One of the great mysteries of Life is its fragility and uncertainty of length. In our Christian pilgrimage we must each in turn grapple with meaning in the wake of illness, suffering, and death. Accordingly, it is with great foresight that our UCC denomination requires clinical training for each of its in-care seminarians--often at hospitals and hospices--as a key facet of ministry preparation. I myself am currently completing the final weeks of my last ordination requirement: a CPE (Clinical Pastor Education) unit at the Brigham & Women's hospital in Boston. This yearlong program has changed me utterly. It is a place where God resides in unadorned splendor, a Divine presence shucked clean of the specific demarcations of creed and dogma. Despite my love of my own faith tradition, I find this plainness a lucid clearing, a return to a lost purity. At the very least, it is a fecund ground for true ecumenism, where actions trump mere words every single time.

Since beginning the program on September 10th, I have plumbed the depths of what Annie Dillard describes as "the great deep-sea vents of the world (i.e. hospitals) . . . the place where souls come in and out," with six other colleagues: a Muslim imam from Turkey; a lesbian Jewish rabbinical student, mother of two, from NYC; a former corporate attorney headed for an Episcopal priesthood position in isolated Newfoundland upon graduation; a Korean female chaplain at the Dana Farber Cancer Institute; an ex-Roman Catholic female who runs a home for formerly homeless seniors; a UCC female who recently earned a PhD in Christian Ethics; and a Jesuit priest from Hungary.

A wildly diverse group, we have been forged through our travels and travails this year into one heart, which beats with a singular passion for God, transcending all narrowness of religiosity. The greatest gift of our heterogeneity is a bedrock certainty that we humans can overcome the devastation of Babel and learn again that we all worship the same God. Despite the daily news headlines of unending bombings and atrocities all across the globe, we find that we are alike in our faith, even as we are alike in our doubts. It is in the doubting, in fact, that I see the true move of the Holy Spirit. Theodicy issues ("why do bad things happen to good people?") are endemic amid the grief and loss unfolding 24 hours a day, under the radar screen of the pulsating cityscape, right there on Brookline Ave. That we can stand together and ask the hard questions is a marvel.

At core, we are students of humanity, handmaidens to those fighting the ravages of random frailty at the Brigham. I regularly see every kind of human on the face of the earth, it seems. Their poignant struggles have caused a commotion in my heart, a huge crush against my previous ideas of God. Who or what is behind these unending conundrums?

The horrific jolt of a cancer that will not relent.

The sudden crash of a heart that just.....stops.

The splintering of a windshield and a skull that had nowhere else to go.

I see the haunting in the eyes of patients who endure all manner of unspeakable things. I see the fear etched into creased foreheads of overwhelmed wives and husbands and the heart-wrenching denial of bewildered children: all regular people forced into extraordinary circumstances. There is no preparation for most of this, no class or instruction book or premonition. The predicaments often descend without a single omen. One moment the patient is lacing up shoes to go to work or to the golf course in the sunshine, and the next, like a hurricane from hell, there is a burning flash of red lights and sirens -- a dizzying wrenching from cotton comforters and good books on nightstands to chilly linoleum and feeding tubes and blipping machinery. It is hard not to wheel around and scream at God, the God of my dreams who I always imagined as the sheltering sky -- ah, Jesus, where are you now?

Oddly, the agony is balanced by the ecstasy. Bobbing along with those in the lake of pain are the ones whose smiles are eruptions of the deepest gratitude ever witnessed: those who have been given a reprieve. There is fervent joy grasped and gasped at, clutched and palmed like a valet tip in the narrow halls where death brushes past but does not stay. The close escape, the released breath -- whew. Whew! It's ok, Chaplain, it's ok!, they say. I'm going home! What an emotional seesaw, what a taught tightrope: the line between health (chubby, rosy-cheeked, oblivious unconsciousness) and non-health (the dark night of the soul). It is a constant tension. We all walk it, everyone. We saunter on invisible catwalks poised over yawning chasms, all the time. The hospital merely throws it all into garish focus.

