By Laura Allen
I’m attending (and covering) the School of Congregational Development in St. Louis, Missouri, this week, along with Rev. Thomasina Stewart and Rev. Amy Shanholtzer. The thing I took from yesterday’s opening plenary session is something I’ve heard a lot of in the past few years:
Changing the church happens one person at a time. It happens when we listen to the stories of those outside the church walls and focus on serving the needs we hear about.
We can’t do that well unless we are becoming better disciples every day. That’s the message I hear from a wide range of church leaders. How does that transformation happen? How do we become better disciples so that we can reach out?
Bishop Robert Schnase (Missouri Area) told me a story this morning about how one congregation shifted its perspective by reaching out to a single mom with a special-needs child.
The audio is part of a story package I collaborated on today with my good friend and colleague, Melissa Hinnen. Melissa is the public information officer at the General Board of Global Ministries in New York City. You can also read our story.
I’m also going to catch up with Bishop Steiner Ball, who arrived late last night. What would you like me to ask her about congregational development?
SCD 2012
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
The Fortieth Day
By David Goran
August 18th, 40 days have passed. Forty days since that sinister crack of wood boomed through my consciousness, stole two incredibly precious lives, and left me underneath a gritty, heavy, frightening darkness, wondering how I was still alive.
Forty days are the period we set aside for mourning in Ukraine after death. Just as Israel was 40 years in the wilderness, Jesus 40 days in a desert, 40 is a unit of time by which we understand some sort of completion to this chapter of trial in our lives. And then, at 40 days, still hurting and remembering, we stand again at the grave of our lost one, and then do our best to move on.
Today, on the 40th day, I'm trying. Honestly, I'm not sure what that means, I am not sure what it is that I should do. The memories are still so present and oftentimes vivid; the tears are still so frequent and uncontrollable. As I write, rain is steadily falling from the sky, clouds almost completely blanket the sun. In some ways, I wish this dreary weather would stay for weeks. I'm not ready to move on.
Nothing that happened that day was okay. It was not reasonable; it was not fair. This was a terrible, shivering reminder that this decaying world we live in is under a curse. How did this wonderful man, who was giving himself in the service of God, working so diligently with whatever task he was given, happen to walk into the room the moment of the collapse? Why of all lives, why was it Illya whose life was cut so short? He was one of the most wonderful, loving, pure-hearted people I have ever known.
Why was I spared?
Tomorrow, the weather will get better. Shannon, Jesse, Jeremiah, and Shannon's parents, Bob and Betty, are coming for a visit. I cherish their visits. I love watching Jesse tear through the grassy yard, jumping, kicking, laughing, and making sure that Daddy is watching. I cannot believe how happy and large Jeremiah is, as he plays with his favorite toy on visits, my crutches. Shannon is always next to me, holding me, comforting me; her touch has been more soothing than any opiate pushed through my veins. My family more than anything is helping me heal, feel joy, and with little bits of hope look to the future.
As much as I physically still feel like a dinosaur, I have come so far. Just weeks ago I could scarcely move my legs, turn to my side, breathe without constraint, or have the courage to look at my almost alien leg. Originally, we were told it would be six months before I was on my feet. But God has been merciful to me, to my body. Forty days later, and I have been on crutches already for a week. Pain is subsiding, numbness in my left hand is diminishing; two muscles in my right hand, even if ever so slightly, are responding to signals from my brain.
I am healing. I am doing better. And although I still feel so emotionally and physically broken, nothing consoles me more than the mercy I received to continue being husband and father, son and brother, friend, and soon again, I pray, pastor and missionary.
I want to thank you, all of you, for everything you've done for us. Your support and prayers and encouragement have upheld us, especially in those first days, and they continue to sustain us as we push ahead and keep fighting. Your prayers have been truly heard; I have every confidence in that. Please continue to pray that what Satan intended for evil, our Heavenly Father will make good.
August 18th, 40 days have passed. Forty days since that sinister crack of wood boomed through my consciousness, stole two incredibly precious lives, and left me underneath a gritty, heavy, frightening darkness, wondering how I was still alive.
Forty days are the period we set aside for mourning in Ukraine after death. Just as Israel was 40 years in the wilderness, Jesus 40 days in a desert, 40 is a unit of time by which we understand some sort of completion to this chapter of trial in our lives. And then, at 40 days, still hurting and remembering, we stand again at the grave of our lost one, and then do our best to move on.
Today, on the 40th day, I'm trying. Honestly, I'm not sure what that means, I am not sure what it is that I should do. The memories are still so present and oftentimes vivid; the tears are still so frequent and uncontrollable. As I write, rain is steadily falling from the sky, clouds almost completely blanket the sun. In some ways, I wish this dreary weather would stay for weeks. I'm not ready to move on.
