Pentecostal Flavored Church

Had a conversation about religion and church and all that jazz and thought maybe I'd share here a piece from the latest book. 

Some of you will be sure I'm crazy when you read this.  Some of you will nod your heads and smile understandingly.  Some of you will remember your own church experiences. 

Whatever your view, whatever your traditions, whatever you believe - I hope this helps you understand how I see Pentecostal flavored church.

Taste and see the Lord is good!  Psalm 34:8

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February 7, 2010

Pentecostal Flavored Church

I wonder…

How do they see all of this activity?

You know, outsiders.

Frayed edges flying freely

Called prayer,

Called worship,

Called church.

Pentecostal-flavored-church to be exact.

Do they see them

Neatly flowing together

Like prayer shawl fringes?

In harmony, Billowing, Following, Patterned?

Or fragmented, scattered, disjointed

Without plan or purpose.

Mostly I wonder

How do You see it?

All those waving hands

All those mixing voices

All those flowing tears

All that peace consuming

Fears falling, anger melting, sickness healing.

It seems to me

Casually, involvedly observing

From the inside out of this cacophony

That You hear every request and answer.

And the people who let down their guard

Put away their inhibitions

Shed their religiosity

They know, young and old, it is good

To be where You are.

But what of those who have lived long enough to

Reason You away?

Reason faith away?

Reason peace away?

Those who are not accustomed to feeling

Blatant emotion

Deep conviction

Pure joy.

What do they see here?

Who can explain such a mystery?  Which words would one use?

How can it be qualified, justified, simplified

This deep calling to deep?

This thing called

Pentecostal-flavored church.

Love is tangible in a place like this.

It’s a safe covering that starts in

The hands and eyes and arms.

From God to us.

From us to God.

Between each.

Friendly hands compassionately holding friends’ hands

Like babies -protectively and gently.

Trust beaming from every pore.

We sing earthly things don’t matter

And we mean it.

For a space of time

Moments, hours

All else falls away and the strength and grace of the

Community called church family

Envelops us.

That’s Pentecostal-flavored church.

To order a copy of A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges or a Friend Named Jesus, please visit my website:  Writer's Pages

Facebook:  Author Kris A. Newman

Another Stone Laid in the Path

I see myself standing there in the foyer.  Watching.  Taking mental pictures.  Immersed in the give and take of the laying of this stone.

A gentlemen says, “I can seat you now, if you like?”  He knows I am waiting for someone, but wants to take care of his responsibilities.

I smile and respond, “I’m fine.  I’m ok to wait here.”  I try to reassure him and add, “Besides, I’m writing.  Can’t you see the words?”

He smiles in complicity, “Yes, I do.”

And I believe he may.  He is, after all, a reader and understands the importance words play.

I’m back to watching the scene before me.  They say there are six degrees of separation between us all.  If we could extend our lives six people out, we are all connected.  Watching the picture before me, I realize there are far less than six degrees separating all of these lives.  We are a Kandinsky of colors swirling and mixing from north to south, east to west.  A portrait carefully painted by a Master artist.

Aptly, a song rises above the crowd.  Over and again the chorus is repeated, “How are you?  You look beautiful!  I am so glad you’re here.”  Melodies of friendship crescendo as the choir moves slowly into the sanctuary.

I find my particular friends and move inside to wait the perfect moments, the perfect music, the perfect promises.  Together and alone we watch the drama play.  We can’t help but compare this day with other days we have witnessed.  The lace, the flowers, the signed license and kiss for luck. 

Sometimes, like this one, the day is enveloped with laughter.  The kind that makes your sides hurt, your voice hoarse, tears running down your face.  It’s with this laughter we tie our hearts together.  It’s an unspoken promise that should our paths cross elsewhere, we will find a friendly smile, a genuine handshake, a place to rest from the cares of life.  It uplifts us, this laughter, and carries us over the hard days.

I watch the mother of the groom from across the way and see my own happy sadness in her eyes.  I understand the joy she feels of sons grown and the sadness of an empty nest.  The guards are slowly changing in our lives.  We are leaders, it’s true, but ever so tenaciously we hand off the baton to them.  They are the next generation and we trust them with the Good News that changes lives. 

They are beautiful, these grown children.  The platform is decorated with their joy and empty picture frames.  This new family will fill the frames with the story of their life.  To either side of the bride and groom are their closest friends.  Those whose hands have held them up, carried them, and implicitly join these two paths.  The weaving of these many lives has not just begun. They are a strong fabric which has been tested and found to be true.

We measure the days of our lives with these events.  Having the same faces to share the mile-markers gives us identity, purpose, family.  We joke the next event will be a baby shower. 