Often I am not welcome in rooms. These are the patients have long ago given up on any tattered notion of God, or been wounded mortally by the Church. Sometimes I leave these beds feeling like an unwelcome Willy Loman, a despised charlatan. But often patients, families, and even nurses treat me with extreme good faith, according to me (via my office) solemn powers--believing me to be a holy person, a shaman, a priest (somehow overlooking the fact of my femaleness). They think I have a direct connect, a dial tone that cannot be roused on their own radios. I laugh when I think of that. My only "special power," perhaps, is that I am persuaded. God is here, and in control. It reminds me of someone, who I recently heard described as having "a convinced voice". I suppose that is me.

But the conviction is a slippery eel of sorts. God is constant but God's actions? Murky. I can't help but think of being lost at sea. Lost at the farthest salty point from land under the cover of a moonless, cloudy night, and there, at the bottom of the deepest place with miles of cold water in between, lies . . what? What--who--happens at the bottom of the deep, dark void? There is so much we don't know. Topside, we sit on our little skiffs, wind whipping and lashing our white knuckles, our motionless oars dragging behind. We lurch in silence on the sea, baffled. We sit and we rock and we hope. But God is shadowy, moving among whatever strange, large, eyeless fish abide down in those deep catacombs below.

Of course, the weather changes often up top. The sun, ah, the sun, and the blueness of the skies soaring like a song. We think we see land, we think we see home! But still, even on those bleached-clean days, I say: God is murky. On those clear days when we believe we can sail right to heaven, even so, when you look over the side of your little boat all you see is the reflection of yourself looking. But isn't God there? Waiting underwater, waiting under the frothy waves, which stretch out like an impenetrable two-way mirror? Staring hard, our own faces reflect back our longing, like Narcissus. But I would bet every atom of my body, I would bet my own children's sweet souls.........that God is there.

So, I go to the hospital, and I pray with people. I speak softly to the dying and dead. I hold trembling ninety-year old hands between my own. I stroke wispy, papery-thin forearms painted with the purple bloom of the violence of healing. I listen to the whispered intimacies of strangers; I watch tears from disheveled husbands form lakes of confusion on the floor. I smell pain and I watch blood drip and I hear urine spatter into bedpans and I wash my hands raw near tired, gloved nurses, and I float along the narcotic drone of network television swirling amid the unending tedium of anxious people exiled far from home. I sit, I stand. I am silent, I speak. I pray . . . and I cry, too. And then I pray some more.

Mostly, though, I talk about things like the weather. With the patients. I climb aboard their creaking little boats that are fast taking on water, and I crane my neck with them to look first at the skies for a sign (some sign, any sign?) and then, to the murky, murky sea. They look at me, these patients, and most days I just shrug. I want to say: the good God, She can wait a long time.

Just hold fast, I instead tell them. God is here. God loves you, yes you! God knows. Don't let go of God no matter what . . . even if a tornado of tests and lab work and bad news tears away every stick of normalcy you've ever known, even so, just close your eyes against the din and hold fast.

And then the day is over and my work is over for me. Time to make my way back to the shores of the Real World. I put down my Bible and take off the ID lassoed around my neck, and I walk in the cold to my silver car in the hospital lot, and I drive home with NPR talk radio on, but I seldom hear anything. All the way until I pull into my driveway, I am thinking about the ones I just left. How awful it is that they are still there, jailed, yet I am given a furlough pass. How random that I am free and they are not. But as my key turns in my front door lock, the warmth of the winter house envelops me. My dog and cats rush forward, shaking off dreamy sleep to greet me.

And my partner Ellen, who holds life itself inside her in the fourth month of her pregnancy, looks up from the sofa with slow smile. And in her arms, our sweet infant daughter Brooke looks up too, and when she sees me she breaks into a giant grin. And in that moment I am swimming towards the ones I love so very much on this earth, and although I have been buried for hours under the ancient seas at the gray hospital, in this moment I again see clearly.

It's not murky at all.

In my daughter Brooke's eyes, I see God, looking back at me.

Suzanne Woolston Bossert, a member of Old South Church and its Communications committee, is a recent Graduate of Boston University School of Theology as well as a mother of daughter Brooke, who will turn one in May.

