All the advice I’ve read about public speaking suggests starting with a joke to warm up the audience and get them on your side. So here’s a joke with a stewardship theme for you. It comes from one of those lists of church bulletin bloopers that circulate on the internet. Supposedly someone gave a talk like this at a church somewhere, and gave it this title: ‘I upped my pledge – up yours!’
Even if they had printed that title in the leaflet, I doubt it would have done much to mitigate the discomfort most of us feel about this sensitive topic. We keep our financial lives very private -- it goes against the grain to discuss it openly. And maybe it feels a little crass to suggest that we can put a dollar figure on our relationship with the church and with God.
Like so many of us, we came to St. George’s when our children were little. I had been working as a paid singer at St. James in New York, but left that job when the music director departed. Miriam and the kids had been visiting St. George’s while I was still singing in the city, so I started to tag along. I felt immediately as if I fit in. At one of those first, typically lavish coffee hours, someone asked me to lend a hand with something – stacking chairs or moving tables – and the next thing I knew, I was a part of this community. I served on a choir-master search committee and in a parish planning group. I’ve performed in various musicals and plays, and have been delighted to see our children participate in activities here as well. This is a sense of community, a church family.
But enough about me – let’s talk about stewardship. The word has always seemed like a euphemism to me – like ‘regime change’ or ’pre-owned vehicle.’ But as I prepared these remarks, my thinking changed. It’s not a simple concept psychologically -- to faithfully look after something which is owned by someone else.
I looked up steward figures in the Bible -- SIX in the book of Genesis alone! But my favorites are the ones in Esther, and if you know me, you’ll understand why – King Ahasuerus, or Xerxes as we’d call him today, hosts a great feast for his court and all his subjects in Persia. This is such a lavish affair, we’re told that every person is served his favorite wine instead of just the standard-issue castle rotgut! “By the king’s command, each guest was allowed to drink in his own way, for the king instructed all the wine stewards to serve each man what he wished.” That’s my kind of party – I’d be hoping that Xerxes had laid in a few cases of the 5th century BC version of Domaine de la Romanee-Conti 1979!
Jesus tells parables about stewards too, many of whom mess up in various ways. There are dishonest ones, who embezzle; and there’s the cowardly one in the parable of the ten talents. He buries the master’s money for fear of losing it. The good stewards return MORE to their master than they’re originally given.
I used to think of my relationship with St. George’s as reciprocal, ‘Even Steven’ – the church provides us with certain spiritual services, and in return, we support it with our dollars.
With that understanding, we’ve pledged for a number of years, quite modestly to be honest, since we’ve always felt pressured to save for other goals (our own future, college educations). Happily, we’re finally in a position to be able to ‘up our pledge.’
But I don’t see this as a reciprocal arrangement any more. Reading about stewards who look after their master’s property made me realize, this can’t be a two-way street because none of this is really OURS.
Do you know the ad campaign for those absurdly expensive Patek-Philippe watches? – ‘you never really own a Patek-Philippe, you just look after it for the next generation’? Perhaps this is similar – all these treasures which make our lives so rich and meaningful, do we in any sense OWN them?
No, we’re simply blessed to enjoy them during our lifetimes, and given the responsibility of making sure that they survive and thrive.
Like the good stewards in the Bible stories, we’re asked to make good use of what is entrusted to us – our own personal possessions, and everything that we hold jointly with one another – these fine old buildings, this denomination, this community, these friends and families, and all the good that our parish, and our faith, does in so many lives.
The successful stewards in the Bible invest the master’s treasure, and return more than they’re originally given. We can do the same. With our gifts, we can nurture the children who attend our church school and our choirs, by providing them with materials and robes and music. We can maintain and improve these glorious buildings for generations to come. With our gifts, the church can help those in need in Essex County, and alleviate suffering around the world.
I like that offertory prayer -- ‘of thine own have we given thee’ (King David, I believe). How neatly it captures this joyful giving BACK. That comes from realizing that we’re not really GIVING at all -- but conscientiously looking after and cherishing all the treasures so generously shared with us.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Glen Robert Gill
Let me just say that it is an honor to be asked to say something on the subject of stewardship to the church. My wife Beth and I have only been members of the church for a few years now, and while we have been pledging members for all that time, I know that there are many longstanding members of the church that could be heard from. But, then again, maybe recent experiences are good ones to hear.
