Pastor Alice

Message for December 2006

Senior Pastor’s Message

… therefore the church is called to “waste itself,” to throw grace around like there is no tomorrow, precisely because there is a tomorrow, and it belongs to God.

Those words were written by the same preacher/teacher who gave us the phrase I used in a sermon recently: “fusty prudes”. (Thomas Long in a commentary on the Gospel of Matthew) Our Wednesday morning Bible Study group has reveled in both sets of words, and this phrase in particular triggered much conversation recently.

In particular, I was impressed with the report of a member of our Board of Christian Outreach and Mission, who has been calling households to whom we delivered Thanksgiving baskets and basically asking: what would your child like for Christmas? (These gift requests will then become the basis for our Angel Tree opportunities to give to those in need.) Talk about throwing grace around! Can you imagine being a parent who is struggling to make ends meet, lying awake nights wondering where the rent money will come from, whether to send money toward the oil bill or the electric, sick in the pit of his or her stomach – and then, out of the blue, answering the phone, maybe worrying that it’s yet another creditor calling, only to be asked, what would your child like for Christmas?

Another member of the Bible Study group joined into the conversation by sharing a personal story that’s now years old. He was unemployed and raising a small child by himself, when one Thanksgiving he received a call from a local firefighter who was offering him a food basket. He started to say no. He wanted to say no. But he also knew that his pride was getting in his way and wasn’t helping his son, so he said yes. A month later his pastor called and said there was a person in the church who wanted to know what his son would like for Christmas. He started to say nothing. He wanted to say nothing. But he remembered that his son had asked for two things, and knew he could only afford one of them. So he gave the pastor a choice and the son received both gifts. And a few years later, when he had a job and some money, he gave it to the church and returned the gift.

… therefore the church is called to “waste itself,” to throw grace around like there is no tomorrow, precisely because there is a tomorrow, and it belongs to God.

Throwing grace around is actually what Christmas is all about. I imagine a heartsick God, watching over the creation and loved ones that had been birthed from the very center of God’s heart in the first place. In the early days of creation, things got off to a rocky start, so God offered a covenant of love and grace by which these humans could live. Tumult and tension mounted, so God sent laws and ordinances. Selfishness, callousness and ruthlessness festered and mushroomed, and God sent prophets to speak words of caution and correction. Oppression, violence and human misery tore at the very fabric of human life, and God allowed an enemy army to clear the decks and carry the people off to a time out in exile. The volume of the sin, suffering and abuse just kept clamoring louder and louder. The darkness grew steadily darker and more menacing and was about to engulf them for eternity. About the time a more reasonable God would have wiped the slate clean once and for all, and then taken a sabbatical to decide whether or not it was worth the energy to try again, our God decided to come in person. In the person of a tiny, fragile, vulnerable baby boy. Knowing that there’s nothing to bring people together like a baby they can ooh and aah over. Knowing that the laws of reason and the strength of armies and the power of palaces weren’t birthing the peace and hope and love that God hungered after. Tired of sending in others to be sacrificed and silenced, God came in person. Taking on the skin and bones and breath and blood of any one of the least of these, God came to be one of us, to live with us, to walk with us, to risk ridicule and rejection and death for us. God did all of that in love and for us.

Into the darkest of all possible nights, God shone a light of promise and peace. Into the coldest of all subzero blizzards, God planted a fragile seedling. Into the hardest of hearts, God crafted a cradle and nestled a child. Into the driest of deserts, God showered the life giving waters of new life. Into the most desolate alleys of destruction, the refuse piles of cast-aways and rejecteds, God birthed hope and promise and welcome and love.

… therefore the church is called to “waste itself,” to throw grace around like there is no tomorrow, precisely because there is a tomorrow, and it belongs to God.

For Christmas, God has given us grace like there’s no tomorrow. And God has given us countless tomorrows in which to revel in that grace. What will we give God in return?

Shalom, my friends.  Alice M.C. Ling

Message for November 2006

I am definitely not a runner, but you probably already knew that. Another thing that you probably know about me is that I am willing and all too ready to talk about things about which I know little. Put those two pieces of information together, and you might be able to picture me a few years ago offering a wedding homily to two avid runners. Skilled, committed, accomplished runners – and there I was with the audacity to use running as an analogy for marriage. Can’t you just imagine me in front of a congregation that was probably at least half made up of runners, confessing the story of my short-lived pretend dabbling in running?

