Slog, Slog....Blog, Blog

I was packed and ready to load the car this morning when Paul asked, “Hey…wanna grab a coffee or something?” Translated… “Not ready to see you go yet. How about one last round of ‘shop talk?’” I said, “Sure.” Translated… “I’m not ready to go yet. Would love one last round of ‘shop talk.’” Chelan is basically a ‘one coffee shop town.’ As we stood in line Paul played mayor some more and visited with folks about the town meeting earlier this week. He bought (don’t tell Pastor Stephen) and we drank and walked around the part of the lake closest to town. We talked about changes in culture and the impact upon the church…and the church’s impact on the culture. It was a good visit.

I said farewells confident that it would not be as long before I would see this family again. In fact, there is an Atonement group headed to Holden Village the end of September and I just know we will find opportunity to pull into Chelan for devotions…or something. I headed north on Hwy 97 to Hwy 153 to Hwy 20 which would take me over the Cascades to Marblemount and my room for the next three nights. I was barely out of town before I lost cell reception. I would not recover it for the rest of the day.

The Northern Cascades are magnificent! Hwy 20 is the only road through them and there are no services for 74 miles. Motorists gas up before they go or suffer the consequences in the middle of the mountains. And there’s no hurrying through this wilderness. Highway 20 belongs to the tourists who are gawking and meandering all over the road and doing so about 15 miles per hour below the allotted limits. But there is much to gawk at. The temperature gauge on the Subaru read 91 degrees outside yet I was looking above at snow capped peaks and cliffs. There is Ross Lake Recreational Area and Diablo Lake with it’s turquoise waters. I suspect I did my share of motorized meandering as well.

I had one NASCAR moment where the wheel on the trailer being pulled in front of me (meandering 15 mph below the limit) flew from its axle and the tire bounced up the highway. I had been watching this wheel wobble for about 10 miles and was expecting an incident…so was ready to maneuver out of the way. Snakes, bears…and flying tires! Keep the prayers coming.

Right after lunch (sandwich that Sam had packed for me) I decided to grab a quick limber-up-the-knees hike on the east side of the range. The hiking guide described the trail to Blue Lake as a moderately difficult route climbing three miles to a lake fed by glacial waters. I believe the “moderate” rating didn’t factor in a snow-covered trail. Slog, slog…crunch, crunch…slog, slog…well, you get the point. Six miles (round trip) of searching for the trail as much as actually utilizing it. At times the going was just slow and sloppy. When conditions worsened I began slipping on 3-4 feet of snow sometimes falling through to nearly waist deep. I had to follow the tracks of the few hikers who had ventured in ahead of me and trust that they knew where they were going.

Of course I waxed theological about all of this. Slog, slog…crunch, crunch. I thought about the saints that have traveled before us and how they have helped to reveal the faith paths to us. They made their share of mistakes (consider, for example, the crusades and the ill-conceived convert-and-become-like-us-or-else missionary efforts) but they also helped show us the way. We do not have to forge our faith journeys without maps or tradition. We rely upon the saints and give thanks to God for them.

When I reached Blue Lake I immediately considered that someone had misnamed it. Perhaps it is blue in August. Today, it was white, mostly covered by snow, but beautiful nonetheless. I had depleted my one water bottle ascending and felt completely fine refilling from the lake. I will try to post a shot or two.

I am settled now into Buffalo Inn something or other. I have gotten one of the rooms without buffaloes on the shower curtain. I’ll manage and try not to complain. When one checks into the Buffalo Inn something or other you must visit the restaurant down the street. Marblemount is but a bend in the road, so the inn office/pay-for-your-lunch-at-this-register register is not a far walk. I asked the clerk/hostess if there was wi-fi to be found. He said, “Go two miles or so down the highway to Alpine Meadows Campground. He’s got service there. Just pull up outside the office and punch in code 121212. If it doesn’t work, just knock on the door. He don’t mind.” We’ll see. If you are reading this assume that it worked. I can’t imagine a more creative solution to connectivity.

The hiking boots and socks are resting atop the air-conditioner in the room. I am hoping they will be semi-dry for tomorrow’s adventure. There is actually a television on the wall in front of me. I don’t think I’ll turn it on.

"True Light...True Word"

I have reconnected with the rest of the world today. What follows are blog postings from the previous three days of retreat into the mountains...