We don’t share only the ceremony, this band of mothers, but the set-up and clean-up, too.  Not only of the event – but of the lives celebrated by the event.  We are those who will be cheering these children’s successes.  We are those who will stand beside them when they struggle.  We are those who pray and love and hurt with these children.  And with each other. 

This wedding is a perfect day.  The sun shines, the music shines, the brilliance of their pure love shines.  We send them off in a shower of lavender, waving them on to their future.

I see myself again, standing among the crowd.  I am holding the hand of a child whose mother I have prayed with many times while she was yet finding her place.  Over the many years, our paths crossed hither and yon, an example of foundational acceptance.  The child understands this and walks this space with me, also, making my heart smile.

Looking at the portrait the crowd makes behind the newlyweds, I see more than swaying hands.  Each life its own brush stroke.  Survivors, overcomers, those who refused to let the dips of sorrow steal their zest.  I am aware that I am made stronger, gentler by standing in this crowd.  

Together we pave a path for those who follow.  

To order a copy of A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges or a Friend Named Jesus, please visit my website:  Writer's Pages

Facebook:  Author Kris A. Newman

Still Singing

 It’s been awhile since I wrote the post below.  It gets a lot of hits, so it must strike a chord.  Although, honestly, it might be the very cool metal piece photo I have attached to it.  I have learned as a writer that my words are polished when I can find just the right photo to add.

Since I used this week’s personally picked public writing time to draft a spot for 5iveforwomen.com, I thought I would re-post a favorite so you don’t think I’ve forgotten you.

Thanks for sharing this journey with me.  Life is much better lived when co-conspirators keep pace beside you.

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 Music Sings the Colors of Life 

Originally posted September 10, 2010

Music plays a big part in my world.

I was listening to music practice one afternoon and feeling the keyboard notes run along my arms and it occurred to me that music, like writing, is intrinsic to my identity.

I could describe people to you by the kinds of music they like. John is a little edgy, a little country. Melissa is sometimes romantic, but with a strong streak. Tina is rock ‘n roll laced with a healthy respect for blues. Bob? Full of mystery and depth behind blue eyes. Thi might come across as traditional, but once he opens the door you find a wide assortment of sound and intellect.

I’m an eclectic mix that begins with a colorful clash of poetry and sound and ends with fun mixes.

I’ll let you guess which bands apply.

I like Christian music, mostly, but I get bored with the repetitious redundancy of much of it. I find it interesting that people criticize my wide taste in music. Really? You think my musical taste is questionable, don’t even ask me about what I read.

I also find it interesting that they don’t want to take up the discussion about why I like what I like and how I think God sees it. They only want to tell me how they think God sees it. Hmm. In the words of my oh-so-wise Grandma, “who died and made you boss?” I wonder if they would object to a classical composer if they knew of his personal choices and misadventures. I don’t meant to be critical, but it sure sticks in my craw sometimes.

Back to music.

Music speaks to me. Not only the lyrics, the very sound of certain melodies will stick with me for days. I can hear their strains calling me to move for days, sometimes years. There seems to be a song for every event. I am forever singing something random because music is forever filling my mind.

I find myself drawn to music, like all art forms, which has a deeper meaning, something that goes well beyond the surface. I have to like the surface, too, though. A wild cacophony of sound has no purpose. Distorted, unintelligible lyrics are foolishness to me. Shallow, common rhythms bore me. Loud, I like. Soft, I enjoy.

I’m not a musician, but I sure do dig music.

To order a copy of A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges or a Friend Named Jesus, please visit my website:  Writer's Pages

Facebook:  Author Kris A. Newman

Faith Believes Good Lies Beneath the Bad

The tragedy in Colorado yesterday left my heart very sad.  I don't know anyone there.  I have never even been to Colorado.  I didn't expect to know anyone even remotely involved with anyone who might have been in the theater.

But it made me sad.

It brought me back to other phone calls, other tragedies announced, other events that can never be undone.  "It's John."  "Dean was in an accident."  "He's in jail.  One of them had a gun."  "He was just sleeping on the couch and someone drove by and shot into the house."  "The gun went off.  It was an accident." 

Every time a senseless death occurs, two lives are lost.  The one who holds the gun, the one who receives the bullet.  The one who drives drunk, the one who is hit by the drunk driver.  Every time a strong armed crime is adjudged, two futures are altered.  One whose youth is stolen in prison, one who faces fear every time the door clicks open behind them.

Two lives unalterably changed.  Two sets of families and friends grieving.  Two sets of tragedy.

I hate guns.  I hate alcohol. You can't change my mind.  I know those things are part of American life.  They aren't a part of my every day, but their stamps remain long behind.

The shooting in Colorado reminded me also of other tragedies:  Columbine, Oklahoma City, Ground Zero.  I wasn't connected to any of those events, either, but they made me want to hug my kids and find a way to protect them from the random violence of the world.  Now I add Aurora to the list.