My experience of coming to this church, this kind of church, is probably a little different than most of you here. I grew up in Canada, in an area that never got past its colonial stage and was intensely proud of its British heritage. Where I grew up, your family was either Irish and you were Catholic, Scottish and you were Presbyterian, or English and you were Anglican; and if you were Irish and Scottish and bucking for promotion, you became Anglican. To say I was “raised” Anglican would be an understatement: I was baptized an Anglican at three months, and confirmed an Anglican at 12, in a church where they called the Doxology “the Old Hundreth,” where the Prayers of the People mentioned the Queen, and where you used phrases like “the hanging of the greens” or talked about “what Canterbury was doing,” and people knew what you were talking about. You wore your kilt for weddings and funerals, and maybe for Easter. At fifteen, I was sent off to an Anglican boarding school, and after that to an Anglican university college. When I went in for a doctorate in literature, I realized that being part of the church of Donne, Milton, Blake and T.S. Eliot meant that I must have been doing something right. Beyond that, I didn’t think about it much. Church was like air: as long as it allowed you to breathe freely and clearly see the things around you, you took it for granted. Naturally, that’s when the trouble usually starts.
It started for me when, mostly out of ignorance, I took a teaching job in a small town in the deep south. Without exaggeration, I can say it was the most isolating experience of my life; a total deprivation of any social or religious norms that I understood. Many people here, I know, have had the experience of finding their way to this church home after long periods on the margins. I can tell you that it is just as difficult to have a church home and lose it, leaving a gaping hole in your life through which find yourself hemorrhaging, spiritually and socially. It wasn’t just that I couldn’t subsist on the southern staples of country music and conformity. There was racism, mostly latent but some overt; and there was homophobia, mostly overt. But above all, there was no religious vision, no social vision, that made sense to me. I still remember what one of my students said when I asked about his faith background or denomination: “I’m a Baptist, ya’ll,” he declared. “But a southern Baptist. I ain’t one of these primitive Baptists. They all just crazy.” The distinction, however great, was of course lost on me. And as for me, I was worse than crazy: I was alone in that small town, a religion, apparently, of one. I did eventually make some connections: Methodist students liked to visit me, but they treated me like a quaint antique, a relic from some theological Jurassic period. The few Roman Catholics around tried to convince me that I was really one of them. It was very kind in a way, but there was no fellowship to it, and the longest two years of my life crept on at a miserable, glacial pace.
One day, an older lady I eventually came to see as a sort of fairy godmother, put a little card, with nothing but an address, in my mailbox. Having nothing better to do, I drove past it one Saturday, and saw a small brick church I hadn’t known existed among all the big, white, clapboard ones. In front was a sign with a shield on it, made up of the cross of St. Andrew and the cross of St. George. It was nice to see the former on something other than the confederate flag, but it was the latter that caught my eye. It was, of course, an Episcopal church. It belonged to this American Anglican province I had heard about. I had absent-mindedly looked up Anglican church in the phonebook, and found nothing. But it turned out that there was a community of about 40 Episcopalians in this little town, with a thriving little church, which almost no one knew about. The church was open that day, so I went in: there was a prayer book in the pew, not the 1927 one I was used to (it said 1982,) but all the stuff was the same. There was service bulletin, with our yea-verily-and-forsooth dialect, and all the sit-stand aerobics we Anglicans enjoy. For the first time in two years, I felt at home. They’d just got a new rector. When I came to church the next morning, he greeted me at the door: “Have you ever been to a church like this?” he asked. “I’m an Anglican,” I said. “Well!” he said, “The Lord be with you!” Needless to say, I joined that busy little church and they welcomed me like the prodigal. I’d found a tribe in the wilderness. Like Job, I’d been miraculously restored to abundance in a whirlwind. Although where Job got new daughters, I found a wife. But Mother Church had provided.
When Beth and I moved here to New Jersey, we worried it was another exile, and for a while it felt like one. There are many Episcopal churches around here, but not all of them make welcome a priority. Doors were often locked. Some just cited their parish hours when you called. Of all the rectors I called, Father Poppe was the only one who said “come by at this specific time and we’ll talk.” But what would I find? Would there be another restoration? Would Mother church provide again? I remember sitting and telling Bernie how I appreciate traditional liturgy. He leaned over with wry grin and said, “We’re doing Rite I in Lent.” “Do you have a Bible Study?” I asked. “I think we have two or three,” he said. I loved it; he wasn’t sure how many were going on. Wherever two or three were gathered, presumably. What we found when we joined St. George’s, of course, was the abundant resources and whirlwinds of activity that makes our service bulletins, on average, eighteen pages long (plus inserts). Mother Church had risen to the occasion again, and it was larger than the first time.
Beth and I have been pledging members of St. George’s since the first time we were asked. We pledge because we know what it’s like to not belong, to have no community. We know that a church can’t provide the abundant welcome and restoration that we enjoyed if it is merely subsisting and not thriving. Now our tithe is not always the steady stream we’d like it to be: we’ve had to cut back a bit this year, in fact, because we just bought our first house. But we say frankly what we can do and follow through. It is the least we can do. And if it makes me wince sometimes, I try to remember that there might be, maybe at this very moment, someone passing by this church – maybe an immigrant from some commonwealth country like Canada, or somewhere in Africa or the Caribbean where the Anglican church is more woven into the fabric of society, but who is now here, feeling bereft as I once did – or maybe someone who has always been here and is bereft – and needs the church to be that voice in the wilderness, that voice in the whirlwind, that it was to me. And so we pledge what we can afford, and let that be our voice. And quite frankly, it’s nice to be heard.