THURSDAY

Chelan lies at the southernmost end of this long, narrow, deep lake. If the lake were more round in shape and one was to leave town driving clockwise to about eight o’clock on the map dial you come to One Mile Creek Road. It is a dusty, windy, sometimes washed out path that meanders 2 ½ miles up the mountain to just over 2,500 feet. This is where you will find Stan and Sandy’s place, a beautiful but modest cabin sitting beneath the douglass firs and ponderosa pines, barley visible from the road. Paul delivered me there today at lunchtime in my rented blue and silver Subaru Outback wagon (the unofficial state car of Washington).

The lunch table was already set with plates and silverware beneath a hung canvass canopy in the side yard. My host and hostess are strict vegetarians and, after a 30-second tour of the cabin home, began parading out one salad after another along with homemade bread. We held hands and prayed and then spent the next several hours feasting, storytelling and laughing until our sides hurt. Stan and Sandy showed me the photo album that chronicled the 2 ½ - year construction of their home. They built the entire cabin by themselves, including cutting, hoisting and situating every log. “Each timber,” Stan reported, “took a day to cut into shape.” This couple radiates due pride and grace.

Paul took the Subaru and headed back down the mountain at 3:40 pm in order to make a 3:30 pm meeting back at the church (a thirty-minute drive). He seemed remarkably untroubled by this. Sandy, a trained Benedictine oblate, conducted a tour of the property stopping first in the meadow at the massive prayer labyrinth that she had spent a summer fashioning out of rocks taken from the creek bed. She then introduced me to my home for the next several days, a one-room cabin nestled up beside the creek. There is no electricity to the cabin. No plumbing. I have spent my initial evening here reading Brian McLaren’s classic, “A Generous Orthodoxy,” by kerosene lanterns. There are no sounds here save the occasional rush of the wind through the evergreens and birds (that I am yet to identify) that are singing themselves and the woods to sleep. Somewhere in this silence I know that I shall hear the voice of God.

Before Sandy earlier left me in the cabin she asked, “There is something that I like to do for all who stay here. May I wash your hands and feet?” Then, from just inside the cabin door she collected a pitcher of water and a rough, stainless basin and did just that, i.e. she poured water over my hands and dusty feet and carefully dried each. She said, “Stan will blow the conk shell when it is time for supper. Please come.” She further invited, “I encourage you to spend tomorrow observing silence. I will bring your meals to you in the cabin but don’t feel compelled to speak. I believe you will find spending a complete day in this manner very powerful.” I have every suspicion that she is absolutely right.

Several hours later the shell sounded. After supper and another marvelous conversation, I noticed two Lutheran Books of Worship sitting at the end of the table. Sandy noticed my noticing and said, “I was hoping that we could share Vespers together.” She and I sat on the porch of the cabin and together sang through the service…the whole service! She provided readings and psalms from her Benedictine Orders for the Day. After the benediction, Sandy pulled the blanket from the back of her rocking chair, wrapped it around herself and we rocked and visited and shared “God talk” for another hour.

It is now eleven o’clock and the woods are as still and silent as they have been all evening. I have noticed that a red and white cooler containing tomorrow’s breakfast already sits on the front porch in what a few hours ago was our sanctuary. I have never known such hospitality.

Just before ascending the mountain this morning I received a text message from Brad Hodnefield informing me that Brooke was headed to the hospital to have labor induced. My prayers reside with them this night. By the time I return to civilization and post this I trust that God will have ushered into the world yet one more precious life.

There is little to do here now except pray. I have never been so eager to close my laptop.




FRIDAY

The only light in this one-room cabin emanates either from one of the two kerosene lamps or this laptop. When each were extinguished last night my world immediately became pitch dark. After a few moments my eyes adjusted and a walk to the front porch opened up a mid-November sky for me. No haze or humidity and the stars shone brilliantly. It occurred to me that we sometimes take the artificiality that fills our world for granted. I can’t recall the last time that I experienced a night uninfluenced by something electrically produced…i.e. a streetlight or sign or lamp from a neighbors house. It is nearly impossible to disconnect from the artificial. I managed to do so last night.