It goes something like this: Once upon a time in a land far, far away, I was periodically bitten by a spring thing that suggested that jogging might be good for me. So for a spring or two in college, another one or two after I got to the parish, on especially enticing spring afternoons, something came over me and I decided I should take up jogging. The first day felt good, and I began to plan my schedule and routine to do this regularly. The second day was harder but tolerable, though my vision for the future was a tad less perky. In the somewhat unlikely event that I got to the third day, it was more than I could stand to do anything but plod one foot in front of the other. And then the notion of running was put back on the shelf for at least another year - until finally I got smart and gave it up all together.

We’ve all known people who approached life with about as much discipline and fortitude as I approached my career as a runner: caught up in a moment, overcome with enthusiasm, in a flash of emotion that just doesn't stand up to the hard work required to turn a passion into a life. I’ve seen comparable fizzle in the vicinity of diets, class work, job assignments, care giving, fund raising, church concerns, and anything else that entails long range planning and long distance perspective. And some things, if they stand any chance of being accomplished, require tremendous amounts of discipline, staying power, focus, and down right stubbornness.

I’ve talked with a couple of people recently who are struggling with new developments in their lives. Or more truthfully, with their own sort of variation on a theme. Illness returns. A second (or third or fourth) member of the family is headed for the hospital – all in one year. A job is in jeopardy again. And they look at me with a world weary glazed sort of look that says, I don’t know if I can do this again. They will. Partly because they have no choice. Partly because that’s what love does. But in the midst of it all, they and I and all the rest of us need to learn to pace ourselves. Sprinters function very differently than marathoners. Are we in for a 50 yard dash, a five mile fun run or a marathon? And when one marathon stretches into three and there’s no end in sight, how do we then care for and maintain ourselves? Sometimes we burn out. Sometimes we crumble along side of the road. Sometimes we get sick and add new ailments to the ones that were already overwhelming us. And hopefully, sometimes we manage to pass the baton to others, asking them to run for us long enough that we can take a break, drink some Gatorade, rest our muscles, catch our breath and get ready to reenter the race.

When the runners of the First Parish Family Five Fun Run gather at the starting line on November 5, I will be there to offer a prayer and wish them well. I’m not running with them, yet again. But I will send them on their way, and I will welcome them back to the finish line, cheering them on regardless of the condition in which they return. And I will be aware of the ways in which this race benefits our historic church building. If ever there was a model of marathon pacing, it’s a 287 ½ year old community of faith that has weathered more fights, challenges, financial shortfalls, national and denominational disasters, births and deaths, growth spurts and declines than we even want to remember or imagine. Hard to believe that within the past 40 years, this congregation worried about just how numbered their days were and whether or how they might find a path into the future. And look at us now! Yes, we face challenges, some more daunting than we’re comfortable with. But with a slow and steady pace, constant and vigilant prayer, knowing when to pass the baton off and catch our breath, when to step back in and give someone else a pause – with a lot of help from our friends – we’ll be okay. We’re in this for the long haul, much as the author to the letter to the Hebrews encouraged: “…let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith…” (Hebrews 12:1b-2a)

See you on the course, my friends. Peace, Alice M.C. Ling

Message for October 2006

Beloved in Christ, this is the joyful feast of the people of God! Men and women, youth and children, come from the east and from the west, from the north and the south, and gather about Christ's table.

I will forever hear those words in the voice of Joan Bates Forsberg, and see her outstretched arms as she welcomed us all: apprehensive, confident, new, returning, well practiced, never been out of the pew before, Catholic, Episcopal, UCC. Whether we were beginning our first year of seminary, or back for the final stretch before we headed out, she welcomed us in and drew us together around a large marble table that sat in the middle of a classic worship space at Yale Divinity School. And gather around we did: ring upon ring of us, we moved to the front, drawing the circle wide, folding people together, we crowded in and made room for all. And then we passed the bread, shared the cup. When it was over, we lingered about the table and continued to pass the bread, share the cup, savoring every morsel, draining the last drop. Together we sang and worshipped, listened and greeted, gathered and finally were sent out. What a joyful feast it was!

