by Patrick David Heery
This Christmas Eve, members of Westminster Presbyterian Church will gather at the Salvation Army Miracle Kitchen to host a special dinner for more than 100 of our neighbors. Together, we will enjoy a warm meal, share gifts and laughter, make new friendships, and sing carols. We will gather in the conviction that we are one community, one family—and that no brother or sister should have to go hungry.

Westminster, like many of the area churches, volunteers regularly at the Salvation Army. I admit, however, that when we first learned that we were scheduled to prepare and serve a meal on Christmas Eve, some of us were skeptical. Christmas Eve? Really? As if we didn’t have enough to do on that day already!

But honestly, where else should we be on Christmas Eve but a soup kitchen?

As a pastor, I of course hope that we will take time to go to church and worship God (Westminster will still have its regular services). But if we go there on Christmas Eve, looking for Christ, we may be in the wrong place. If we want to hear the angels sing—just as they did to the shepherds so many years ago—we’ll need to find the places where people have lost hope and have gathered in the dark.

If Christ chose to be born in such a politically conflicted, impoverished, and alienated space as the rural hills of ancient Palestine, then he would likely look far beyond the walls of the church for his birthplace today. Oh, Christ would eventually show up to church, just as he was later found there as a boy, talking with the teachers, in what he called his “father’s house.” But maybe, we should stop going to church to find God, and start going to church to worship the God whom we have already found in the hurting places of the world.

Janet Wolf, director of the Children’s Defense Fund Haley Farm, says that’s what her brought church in 1976 to a maximum-security prison for its Christmas Eve service. She admits she wasn’t much excited about the idea either.

Suddenly divorced, a single parent, raising two kids and holding down three part-time jobs, she had found that she wasn’t welcome at her former, large, suburban church. The pastor had told her that she could no longer teach Sunday school or hold a leadership position because she was not “an acceptable role model.” She had been devastated until she found a new church, located in the inner-city, where people mostly wore jeans and T-shirts and happily and lovingly welcomed her and her sons.

It was this little church that took her to a nearby prison on Christmas Eve. But when they got there, they discovered that it was on lock-down and they would not be able to enter. So there they were, a small group huddling together, standing in the sleet and snow, in a prison parking lot, bound to wake up sick the next morning, and all she could think of were her old church’s warm Christmas services with candles, trumpets, and carols.

The group tried lighting the Christ candle, but the wind kept blowing it out. Janet then read from Isaiah: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light… on them, light has shined.” Suddenly, one of her sons tugged on her coat and said, “Mama, look!” As she turned and looked up, she saw rows and rows of flickering lights in the prison. In window after window, in cell after cell, she saw the glow of matches and lighters, their light spilling through the bars. Together, with the men in the prison, they all began to sing “Silent Night.”

Janet says, “This was where I realized that I had missed what the gospel was about and what it meant to be a church.”

We too can trust that, on Christmas Eve, Christ will be born once again into the world. But it probably won’t be in a church.

Christ will be born in the prison down the street, in Chapel House among the homeless, in Auburn Community Hospital, and I suspect at the Salvation Army Miracle Kitchen. Christ will be born in the hearts of those who didn’t think they’d be welcome at church. Christ will be born in every poor and unloved part of our lives and world.

I hope we will run there with glee, just as those smelly, rough-mannered, beautiful shepherds did 2,000 years ago.