Not only was the night still and dark, it was also quiet. I decided to accept Sandy’s invitation to spend the day in silence. So, when I returned the breakfast cooler to her porch this morning she greeted me, folded her hands as if in prayer and, before I could slip up and bid her “Good morning,” or “thank you,” she bowed to remind me of the promise. The same was true when she brought lunch to the guest cabin at noon (make that enough lunch for a small group meeting…fruit, cashews and raisins, some Indian curry dish with rice, broccoli and tomatoes, ginger candy and an organic ginseng cola to wash it down). I must confess that it has been a wonderful, even if silently observed, day. This despite the fact that my plans for hiking were complicated by the discovery that I had left one of my hiking shoes at the Palumbo’s. I had a vision of striking out anyway and then having to explain to a passing hiker what this mute, hopping-on-one-foot idiot was doing on the trail. Not the way I wanted to break my disicipline of silence.

Just as I cannot recall the last night I spent without intrusion of artificial light, I dare say I cannot ever remember spending 24 hours without experiencing some human voice, not even my own…ever. This may have been a first. What I discovered is that it allows a great deal more room for God’s speaking.

Tonight, by kerosene light, I finished the final chapters of McLaren’s “A Generous Orthodoxy,” subtitled, “Why I am a missional, evangelical, liberal/conservative, mystical/poetic, biblical, charismatic/contemplative, fundamentalist/calvinist, anabaptist/anglican, methodist, catholic, green, incarnation, depressed-yet-hopeful, emergent, unfinished Christian.” A fairly ingenious work, if you can learn to stomach the seemingly endless run-on sentences (bet you couldn’t have guessed that from the title) and overuse of parenthetical comments (like this one). I commend it to the more thoughtful of you if you are willing to be challenged about the church and matters of faith. I apparently have been inspired on several occasions to read this work as when I opened the Amazon package that arrived a few weeks ago and placed the book in my “to read” pile I discovered that another copy already existed there. So…I have a loaner to the first who will speak up. Actually I have two to hand out as this present copy, though a bit bent and smudged from the cabin reading, is not highlighted. It has been a pleasure this year knowing that I could read for reading’s sake and not in order to demonstrate to a professor that I have extracted from the reading appropriate knowledge. Such is the joy of auditing.

I broke silence tonight precisely at 9:00 pm, twenty-four hours after the silence began. The first words? “Thank you, God, for silence. And thank you for your Word, Jesus, with whom I have become a bit better acquainted in these hours.”

For a brief moment today my blackberry actually received a text. It was the text I was hoping to receive and the reason that I had not been true to my promise to completely power down. The new Hodnefield baby boy has entered the world and all are well. Let the prayers of thanksgiving ascend! There’s a time to be silent and then…

SATURDAY

It has been a stifling day on the mountain with temperatures in the mid-90’s. Not a cloud has shown itself for two days. I haven’t checked the weather back home so I don’t know if I will gather any sympathy from mid-western readers. But here the humidity is so low that even on such days as these the shade, together with a gentle breeze, is almost cool. This is why Paul carries a light jacket around even in July. “My people always seem to want to stand in the shade,” he says.

Sandy left a note with last night’s supper that breakfast was to be around 8:00 am. I wasn’t sure if this would be at the guest cabin or their cabin now that the discipline of silence was over, but at 8:05 am the conk shell sounded and I headed up the hill. I am certain of two matters…I will leave this mountain spiritually refreshed and a few pounds heavier than I came.

During lunch we apparently lowered the volume of our conversation enough for a female mule deer to show herself. I have the sense that she would have ambled up regardless of our activity as she was patient enough for me to run back to the cabin, grab my camera and play paparazzi for awhile as she drank from the bird fountain and moseyed back up the mountain. I am puzzled why a deer would be moving during the middle of such a hot day…but pleased that she was.

This afternoon I hid from the heat and breezed through most of “Church Re-Imagined,” a book by Doug Pagitt, pastor of a faith community called “Solomon’s Porch” in Minneapolis. This is the epitome of ‘emergent church’ and I am already wondering how I might venture up to experience it once I return to the Midwest. This is a church that likely looks very little like any church you have experienced. Perhaps I can report more in a few weeks if travel plans pan out. For now, google “Solomon’s Porch” and take a look.

I mentioned that Sandy is a Benedictine oblate connected with an abbey just south of Portland, Oregon. She and I sang and prayed through Vespers again this evening. Waiting a bit later than Thursday night we had to fire up a lantern that we might see to sing, “Your Word is a lamp to our feet and a light to our path.”