My experience of coming to this church, this kind of church, is probably a little different than most of you here. I grew up in Canada, in an area that never got past its colonial stage and was intensely proud of its British heritage. Where I grew up, your family was either Irish and you were Catholic, Scottish and you were Presbyterian, or English and you were Anglican; and if you were Irish and Scottish and bucking for promotion, you became Anglican. To say I was “raised” Anglican would be an understatement: I was baptized an Anglican at three months, and confirmed an Anglican at 12, in a church where they called the Doxology “the Old Hundreth,” where the Prayers of the People mentioned the Queen, and where you used phrases like “the hanging of the greens” or talked about “what Canterbury was doing,” and people knew what you were talking about. You wore your kilt for weddings and funerals, and maybe for Easter. At fifteen, I was sent off to an Anglican boarding school, and after that to an Anglican university college. When I went in for a doctorate in literature, I realized that being part of the church of Donne, Milton, Blake and T.S. Eliot meant that I must have been doing something right. Beyond that, I didn’t think about it much. Church was like air: as long as it allowed you to breathe freely and clearly see the things around you, you took it for granted. Naturally, that’s when the trouble usually starts.
It started for me when, mostly out of ignorance, I took a teaching job in a small town in the deep south. Without exaggeration, I can say it was the most isolating experience of my life; a total deprivation of any social or religious norms that I understood. Many people here, I know, have had the experience of finding their way to this church home after long periods on the margins. I can tell you that it is just as difficult to have a church home and lose it, leaving a gaping hole in your life through which find yourself hemorrhaging, spiritually and socially. It wasn’t just that I couldn’t subsist on the southern staples of country music and conformity. There was racism, mostly latent but some overt; and there was homophobia, mostly overt. But above all, there was no religious vision, no social vision, that made sense to me. I still remember what one of my students said when I asked about his faith background or denomination: “I’m a Baptist, ya’ll,” he declared. “But a southern Baptist. I ain’t one of these primitive Baptists. They all just crazy.” The distinction, however great, was of course lost on me. And as for me, I was worse than crazy: I was alone in that small town, a religion, apparently, of one. I did eventually make some connections: Methodist students liked to visit me, but they treated me like a quaint antique, a relic from some theological Jurassic period. The few Roman Catholics around tried to convince me that I was really one of them. It was very kind in a way, but there was no fellowship to it, and the longest two years of my life crept on at a miserable, glacial pace.
One day, an older lady I eventually came to see as a sort of fairy godmother, put a little card, with nothing but an address, in my mailbox. Having nothing better to do, I drove past it one Saturday, and saw a small brick church I hadn’t known existed among all the big, white, clapboard ones. In front was a sign with a shield on it, made up of the cross of St. Andrew and the cross of St. George. It was nice to see the former on something other than the confederate flag, but it was the latter that caught my eye. It was, of course, an Episcopal church. It belonged to this American Anglican province I had heard about. I had absent-mindedly looked up Anglican church in the phonebook, and found nothing. But it turned out that there was a community of about 40 Episcopalians in this little town, with a thriving little church, which almost no one knew about. The church was open that day, so I went in: there was a prayer book in the pew, not the 1927 one I was used to (it said 1982,) but all the stuff was the same. There was service bulletin, with our yea-verily-and-forsooth dialect, and all the sit-stand aerobics we Anglicans enjoy. For the first time in two years, I felt at home. They’d just got a new rector. When I came to church the next morning, he greeted me at the door: “Have you ever been to a church like this?” he asked. “I’m an Anglican,” I said. “Well!” he said, “The Lord be with you!” Needless to say, I joined that busy little church and they welcomed me like the prodigal. I’d found a tribe in the wilderness. Like Job, I’d been miraculously restored to abundance in a whirlwind. Although where Job got new daughters, I found a wife. But Mother Church had provided.
When Beth and I moved here to New Jersey, we worried it was another exile, and for a while it felt like one. There are many Episcopal churches around here, but not all of them make welcome a priority. Doors were often locked. Some just cited their parish hours when you called. Of all the rectors I called, Father Poppe was the only one who said “come by at this specific time and we’ll talk.” But what would I find? Would there be another restoration? Would Mother church provide again? I remember sitting and telling Bernie how I appreciate traditional liturgy. He leaned over with wry grin and said, “We’re doing Rite I in Lent.” “Do you have a Bible Study?” I asked. “I think we have two or three,” he said. I loved it; he wasn’t sure how many were going on. Wherever two or three were gathered, presumably. What we found when we joined St. George’s, of course, was the abundant resources and whirlwinds of activity that makes our service bulletins, on average, eighteen pages long (plus inserts). Mother Church had risen to the occasion again, and it was larger than the first time.