You've Got Questions, We've Got Poetry.
From February 11 Broadcast of
National Public Radio's It's Here and Now
Hosts: Bruce Gellerman & Robin Young
with Roving Poets: Jim Berhle, Molly Siccardo

Bruce Gellerman (BG): “Recently our roving poets set Here and Now listeners to task, asking you to come up with “question poems” and you answered our call. . . . Molly, go through the rules of engagement for this challenge.”

Molly Siccardo (MS): “What people had to do is ask a question somewhere in the poem . . . . a question that wasn't answered. . . .You are left wondering at the end of the poem.”

BG: “I spoke to a number of people who sent in some wonderful poems. Joan Peck Arnold is from Gloucester, Mass. She had a few questions for Vincent Van Gogh.”

Joan Peck Arnold (JPA): “I have been a Van Gogh enthusiast for most of my life and I've read just about every biography I can find about him. And I have felt so badly about his life and the sadness in his life and about how he couldn't get his careers going. In the first stanza, I deal with mostly with what it was like in his life, and I try to get the heaviness of his life in that first stanza. But then, I begin fantasizing about what an afterlife, if there is such a thing, he might have.”
 

Van Gogh's Universe

No longer will the wild mistral winds
of southern France disturb your psyche.
Nevermore need you listen to crows
squawking black warnings
as they flap into a weathered sky
above the wheatfield.

Perhaps you are on a joyous ride
through the universe, threading your way
among the galaxies where you've found
gardens of greater delight than the iris
and sunflowers, and a palette of brilliance
beyond cerulean and the colors of earth.

Or do you paint starry nights
from the other side
and render landscapes of stellar terrain?
Is the back of the moon
edged with circular swirls?
Do they tempt your eye again?

Joan Peck Arnold
Gloucester, MA

BG: “I like it and I'll tell you why I like it -- besides the use of language, which is so descriptive. It's because you evolve from a narrative into your questions. As if the more you probe, the more you want to know.”

JPA: “That's right, that's right. I would love to know more about Van Gogh. If there's one person you could talk to who's no longer with us, I would choose it to be Van Gogh, I believe.”

MS: “The two things I love the best is, first of all, the word cerulean -- it's just a good word to say; it's nice to get that into a poem! . . . And the idea of painting Starry Night from the other side gives you an immediate visual of looking behind that painting. It was delightful!”

JB: “There's a great history of people addressing the dead and asking them questions. And I think this is a really good example of it.”

[Editor: Joan Arnol, was Old South Church's Director of Christian Education for 17 years, from 1982 to 1999. At her retirement, she told us that she was planning to study writing and poetry. Her poem was one of the five (from over 80 entries) that was selected to be read on the air on “Here and Now.” We are overjoyed to see the fruits of that second career and her many talents now on display on a national stage. If you would like to hear this interview for yourself in full, it is posted at the following web link:
http://here-now.org/topics/_arts/al_020211.asp ].
 
 
 
 

Why I Care: Prisoners and My Personal Calling
By Brooks Berndt

On more than one occasion, I have attended or led workshops where participants consider how they would respond either to a conflict within their family or to a crime committed by a family member. Invariably, a long list of words develops that reflects the core values most of us hold as Christians: forgiveness, empathy, compassion, etc. If one asks these same participants to name the values they see in the criminal justice system, the resulting list bears little or no resemblance to their own cherished values. Strikingly, the notion of punishment dominates the criminal justice system while inevitably remaining absent from the list of firmly held “family values.”

Why the difference? I believe the primary reason stems from having a criminal justice system rooted in societal racism. Whites often conceive of the criminal justice system as a system designed not for themselves or their family members but rather to deal primarily with “others,” people of black or brown hue. Cherished values cease to apply when it comes to “others.” Feelings of hatred, anger, and revenge take over with no internal mechanisms or beliefs to keep them in check. Punishment thereby becomes not simply an acceptable course of action but a desirable one. And sometimes the raging waves of punishment and the rising tides of racism become so powerful that questions of guilt or innocence become swept away in the floods.

I say all of this as a lengthy prelude to stating why I care about prisoners. I care because I believe no prisoner lives outside the human family. I care because I believe my values should apply to everyone, not just my friends, not just my family members, and not just people of my own race. I care because I believe nothing justifies imprisoning one out of every four black men for a portion of their life. I care because I believe in a justice that transforms rather than punishes.