Over supper tonight Stan leaned across the table and said, “The other day someone asked me if I was Christian. I told them, ‘Well, I believe in Jesus. I don’t go to church but I pray.’ What do you think, Joe? Does that make me a Christian?” I suppose it depends upon your definition of Christian, and there are as many of those floating around as there are people to ask. But I know Stan’s own description makes him a member of a rapidly growing segment of our population, i.e. those who consider themselves deeply spiritual but not churchy or religious. I have a heart for these persons, for so does the Lord.

Stan is into yoga in a huge way, and has constructed a yoga yurt on the property. Don’t know what a yoga yurt is? Neither did I. (Mnemonic device to remember? “Yogurt”) It is a round, canvassed-toped tent-like structure with a heated wooden floor that is used for yoga class, which Stan instructs here several times a week. Eight to a dozen students ascend this dusty mountain and leave the world behind for a few hours to stretch and move and do whatever one does in a yurt, there with candles and pictures of Jesus and Buddha and various yoga instructors in front of them arranged in what looks like a shrine. Whenever we prayed, Stan joined hands and offered “Amen” to the petitions that we offered in the name of Jesus. But Stan is not convinced that Jesus is the only way. He stands as one among a multitude who are searching.

The only difficult part of this segment of my journey will be leaving in the morning. I will spend Sunday worshipping at Lake Chelan Lutheran Church and treating the Palumbo family to supper at the Local Mystic Pizza Shop where Sam Palumbo works and the tourists love to eat. And I will pay. (Someone call Pastor Stephen and tell him that I picked up the bill). Then on Monday I will strike out for the North Cascades and some more serious hiking before heading back to Seattle and… well… let’s not look that far ahead now.

Forgive me for my wordiness. There is something about cabins and lanterns that encourage verbosity, I suppose. To those who have persevered and slogged through this entire posting at one sitting and without snoring, you deserve my hearty “thank you!” It is a joy to share this experience with you!

"Disconnected"

It occurred to me this morning that I needed to bring some planning and order to bear on next week's portion of the sabbatical. I am exploring one of the most beautiful parts of God's creation during the height of tourist season. Accommodations may not be a cinch to secure. So...knowing that I want to venture deeper into the North Cascades I set to work on the Internet and the phone to see what was available. What I discovered was...almost anything!

There are campgrounds with tent sites available. Sorry, I sport no equipment. Wait...they provide sleeping bags. There are rustic cabins that sleep anywhere from 1 to 15, traditional hotel rooms, as well as ranches that offer not only a place to lay your head but horseback riding, guided hiking, trout fishing and wildlife watching. There are rooms with jacuzzis, flat screen televisions and breakfast in bed. I settled on Buffalo Run Inn in Marblemount. It was relatively inexpensive and located only 10 miles from Diablo Lake, the heart of the area I want to explore. And I really liked the pictures of the buffaloes on the shower curtains.

It is most interesting that I found absolutely no desire for a room with television. Neither of the "Pauls" with whom I have stayed are much on television watching. I brought to the attention Paul #2 today that it had been over a week since I have sat in front of a television screen and I haven't missed it a bit. He invited me to go upstairs and sit in front of the one that their family owns. "It's not connected to anything," he said, "and I don't believe it works, but you're welcome to sit in front of it as long as you want."

I ponder the many activities with which we often fill our lives. There is some joy that comes with being 'unplugged' for awhile. There is also irony in my writing this while on a laptop plugged into a system as powerful and expansive as the Internet. I also see that my Blackberry is perched on the arm of the sofa beside me and continues to hum with announcements, texts, e-messages and calls from persons with whom I am connected.

Tomorrow I will attempt to become as disconnected as I have been in some time. I will hit the red button on the cell, hibernate the laptop and head for the hills to become connected in the most meaningful, most often overlooked ways, i.e. prayerfully and spiritually.

No pic's to post today. I spent Wednesday finishing The Shack. Tonight, after supper, four Palumbos and I took Xela the retriever for a walk along a tributary that spills into the Columbia River and stood atop a mountain that looked down into a jagged gorge. From there we watched a golden eagle take flight and roost among the cliffs.

I will look forward to 'reconnecting' with you sometime this weekend. Summer has arrived to north central Washington and the forecasters are calling for near triple-digit temperatures. If there is no electricity in my destination cabin then I will assume that there will be no a/c either. I will give thanks for the elevation.

And I daily give thanks for all of you.

"Snakes and Mountain Goats and Bears! Oh My!"