Beth and I have been pledging members of St. George’s since the first time we were asked. We pledge because we know what it’s like to not belong, to have no community. We know that a church can’t provide the abundant welcome and restoration that we enjoyed if it is merely subsisting and not thriving. Now our tithe is not always the steady stream we’d like it to be: we’ve had to cut back a bit this year, in fact, because we just bought our first house. But we say frankly what we can do and follow through. It is the least we can do. And if it makes me wince sometimes, I try to remember that there might be, maybe at this very moment, someone passing by this church – maybe an immigrant from some commonwealth country like Canada, or somewhere in Africa or the Caribbean where the Anglican church is more woven into the fabric of society, but who is now here, feeling bereft as I once did – or maybe someone who has always been here and is bereft – and needs the church to be that voice in the wilderness, that voice in the whirlwind, that it was to me. And so we pledge what we can afford, and let that be our voice. And quite frankly, it’s nice to be heard.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Lisa Basile
Good morning. I’m really honored to speak to you this morning about my life and giving at St. George’s.
I was raised in the Catholic Church in the suburbs north of New York City, a kid who asked a lot of God questions. Adult responses to my questions ran the gamut from bemused and bewildered to dare I say angry and annoyed. Sometimes we went to church as a family, sometimes our parents dropped us off, my mom remaining home in her bathrobe to tend to the “tomato sauce” bubbling on the stove for Sunday dinner. By the time I went to college, I stayed in the pew as my family went to communion, the all knowing anthropologist watching this human ritual. Then as a single woman living in NYC in my 20s and early 30s I found myself searching to know who I was and what I believed and even who I wanted to be. In that journey, I somehow dropped the all knowing academic stance and found my way to a Catholic church in the Village more progressive than any I had known, St Francis Xavier. It was not surprisingly a thorn in the side of the NY cardinals and bishops- there was a large gay community there, social justice was at the forefront of their work and divorce was not a dirty word. Many Sundays, I trudged there from my Lower East Side apartment and was filled up by the Word and the sermon and the being “home”, surprised, in part, that church could do that for me.
When I got married to a Jewish guy and moved to Maplewood in 1997, I was a bit lost about church and a church home. The Catholic churches I went to here were not “home” and I wondered if I would find that spiritual community I sought. A number of people suggested I try St George’s, and though hesitant, I did. “I Protestanti!” my Italian grandmother would have said, “Protestants!” speaking of some other world, some other culture, some other people, “Americani” not like “us”. Anne Bolles-Beaven was preaching that Sunday. Other, indeed. A woman leading the procession, a woman’s voice wafting through this place, reading, singing, speaking with authority and intelligence and humility, a mother and wife, the priest. How about that?
At the peace, I shook hands with the red haired woman in front of me -- she was about my age and I cooed over her newborn baby, Georgia. We spoke, she, also a Catholic, looking for a spiritual home more like the church she came from in Minneapolis. She and her family were new to Maplewood as well. We swapped phone numbers. Jane remains one of my closest Maplewood friends, one I can talk to not only of life’s bumps and blips, but a rare friend that I can talk to of the bumps and blips in a spiritual frame.
At coffee hour, I met David Sard. My story was no big deal. He had also found his way to the Episcopal Church from other places. His dad was a scientist and a nonreligious Jew. His mom, a nonpracticing Christian. He was raised without any religious affiliation. He introduced me to his wife, Cheryl, a former Catholic. They had made their spiritual home here. They were nice and smart and easy to talk to.
I was on guard probably for a few years. Could I find a church where I felt my nonreligious Jewish husband was included in God’s blessing? Would I ever feel comfortable saying Our Lord’s Prayer in the slightly different way it was said here? It smelled different here. The prayer books were a confusing jumble and the hymns were impossible to sing on key.
Back and back I came. St George’s was in a period of transition, and there was one interim priest after another. Still I came and I listened and I was moved. I came to know the liturgy in a way I never had before. A rich and diverse community surrounded me -- families came in all shapes and sizes. Women were ordained. Gay men and women spoke up openly. My sense of God and the place of church and religion in my life was growing here.
On an October Sunday in 2000, the birth of our twins, Francesca and Lucia, was announced here at the 10:30 service by my red-haired friend, Jane. It was in that next year or two that I had to do some hard thinking. We were an interfaith family. Was St George’s the place that our kids could grow in the way we wanted? The girls were half Jewish, and while David and I were making the choice to raise them in one faith, the Christian faith, we also wanted them to be raised in a community where Jewish life and history was celebrated and accepted as part of our life and history and not swept under the rug. I had a long talk with the then interim priest, Clark, and decided that, yes, if there was any place we could have this, it was this place, this St George’s.
It was then that I really began to see myself less as an outsider and more of a member of this church, moving from “I go to St George’s” to “I belong to St George’s”. Up until then, I was a person who dropped a 10 into the basket each Sunday. Now, despite the fact that I still felt discomfort at the financial piece of belonging to a spiritual place, I recognized that this place had heating bills and a leaky roof, and people to pay and other stuff that cost money. I filled out a stewardship card and got my envelopes and began to write that weekly check.