by Jill Fandrich
           
 “Sending thoughts and prayers to [fill in the blank]”.
            I see these words all the time lately. Following every natural disaster or unnatural tragedy, my Facebook and Twitter feeds are full of posts like these.
            I admit to a certain amount of cynicism about these posts. They remind me of a cartoon which depicts a drowning man yelling “Help!” and a man on the dock calling back “My thoughts and prayers are with you.”
            You’re probably wondering why someone writing a church column would be anti-prayer. I’m not. Prayer is an important part of a life of faith. It is perfectly appropriate to turn to God when one is overwhelmed or in despair or grieving. We pray in times of joy or awe as well. Ann Lamott in her book Help, Thanks, Wowsays that all prayers fall into three categories—supplication (help), gratitude (thanks), and awe (wow). When faced with tragedies like hurricanes, fires, shootings, and hatred, sometimes all one can say is “God, please help.”
            As a kid, I knelt by my bed and prayed every night, starting with the Lord’s Prayer, followed by a long list of asking God to bless family, friends, pets, and others. I learned to pray by bowing my head and closing my eyes. As I matured, my prayers changed, becoming more a sense of awareness of God’s presence as I went about my day. Now I pray with my eyes open and my feet on the ground. I believe that prayer is transformative, but it is more about changing me than it is about changing others or the situation around me.
            “Thoughts and prayers,” then, are how we focus our awareness on a person or a problem or a situation. But it doesn’t stop there. Awareness leads to empathy and compassion. Prayers help us see God’s presence in our lives and in the lives of others.
            From compassion, the next step is action. What does God call us to do in response to our prayers? Are we asking God for action, or asking God for help in knowing how to act ourselves? 
            We are exploring this at my church. Every year, we focus on a theme to help us grow in our faith and to discern where God is calling us as individuals and as a faith community. Last year, we explored “Where your heart is.” We shared those things about which we are most passionate, the things which touch our hearts. We found that as a community, we are concerned  about social justice, God’s good earth (especially our lakes), arts and music, children and youth, education, refugee resettlement, and the full inclusion and embrace of all people.
            This year, we move from caring to doing. How can we actually make a difference for the people and things about which we feel most strongly? After listening to our hearts, how do we put our hands to work?  
          This year’s theme is “You are Christ’s hands.” It is based on a quote from Theresa of Avila: “Christ has no body now but yours. No hands, no feet on earth but yours. Yours are the eyes through which he looks compassion on this world. Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good. Yours are the hands through which he blesses all the world. Yours are the hands, yours are the feet, yours are the eyes, you are his body. Christ has no body now on earth but yours.” 
           Some respond in big ways. I have friends who are already planning trips to Texas or Florida to work on recovery efforts. Others might not be able to rebuild a house in another state but they work on Habitat for Humanity homes here in Auburn. We can give money to recovery efforts or donate clothes, furniture or household items to local homeless programs. We can visit the sick, deliver meals, write cards. We can start with small steps, and keep taking them.           
           The quote by Theresa of Avila inspires me to move personally from “thoughts and prayers” to putting my hands to work. Prayer is transformational. It is a start. It starts with caring, and moves to doing.  It changes me, so that I can bring change for others.  
 

by Jill Fandrich
I remember my mother’s last few years as a blur. I was her sole family caregiver as her health declined with heart disease and dementia, and I also was working and had three kids at home. As her care needs changed over her last 5 years, she moved from her home to an apartment to an adult home to a nursing home, where she eventually died of heart failure. In addition to all these moves were frequent trips to doctors, labs, specialists, treatments, and hospitals. I arranged for assistance from a team of caregivers who helped with meals, transportation, and companionship, especially while I was at work.  
Although I consider myself a reasonably competent person in many ways, health care is not one of my skill sets. When my mom started down the long, slow slide of failing health, I had no idea what to do.

So, I reached out. I called the Office of the Aging, talked to her doctors, and pulled together all the information I could about services in the area. Although helpful, it wasn’t enough. The best advice came from friends. Friends could tell me what to expect, give me names and numbers of trustworthy companions and aides, and give me honest opinions about doctors and facilities based on their own experiences. They could suggest questions to ask and provide a listening ear when I was overwhelmed. They were my safety net. They provided me with the support I needed to love and care for my mom until her final breath.
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Not long after Mom died, I found myself becoming a resource for others. I got calls from friends whose parents were declining, asking about my experience and looking for advice about caregivers, living options, and how to keep all the balls in the air. I shared what I could. I still have many friends today who are trying to navigate the strange and sometimes scary world of “parenting their parents.” Sadly, the landscape is more complex than ever now. The need for information and support is great.

One friend’s mother suffers from severe pain, for which doctors can give no diagnosis. They run from appointment to appointment with specialist after specialist, only to get conflicting (and often condescending) advice. Another friend cared for her parents in their home while their health declined in different ways, one mentally and one physically. When home care became impossible and there were no facilities where they could be together, she moved one into a nursing home and one into an adult home, breaking both her heart and her pocketbook (over $18,000 a month!). Another friend struggles with how to convince her father to give up driving, concerned over his and others’ safety and also his loss of independence and dignity. Another weighs the merits of moving her mother from her hometown to Auburn, which would take her away from her friends and familiar surroundings but bring her closer to family. Still another faces daily guilt over the choices she has to make; if she has dinner with her mother, she misses her son’s soccer game; if she can’t take time off from work (again!), she has to miss her mom’s doctor’s appointment. Common in all these frustrating and heart-wrenching situations are love and compassion for the parents who are dear to us, and sincere desire to do what’s best for all concerned, while also juggling the demands of work, family, and other responsibilities.