My notion of justice reflects my conception of God. Through a justice born of love, my God transforms and heals. My God reaches out towards those condemned and abandoned. In short, my God cares. In this care, I find meaning. I find a calling. I feel called to embody the tender care and concern of God in my relations to others, and, by others, I mean everyone.

Brooks Berndt is Ministerial Intern at Old South Church and will enter a PhD program in the fall at the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley, California. He is currently an active participant in the Men-In-Transition program, which provides volunteer mentoring for men being released from the Suffolk County House of Corrections. This group began volunteer training in March and will continue throughout the spring. They would welcome your interest or participation in this important program. For more information, please contact Old South Assistant Minister Jennifer Mills Knutsen or Brooks Berndt.
 
 
 
 

Where Would Jesus Surf?
By Steve Silver

Poor St. Paul.

If the ever intrepid Apostle wanted to know what was going on in far away corners of the early Christian church, he had to rely on letters or very long, danger filled journeys which often seemed to involve a stay in prison or a ship-wreck or some other calamity. We modern Christians, however, have it easy. We can just sit down in front of our computers and surf the web. So, with that in mind, let’s break out our boards and hit the waves for a visit to some Christian web sites.

For starters, there is the Old South web site <www.oldsouth.org>. Assembled and maintained by our own Hank Crawford, the Old South page, while not the slickest address on the web, is filled with good content, the first yardstick by which any site on the internet should be measured. Here one can access any sermon by any of our ministers dating back through 2000 (with additional selections for 1995-1999), see pictures of recent events at the church, learn about coming activities, even read the parishioner-written Lenten devotional. Finally, for the Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk shopper, there is a link on the Books & Media page that, when followed to the on-line store, lets Old South collect a referral fee when a purchase is made. Another option for on-line buyers of Christian books and music is Christian Book Distributors <www.christianbook.com>. This company, headquartered in Peabody, Massachusetts is owned by a real live church-going person; your purchases may not lead to a kick-back to Old South but will support the local economy.

With my family connection to our neighbors across Copley Square, I am a frequent visitor to the Trinity web site <www.trinitychurchboston.org >. This web site is simply, but clearly, laid out and is filled with good, basic content, notably a complete sermon archive dating back to the beginning of 1998.

If you attend Old South with any regularity, chances are one of the things that keeps you coming back is the preaching. If you enjoy a good sermon, then I encourage you visit the Lawrenceville Presbyterian Church web site < www.ourmeetinghouse.org>. Dana Fearon, LPC’s long-time minister, can preach with the best of them. A bonus is his pastoral prayers. (And if you ever find yourself in the Princeton, N.J. area, I urge you to worship at Lawrenceville. Not only will you enjoy wonderful sermons and music but a neat old meetinghouse; the congregation was founded in 1698.)

For news, analysis, articles and features, I visit web site of the magazine Christianity Today <www.christianitytoday.com>. As readers may know, CT is a hugely popular magazine among Evangelicals. The editors have recognized the value of the Internet and have invested in a top-drawer web site. News, articles, reviews and more are available and update regularly. There are also many chat rooms, affinity groups and sundry links. I may not always agree with what I read there, but I am usually given something to think about. Other places where news can be found are the UCC web page < www.ucc.org> and Anglicans Online (see below for more).

Just as the Evangelicals have a “house organ” in CT, mainline Protestants have one in the Christian Century. The Century is published in a no-frills format. Unfortunately, their print production values have informed their web strategy <www.christiancentury.org>. The number of articles offered on-line is limited and a truly cheesy gimmick is employed with those postings - the first part of an article is put up along with a notice that the reader may obtain the full text by sending $6.00 to the home office for the current issue of the Century. This is especially noxious as one can purchase both current and past issues for $2.00 or so from the nice people at the Mass. Bible Society <www.massbible.org>, who are located on Bromfield Street in downtown Boston and at Andover Newton. Sadly, the CC people haven’t quite figured out that a web page is an important tool for evangelism.