I would like to wrap them up - all the kids of mine - and never let them out of the house just to be sure nothing bad ever happens to them.  I want to find a way to eradicate the violence so they never understand the sadness of traumatic loss.  I want to cover their eyes and ears and build a wall around them.

I'm not the one in charge of the world, however.  What if they are the one to find the answer?  What if God has given them a difficult path to face leaving behind a wake of compassion, grace, strength, hope?  I'm not saying God is the author of tragedy.  But I know from my own life that if we give God an opportunity, He will teach us something through the worst days.  Some good lays beneath the sadness if we allow Him to show us.

I have a list of survivors I could give you. Some became bitter, angry, victims of the events trying to self-medicate the pain away.  Some became activists spurred to draw attention, change laws, bring the elephant in the room out of hiding.  Some became gentle, compassionate, listeners who change the future one hug at a time.

I hope the senseless tragedies which left footprints and holes in my heart have made me the compassionate type.  I hope I never forget how it felt to hear the phone calls so I have grace to give when the phone rings for someone else.

You can think I'm simple or foolish.  That's ok.  Black days have taught me to have faith.

I have faith in God who tells me regardless of the awful, tragic, horrific events of life, some good can be found beneath it all.  He is the Author and Finisher of my faith and teaches me all things work together for good for those who love Him and those who are called according to His purpose.

To order a copy of A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges or a Friend Named Jesus, please visit my website:  Writer's Pages

Facebook:  Author Kris A. Newman

A Writer at Camp

My heart is absolutely overflowing with words today.  Some good, some sad, some sappy.

I spent time at Wisconsin District Family Camp last week.  Love those camp grounds.  One of my favorite places on the planet.  I really hope my boys find a way to scatter my ashes there.  So many good memories of good, good days floating around that atmosphere. 

Laughter and tears and quiet, calm, refreshing moments.  I wrote Summer Morning Song there.  I can still see the morning I wrote it.  I had gone to morning prayer and coming back to the room I was silenced by the feel of the sun on my skin, the song of the birds and trees and the surrounding presence of God.  I sat on the steps of the double-deckers and let the words fall onto the page.

I see myself again, there, another time, another summer morning.  Sitting by the fire pit.  Emotions swirling around me.  Difficulties waiting for me at home.  My soul in turmoil.  But for that moment, for that dot of time on the line, absolute peace and quiet blanketed me. 

I watched my children grow up there.  It was as though some strange vitamin was in the water.  They would start a week of Family Camp or Junior Camp at one age, and leave another.  The responsibilities they were allowed, the expectations placed on them, the pride bestowed upon them expanded their thinking and they grew exponentially. 

The year of the tornado is a good example.  Violence filled the air, but calm undergirded the Tabernacle.  Most mothers’ children were huddling under pews praying for their lives.  My children were not.  They worked beside the adults in charge.  They brought water and comfort.  I watched them both, boys only on the outside, but men's character on the inside, as they quietly did whatever was asked of them.  

I’m not sure which honor pulled them taller – platform ministry or security.  Being allowed to sing and play is a big deal at Camp.  It starts at Junior Camp or Children’s Church when a Director approaches and asks, “can you help us today?”  Those Director types they aren’t only looking for talent, but desire and compassion.  I’m pretty sure the Children’s Church platform is the first to have hosted Johnathon and Mathias, but surely not the last.

Thi was six the first year he helped with Security.  Not officially, of course, but because the Security Director was on crutches, Thi became the tray-carrier, drink-getter, runner-arounder.  The golf cart made him taller, I’m sure.  Johnathon worked Security, too, on and off, but I couldn’t tell you when it started.  The years fold together in a flip-book of blurred images. 

Funny, looking back I don’t remember the sleepless nights, but only the stars and the quiet.  There were hot years, but I don’t remember when.  Storms, we had a few.  Cold nights, yes, I’m sure.  Their stories are blotted out by the other memories. 

Deep, rich, touched prayer times.  Sharing lives, making impressions -the kind of personal connections that build walls of faith for times of trouble.  These are the people who held me up in prayer and supported me through the dark days.  Their opinions of me matter.  

It seemed to all culminate last night.  I thought I was ready to leave.  It was getting late and the drive loomed.  I wasn’t ready to go, though.  Something – or Someone – held me back a few more minutes.  I had prayed with some very special friends, I had sung until my voice was gone, I had taken notes of some excellent teaching and preaching.  I had chatted with this one and that one confirming our mutual admiration.  I even smiled inside at the appearance of my books – MY BOOKS – at the PPH tent.  How absolutely sublime!

Ready to flit out, I saw one more friend, whose story I don’t really know, with her head bowed still praying. 