Recognizing the value in being part of a caring community, my church is starting a new conversation circle (a sort of support group) this fall for “children” of aging parents. This group will allow children of aging parents the opportunity to get together for confidential conversation, to share experiences and information, to be listening ears for each other, and to support each other through what can be overwhelming and emotional times. The group will meet on the fourth Tuesdays of each month at 7:00 pm, in Westminster Church’s social room at 17 William Street. Meetings are free and open to all. The first meeting will be September 26. The groups will be informal, but conversation will be facilitated. The intent is not to provide expert advice, but rather to help each other love and care for aging parents.  
 

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by Patrick David Heery
For nearly five years, once every month on a Saturday morning in Louisville (where I used to live), I wiped the sleep from my eyes, grabbed my hiking gear, and met up with a small group of people hungry for God’s voice. Crushed by the noise of work and life and by the chatter of our minds, we went to the woods to see if we could find there some sanctuary, built of oak and pond and bird song. Beginning with a devotional—perhaps a Mary Oliver poem or a Psalm—we walked in silence, doing our best to listen. To listen not only to the crunch of leaves beneath our boots or to the low hum of the frogs, but also to some word we required that day, a buried word that might heal or unsettle or even, perhaps, commission.

Every time, I felt a rare buoyancy come over me, like a door being opened and a burden lifted.

Ann Deibert, co-pastor of Central Presbyterian Church in Louisville, began these contemplative group hikes as a spiritual discipline, while she was studying for her doctorate in spiritual care. I was hooked the moment my foot hit the path. It was everything I wanted: God, nature, physical exercise, quiet, and friendship. My wife and I can track our relationship by those hikes—the very first hike was one of our earliest dates. Soon I became a co-leader of the hikes, partnering with the Sierra Club, a grassroots environmental and hiking organization.

That partnership created a truly ecumenical, and even interfaith, experience, bringing together Catholics, Jews, Buddhists, and Protestants of all stripes—as well as those who identify as spiritual but not religious (people who crave a deeper connection but may be skeptical of the institutions built around that connection).

The result admittedly wasn’t always profound. Sometimes it was just really cold or rainy. Often I’d end up thinking about the day’s agenda or how best to avoid the protruding roots on the path. And yet, through it all, friendships were formed, vulnerabilities were shared, and people generally left with a bigger smile than they had arrived with. One woman walked in prayer for her son and his struggle with addiction. Another was grieving the death of his brother. Most of us were just glad for the fresh air and good earth.

I’ll be honest, though: when that alarm first went off in the morning, I’d usually grumble, “I don’t want to go.” I would feel tired from the week, and doing something as radically different and intentional as hiking with others in meditative silence sounded exhausting. Combating the clutter with the noise of Netflix or Facebook always seemed so much easier.

Inevitably, I forced myself to go (just as many force themselves to go to worship on Sunday morning). And each time—as a testament to my inability to learn—I was surprised by just how free, rested, and energized I felt. God’s grace always found me there in the woods, sliding the burdens from my shoulders.

All that I ever needed to do, it turns out, was just go. God took care of the rest. It’s true Sunday morning. And it’s true for these hikes.

This month, you’ll have a chance to go too. Westminster Presbyterian Church will now be offering monthly contemplative hikes for anyone who wants to get outdoors, find a break from the commotion of life, and reconnect with their body and soul. It’s perfect for the churchgoer longing for a deeper spiritual life—and for the person who is wary of church and formal worship but is looking for something more in their lives.

Our first hike will be Saturday, August 19, from 10 am to 12 pm, at Fillmore Glen State Park in Moravia. Anyone is welcome to join us. Spending part of the hike in silence and part in conversation, we’ll find renewal as we become more mindful of our bodies, our thoughts, and the soil beneath our feet. There is no cost (besides the park entrance fee). RSVP is required, and you can reach out to me at 315-253-3331 or pastor@westminsterauburn.org.
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Trust me. We do not pull ourselves out of bed and sacrifice the noise in order to live reduced lives. We choose the silence so that we can live fuller lives. To quote poet Wendell Berry, “Best of any song is bird song in the quiet, but first you must have the quiet.” The same is true for God’s song.

by Jill Fandrich
What does the word “missionary” bring to mind? Perhaps the naïve, culturally insensitive young evangelists fromBook of Mormon? Or the severe, paternalistic ministers with tales of converting heathens in Java? Well, modern missionaries are nothing like that. In fact, in many Christian traditions, they’re not even called missionaries anymore.

The denomination to which I belong, the Presbyterian Church (USA), has “mission co-workers” who carry out God’s call for faithful and effective mission. The title reflects a significant difference in how we perceive world mission.  Presbyterians believe we are called to mission through the discipline of partnership. World mission addresses the root causes of some of the most pervasive problems in the world- poverty alleviation and reconciliation in cultures of violence- by working alongside people in their own communities. It also feeds spiritual as well as physical hunger in the sharing of God’s love.