Truthfully, I always felt it wasn’t quite enough and I knew that one day I would change that. But good financial times gave way to this recession and our family has been hit along with so many others. We have cut back in many ways, but not here. If it was too little when times were good, it is just enough now, to keep us reminded that this little church on the corner of Ridgewood and Woodland, keeps us and our neighbors held up and belonging each Sunday. With gratitude I have worked on the altar guild, designed and sewn Christmas riddels, hemmed angel choir robes, organized a children’s art show, flown into coffee hour on my broom as La Befana, The Italian Epiphany witch, or just supplied many a coffee hour. And with gratitude I write my check each week.
With gratitude, I stand with Franca and Lucia each Sunday at Children’s Chapel, listening to Jane Cates tell a story that embodies all the goodness and care of Jesus. I send my children off to learn stories with Sunday school teachers whom I trust will teach them about a radical, out-of-the-box man named Jesus, about a Book that holds truths -- truths of faith and belief, of good and evil, of questioning and lapses in faith, of love and of the best of what it means to be Christian. With gratitude I sit in my seat here, always towards the front and left and receive my kids from Sunday school. We go to communion and I hear the words, “All are welcome to receive at God’s table” and I am deeply grateful. Afterwards, my children go back to their seats and sometimes I head for the healing corners. I kneel and share my burden and feel the care and prayer of the men and women who receive me. The minute the service is over, Franca and Lucy beseech me to let them go to their friends and to coffee hour where they eat too many donuts, but where I know they are at home and filled up. And I am grateful.
I was raised in the Catholic Church in the suburbs north of New York City, a kid who asked a lot of God questions. Adult responses to my questions ran the gamut from bemused and bewildered to dare I say angry and annoyed. Sometimes we went to church as a family, sometimes our parents dropped us off, my mom remaining home in her bathrobe to tend to the “tomato sauce” bubbling on the stove for Sunday dinner. By the time I went to college, I stayed in the pew as my family went to communion, the all knowing anthropologist watching this human ritual. Then as a single woman living in NYC in my 20s and early 30s I found myself searching to know who I was and what I believed and even who I wanted to be. In that journey, I somehow dropped the all knowing academic stance and found my way to a Catholic church in the Village more progressive than any I had known, St Francis Xavier. It was not surprisingly a thorn in the side of the NY cardinals and bishops- there was a large gay community there, social justice was at the forefront of their work and divorce was not a dirty word. Many Sundays, I trudged there from my Lower East Side apartment and was filled up by the Word and the sermon and the being “home”, surprised, in part, that church could do that for me.
When I got married to a Jewish guy and moved to Maplewood in 1997, I was a bit lost about church and a church home. The Catholic churches I went to here were not “home” and I wondered if I would find that spiritual community I sought. A number of people suggested I try St George’s, and though hesitant, I did. “I Protestanti!” my Italian grandmother would have said, “Protestants!” speaking of some other world, some other culture, some other people, “Americani” not like “us”. Anne Bolles-Beaven was preaching that Sunday. Other, indeed. A woman leading the procession, a woman’s voice wafting through this place, reading, singing, speaking with authority and intelligence and humility, a mother and wife, the priest. How about that?
At the peace, I shook hands with the red haired woman in front of me -- she was about my age and I cooed over her newborn baby, Georgia. We spoke, she, also a Catholic, looking for a spiritual home more like the church she came from in Minneapolis. She and her family were new to Maplewood as well. We swapped phone numbers. Jane remains one of my closest Maplewood friends, one I can talk to not only of life’s bumps and blips, but a rare friend that I can talk to of the bumps and blips in a spiritual frame.
At coffee hour, I met David Sard. My story was no big deal. He had also found his way to the Episcopal Church from other places. His dad was a scientist and a nonreligious Jew. His mom, a nonpracticing Christian. He was raised without any religious affiliation. He introduced me to his wife, Cheryl, a former Catholic. They had made their spiritual home here. They were nice and smart and easy to talk to.
I was on guard probably for a few years. Could I find a church where I felt my nonreligious Jewish husband was included in God’s blessing? Would I ever feel comfortable saying Our Lord’s Prayer in the slightly different way it was said here? It smelled different here. The prayer books were a confusing jumble and the hymns were impossible to sing on key.
Back and back I came. St George’s was in a period of transition, and there was one interim priest after another. Still I came and I listened and I was moved. I came to know the liturgy in a way I never had before. A rich and diverse community surrounded me -- families came in all shapes and sizes. Women were ordained. Gay men and women spoke up openly. My sense of God and the place of church and religion in my life was growing here.