It has been said that Christians do not have much of a sense of humor. This is a foul canard as even a cursory visit to one of my all-time favorite web sites, the Ship of Fools <http://ship-of-fools.com>, proves. Ship of Fools bills itself as “The Magazine of Christian Unrest,” and rightly so. This is the only place on the internet I know of where one can get odds on the next Archbishop of Canterbury (Rowan Williams, Archbishop of Wales is favored at 3/1 as of March 26), learn the Pope’s whereabouts (Rome) or the probability of the Rapture taking place this week (77.7% as of this writing). Helpful features include the Mystery Worshiper reviews of church services (their reviewers are a pretty tough lot). On the fun side are departments like Gadgets for God, a roundup of truly tasteless Christian “inspired” toys and gifts, Caption Contests for interesting pictures and the Fruitcake Zone, with links to some of the more bizarre corners of cyberspace (e.g. if you’ve been wondering whether Jesus was an extraterrestrial, someone has some thought to share with you). More thoughtful pieces on a variety of topics including Lent and consumerism also appear on this must-visit web site.

It’s the end of the week and the Old South bulletin arrives in your e-mail box. You read through the message to see what’s in store for Sunday when you come across Hymn number whatever, “Angels from the Realm of Glory,” sung to the tune Regent Square. Much to your annoyance, the title sounds familiar but you can’t remember the words and you know you’ve sung that tune, but all you can remember is “Felice Navidad.” Fear not, you won’t have to wait until Sunday to learn how the music goes (or get Felice Navidad out of your head). Simply visit the Cyber Hymnal <www.cyberhymnal.org>, repository of more than 3,400 Christian hymns. This is a great site with just one glaring deficiency -- “Jesus Dropped Kicked Me Through the Goal Posts of Life” is inexplicably omitted from this otherwise all-encompassing collection.

Finally, in the spirit of ecumenism, there is the totally unofficial but totally reliable and comprehensive Anglicans Online website <http://anglicansonline.org>, the labor of some truly dedicated laity. To my knowledge, nothing like this exists for the UCC or any other major denomination. If one has a question about anything Anglican, this is the place to go. Particularly helpful is the News Centre, updated weekly with links to all of the previous week’s big religion news. Although there is an understandable bias toward Anglican Communion news, there is enough of interest here for any curious Christian. This is one of the best-designed web sites I have encountered on the web.
 

A Mile in Their Footsteps
By Elizabeth England

There are many times in our lives when we are given an opportunity to grow. Sometimes it’s physically or mentally, and other times it is spiritually and emotionally. This past December, I spent five weeks in South Africa visiting my parents who are in the Peace Corp. When I returned, I was a changed person. The blinders that we all wear (so that we do not see the more unpleasant aspects of life) had been removed -- probably destroyed forever. It is hard not to change when you visit a place such as South Africa. It either removes your blinders or makes them much thicker.

Since my parents had been living there for over a year, I knew that it would not be Out of Africa with animals roaming all over. I was expecting heat but, in the end, was not prepared for heat. There is a saying in my parents’ village: “hot is good”. That saying became my mantra during the entire visit. In some ways South Africa is just like it is depicted in movies, in books and on that PBS special about Africa that aired in the fall. But in most ways it is like nothing you have ever experienced before. Sadly, most tourists will never see the South Africa in which my parents live every day.

We take for granted so many things in our daily life: reading the newspaper; going to work; or going to a movie. In Tweefontain F (yes, there are also villages A, B, C, D, E, G, H, & Z) most of the people do not know how to read and have never been to a movie. The village has an unemployment rate of seventy percent. Jobs are few and money is scarce. People steal to survive. There is not any form of unemployment compensation because most of the country is unemployed. There are no food subsidies and more than half the population go to bed hungry. What is not scarce is alcoholism and AIDS. Blacks, who have been told for years they are less than nothing, drink to escape. Sadly, rape is a fact of life for many women. For most black women, their first sexual experience is non-consensual.

These are signs that apartheid has only been abolished for less than a decade. When apartheid ended, blacks had freedoms that were previously denied, but there was no infrastructure set up to help. Growing up, I always knew about the atrocities that were committed against blacks in South Africa, but what surprised me is that for many whites, blacks did not exist. Think of how many times you walk by a homeless person and do not acknowledge them or look them in the eyes. For white South Africans, that was their experience of black South Africans.