Nothing that happened that day was okay. It was not reasonable; it was not fair. This was a terrible, shivering reminder that this decaying world we live in is under a curse. How did this wonderful man, who was giving himself in the service of God, working so diligently with whatever task he was given, happen to walk into the room the moment of the collapse? Why of all lives, why was it Illya whose life was cut so short? He was one of the most wonderful, loving, pure-hearted people I have ever known.
Why was I spared?
Tomorrow, the weather will get better. Shannon, Jesse, Jeremiah, and Shannon's parents, Bob and Betty, are coming for a visit. I cherish their visits. I love watching Jesse tear through the grassy yard, jumping, kicking, laughing, and making sure that Daddy is watching. I cannot believe how happy and large Jeremiah is, as he plays with his favorite toy on visits, my crutches. Shannon is always next to me, holding me, comforting me; her touch has been more soothing than any opiate pushed through my veins. My family more than anything is helping me heal, feel joy, and with little bits of hope look to the future.
As much as I physically still feel like a dinosaur, I have come so far. Just weeks ago I could scarcely move my legs, turn to my side, breathe without constraint, or have the courage to look at my almost alien leg. Originally, we were told it would be six months before I was on my feet. But God has been merciful to me, to my body. Forty days later, and I have been on crutches already for a week. Pain is subsiding, numbness in my left hand is diminishing; two muscles in my right hand, even if ever so slightly, are responding to signals from my brain.
I am healing. I am doing better. And although I still feel so emotionally and physically broken, nothing consoles me more than the mercy I received to continue being husband and father, son and brother, friend, and soon again, I pray, pastor and missionary.
I want to thank you, all of you, for everything you've done for us. Your support and prayers and encouragement have upheld us, especially in those first days, and they continue to sustain us as we push ahead and keep fighting. Your prayers have been truly heard; I have every confidence in that. Please continue to pray that what Satan intended for evil, our Heavenly Father will make good.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Weekend of Mixed Emotions
By Michael Airgood
This weekend will be hard. That's just a fact.
Today I will preach a sermon at Pilgrims that David Goran and I wrote together.
We planned a sermon series for English camp, and after the accident I decided to preach through these sermons with our community instead.
As we prepared these sermons, they really felt like they would be perfect for English Camp. In hindsight, I can't imagine preaching any of these sermons for new people. They deal with the themes of tragedy, loss, death, and resurrection. They are deep and poignant sermons that help us all search out the pain and sadness in our souls and to move past it. David and I both wrote sermons and parts of sermons that are incredibly revealing and emotionally vulnerable for this series.
In this present state, each sermon fits perfectly with the needs of our community. These sermons were written for such a time as this. Today's sermon is mostly from David's point of view. It's a hard and a sad sermon, but it is a sermon of resurrection as well. It will be one of the hardest sermons I've ever preached.
An email reminder popped up in my inbox this morning that tomorrow is Illya's birthday. On Saturday we will attend the service in commemoration of 40 days since his death.
On Sunday we welcome a new mission intern. As we work toward normalcy, one of the normal things we do is welcome new mission interns. We are very excited to have her join us and to receive her gifts and graces. Her new face will help other new faces find a place. This will help in the healing process.
On Monday we will have our staff retreat day. We will begin planning for the future. We will move forward with a future and hope.
This weekend will be very difficult. It will have lots of joy and some sorrow. We put one foot in front of the other and we celebrate who our God is.
M. B. Airgood's Blog
This weekend will be hard. That's just a fact.
Today I will preach a sermon at Pilgrims that David Goran and I wrote together.
We planned a sermon series for English camp, and after the accident I decided to preach through these sermons with our community instead.
As we prepared these sermons, they really felt like they would be perfect for English Camp. In hindsight, I can't imagine preaching any of these sermons for new people. They deal with the themes of tragedy, loss, death, and resurrection. They are deep and poignant sermons that help us all search out the pain and sadness in our souls and to move past it. David and I both wrote sermons and parts of sermons that are incredibly revealing and emotionally vulnerable for this series.
In this present state, each sermon fits perfectly with the needs of our community. These sermons were written for such a time as this. Today's sermon is mostly from David's point of view. It's a hard and a sad sermon, but it is a sermon of resurrection as well. It will be one of the hardest sermons I've ever preached.
An email reminder popped up in my inbox this morning that tomorrow is Illya's birthday. On Saturday we will attend the service in commemoration of 40 days since his death.
On Sunday we welcome a new mission intern. As we work toward normalcy, one of the normal things we do is welcome new mission interns. We are very excited to have her join us and to receive her gifts and graces. Her new face will help other new faces find a place. This will help in the healing process.
On Monday we will have our staff retreat day. We will begin planning for the future. We will move forward with a future and hope.
This weekend will be very difficult. It will have lots of joy and some sorrow. We put one foot in front of the other and we celebrate who our God is.
M. B. Airgood's Blog
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