From there to the woods and potato fields of northern Maine. Two congregations a Sunday. Farmer beside logger beside lumber mill owner beside paper mill laborer beside nurse beside doctor beside ill and injured beside young and old and everything in between. They gathered around, passed the trays and handled the cups. But perhaps even more sacramental was the standing invitation to dinner anytime. Or the transient who happened upon a community supper and wondered about a place to lay his head and a crust of bread for his stomach. While many stammered and stared, Jim stepped to the front, took the man by the hand and led him to a place at the table. A warm meal for a person who hadn't seen the light of a smile in months. The presence of Christ made real in beans and ham and molded green salad.

State Youth Events for 150 where high schoolers from across the state gathered for a weekend. We explored race relations, pondered how to weave faith into decisions, dissected the themes of movies, talked openly about sexuality, shared pizza and popcorn and nachos while we cradled the depressed, danced on table tops and took to the streets. And broke bread and shared cup and welcomed in and sent out.

World Communion Sunday in a Baptist Church in Nicaragua. We sat on bales of hay for Bible Study, folding chairs under a lean to for worship, and savored sugar cookies and cold Fanta while we visited afterward. That evening in a barrio in Managua a Catholic priest welcomed us to the table where all might be fed and all might be one. We didn't need to understand the Spanish to feel the welcome and be warmed by the embrace.

A couple wracked by the ravages of illness, tormented by news that the transplant didn't work and time was just about up. We shared the "we had hoped" from the Road to Emmaus, and knew all too well the dashed hopes and broken dreams that lay under our feet. It was in the breaking of the bread that our eyes were opened and once again we recognized the risen Christ among us. In a love that would never die, a peace the world could not take away, a mystery that would outlast all of our grief and pain.

And around our table and among our fellowship, we come together from Rye in the east, north to Concord, west in Hudson, Pelham to the south. But more importantly, we come from weeks at Horton Center and the mystery of mountain mornings, long hours around Yard Sale tables and library reorganizing, a week on the Isle of Iona with pilgrims from Wales, England, and New York, board meetings and bible study and prayer sessions and bathroom remodeling. A partnership in Zimbabwe, a service trip to New Orleans. We come from our homes and places of business, from schools and stores and hospitals and small corner work cubicles. We come as men and women, youth and children, in our woundedness and our wellness, bringing that which haunts us and that which fills us with hope. We've met at the breakfast table, the Cookie Walk table, the Harvest Supper table, over at McDonald's and down at the Depot. We've broken bread and passed the cup and offered brownies and baked lasagna and shared cake and feasted and dined on the love of Christ and the extravagance of his banquet.

When we come to the table on World Communion Sunday, we'll be joined by a host of characters from around the world and throughout time. It is Christ who invites us and helps us to make room for all the one anothers who come. It is Christ who blesses the bread and offers the cup. It is Christ who moves among us as stranger and guest, knits us together into one family of faith, opens our eyes and blesses our souls with peace. My beloved friends, come to the glorious table, the joyful feast of Christ and all Christ's people!

Message for September 2006

It’s September, and there is a long list of predictable topics for reflection. Back to school, off to college, back to church, priority setting, summer’s ending, fall is upon us. I’ve chosen another popular one, though perhaps more geared toward school children than adults: what I did on my summer vacation.

Somewhere early in my planning, I decided that I really wanted to spend some time enjoying the mountains, savoring the solitude they have to offer, drinking deep of the unique ways my soul is fed by them thar hills. After a fair amount of research, rumination and procrastination, I finally made reservations for three of the huts in the Presidentials: Madison, Lake of the Clouds, and Mizpah. One serious day’s hike, followed by two on the open ridge, followed by one more down, then a shuttle back to my car. What could be better?

As is predictable, I left home later than I intended, drove north and hit the trail about 1:30. I hiked, I sweated, I rested, I hiked, I sweated, I snacked, I sweated, I hiked. Much of the time I was saying a silent prayer of apology to the good friend whom I had seriously mocked when he told me that he really thought it wasn’t worth the effort of getting to Madison. (Did I really call him a wimp? I’ve since apologized to his face.) Of course, the 95 degree heat and 150% humidity didn’t help much, nor did the weight of the pack I was carrying, but I’ll save that discussion for another day. Having said all that, I am proud to say I made it – and before dinner was served. Barely.