Paul shuffled off to the office this morning for a meeting. His daily commute to and from work consists of a 35-second walk across the side yard of the parsonage. There are some distinct advantages and disadvantages to this. When the sign at the local Texaco reads $4.49/gallon for 87 octane, the advantages seem heftier. I noticed today that Paul walks most places about Chelan. I accompanied him mid-morning to deliver food to someone in need. Along the way he greeted the townspeople with as much Spanish as English. (40% of the population here is Hispanic.) I Have heard story after story from the locals regarding how Paul's presence in the community has vitally changed Chelan. I have no doubt.

Virginia commented last evening that it was wonderful for Paul to have someone to "talk shop" with. We have done that, for sure...exploring various ministry successes and failures and probing theological issues. We sat at some outside cafe tables at noon and shared lunch and such shop talk.

For the afternoon we traveled around part of the Lake and up into the mountains for some hiking. Jeff was our guide. Jeff moved to north central Washington nearly 30 years ago when he would describe himself as a hippie. He collected some land, married Josette, a French Canadian woman who at that time spoke no English, and built a small cabin where he still spends his summers growing fruit, flowers and various vegetables. He spent an hour showing me how he had grafted his fruit trees and then gave me an aprium to test. This is a genetic cross between an apricot and a plum. Fantastic!

Once we began our trek down through the orchards, across the river and up the bank on the other side I was convinced that Jeff was part mountain goat. I was pleased that he was willing to do all the talking as we hiked for I may have been too winded to lead any conversation. After forging the second river of the afternoon we nearly stepped on a rattlesnake...and would have had he not taken care to let us know that he was here and that this was his path. We didn't argue. I did snap a pic that I will try to post. T'is as close as I ever care to come to such a critter.




(Jeff the "Mountain Goat" and Pastor Paul)







We forged our own path along the side of the mountain. In another 1/2 mile I heard some rustling of branches and spotted a bear cub climbing a tree about 20 yards down the hill. He was as interested in us as we were in him. I managed another picture here. We didn't tarry too long as this cub looked less than a year old, which meant that a third interested party on that mountain would have been momma bear, which, at that moment, we didn't spot. We saw more wildlife than people on our trek. We all agreed that this was fine.

Jeff is one of the only Jews in Chelan, but was very eager to enter the shop talk that Paul I carried out. He inquired about our ministries and hobbies and...an extraordinarily gracious dude. We finished our hike by driving to the lake to dip our feet, but no more than feet as the water is frigid! Lake Chelan is about 50 miles long and averages about a mile across. The water is pristine and a deep blue in the late afternoon sun. It is the third deepest lake in North America, claiming 1,600 feet in spots. Many of you may know that Holden Village (Lutheran retreat center where the Holden Evening Liturgy was born) lies on an island at the northern edges of this lake.

I will spend this evening reading and resting and may turn in early after a few games with the Palumbo's retriever, Xela. I have seen God in many places this day. I anticipate more encounters in my dreams.

God Always Finds a Way - "Bridge Over Troubled Water"

I am drawn to waterfalls. When I take inventory of the number of waterfall hunting guides available for purchase then I quickly surmise that I am not alone in this passion. I borrowed such a guide to find Wallace Falls this morning. Just west of Stephens Pass on Washington Highway 2 rests the sleepy town of Gold Bar. Turn north in the middle of this bend in the road, head through a small residential area and up the mountain and you will arrive at Wallace Falls State Park.

The trail is underwhelming as it leaves the small parking area following the crackling of open overhead power lines, but then turns into the forest and becomes a bit more inviting. The trail soon splits. The 'high' trail is an old railroad bed which is therefore graded for the walker. The 'low' trail is bit more arduously navigated along the Wallace River and is designated for "hikers." I'm in this for the adventure. I took the low trail, i.e. the trail less traveled. Robert Frost would have been proud.

I can study waterfalls for hours. It is a spiritual exercise for me. I wonder how it is that the rivers or streams first searched out their route and how many thousands of years it took to cut such a trough in the earth. This morning I pondered these matters more deeply than usual knowing that I would be writing you this evening. I believe the essence of my passion is this...i.e. I love that the water finds its way regardless of whatever obstacle might threaten to frustrate its progress. I admire the water. It reminds me of God's Spirit.

