Changed lives, changed city

My friends and family are probably tired of me talking about this, but I'm writing to you from Redlands, CA, where I'm speaking to different groups of United Methodist clergy and laity about the Urban Village experience.

I had my first presentation yesterday. It got off to a slow start with lots of people staring at me (so I perceived) with blank faces, but as I got going, I felt like I was connecting more. By the end, I was peppered with lots of great questions and a few challenges, too ("You claim to be different. What makes Urban Village so different?"). The question that made me pause, though, was a simple one: What kind of transformation are you promising the people who come to your church?

I was a little taken aback because I had never been asked that question in that way before. I stood there for a few seconds in silence, trying to figure out the best way to answer it. I finally came up with a simple answer: Changed lives and a changed city. I was surrounded by other pastors so I felt compelled to use some theological jargon because I wasn't sure my simple answer was adequate enough. As I thought about it this morning, though, I believe it is.

What could be more powerful, more radical than a changed life? We firmly believe that the gospel of Jesus changes everything. And when peoples' lives are changed, they want to transform their neighborhoods and their city so that others can know this love and grace, too. That change may come slowly with some, quickly with others. But, if we're open to it, I believe that this change happens. That's God's promise to us.

Praying for change

I've been going to St. Procopius Benedictine Abbey for spiritual retreats off and on now since the mid-1990s. At first, I was pretty regimented about the whole process. I'd follow a strict guideline of when to pray, when to read, and when to attend prayer and worship with the monks. I don't regret that way of going about it because I think it helped me get accustomed to actually going on a spiritual retreat. With experience, though, I've cut myself much more slack. If I feel like reading, I read. If I feel like praying, I pray. If I feel like napping, I nap. If I feel like going for a walk, I head outside. I still attend all the communal opportunities for prayer and worship (there are four a day), but I now go into each retreat not really sure what will come out of it. Usually a verse or theme emerges.

One of the things I like about St. Procopius is that nothing much changes. The same monks are here, the same schedule is pretty much kept, and I stay in the same room. It's been more than a year since I last came out here, though, and change is happening. Seven monks died in 2009, including two I knew somewhat well. Father Thomas, the guest master (think of him as the concierge of St. Procopius), who always seemed ageless to me, is also slowing down a bit.

It struck me this morning that "change" would emerge as the theme of this retreat. Not just my observation of change taking place here at the abbey, but the change that needs to always take place within me. This isn't a novel revelation, but I realize that I've been spending way too much time lately wanting other people to change to adjust to my wants and needs and way too little time praying for a changed heart within me.

That can be a daunting prayer: I'm ready for my heart-my life-to change, O God. Eugene Peterson notes, "Be slow to pray. Praying puts us at risk of getting involved with God's conditions...Praying most often does get us what we want but what God wants, something quite at variance with what we conceive to be in our best interests. And when we realize what is going on, it is often too late to go back."

It's a risky prayer, to be sure. But I kind of like where this prayer is leading me during this Lenten season.

When things don't change

One of my favorite stores is a place I only visit about once a year and I'm only in there for 10 minutes or so. But I still look forward to it.

It's called The Shaver Shop and it's located in Evanston near the Davis St. Metra stop. Its sells electric razors and accessories and it's like walking through a time warp whenever I go in. Absolutely nothing changes about it. The signs and notices on the wall are the same (one sign says they accept BankAmericard, which became Visa in the mid-1970s), the magazines seem to be the same, the man (I assume is the owner) who helps me is the same. The products change, but that's about it.

I've wondered why I enjoy going in there and I suppose it has something to do with the fact that we are constantly bombarded with the message that everything in our world is changing and changing quickly so you better keep up. In many ways, I welcome change (especially when it comes to the church), but it's also kind of nice to have a few things that remain the same.

I'm thankful that God's promise that God will always love us and will always be present in our lives is one of those things. That will never change and I base my hope on that abiding and steadfast promise.