We started the evening with a delicious meal of homemade bread, hearty lasagna and great company. Staff explained that the week before visibility at that elevation was about 120 miles, but a wind change was bringing us particles from coal burning plants in the Midwest; humidity was latching on to the particles and together, they had reduced the visibility to about 12 miles. The naturalist later led a game of nature bingo, while some read, talked or settled in.

Going to bed was my first serious realization of how much this was not going to resemble mountain solitude. The hut houses 52 hikers per night, and the accommodations are two bunk rooms, with the bunks stacked 4 high. With about 18 inches between the stacks of bunks. The noises of so many “sleepers” in such a small space were soon drowned out by the wind, then the rain, all of which was accompanied by very spectacular lightning show. Since I wasn’t inclined to sleep, it was actually good entertainment, in a twisted sort of way.

By morning, the visibility had been reduced yet again, this time to about 25 feet. We were sitting in one serious cloud. The weather report was announced during breakfast: at Mt. Washington, the wind was blowing at 60 – 80 mph, and there had recently been a gust of 97 mph. The forecast for the day was winds of 40 – 60 mph, with rain, thunder and lightning. And in the valley? A heat advisory.

Now, you probably have recognized that I’m not normally one to cry uncle. But I have done enough hiking to know that you don’t hike on an exposed ridge at 5,000 feet elevation with 40-60 mile an hour winds OR with lightning crackling around you, to say nothing of what you do or don’t do with both. So, yes, I changed my plans – me and the rest of the 51 people staying at Madison Hut. Many of us went back down the exact same trail we had sweated our way up the day before. I was lucky enough to get a bed at Pinkham Notch Hut – and get this, a 2-bunk bedroom. And it gets better: just me in the room. Now that’s solitude! I didn’t get to Lake of the Clouds or Mizpah. I didn’t bag one peak. I didn’t get to buy a new t-shirt that said this body climbed Mt. Washington. But I read a good book, did a lot of writing, saw a play in North Conway and relaxed. I hiked in to the Hermit Lake shelter and the base of the Tuckerman Ravine headwall, one of the holiest places in the mountains for my money. And more than anything else, I was safe. And I came home in one piece.

All of which leads me to a familiar prayer:
            God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
            The courage to change the things I can
            And the wisdom to know the difference.
I think I’ll pray for more of those things this fall: serenity, courage and wisdom. You can never have enough wisdom when it comes to knowing the difference.
                                                                                                            Peace
                                                                                                                          Alice
                                                                                                            Alice M.C. Ling

Message for August 2006

In this newsletter, you’ll read several references to a day long retreat the Diaconate shared with each other in mid-July. The portion of the day that I want to share with you is an exercise that I asked members of the board to participate in, and that involved covering a dining room table with a wide array of photos. I asked them to peruse the photos and choose one that for them represents First Parish Church. The diversity of perspectives and choice was astounding!

• There was a wall of photos of ancestors, 28 photos in all, representing those who have gone before us and whose legacy we now seek to honor and continue
• A stand of trees, old trees, new trees, both living and long dead, with a sense of the openness of a pasture and lots of room for fresh breezes to blow
• A young woman looking thoughtful and serious, with searching eyes, a simple ring on one finger and another in her nose
• Two faces up close and personal: one very young, the other old and wrinkled. There is a look of tenderness between them, as the young person’s lips are poised at the older person’s forehead. To share a kiss? Whisper a secret?
• A wagon loaded with sacks and sacks that are piled high on a small cart. The person who selected the photo saw the baggage that each of us brings to the church and are able to set aside and leave behind. If it had been my photo of choice, I would have been more likely to see sacks of grain given in compassion for the hungry.
• A trail in the woods. Thoughts were offered about the seasons, the quiet trail, the respite and refreshment – while also observing that the woods are not always a good and safe place to be. And they need to be tended and cared for.
• A field of sheep, each of them standing alone, far from the others, each of them pointing in different directions
• A wall of a building that featured large windows and a celebration of the openness and views to what lies beyond the wall. Another person saw in the photo a childhood church that now stands as a ruin, a place not cared for or tended, and what they hope First Parish will not become
• A child poised in the air, gleefully falling off a park bench – a leap of faith, a celebration of life, joy and freedom and adventure.