This month, we have a unique opportunity to meet two mission co-workers who are visiting CNY to give a first-hand account of their work in Zambia. Charles and Melissa Johnson are Presbyterian elders from San Antonio, TX. They are serving in Zambia at the invitation of the Church of Central Africa Presbyterian (CCAP), Zambia Synod.

Charles and Melissa’s devotion to world mission was shaped from their personal experiences, struggles, and joys. Most significant was the life and death of their severely disabled son Holden. Following Holden’s death, they were compelled to answer a call to serve God by helping others, having themselves felt God’s presence through the most difficult of times, largely through the hearts and hands of others. They began their mission work with several short-term trips to Vietnam, Peru, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo, after which they felt drawn to full-time mission service in Africa.

Their professional background includes Charles’ work for 21 years as the president of an agribusiness in Texas and Melissa’s work as an advocate for children with special needs in the health care and educational arenas. They bring this experience to their work in Zambia, where Charles is focused on two agricultural-related activities. The first consists of efforts to develop an agricultural income-generating activity (farming for profit). Funds generated are used to reinvest in the AIGA, and also to help sustain Chasefu Theological College and to support the work of Chasefu Model Farm. Charles’s other focus is teaching courses in sustainable agriculture at Chasefu Theological College, providing education to help the students feed their own families and training the future pastors to teach others new agricultural techniques. In addition, Charles is working to develop Chasefu Model Farm, a training center for smallholder farmers, using appropriate technology in a Zambian context.

Melissa is working with the CCAP Zambia Health Department Coordinator and other church leaders, local stakeholders, the Ministry of Health, and the community, to identify important needs and gaps in general health education. Along with the health department coordinator, Melissa works to develop and implement health education programs to improve maternal and child health, to address hygiene issues of girls and women, and to raise awareness about nutritional needs of children and adults.

Zambia has a population of 15 million people, which includes some 70 ethnic groups. An estimated 50 to 75 percent of the population identify themselves as Christian. Most other Zambians are either Muslim or Hindu. Presbyterianism was introduced into Zambia by Scottish missionaries in the 1860s. The Church of Central Africa Presbyterian’s Zambia Synod is growing rapidly and is committed to a holistic approach to outreach. The Synod serves a population struggling with massive poverty and the rapid spread of infectious diseases, including HIV/AIDs.

Charles and Melissa are back in the United States for a few months, travelling throughout the country and visiting churches. They are in CNY in July, and have been invited to share their stories in Auburn next Saturday, July 22, beginning with a potluck picnic at 5:00 pm at First Presbyterian Church, 112 South St, in Auburn. A talk and presentation, beginning at 6:30 pm, will follow the picnic.

​Westminster and First Presbyterian Churches are co-sponsoring the event, and welcome everyone who would like to meet Charles and Melissa and hear about their work.

by Patrick D. Heery
​It was the Sunday before Easter. Palm Sunday. A warm April day. My sermon was ready. In it, I wrote that Holy Week is about sitting beside hospital beds and all crosses of human suffering. It is stubbornly insisting that there is a sacredness that neither death nor grief can take from us.

Little did I know how prescient those words were. Words I’d never get to preach. 

Instead of climbing into a pulpit that morning, I sat in a hospital beside my wife, Jenna, as she went into early labor and began hemorrhaging. Six units of blood later, Jenna’s life was saved, but there was nothing the doctors could do to save our babies. Our two sons—Ezra and Leo—died, as stillbirths.   

They join the four other children Jenna and I have lost through miscarriages over two years.

On the face of it, I should be good at grief. I know all the Bible verses, all the prayers, rituals, and confessions. I’ve been trained for this. I’ve ministered in hospitals, nursing homes, and prisons. I have counseled scores of other people in similarly tragic situations; my first baptism was of a premature baby in a NICU. I have a church and a wide support system, including hundreds of other clergy. 

Most of all, I am a pastor, expected to be a model of faithfulness. And as such, I should grieve well. 

But I have not grieved well—whatever that may mean. My grief has been made of spit and mud, staring up at the heavens from a pit where light does not reach. 

No one tells you how heavy the emptiness of grief can be. How it coils around every organ, every muscle, and squeezes. How it paralyzes you till even getting out of bed in the morning is a great and strenuous task. 
All I want to do is hold my boys again. To feel the touch of their skin on mine. But I look down, and my arms are empty. I look at their clothes hanging in the closet; their toys lying in a corner, unplayed with; their nursery, empty and forbidden. 

In Ezra and Leo’s absence, I have felt God’s absence.