On the third week of my trip, I visited my parents’ village. One of my most interesting observations was that I was the minority in the village. Many people had never seen white people prior to my parents’ arrival. The village is located an hour bus ride from Pretoria (one of the South African capitals). The village has electricity, but most houses do not have running water. Half of the houses in the community are made out of mud. During violent storms, many houses collapse. The other houses in the community are made from cement blocks. During violent storms, some of these houses collapse as well, due to the sand in the cement used to make the cement go farther.

The schools where my parents work are a kaleidoscope of different buildings. Some are tin shacks left over from apartheid and others are cement blocks that have been erected in the past seven years. The schools that do not have razor wire fences surrounding them do not have windows or electricity, because they have been stolen. Cows, which roam free, use any open building as a bathroom. Sometimes when the children come in, they need to clean out the dung before class can begin. Desks in the schools, where there were any, reminded me of old one-room schoolhouse desks. One project that my father is undertaking is refinishing and rebuilding the desks. He has completed the project in only one school (that has razor wire) but has not begun the other schools for fear that if the desks look good they will be stolen. Many people in the village joke that everything you own has been stolen but just not picked up yet.

Where there is poverty, one would expect no hope, but in Tweefontain F people are still trying. Against unbelievable odds they have faith that life can get better. There are people who travel to Pretoria every day looking for work. The entrepreneurial spirit is alive with people trying to make a living with the opportunities available. Parents will lie about their children’s age not to prevent them from attending school but to allow them go to school earlier. Many people who I talked to wanted their children to have a better life than they did, even if it meant leaving the community.

My heart ached because most people in this community will not have a better life. It will take generations to see any real positive change in this community. White people may not control the government, but they still have all the training and jobs. Education is still better for those who have than those who have not. The large farms and tourist attractions are still owned and run by whites. The natural resources that are abundant in the country are controlled by outside forces. The country just does not have the resources to make the entire country a first world nation. As I told one of my new friends there, South Africa is a third world nation that portrays itself as industrialized one.

When asked if I would return to South Africa, I say “of course.” It is the most amazing country. There still is so much to see and so many places I want to return to. I saw animals in their natural habitats. I met people who will remain lifelong friends. From my parents’ example, I learned that one person does make a difference, even if only for one person. And I learned that faith and hope are not inanimate but real and valuable. I would return to learn that humans who have lived through the worst things that they can do to each other also are capable of moving beyond the anger and pain to work together. I do not have similar life experiences to walk a mile in South African shoes; I can only walk in their footsteps, one step at a time.

Editor: For those at Old South Church, it is hard to fathom that on March 31, 2002, our Reverend Dr. James W. Crawford led us in Easter worship services for the final time (before his impending retirement this summer after 27 years of outstanding service.) It is only fitting then that we were treated to one new JWC hymn to mark this momentous occasion.

Child of the Promise
TUNE: JUDAS MACCABEUS (Yours Is the Glory, Resurrected One, NCH #253)
James W. Crawford, Easter 2002

Child of the Promise, long ago in Beth'lem born,
Lying gently in a manger on that Christmas morn.
Gathered all around this infant: angels, virgin, kings,
Celebrating Love's disclosure: this Child salvation brings.

Refrain
Yours is the glory, Holy Resurrented One!
We proclaim an endless vict'ry: you o'er death have won.

Filled with the Spirit, did our Savior Jesus go
Into Galilean cities, healing to bestow
Kind release he granted pris'ners; hope he gave the poor
Challenged prejudice and dogma; God's kingdom did assure. Refrain.

On that bleak Friday, out of town on Calv'ry's Hill
There behold those three stark crosses; hear coarse voices shrill.
Roman soldiers nailed up Jesus high upon that rood,
Gambeled for his clothes and stabbed him, slayed Love's Beatitude. Refrain.

Then Sunday morning, there at Joseph's garden tomb,
Heed the women seeking, weeping in that foredawn gloom.
Shocked! A fright'ning scene they see: death's tombstone rolled away;
Conquered is the grave by Pow'r on Life's blessed Easter Day! Refrain.
 
