THE SPACE BETWEEN - HOLY SATURDAY

The Apostle Paul places a pause between Good Friday and Easter.  He writes in 1 Corinthians: 

For I handed on to you as of first importance what I in turn had received that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the scriptures, and that he was buried, and was raised on the third day in accordance with the scriptures (15:3-4). 

With the words “and that he was buried,” Paul leaves some space, a little light, between the death and resurrection of Jesus.  Alan E. Lewis writes: “Here resurrection is not permitted to verge upon the cross, instantaneously converting death into new life” (Between Cross & Resurrection-A Theology of Holy Saturday, pg. 37). We call this interval between Good Friday and Easter Sunday, this pause between death and new life, Holy Saturday.  Many of us will gather for a Good Friday service and reunite for an Easter service.  (The really dedicated among us will arise in darkness for a sunrise service.)  We will pass through Holy Saturday without noticing it.  We would do well to note its place in the sequence of these days, this in-between time.

We live our lives in the in-between time.  Christ has died; our sins are forgiven.  We are no longer slaves to sin and the powers of this world.  This has been accomplished.  Yet the fullness of resurrection for us and all creation awaits some future day.  Paul writes in Romans:

I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us. 19 For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God; 20 for the creation was subjected to futility, not of its own will but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope 21 that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. 22 We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now; 23 and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies (Romans 8:18-23).

Paul is describing the in-between time, Holy Saturday, after the thing has begun but before it is finished.  How do we live in these days?  When we get up on Sunday morning, the world will look very much the same as it did when we went to bed on Saturday night.  War, poverty, infidelity, sin of all sorts, tornadoes and floods—they will all persist right through this holy weekend.  If we look at our world, we could get the idea that the cross is the last word in the story.   We could resign ourselves to the reality, in words of Frederick Buechner:

…that the world holds nothing sacred; that even the wisest and bravest and loveliest decay and die; that even the noblest ideas that men have had—ideas about love and freedom and justice—have always in the end been twisted out of shape by selfish men for selfish ends (The Magnificent Defeat, p.85).

It could look as if death has won, that the cross is the last word.  This is the way it looks on Holy Saturday.

We know this is not true.  We know what follows on the heels of Holy Saturday; we couldn’t forget it if we tried. Paul ends the passage in Romans 8 with these words:

For in hope we have been saved, but hope that is seen is not hope; for why does one hope for what he also sees?  But if we hope for what we do not see, with perseverance we wait for it (8:24-25)

We are people of hope.  We live between Good Friday, what God has begun in Jesus Christ, and Easter Sunday, an image of what we and all creation shall become someday in Jesus Christ.  For now we live in a perpetual Holy Saturday, that in-between time.  We know Good Friday is not the last word, but we are still awaiting the final punctuation of God’s sentence of salvation.  We wait in hope because we know the last thing is always the best thing with God.  Easter has already taught us that.

May hope fill your hearts and drive your living,

Jim Kelsey

Executive Minister

As American Baptists of New York State, we will embrace God’s future and these core operational values: honesty, connectedness, and hope

There is a Reason Why They Call it Holy Week

It is only a matter of days, less than a week now, until we will take up our palm branches.  What do we call it: Palm Sunday or Passion Sunday?  It is hard to properly name this day of such stark contradictions. 

Luke tells us that as Jesus approached the city of Jerusalem, the crowd of disciples began praising God joyfully with a loud voice.  Matthew tells us that the crowd spread their coats and palm branches on the road before him.  We can envision this noisy parade as Jesus approaches the city for the biggest Jewish festival of the year.  The city would already be jammed with tourists and pilgrims.  The Roman soldiers would be on high alert with such a large crowd. It was like New Orleans during Mardi Gras, the Temple precinct like Bourbon Street.  Palm Sunday is a good name for this day.

But as Jesus reaches the top of the Mount of Olives and for the first time can take in the city, Luke draws the camera in close.  The sound of the crowd breaks off raggedly, and we hear the strangest thing.  As he came near and saw the city, he wept over it (Luke 19:41).  Jesus is crying; the ground beneath his colt is damp with the tears of the Son of God.  We realize that we are standing on holy ground; the sound of the parade around us fades away.  We might want to turn away, act as if we don’t hear him.  But we need to pause here and see what his sobbing can teach us. 

