-grape-juice-drip-on-the-floor technique.

And here I need to say that all the Smiths are leaders. Mom, Alice, sings in the band with husband, Todd, the drummer. And Dylan’s big brother, Christopher—well, he's the host mentioned in the previous entry.