On an October Sunday in 2000, the birth of our twins, Francesca and Lucia, was announced here at the 10:30 service by my red-haired friend, Jane. It was in that next year or two that I had to do some hard thinking. We were an interfaith family. Was St George’s the place that our kids could grow in the way we wanted? The girls were half Jewish, and while David and I were making the choice to raise them in one faith, the Christian faith, we also wanted them to be raised in a community where Jewish life and history was celebrated and accepted as part of our life and history and not swept under the rug. I had a long talk with the then interim priest, Clark, and decided that, yes, if there was any place we could have this, it was this place, this St George’s.
It was then that I really began to see myself less as an outsider and more of a member of this church, moving from “I go to St George’s” to “I belong to St George’s”. Up until then, I was a person who dropped a 10 into the basket each Sunday. Now, despite the fact that I still felt discomfort at the financial piece of belonging to a spiritual place, I recognized that this place had heating bills and a leaky roof, and people to pay and other stuff that cost money. I filled out a stewardship card and got my envelopes and began to write that weekly check.
Truthfully, I always felt it wasn’t quite enough and I knew that one day I would change that. But good financial times gave way to this recession and our family has been hit along with so many others. We have cut back in many ways, but not here. If it was too little when times were good, it is just enough now, to keep us reminded that this little church on the corner of Ridgewood and Woodland, keeps us and our neighbors held up and belonging each Sunday. With gratitude I have worked on the altar guild, designed and sewn Christmas riddels, hemmed angel choir robes, organized a children’s art show, flown into coffee hour on my broom as La Befana, The Italian Epiphany witch, or just supplied many a coffee hour. And with gratitude I write my check each week.
With gratitude, I stand with Franca and Lucia each Sunday at Children’s Chapel, listening to Jane Cates tell a story that embodies all the goodness and care of Jesus. I send my children off to learn stories with Sunday school teachers whom I trust will teach them about a radical, out-of-the-box man named Jesus, about a Book that holds truths -- truths of faith and belief, of good and evil, of questioning and lapses in faith, of love and of the best of what it means to be Christian. With gratitude I sit in my seat here, always towards the front and left and receive my kids from Sunday school. We go to communion and I hear the words, “All are welcome to receive at God’s table” and I am deeply grateful. Afterwards, my children go back to their seats and sometimes I head for the healing corners. I kneel and share my burden and feel the care and prayer of the men and women who receive me. The minute the service is over, Franca and Lucy beseech me to let them go to their friends and to coffee hour where they eat too many donuts, but where I know they are at home and filled up. And I am grateful.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Beth Rauen Sciaino (and Phoebe)
(9:15 a.m. Family Service)
Why do we pray? What do our prayers say about our understanding of God? Do we ask God for things? To help us or to help other people? Do we tell God our worries and our secrets? Do we believe that God is actively involved in our lives? Do we think God listens to us? If we don’t, why do we pray? This is a question my Hebrew Bible professor at Drew Theological School has asked as we learn about the stories in which people cried out to God, talked with God, and saw God at work in their lives.
Why do we come here to St George’s? To worship God with other people, to learn about God, to see friends? Today we come to remember our family, friends, and pets who have died and we see that our friends also have similar loved ones. The Day of the Dead is a wonderful opportunity to reflect on the roles that these people still play in our lives. A grandmother who taught us how to tie our shoes or ride a bike. A grandfather who baked cookies with us or fed us soup when we were sick. A pet who was always happy to see us. An aunt who sent us postcards from around the world. An uncle who encouraged our love of music. I’m sure that the people you are remembering today gave you gifts during your time with them that remain a part of you.
Here at St George’s we are also interconnected. And this interconnection grows through our engagement in church school; in the family service; in choir or a play; our parents’ service on committees; through welcoming someone new. Each of us has many gifts and talents we can offer in this community. Just as with our family members both alive and dead, there are threads that connect us to each other here at St George’s. If you look really hard you can imagine them.
Together as St George’s we share beliefs about God and God’s people. We ask questions, sometimes sitting with them in wonder, other times working together to discover answers. Every Sunday we have an opportunity to remind each other that each one of us is made in the image of God. These are blessings we can bring to the world outside of St George’s.
But what if we didn’t have St George’s? What would we do on Sunday mornings? Where would we learn about God? What would we learn? Who would give us unexpected wisdom? Where would we find a sense of belonging? Would we feel included? Would we recognize God?
Each of us is a steward of St George’s. Of what St George’s means to us, and to our community here, and to the broader world outside our doors. Our investment in St George’s is an act of participation, a way of living into of the blessings we receive in this place, from God and from each other. The pledges we make do practical things like keep the lights on and the staff paid. But they also keep alive the community of St George’s, the message we have been entrusted with from generations that came before us in this place. They expect that we will expand this message of God’s radical and healing love until everyone sees themselves in it. Just as we seek God in this place, within this our community, God seeks us. We believe God is present here in St George’s and sees that it is good. It is from this abundance that we give.