The crowd sees the sun glistening off the golden dome of the Temple, the commerce in the streets, the happy families, and old friends being reunited after a year apart.  Life is good.  It is morning in the land.  But Jesus sees something quite different.  He sees a city that will make a terrible choice in the coming days.  He knows the violence that waits in the wings; he knows this parade will be short-lived.  He knows that those who cry “Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord” within the week will cry “Crucify him.”  He knows where it all will lead for him and for these people.  He laments:

"If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes. 43 Indeed, the days will come upon you, when your enemies will set up ramparts around you and surround you, and hem you in on every side. 44 They will crush you to the ground, you and your children within you, and they will not leave within you one stone upon another; because you did not recognize the time of your visitation from God." (19:42-44).

Passion Sunday is a good name for this day that introduces a week that races toward betrayal, desertion, and death..

This Sunday opens our eyes to the tragic choice those people will make, how quickly their happy enthusiasm will dissipate in disappointed fearful betrayal.  We become aware of the tragic fearful choices that we, too, are prone to make in our lives.  We, too, are often oblivious to those things that make for peace; our eyes are blind to the visitation of God.

One Sunday, I was standing at the rear of the sanctuary greeting people as they left the service.  A woman paused as I shook her hand and said, “Dr. Kelsey, sometimes when I leave here I’m not happy.  Worship should make me happy.”  I felt disturbed.  I didn’t want worship to depress people.  I wanted worship to encourage and strengthen people.  I thought about what she had said for several days.  I felt I owed her something, perhaps an apology.  After some reflection I came to a realization.  I called her up and told her that I hoped she found encouragement and joy through her participation in worship, but I went on to say that the primary purpose of worship is not to make us happy; the primary purpose of worship is to make us holy.  I wanted us all to be happy, but there was a higher, nobler purpose to what we were doing:  holiness.  The path to holiness sometimes involves challenge and loss; at some pints we are called to make painful changes in our lives.  It is not always a happy holiday at the beach.

Parades are fun, but the Christian life is not primarily a parade; it is a pilgrimage.  The journey demands some things of us along the way; we have to leave some things behind that we should like to retain.  As we travel, the journey changes us; we are being made more into the image of Jesus Christ.

As we journey through Holy Week, we are on a pilgrimage to Easter Sunday.  On the way to resurrection, we pass through some difficult days.  This is no parade, but at the end lays renewed and greater life.

May you be changed in the week ahead. 

Jim Kelsey

Executive Minister

American Baptist Churches of New York

The Power of "You"

I always enjoy leading in worship.  In worship leadership, one speaks on behalf of the congregation, articulating the thanksgivings, requests, confessions, hopes, and convictions of the worshippers.  One also shares the Word of God with the congregation, expressing words of forgiveness, hope, challenge, comfort, and guidance.  There is power in the corporate experience of worship.

There is also great power in personalized, individualized moments in worship.  Some of my most moving moments in worship leadership are when the service narrows its focus down to a solitary individual.  When people come forward to take communion, one of these moments is created.  I look into the person’s eyes, perhaps calling them by name, and say:  “This is the body of Christ broken for You” or “This is the cup of Christ poured out for You.”  In that moment the weight of those words come to bear directly on a single person; the rest of the world falls away, and they stand robed in the mercy and grace of God in Jesus Christ.

Another one of those moments can come on Ash Wednesday.  The worshipper leader physically touches the worshipper, making the mark of the cross on their forehead, and says:  “From dust You have come and to dust You shall return.”  These words should be experienced as depressing, discouraging, and diminishing; but they are not.  We experience them as liberating and encouraging; they in some way lighten the load of our lives. Why?

They remind us that life in this world is not the only thing.  It is fleeting and fragile; but that is all right with us.  We were created for something grander, more lasting, deeper and broader.  This reminder gives us permission to hold our lives and ourselves more lightly.  G. K. Chesterton wrote:  “Angels can fly because they take themselves lightly.”  Those ashes give us permission to fly a bit.

The ashes come to us in the shape of a cross.  This reminds us that someone has done something wonderful for us.  It is true that from dust we have come and to dust we shall return, but we are a great deal more than dust.  Through the cross we have become the daughters and sons of God.  The cruciform ashes remind us of who we really are in spite of present dusty appearance.

So we begin our 40 days of preparation for Holy Week and Easter with a reminder of what we are—dust.   We are also reminded of who we are—a great deal more than dust.

James Kelsey

Ash Wednesday 2013

On Cell Phone Coverage and Congregations

Have you seen the AT&T wireless commercial where a man is talking with some young children around a table and he asks: “What’s better bigger or smaller?  Would you rather have a big tree house or a small tree house?”  The kids want a large tree house because they could have a disco and get a larger TV in it.  The assumption is that the question is silly; bigger is always better.  When it comes to cell phone coverage, this is undoubtedly true.  A larger coverage area is better than a smaller area.   When it comes to churches, the answer may not be as obvious.

