For as long as I can remember, my kids have been into building. It started with the remnant bricks I have from childhood, and continues as an obsession. On the floor of my wife’s office are bags of the stuff alongside plenty of works in progress. As parents we’ve endured plenty of Lego-induced foot injuries; stepping on unseen pieces in the carpet, unclear why our children haven’t felt the same pain.
Perhaps they’re light on their feet. Perhaps they have a sixth Lego-sense that makes it possible to avoid stepping on those angular bricks. Perhaps they’re so wrapped up in the process of realizing their vision that they don’t notice the full impact of castaway pieces on the bottom of tender, mistreated feet.
I still love playing with Lego. And yet, so much of my experience these days is mediated through my children. It’s not often I sit down on my own to imagine something and build it. Maybe I should.
When my nine-year-old invites me to come and build with him, we sit down together, doing our own thing for a while. We talk about what we’re doing, we help each other find pieces, and then, inevitably, he steals my creation and harvests it for parts. Even though it’s become a bit of a pattern by now each time it happens, I find myself disappointed. At first I feel frustrated. Often I feel sad. I know it’s just Lego, but it’s something I built, and that matters. I put myself into it. It often takes me awhile to work my way through the flurry of emotions so that I can do my best to extend curiosity about the transformation my nine year old is about to instigate.
Sometimes my creation is salvaged for parts. Other times it forms a main feature in my kid’s new creation. Each time, it’s different. Without fail, it is nothing that I would have imagined: it has been transformed.
At the recent Missional Imagination Conference, Canon Janet Marshall addressed the challenges our church is facing in this current time of transition. “We’re in a season of transformation that’s being propelled at speed right now,” she said, “and it’s being propelled by contextual, structural, and generational transitions.”
Janet pointed to the ways in which our congregations and the world changed rapidly during the worst of the pandemic, rewiring our habits and practices. In the wake of these changes, our survival instinct was activated. For those who invested a lifetime in making church work; for those who remember a time when it worked (or seemed to work), this transition can be disappointing, frustrating, and sad.
Reflecting on her work with those dreaming up new ministries alongside those of a different generation who lead the institution, Janet has noticed a significant gap between the dreamers and the planners. There are some of us who see possibility in the pile of bricks before us. And there are others of us who want to rebuild according to the blueprint we’re familiar with. The church we knew. The church we loved. The church we still love.
A few months ago I helped to facilitate a meeting amongst all of the congregations of the South Okanagan. As we were discussing possibilities and priorities for more regional collaboration, someone asked,
“Isn’t it possible to find a solution where we can look after us older people with liturgy, and also free up resources (time, money, space) to do something new and “woo-woo” that reaches people who aren’t already engaged with what’s here?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. The use of “woo-woo” caught me off guard. But I knew immediately what they were saying. It felt like an incredibly important insight. Is there a way, this person was asking, to continue with the traditions that are meaningful to us, even as we free up resources to engage in ministry amongst people who are not already here? This was a profound and visionary question.
I think the answer is “yes.”
I truly believe that there are communities and regions throughout this diocese who are ready to do this very thing. I truly believe that as God’s people in this time and place, we are called both to tend to one another, and to those who have not yet encountered the gospel.
What we require for this moment are more people to stand up and say:
“There are some elements of the church as it has been that I love and want to preserve. But I also want this church to be here long after I’m gone. I don’t know what it’s going to look like. I may or may not like it. But what I want–more than preserving what was valuable to me–is for people to experience the connection with God and with others that have anchored me in this place.”
Whatever emerges might be unfamiliar, might be “woo-woo,” but if it’s rooted in Christ and part of an emerging Anglican Way: maybe that will be enough.