Why do we pray? What do our prayers say about our understanding of God? Do we ask God for things? To help us or to help other people? Do we tell God our worries and our secrets? Do we believe that God is actively involved in our lives? Do we think God listens to us? If we don’t, why do we pray? This is a question my Hebrew Bible professor at Drew Theological School has asked as we learn about the stories in which people cried out to God, talked with God, and saw God at work in their lives.
Why do we come here to St George’s? To worship God with other people, to learn about God, to see friends? Today we come to remember our family, friends, and pets who have died and we see that our friends also have similar loved ones. The Day of the Dead is a wonderful opportunity to reflect on the roles that these people still play in our lives. A grandmother who taught us how to tie our shoes or ride a bike. A grandfather who baked cookies with us or fed us soup when we were sick. A pet who was always happy to see us. An aunt who sent us postcards from around the world. An uncle who encouraged our love of music. I’m sure that the people you are remembering today gave you gifts during your time with them that remain a part of you.
Here at St George’s we are also interconnected. And this interconnection grows through our engagement in church school; in the family service; in choir or a play; our parents’ service on committees; through welcoming someone new. Each of us has many gifts and talents we can offer in this community. Just as with our family members both alive and dead, there are threads that connect us to each other here at St George’s. If you look really hard you can imagine them.
Together as St George’s we share beliefs about God and God’s people. We ask questions, sometimes sitting with them in wonder, other times working together to discover answers. Every Sunday we have an opportunity to remind each other that each one of us is made in the image of God. These are blessings we can bring to the world outside of St George’s.
But what if we didn’t have St George’s? What would we do on Sunday mornings? Where would we learn about God? What would we learn? Who would give us unexpected wisdom? Where would we find a sense of belonging? Would we feel included? Would we recognize God?
Each of us is a steward of St George’s. Of what St George’s means to us, and to our community here, and to the broader world outside our doors. Our investment in St George’s is an act of participation, a way of living into of the blessings we receive in this place, from God and from each other. The pledges we make do practical things like keep the lights on and the staff paid. But they also keep alive the community of St George’s, the message we have been entrusted with from generations that came before us in this place. They expect that we will expand this message of God’s radical and healing love until everyone sees themselves in it. Just as we seek God in this place, within this our community, God seeks us. We believe God is present here in St George’s and sees that it is good. It is from this abundance that we give.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Cheryl Notari
I didn’t have an allowance as a child. My parents didn’t believe in it. All members of the house did their share according to their abilities and talents. My brothers and I took turns washing dishes, sweeping the floor, vacuuming the carpets and dusting the furniture. We didn’t always like it, but we did it with little or no complaint because my parents taught us that that is what being part of a family is about. I had the added duty of decorating for holidays as I had a talent for arts and crafts. Decorating made me feel confident and needed.
And as a child, I believed without a doubt that God would provide for me. I believed in the Gospel when Jesus said to his anxious disciples
As I grew older, I never lost the sense that all members of the family should do their part to support each other. And as a member of the St. George’s family, I find it easy to give of my time and hopefully my talents. I consider it my share of the work of the community and the work of God. That part of stewardship has always made the most sense to me. The part of stewardship that is a little harder for me is parting with my treasure. Like the disciples that Jesus was speaking to in the above passage, I am anxious about having enough. I worry as many people do that we will have enough for this bill or that bill. Yet, I try to remember the abundance promised and how it felt as a child to trust in God so completely. And then I remember the words of Jesus, "where your treasure is, so shall your heart be." With that, I relax and I can give financially knowing that God’s family will benefit.
Cheryl Notari
And as a child, I believed without a doubt that God would provide for me. I believed in the Gospel when Jesus said to his anxious disciples
"And why are you worried about clothing? Observe how the lilies of the field grow; they do not toil nor do they spin, yet I say to you that not even Solomon in all his glory clothed himself like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the furnace, will He not much more clothe you? You of little faith!"I knew that as a family we didn’t have a lot but we had enough. I never felt that I didn’t have all that I needed even if it wasn’t always all that I wanted. Yet as I got older and started to earn my own money, I began to lose my confidence in God’s promise. I began to worry about having enough. I worried that I won’t have enough money for college, enough money for gasoline and clothes. And at one point in graduate school, I even worried about having enough money for food. I was never in any real danger of starving, it was more my pride that was in danger. I did not want to go back to my parents and ask for help.
Mathew 6:25-30
As I grew older, I never lost the sense that all members of the family should do their part to support each other. And as a member of the St. George’s family, I find it easy to give of my time and hopefully my talents. I consider it my share of the work of the community and the work of God. That part of stewardship has always made the most sense to me. The part of stewardship that is a little harder for me is parting with my treasure. Like the disciples that Jesus was speaking to in the above passage, I am anxious about having enough. I worry as many people do that we will have enough for this bill or that bill. Yet, I try to remember the abundance promised and how it felt as a child to trust in God so completely. And then I remember the words of Jesus, "where your treasure is, so shall your heart be." With that, I relax and I can give financially knowing that God’s family will benefit.