Steve Willis, in his book Imagining the Small Church—Celebrating a Simpler Path, makes a case for the special qualities of a small church.  He writes that small churches find their “unique resiliency in the loving depths of its people’s relationships and its commitments to the special place where it resides.”  When people in a small church think about their congregation, they see the faces and the specifics of the place.  They talk about love, belonging, and faithfulness (pp. xii-xiii).   People are important in these churches; they remember that great cloud of witnesses who spent a lifetime learning to love one another in that place (p. 34).  “Checking in” with one another is a central piece of congregational gatherings, more important that program (p. 50). 

He writes about the simplicity of life in most small churches; what is non-essential is stripped away.  Willis says that they are not places of pretense (p.18).  Small churches are not afforded the luxury of indulging in things that don’t matter.  They cannot afford to invest resources in things whose purpose is to flatter the image of the congregation.  In small churches people know what is and what is not important.

Small churches are places of remembrance; they elicit memories and feelings that people had in the past.  Conserving the relationship between people, place, and remembered events is a source of strength in these congregations.  Small churches are not against change; they simply feel that conserving memories of the past is important (p. 36).  Conserving the past and preserving the past is not the same thing.  To conserve the past is to protect and honor the memories; to preserve the past is to try to live in a time and place that no longer exists.

Our internet-driven, television-altered minds are addicted to changing scenery, sounds, images, and patterns p. 40-41). Wendell Barry writes that novelty is a new kind of loneliness.  Novelty is the faint surprises of minds no longer capable of wonder (Wendell Barry, What Are People For?, p. 9).  We view continuity as a sign of bored indifference.  Yet small churches provide a sense of continuity to our lives.  Is this not something we long for—to see that our lives are part of a broader web of relationships, a longer story than our short years?  Small congregations can help to heal the fragmentation and alienation that many in our society feel through their attention to people, place, and formative stories about those who came before us in this particular place.

Willis makes a good case for the distinctive and enviable characteristics of small congregations; but they seem so small, so powerless, and so insignificant.  They are so easy to drive by, pass over, dismiss.  Three stonemasons were preparing stone for a cathedral.  A visitor to the stone yard asked them what they were doing.  The first one replied: “I’m busting rocks.”  The second replied:  “I’m making blocks.”  The third one replied:  “I’m building a cathedral.”  This third mason would never walk under the arch of the completed cathedral, but he knew he was part of something bigger than himself and more lasting than his own life.  Small churches are part of something bigger than themselves and the lives of their members.  They are a single block in a magnificent cathedral.  That single block is worth our love and dedication and esteem.

Jim Kelsey

February 2013

IF Baptists Had Saints

I had not been in Belgium very long before I saw the advantage of living in an officially Roman Catholic country with a long history of the intermingling of church and State.  We got lots of holidays; it seemed as if every other week our kids were out of school for some saint’s birthday.  I developed a new appreciation for the process of canonization.

As Baptists, we don’t canonize saints.  We maintain that all believers are saints and that all of us are being made into the image of Jesus Christ on the anvil of our daily living by the power of God.  But if Baptists had special saints, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. would be at the top of the list.  Dr. King was many things—sociologist, community organizer, and political activist; but first and foremost he was a Baptist pastor and a theologian.  He cared for people, and he interpreted their lives through the lens of the Gospel.

What did he teach us?  He taught us that nonviolence is the way of the strong, not the refuge of the weak.  He taught that accepting unjust suffering rather than inflicting it on others is a form of power.  He wrote in The Strength to Love:

 “I have lived with the conviction that unearned suffering is redemptive.  There are some who still find the cross a stumbling block, others consider it foolishness.  But I am more convinced than ever that it is the power of God to social and individual salvation.”

He showed us that the proper goal of our conflicts is not the humiliation and defeat of our opponents but reconciliation and community; we are to be fostering understanding and friendship with our enemies.  In the same book he wrote: “We shall match your capacity to inflict suffering with our capacity to endure suffering.  Do to us what you will and we shall continue to love you.”  He believed that he had an ally in the soul of his adversary, and he never ceased appealing to it, wrote columnist Paul Greenfield. 

He believed that we battle greater powers than human error and ignorance.  He believed that we contend not against “flesh and blood but against principalities and powers, the rulers of darkness, against spiritual hosts of wickedness”—to quote the Apostle Paul.  He saw the oppressor as a victim as well.