 

Editor: in the wake of Jim Crawford’s retirement announcement, it is not surprising that tributes to him are beginning to flow in. Here are just a few of the many that will soon follow. A celebration in Jim's honor will be held on June 2, 2002.
 
 
 
 

In tribute to James W. Crawford

Before Faith Came:
A Hymn of Affirmation
Tune: AURELIA (The Church's One Foundation)
Text: Galatians 3: 23-29

Before faith came and freed us
From prisons of the day
We did not know the blessings
Of Jesus' holy way
Now heirs of Abraham's promise
We walk in ways of light
A calling built on justice
To work for peace and right

Like brothers and like sisters
Not Jew nor Greek nor slave
We answer all who scorn us
With honesty and love
We're all one in Christ Jesus
Through faith, Children of God
Filled with the Holy Spirit
Based on the Breath, the Word

God calls us all disciples
Each one, a voice for hope
To welcome those who struggle
The ones who cannot cope
To spread the affirmation
God gave the Holy son
That all may feel beloved
Before the time is done

Now, since faith came and holds us
In comfort and in care
We honor one another
New ways of love to share
Love rich in understanding
Acceptance, pure and true
That we may live as family
With faith in all we do

Linda Dini Jenkins, April 2002
in honor of JWC on behalf of the LGF Fellowship Group

God's Love Is For Everyone

Tune: DIADEMATA (Crown Him with Many Crowns)

(God's) love is for everyone
Affirming all who come
The rich, the poor, the young, the sure
Can call God's kingdom home
It takes a special one
To hold the message true
And so tonight, JWC,
This tribute is for you

(We) struggled with ONA
With lectures and with books
Got Peter Gomes, McCauley, too
And downed treats from our cooks
You helped us name the names
Gave unconditionally
A seamless message you proclaimed
Of love and advocacy

People of LGF
Will not forget your drive
When chips were down you came around
To raise the issues high
And so we sing this praise
This song of laud to you
Straight, gay, and bi, your friends stand by
Applauding all you do

Linda Dini Jenkins, April 2002
in honor of JWC on behalf of the LGF Fellowship Group

March 12, 2002

Dear Old South!

After almost four and a half years living in Rumford Point, Maine, my husband and I did the right thing and requested that our names be removed from the Old South membership roster. Our letter very nearly crossed in the mail with Jim Crawford's retirement announcement. But there was no connection between the two mailings. We'd waited a long time to withdraw from Old South, and I know why: being part of Old South Church is one of few aspects of our old life in Boston that we miss.

We were very fortunate to have our membership span very nearly the same period that Jim and Linda Crawford have served Old South. Their radiant faith has informed every aspect of our church's life.

Jim Crawford, everybody knows, is a brilliant preacher. His sermons linger in the mind, some of them for years. I think of his sermon on Jonah - how many years ago? fifteen? -- from which we learned that Jonah's three days in the whale's maw were incidental to what came after in Nineveh. That was a flawlessly crafted sermon! And Jim hasn't lost his edge, as reports of the 2002 Lenten series testify.

Jim Crawford presided over an era at Old South that saw controversy, change, challenge, and triumph (the transformation of the sanctuary!), and he did so with -- one of his favorite words, I believe -- aplomb and with intelligence, strength, and love.

Jim's gifts as preacher and administrator are so striking that you can miss the kind, insightful, compassionate friend he is. He's seen our family through sad times and happy ones: He came to Maine to marry our youngest daughter Polly and Aaron Ford. The service was wonderful, but I most enjoyed the rehearsal at which Jim presented his well-honed reflections on the meaning of the marriage ceremony. You could see every youngun’ in the wedding party thinking: Hey, this is really serious stuff! He christened our first
grandchild, Emelia, and the familiar language was new again. We know and are grateful to Jim Crawford, friend, pastor.

We came into Old South in the mid-1970s. Jim Macgregor and I felt that our children needed exposure to Judeo-Christian history and traditions. But we soon realized that still more compelling was our need: for community. And there it was at Old South Church, and there it is, and there it will be. Jim and Linda Crawford have helped greatly to secure the future of the Old South Church community just as they have graced it over nearly three decades.