I know from having walked through a crisis that oftentimes what’s noised abroad resembles little of real life.  Thanks to Facebook, assumptions are made based on two or three lines of text.  I also know from walking through crisis that those two or three lines of text sometimes contain years of information.  Sensitivity is the key to dividing rumor from reality.

All I needed to know about my friend I knew.  Someone knocked on my heart and reminded me of the similarities.  That one last alter call gave me the door to reassure my friend that someone on the planet understood.  Some tears, some grace, some strength sharing.  

Then I knew I was okay to leave.

Me and Jesus have some talking to do about some other things from Camp this year.  Some words don’t ought to be written, but only prayed.  Some changes need to be made, some promises need to be kept, some hopes are to be seen.

If you have never been to church camp, you probably have read this post and think I have lost my mind.  You might think I’m simple or addled or out of touch.  Like the words that ought be prayed and not written, some things must be lived not explained.  

That’s how a writer sees Camp time.

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 To order a copy of A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges or a Friend Named Jesus, please visit my website:  Writer's Pages or stop by the PPH booth at your UPCI camp and request it.

Stained Glass

The poem below was written one morning in church as I looked at the stained glass windows in the sanctuary.  It occurred to me my life resembled the picture before me.  The words fell into my mind and onto my paper.

The poem is part of my first book, The Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges.  If you like it, you might like the book.  Today I post it for a friend so she, too, can see the whole picture through a writer's eyes.

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Stained Glass

 

cast down, but not forsaken . . .  2 Cor. 4:9

Shards of glass
broken
jagged
useless

cast down carelessly
thoughtlessly
dreams shattered
paradigms shifted

colored by
time, circumstance
events undeserved
unsolicited
unplanned
stained, changed

and then

carefully chosen
cautiously handled
rejoined

placed in perfect order
welded together
by crimson
ribbons
dried, strengthened
new creation

story unfolding
light singing through
impacting the darkness
by a filtered Son

with every broken, jagged edge
I will praise You.

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To order a copy of 
A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges or a Friend Named Jesus, 
please visit my website:  Writer's Pages

Facebook:  Author Kris A. Newman

Edge of the Bridge

It's been kind of an exciting bit of time.  For a writer, anyway.

A couple of chance meetings, a couple of tentative sendings, a couple of calls here and there.... and suddenly I'm working on a feature piece for a magazine and have my books offered in three different markets - four if you consider that one of the markets will take the books on the road.

I just keep shaking my head.  Is this really happening?

I have you to thank, to begin with.  You blog readers who have clicked this page more than 5,000 times.  You made me think the net of my audience could be, and maybe should be, shaken wider than my friends and co-workers.  So, thanks.

I have my professors to thank, too.  Those people who kept writing A at the tops of papers.  Let's not forget my classmates who gave my voice permission.  Those people who inhabit the halls of St. Kate's from one building to another.  Those people who asked my opinion and agreed and challenged and shared.  Iron sharpening iron in a most creative way.

I have random connected friends to thank, too.  The people I have met here and there along the way who answered my nagging questions, gave me numbers and dropped names.  One whole entire circle started with a book in a backseat.  Someone asked,"Is this a good book?"  Someone answered, "Yeah."  Small talk strung over weeks and ending with my books being offered through Pentecostal Publishing House online and at Family Camp in Minnesota and Wisconsin.

Random?

Another event, another conversation, more small talk, "we are adopting a child from foster care."  "Thank you for taking care of foster kids."  One phrase lead to another until the words, "we have to talk!"  Interviews conducted, writing commencing, feature piece shaping. 

The Poetry Bridge in Minneapolis looks over the Sculpture Garden at one end.  Just a little beyond the bridge is a brass piece of a bell and a rabbit jumping over it.  I don't remember what it's called, but I can see its whimsy frolic through my memory.  It's just a fun piece.  The rabbit leaping an impossible height.  Behind the rabbit and bell is the unimaginably large spoon and cherry daring the world to defy its existence.  The sun and clouds reflected in red, the pond held at its base.  Fun.

That's the view from that edge of the bridge once you cross it.

That's how I feel today.  Like I'm looking over the edge to a place where impossible things become easy to believe.  A spoon and cherry can garishly throw themselves into the sky.  A rabbit can hop over a 5 foot bell.  Anything can happen! 

I don't believe in random, really.  I believe my steps are ordered by God.  My writing has a purpose.  My words will validate the existence of someone and minister grace to someone else.

I'm at the edge of the bridge again, but this time I'm above the impossible, full of faith, excited to see what's next and confident that He who has begun a good work in me will continue it.

Thanks, God.



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To order a copy of A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges or a Friend Named Jesus, please visit my website:  Writer's Pages

Facebook:  Author Kris A. Newman