In the face of his struggle, he maintained a vibrant hope in God.  He wrote “There is a creative force in this universe that works to bring the disconnected aspect of reality into a harmonious whole”  (Strive Toward Freedom.)  He loved to the end; he hoped to the end.

He showed a pastoral interest in the soul of the oppressed as well as the soul of the oppressor.  That is, perhaps, his greatest contribution to our understanding of Christian faithfulness.  We are all saints on the road to maturity.  But some of us are farther along than others of us.  Martin Luther King was well on his way.

James Kelsey

Executive Minister American Baptist Churches of New York State

Questions That Will Not Be Asked--Conversations That Will Not Be Had

This coming Saturday, Debbie, Ben, and I will go to Ohio for a memorial service for my mother and father.  We will pick up Luke along the way.  My father died in October and my mother on New Year’s Eve.  A piece of who I am must now be reformed.  I used to be my parents’ son—an adult son but a son nonetheless.  How are things different now?

I find myself aware of the questions I will never ask my father.  Our house has a septic tank.  What should I do to care for it?  I would’ve asked him that.  Roughly, how much would it cost to put in a gas fireplace?  Another question I would’ve asked.  What kind of tomato plant would do well in a colder climate?  He would’ve known.  These are questions I will never ask.  I still live with the sense that at some point I will have the opportunity to ask these accumulated queries.  I suspect, with time, that sensation will fade; but for now he lives on in these unanswered questions.

There are conversations I would have had that will never be.  I feel as if I should have taken a picture of how deep the snow is and sent it to my parents and then called them and exaggerated a bit.  Our dog got stuck in the snow on our deck; he is a small dog.  I would tell my mother about that, and she would laugh.  Now she will never know.

Practical questions never asked, mundane conversations never had—these are the ways I sense their growing absence in my life.  There is something so irreversible, so unrecoverable about death.  It was nice having them there for 56 years.  I was blessed; I had a faithful presence in my life that I did not deserve.  I can’t think of a single thing I said to them that I regret.  I can’t think of a deliberately hurtful thing they said to me.  They did the best they could given who they were and what they had.  We cannot ask anything more of anyone.

I know that they are at peace now.  I know that they have inherited the life for which they were originally created, a life of wholeness and unbroken joy.  I know that they have seen the face of God in all its unimaginable beauty and radiant mercy.  Oh, the things they could now tell me! I don’t grieve for them, but I do miss them.  I will continue to have questions, things to tell them; and they will not be there.  I guess this is good thing—that I am hungry for more conversation with them, that I was not yet done telling them things.  The curtain between my parents and me will grow thicker with the passage of time.  I feel an urgency to say more to those who still live and fill my life with conversation and love and laughter—those people for whom there is no curtain.  These moments are not forever, thus, they are precious.

Jim Kelsey

Epiphany 2013

From Pregnancy to Parenthood

I became a parent when our first son was born, but months before that day my life began to change.  Although Debbie did the heavy lifting, I was also in a way pregnant.  We anticipated and prepared; we made a place in our home for our coming baby.  We sketched out how the routine of our lives would change.  As the pregnancy progressed, our lives were already being altered.

Advent is a period of pregnancy in the rhythm of the church year.  We anticipate anew each year the coming of Jesus.  We wonder what Mary and Joseph experienced during this marvelous pregnancy that would change so many things.  We dream about how Jesus grew into his calling and then launched his ministry (Luke 1:80).  We know where it all went and where it will yet go.  Advent is about preparing ourselves to participate in what Jesus began.  What did Jesus begin?  In what are we participating?  Rudy Wiebe put it this way:

Jesus says in his society there is a new way for [people] to live:

You show wisdom, by trusting people;

You handle leadership, by serving;

You handle offenders, by forgiving;

You handle money, by sharing;

You handle enemies, by loving

And you handle violence, by suffering.

In fact you have a whole new attitude toward everything, toward everybody. Toward nature, toward the state in which you happen to live, toward women, toward slaves, toward all and every single thing.  Because this is a Jesus society and you repent, not by feeling bad, but by thinking differently. [The Blue Mountains of China (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1970) pp. 215-216.]

Pregnancy is the prelude to parenthood.  One quickly learns that parenthood is about a great deal more than sharing pictures on Facebook and buying cute baby clothes.  Advent is the prelude to Christmas.  As we read further in the story, one quickly realizes that the coming of Jesus is about a great deal more than a cooing baby and some dough-eyed farm animals.  It is about a new way of living, of being in the world.  This is what we are preparing for during these weeks of anticipation.

James Kelsey

Advent 2012