Each of us sees something different in this church. Many of us come seeking different things. The lens we look through focuses and changes what we see. Do we see a building in need of repair? A place for youth to grow and challenge and be at home? A quiet place apart for reflection and prayer? An adventure of faith and growth and stretching risk? A place of history or a place of future? Do we look for a mission focus, a service focus, an educational program? A place to probe and study and learn or a place to simply be welcomed and embraced and held? And perhaps the most important question of all: what is the unity and wholeness that weaves together all of these disparate experiences and perspectives?

How do you perceive and experience First Parish Church? If it was a person, what would it look like? Let’s share our individual perspectives with each other, and let’s look together for the wholeness that is bigger than the small part that any one of us can see on our own. Peace.

Message for July 2006

            Summertime… and the living’ is easy
            Fish are jumpin’ and the cotton is high
            Oh, your daddy’s rich and your momma’s good lookin’
            So hush little baby, don’t you cry…

Somebody will have to tell me whose voice it is that I hear belting out those Gershwin lyrics, but it’s big and busty and belting is the one word that seems to express it. What an appropriate way to usher in the season. Let ‘er rip! Strawberries are ripe, school is out, camp is in session, baseball is in full swing. It’s time for beach parties, pool sitting, bike riding, lazy lingering on the deck, leisurely mornings over coffee. Put your feet up. Dig your camping gear out. Turn off the phone. Crack open a book. Summertime – deep sighs, long sleeps, re-creating play, nothing more important to do than wait for some critter to nibble on that hook.

Maybe it’s all in my dreams, but I do venture the hunch that we’re all dreaming of at least a smidgeon of some of that magic. Each of us has our own definition of what makes for a perfect summer, but each of us does have one. And I hope and pray that each of us will taste at least a morsel of that dream in the coming months. And of course, I have a couple of things I want to say as you head out on whatever adventure awaits you.

The first thing I want to say is to repeat what I already said: I hope and pray that each of us will taste at least a morsel of a perfect summer in the coming months. I’ve long been convinced of the pun inherent in the word “recreation” – to recreate, to laugh and play and adventure and explore is to re-create ourselves body and soul. There is a creative, generative gift in play, in rest, in doing the things we love with the people we love. In part, it restores our ability to work and produce. At its core, it graces life with the joy and wonder that gives it beauty and meaning. Go play – we’ll all be the better for it.

But at the same time, I don’t want you to think I’m encouraging a gluttony of goofing off (what a strange phrase – is that what I meant to say?). Maybe what I mean to say is that I’m not encouraging you to hang a “We’re Sorry – We’re Closed” sign on your heart and mind. Go have a good time, but don’t forget to listen to the movement of God. Go play and laugh and sing and dance, but remember that God is the giver of laughter and David danced himself silly when it came time to praise God. God gives the song and the body and the mountain breeze and the summer sun, so while you’re enjoying it, say thank you. In your heart as well as with your words. And if somebody with a need presents themselves to you, think carefully about your response before you tell them to come back in the fall when you’re back to being God’s servant.

It would be untruthful of me to say that I don’t want to see you in church this summer, because I hope I will. And it would be negligent of me to not remind you to pay your pledge or contribute to the church’s ministry in whatever way you do before you go or send it in from wherever you’re having fun. But at the same time, I really do want to encourage you to do what you need to do to tend your spirit. I hope you’ll consider joining us for a game of softball, for some quiet prayer and meditation, for worship under the trees and on the mountain for Labor Day. I hope that most of us don’t need time off from prayer and worship and the Body of Christ and being in the presence of God and God’s people. And I know that from time to time all of us do need time off from responsibilities and chores and commitments. We need to laugh and play without having to watch our watch to see where we need to be next. Take the time to do what you need to do for yourself, your family, your heart and soul in this glorious summertime. And remember that God will be with you wherever you go. And the church will be here, throughout the summer and in the fall. Blessings on your summer, my friends. See you in the fall, and hopefully before. Peace.