In Gold Bar I noticed two church buildings that were no longer serving to harbor churches. The first building was cause to pull over and snap my first photo of the day. I discovered only later that some varmint had apparently monkeyed with my aperture setting during the night and failed to inform me, so the shot was grossly overexposed. So while I can't share it with you, I can describe it. This old, white wooden building sported a traditional steeple, but no cross. It had apparently been removed. Upon the side of the steeple was a banner advertising the art studio and shop inside. My guess is that these weren't liturgical arts.

In one way I am concerned for the church culture. Dave Lind sends a wonderful link from USA Today that describes well and alarmingly the current state of matters (http://www.usatoday.com/news/religion/2008-06-23-pew-religions_N.htm?csp=34). But don't read what I'm not writing. While I am concerned for the church culture, the waterfall reminds me not to despair for the church. It is, after all, Jesus' church. It will endure. 'The gates of hell will not prevail against it," we sing. It shall be there, in some form, at the end of time to greet the returning Savior. Just as the water finds a way, so shall the church. But I suspect that the church that Jesus will greet on his second advent will look much different than the church of today. Just as I imagine what the waterfall might have looked like a million years ago, I wonder what the church of Christ might look like when my great grandchildren are a part of it.

Wallace Falls are quite impressive. There is little perspective to the photos I shall try to post, but the waters you hopefully see are plunging some 180 feet into the basin before rushing down the gorge. It was a wonderful arena in which to spend the morning and about 6 miles of hiking/climbing.

The banana and coffee cake that I had for breakfast at the Hoffman's before leaving Seattle was wonderful, but was spent about half way up the falls, so by my early afternoon return I was eager to make lunch of anything edible. Lunch was an old tuna sandwich and a few granola bars from the corner Shell Station. A few more hours on the highway placed me in the town of Chelan where my dear ole friend Paul gave a warm, gracious welcome. Paul, Virginia and three of their four children live in the parsonage next door to Lake Chelan Lutheran Church where Paul serves. Don't bother looking for their website. There is none. This is a wonderful, small, A-framed building where 50-80 folks gather for one service on Sunday morning. Paul has served here for 10 years. As we walked about town he called out to dozens of persons by name. I wasn't sure if he was pastor or mayor. ..or both.

I will blog again tomorrow evening, and perhaps Wednesday, and then I will be out of touch from Thursday late morning until Sunday morning. I have told you about Stan and Sandy. They own a small cabin about 20 minutes from Chelan where they host persons on spiritual retreat. They are especially pleased to pray for pastors. There will be a rite when entering this experience wherein Sandy will pray for me. Then I will spend the next days ambling about the mountains, praying to the Creator, and being served meals by this gracious couple. Darkness comes late here. Perhaps this is good as there is no electricity in this one-roomed cabin. "What is the fee for this?" I naively asked Paul. "Fee?! There is no fee," he replied. "This is their ministry, man!"

I think now again of The Shack, the novel of which I wrote to you yesterday. I wonder if I, too, might have some experience of the Trinity in this cabin. I'm counting on it. God always finds a way.

So this is what Sundays are like From the Pew!

Sometimes my sermons are worked out in the empty sanctuary...empty, that is, except the Holy Spirit. When I am challenged regarding a particular lesson, I will often leave the chancel and sit in the pew for a spell. "What do those who will fill these pews this weekend need to hear? Experience? With what life issues are they wrestling? Where are they in need of mending?" Sometimes what I need to say isn't exactly what is most needful to hear. I had a similar type of perspective today as I experienced Sunday morning like most of you.

I rose late after getting 8 hours of sleep for the first time in months, read the paper and had a cup of coffee (what else would I have in Seattle?). Then I lazily made my way to church arriving just a few moments before worship, sifted through the bulletins and announcements and...then rose for the opening hymn. While I wouldn't trade my usual 6:00 Sunday morning alarm or my "what am I going to do with the children this morning?" planning sessions on the way to worship for anything, it was nice to sit in an alternate world for this one morning.

Worship at Phinney Ridge Lutheran Church is noticeably and intentionally traditional. Some might call it "high church." It fits the niche here. It works.

This afternoon I made my way to Church of the Apostles Lutheran Church, an emergent community that is geared completely differently and attends to a very disparate crowd. There are no robes here. No organ. No one over the age of 30. Worship is participatory, imagistic and celebrates the mystery of God through art and a very different sort of liturgy. It is housed in a renovated older church building now called "Fremont Abbey."

