Irish Flashbacks

0 comments | Jan 24, 01:35 AM | best-of-earl | by Earl Creps

In the last two days Janet and I have been involved in chapel services and classes at Carraig Eden Theological Center and the first day’s sessions of “Mobilise,” a national ministers conference of the Assemblies of God Ireland.

The Irish get into your head quickly. I can’t identify any one trait that makes them so easy to like because they are so much more than any one thing.

On the first day in country (what I call an “airport day”) they looked quite homogenous to us. However, that impression unraveled quickly as one conversation after another revealed distinctions, subtle and profound, that make Ireland a wildly diverse place. Once again I am stung by how easy it is to draw conclusions about people, and how wrong those ideas usually turn out to be. To be fruitful in Berkeley our impressions can be informed by research, but must be formed by relationship.

The Irish have left me with memory flashbacks like this:
I remark to a middle-aged Irish man that we enjoy the stories we hear in so many conversations. He points out that storytelling is as natural to the Irish as breathing, and that in many social groups, an older man will serves as the unofficial comedian for all. Having just had that exact experience at lunch ten minutes prior, we knew his summary of the Irish communication style is accurate, at least in his setting.

A young pastor describes the dire personal danger he and his family live with every day as church planters in a town torn by hatred and sectarian violence between Protestant and Catholics. A native of the region, he understands a life in which hate is the drug of choice, but is praying for a breakthrough that will make his town as famous for reconciliation as it now is for violence.

A conference session formatted as an interview with an Irish ministry leader opens with the interviewer asking, “So,...the money and the women…what went wrong?” Without missing a beat, the response is, “I’m not from West Belfast.” Everyone laughs, except us. Apparently we have just witnessed several dimensions of Irish humor, including its tilt toward sarcasm and irony, and its roots in regional identity and competitiveness.

A young woman named Emily informs me that she is the timer for my talks this morning, meaning that she will hold up large white signs with numbers on them counting down the last ten minutes of my talk. I take her picture in hopes that this practice will immediately spread to the United States. It has the potential for delivering our preachers from the curse of the too-long sermon.

Walking into St. Marks Church in Dublin, I stand on the spot where John Wesley once preached in the 18th century. The history of this church, now one of the larger congregations of the Irish AoG, makes me feel small. The antiquity of the Christian tradition becomes so real in a place like this. All of us stand on the shoulders of so many others whose names we will never know. They did the faith without models, PowerPoint, or blogs. All of those things are fine, but the cross and the power of God among are the constants across history.

We walk through an upper level of St. Marks which is now a classroom, but two hundred years ago was the leper’s balcony. Apparently, only two churches in the city allowed those stricken with leprosy to attend their services. I felt happy to be Christian when standing in part of the building that physically represented the integration of the marginalized. I leave the area thinking about who we would think of as “lepers” today? Jesus’ compassion for the lepers of his day becomes fresh for me.

I notice that two young men running the sound and video for the conference are both using Macs. Rejoicing greatly we begin discussing my own conversion to the Apple world about a month ago, having come out of darkness into marvelous light. Comparing a few notes, I realize how universal the Mac community seems to be, unlike the PC tribe to which owning the same platform seems more like a coincidence than a common citizenship. I wish the Church shared community the way Mac users do sometimes.

Offering feedback on some of my talks, an Irish minister encourages me to “just keep talking from your heart.” I had felt to do my talks without techno-reinforcement of any kind, even forsaking notes. Although some of the material is familiar, my instinct to just talk out what was inside me seems to have resonated somewhat with people here. I begin thinking about how my sermons might benefit from being served “raw.”

A young woman in my class asks me a question after a lecture. Her sincerity is evident, but the question clearly carries the sense that she finds some of my ideas just wrongheaded. She quotes biblical verses to support this view. I enjoy the exchange, and sense that the Irish attitude toward authority involves very little deference. The open exchange of disagreements seems to be considered quite appropriate by the group. I also sense that some of the student questions might be testing me to see if I would become defensive or testy. Inauthenticity and self-importance seem less tolerated here. I enjoyed interacting with the students very much because their direct questions made for better discussion.

Listening to Irish pastors at length, and comparing their experiences to those I have heard in seven other countries (including the US), I conclude that pastoral problems are essentially universal. The stem from common human issues (e.g., temptation) and they are amplified by a common enemy. This begins to explain some of why the Bible is written the way it is. I would have preferred a more specific, “best practices” approach to leadership. While there are lots of specific directions for leaders, even these sometimes seem a bit general. Does “preach the word” mean three times a week? Feeling the commonality in pastoral issues like conflict resolution, church discipline, and personal integrity, the Bible seems more practical than ever. Pastoral concerns cross all cultural lines, so the Word that addresses them must be able to do the same thing. A book written too specifically would only be of use in ancient Palestine. In this sense the Scriptures are a miracle: specific enough to be applicable, but open enough to be transportable.

My new friend Andy McCourt, a pastor of one of Ireland’s churches, told me about the video in of U2’s 2002 Superbowl half time performance in which Bono seems to be praying, or at least reciting scripture, at about the 6:30 mark. Check it out.