--Linda MacGregor
 

THE HOUSE THAT JESUS BUILT
(with apologies to Mother Goose)
by Pam Roberts

This is the house that Jesus built.

This is the Bible
That tells of the house that Jesus built.

This is the clergy
Who preach from the Bible
That tells of the house that Jesus built.

These are the hymns
That tickle the clergy
Who preach from the Bible
That tells of the house that Jesus built.

This is the choir
That leads us in hymns
That tickle the clergy
Who preach from the Bible
That tells of the house that Jesus built.

These are the deacons
Who celebrate the choir
That leads us in hymns
That tickle the clergy
Who preach from the Bible
That tells of the house that Jesus built.

This is Christian Outreach, making all things new,
That works with the deacons
Who celebrate the choir
That leads us in hymns
That tickle the clergy
Who preach from the Bible
That tells of the house that Jesus built.

This is Communications, made high-tech by E. Shu,
That reports back on Christian Outreach, making all things new,
That works with the deacons
Who celebrate the choir
That leads us in hymns
That tickle the clergy
Who preach from the Bible
That tells of the house that Jesus built.

This is Religion and Arts, graced by God's many hues,
That fosters Communications, made high-tech by E. Shu,
That reports back on Christian Outreach, making all things new,
That works with the deacons
Who celebrate the choir
That leads us in hymns
That tickle the clergy
Who preach from the Bible
That tells of the house that Jesus built.

This is our historian, meticulously named Suze,
Who catalogues Religion and Arts, graced by God's many hues,
That fosters Communications, made high-tech by E. Shu,
That reports back on Christian Outreach, making all things new,
That works with the deacons
Who celebrate the choir
That leads us in hymns
That tickle the clergy
Who preach from the Bible
That tells of the house that Jesus built.

This is Operations (a hard-working crew!)
That empowers our historian, meticulously named Suze,
Who catalogues Religion and Arts, graced by God's many hues,
That fosters Communications, made high-tech by E. Shu,
That reports back on Christian Outreach, making all things new,
That works with the deacons
Who celebrate the choir
That leads us in hymns
That tickle the clergy
Who preach from the Bible
That tells of the house that Jesus built.

This Committee's called Finance, whose numbers we use
To enable Operations (a hard-working crew!)
That empowers our historian, meticulously named Suze,
Who catalogues Religion and Arts, graced by God's many hues,
That fosters Communications, made high-tech by E. Shu,
That reports back on Christian Outreach, making all things new,
That works with the deacons
Who celebrate the choir
That leads us in hymns
That tickle the clergy
Who preach from the Bible
That tells of the house that Jesus built.

These are the Trustees, who make Old South's assets accrue
That help the Committee called Finance, whose numbers we use
To enable Operations (a hard-working crew!)
That empowers our historian, meticulously named Suze,
Who catalogues Religion and Arts, graced by God's many hues,
That fosters Communications, made high-tech by E. Shu,
That reports back on Christian Outreach, making all things new,
That works with the deacons
Who celebrate the choir
That leads us in hymns
That tickle the clergy
Who preach from the Bible
That tells of the house that Jesus built.

This is the congregation, sitting in their pews
Whose gifts aid the Trustees, making Old South's assets accrue
That help the Committee called Finance, whose numbers we use
To enable Operations (a hard-working crew!)
That empowers our historian, meticulously named Suze,
Who catalogues Religion and Arts, graced by God's many hues,
That fosters Communications, made high-tech by E. Shu,
That reports back on Christian Outreach, making all things new,
That works with the deacons
Who celebrate the choir
That leads us in hymns
That tickle the clergy
Who preach from the Bible
That tells of the house that Jesus built.

This is the moderator, quite ready for the zoo
Who loves the congregation, sitting in their pews
Whose gifts aid the Trustees, making Old South's assets accrue
That help the Committee called Finance, whose numbers we use
To enable Operations (a hard-working crew!)
That empowers our historian, meticulously named Suze,
Who catalogues Religion and Arts, graced by God's many hues,
That fosters Communications, made high-tech by E. Shu,
That reports back on Christian Outreach, making all things new,
That works with the deacons
Who celebrate the choir
That leads us in hymns
That tickle the clergy
Who preach from the Bible
That tells of the house that Jesus built.