Within site of my home in southern Overland Park there are two church buildings. The closest is Grace Community Church, a modern facility that is box-shaped and post-modern. You know before you enter that its worship space will be movable and multi-purposed. There are video screens up front and worship looks like you imagine worship when someone describes it as "praise," driven by guitar and percussion.

Across and just west on 159th street is Redeemer Presbyterian Church. Google it and you will see a church building fashioned to look like a church building. This is prototypical colonial architecture with a high rising white spire and cross. This is the church that "grandma used to attend." Worship is driven by organ and traditional liturgy.

So here in the heart of Seattle the church finds the same sort of varied persuasions and expressions that it does back in Johnson County. It reflects the disparity of our culture. You can't count on the McDonaldization of the Lutheran (or any other) tribe. We used to trust that a big mac was a big mac no matter where you ordered it. Lutheran worship was Lutheran worship no matter what red doors you entered. But the expression of our confession has now become as varied as the culture we attempt to address with the Gospel. It is a challenging, wondrous deal. It befuddles and excites me.

Following worship I stopped at the Red Mill Burger Shop for lunch. Like everything else in this town it is located beside Starbucks. I then ventured to the waterfront to walk along the piers and watch the ferries arrive and depart. Paul shared with me tonight that "I'm sorry I have to cut this meeting short for I have a ferry to catch" is a completely acceptable phrase here. It is a marvelous city.

I then spent the afternoon on the computer, researched some of the waterfalls I intend to explore tomorrow, and read further into the novel, "The Shack," by William P. Young, a faith-based novel that so far has been a stimulating read. I'll keep you posted.

Paul and I sat up until late tonight embroiled in wonderful collegial conversations and stories. There have been two decades worth to share. Needless to say, we hit the 'high points.' I spoke adoringly of Atonement and my dear love for this congregation. He was very interested in the Atonement line of apparel that I have been sporting since I arrived. Perhaps I will send him a shirt later.

Tomorrow we will share breakfast together before he heads off to open VBS and I venture east to see what sort of trouble I can rouse and how many waterfalls I can search out before arriving in Chelan tomorrow evening. Pastor Paul Palumbo and wife, Virginia, dear friends, promise to have the table spread. They asked if I had special dietary needs. I said, "Food is good."

Chelan is in a remote area of the Cascades of north central Washington so I don't know what to expect in regards to cyber connectivity. If nothing else, surely there will be a Starbucks on the lake!

A Protracted Sabbatical..."Take 2"

While I officially restarted the "Sabbath Clock" on Monday, it really feels as if the experience began today. Jim and Kaye Dalbec were kind enough to retrieve me this morning and ensure that I arrived at MCI on time for my date with Northwest Airlines. After a brief layover in the Lutheran Mecca (Minneapolis, of course) I was off to an expectedly cloudy, cool Seattle. It has been a long day and I shall surely not be "sleepless" in this city tonight.

What a joy to reconnect with Paul and Donna Hoffman. It has been two full decades since we last visited and shared life stories, so this was just how the evening was spent. We sat around the dining room table of their three-story downtown Seattle home, feasted on fresh seafood and caught up on life and ministry...in that order. Paul was my intern supervisor back in the late 80's at Christ the Servant Lutheran Church in Allen, TX. He now serves as senior pastor of Phinney Ridge Lutheran here where I shall worship tomorrow. "Normally," Paul confessed tonight, "I would rise tomorrow morning at 4:30 am to work on my sermon." (Finally, someone that waits even later than me!) "But the vicar (intern) is slated to preach this week, so I get to sleep in," he said. So tomorrow I shall watch Paul watch his intern for the purposes of evaluation. Surely it shall bring back memories.

The table fellowship extended to a wonderful late evening walk around a local lake. The sun is not in a hurry to set here. It was nearly 10:00 pm when we returned and there was still a glow in the horizon.

One of the purposes of my trip here was to visit Church of the Apostles, an emergent church community shared by the Lutheran and Episcopal communties here. Turns out that COTA is but 3 blocks from the Hoffman's home which makes visiting much more doable than I had imagined. Perhaps tomorrow afternoon.

My body and computer clock are both still on CST and are bellowing that it is nearly 1:30 am. So I shall turn in. It is good to be in blog conversation with you all. I shall miss being at Atonement this weekend and will surely experience a bit of withdrawal. I send a heartfelt "thank you" to those that have committed to pray daily for me. You have seen me safely to my first destination.