Cheryl Notari
Tom Savoth
I believe that when I fill out my pledge card or write a check to pay my pledge that I communicate with God in a most intimate and personal way. In my choice to give and sacrifice my limited resources to stewardship, I am thanking God for how I’ve been blessed and making a statement about what I believe is the right and good way to live my life. I will also admit that I am asking for prayers to be answered, some for the greater good and some that benefit me personally. I question if the latter is entirely consistent with what I want my motivations for Stewardship to be, but I admit that I am human when I do it.
I believe that it makes sense to understand Stewardship; pay attention to it and be at peace and reconciled with God about it. I believe Stewardship is central to why we are here at St Georges and what we are called to do. And I believe in a world with such an embarrassment of riches no one should be hungry, without shelter or living in fear. I believe that stewardship at St. Georges should be one way I can act locally while I pray globally.
I also believe that stewardship is very private and personal. Church should not be another place where people are vulnerable to feelings of being in competition; trying to keep up with or measure up to their neighbor. There are already too many of those places. St. Georges should be a haven from that. While I admire people who tithe, I also admire people who live in nice houses and drive fancy cars. I can be shallow; it’s part of human nature.
Finally, I believe it is my duty as a member of the Vestry to help create an environment where stewardship can happen and good works can flourish; “where God can bust out all over the place” to quote Barry Stopfel. I believe it is also the Vestry’s duty to be faithful stewards of the financial resources we’ve been entrusted with by the members of the parish and to see that they are properly directed.
Tom Savoth
I believe that it makes sense to understand Stewardship; pay attention to it and be at peace and reconciled with God about it. I believe Stewardship is central to why we are here at St Georges and what we are called to do. And I believe in a world with such an embarrassment of riches no one should be hungry, without shelter or living in fear. I believe that stewardship at St. Georges should be one way I can act locally while I pray globally.
I also believe that stewardship is very private and personal. Church should not be another place where people are vulnerable to feelings of being in competition; trying to keep up with or measure up to their neighbor. There are already too many of those places. St. Georges should be a haven from that. While I admire people who tithe, I also admire people who live in nice houses and drive fancy cars. I can be shallow; it’s part of human nature.
Finally, I believe it is my duty as a member of the Vestry to help create an environment where stewardship can happen and good works can flourish; “where God can bust out all over the place” to quote Barry Stopfel. I believe it is also the Vestry’s duty to be faithful stewards of the financial resources we’ve been entrusted with by the members of the parish and to see that they are properly directed.
Tom Savoth
Sunday, September 28, 2008
You're invited to give a Stewardship e-Witness
Dear fellow St. Georgians:
This is the time of year when we reflect on all the ways that St. George's Church has added to the richness of our lives. During the season in which we consider how and why we pledge, various parishioners often give witness to the parish during the Sunday services.
Needless to say, not everyone is comfortable in speaking to the entire congregation, but everyone DOES have a 'stewardship story' if you will. Your words may be much more inspiring to others than you may ever realize! In addition to our traditional witnessing, The Stewardship Committee is embarking on a fundamentally new and different approach to witnessing...for those who are willing to do so, please share your thoughts and personal experiences with stewardship... the giving of time, talent and treasure.
Here are some questions to get you started:
“Was there a time when it was particularly difficult, and yet, it was rewarding?”
“What questions might you have about stewardship?”
"How is your understanding of God reflected in your stewardship decisions?"
The Stewardship Committee:
Chris West, Chair
Sharon McSorley, Co-Chair
Chris Carroll
Lydia Andersen
Rob McGrath
Beth Rauen Sciaino
Cheryl Notari
This is the time of year when we reflect on all the ways that St. George's Church has added to the richness of our lives. During the season in which we consider how and why we pledge, various parishioners often give witness to the parish during the Sunday services.
Needless to say, not everyone is comfortable in speaking to the entire congregation, but everyone DOES have a 'stewardship story' if you will. Your words may be much more inspiring to others than you may ever realize! In addition to our traditional witnessing, The Stewardship Committee is embarking on a fundamentally new and different approach to witnessing...for those who are willing to do so, please share your thoughts and personal experiences with stewardship... the giving of time, talent and treasure.
Here are some questions to get you started:
“Was there a time when it was particularly difficult, and yet, it was rewarding?”
“What questions might you have about stewardship?”
"How is your understanding of God reflected in your stewardship decisions?"
So please give some thought about your stewardship journey... and respond to Chris West or Sharon McSorley (links to emails at right) with your story.
Acts 20:35b: "The Lord Jesus himself said: 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.' "The Stewardship Committee:
Chris West, Chair
Sharon McSorley, Co-Chair
Chris Carroll
Lydia Andersen
Rob McGrath
Beth Rauen Sciaino
Cheryl Notari
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