It has occurred to me, however, that such absence may in fact be a gift. In his book The Living Reminder, Henri Nouwen reflects on Jesus’ statement to his disciples, “It is for your own good that I am going away” (John 16:7). Nouwen writes, “The great mystery of the divine revelation is that God entered into intimacy with us not only by Christ’s coming, but also by his leaving.” 

Emptiness creates space. Room to question and wrestle God, to sob and rage, to hear wisdom, to love and grow closer to my wife, to imagine and speak with my sons. Space to listen to the birds and watch the warm sun rise on the earth. Space to slip in the mud and shout profanities in the lonely woods. Space to ask for help and receive it. Space for home-cooked meals and tokens of love from dear church members, family, and friends. Space for life to slip back in, with laughter, even joy. Space to step away from work and ministry. Space to relinquish all pretense at understanding and to stand silently, without explanation, before suffering. Space to open my eyes, as if for the first time, to the searing pain of others—and to see something miraculous take place: the rise of a community. 

With so many hands holding each other up, with so much space to see and touch one another, with room even to glide our hands over the Lord’s scars as Thomas once did, we are pushed up and up, closer to the light. 

We are accustomed to thinking of God as “presence”—and indeed that is true. But perhaps God is also absence. 

It must hurt God something awful. Must hurt so bad not to hold God’s children and make everything better, to close the gap. But the truth is—and God knows this truth—you can’t write on a filled page, and you can’t think in a noisy room, and you can’t grow without space to stretch. 

God enters, departs, and returns. That is how God grieves. And at our best, it’s how a pastor grieves too. By creating space enough for something new to emerge. And in that space, in that silence, I listen for my boys. I wait. 
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And I count that a gift.

​by Jill Fandrich
Many years ago, I read a book called Flatland. It was a strange little novella, written in 1884 as a satire on Victorian social classes. I read it to help me understand geometry, math-challenged as I was. Little did I know that this book would have a theological impact on me as well, and become an analogy for my understanding of faith.

Flatland, narrated by "A. Square," takes place in an imaginary two-dimensional world. Its inhabitants are flat shapes-- lines, squares, and polygons. All they know is a two-dimensional environment and they are unable to conceive of anything else. When visited, however, by a sphere from Spaceland, a three-dimensional world, A. Square becomes aware of a reality beyond his own. The sphere appears first as a dot, then as a widening circle, then as a circle which becomes smaller and disappears again as a dot. In his two-dimensional world, he can perceive of a three-dimensional world only in a limited way, constrained by his perspectives and experiences; he knows that it exists even though he cannot fully comprehend it.

I've been a church goer my whole life, a "cradle Christian" as we used to say. I attended Sunday School and worship as a child. I worshiped sporadically during those questioning high school and college years. As a young adult, I joined the church I still attend here in Auburn, and over the years, I've taught Sunday School to children of all ages and led Christian Education for adults. I’ve tried to articulate my faith and share it with others. I've read many books and listened to many sermons, and even preached a few myself. And yet, I'm still like a resident of Flatland when I try to explain who God is.

My understanding of God has changed over the years. Like most children, I first thought of God as a bearded old man in the sky. As a teen, I adopted the "God is Love" understanding that was popular in the 60s and 70s. (Yes, I'm that old.) I've questioned whether God exists, and tried to shape an understanding of who God is. I've always come back to a belief that there is a power that is greater than anything I can understand, and that my ability to understand it is limited by my humanness. Just like the Flatlanders.

At this point in my life, I've come to accept that all the ways we describe God are just feeble attempts to describe what can't be described. The fact that I can’t articulate who God is does not mean that God does not exist. It just means that I am limited in my ability to understand. The Bible acknowledges this eloquently, "For now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then shall I know even as I am known." (1 Corinthians 13:12).

Rather than reject the Bible for its inconsistencies and its peculiarities, I find it comforting to see it as a peoples' account of encountering God and trying to explain his (her?) presence and power. In the Old Testament, God was described as appearing in wind, in earthquakes, and in fire. Man spoke to God and heard his voice, but could not say his name because naming God would have limited him. In the New Testament, God is named in many ways in attempts to describe God's nature-- the light of the world, the salt of the earth, the water of life, the Alpha and Omega, the cornerstone, the good shepherd, the living stone, the bread of life, the vine and branches, King of Kings.

The central story of Christianity is that God came to earth as a human, born as a child in Bethlehem, who walked among people, and died a physical death, who was raised to eternal life beyond this one. Jesus was called Emmanuel, which means "God with us." Is Jesus how we Flatlanders understand God? Did God have to come to earth to live among us so that we could recognize him? Is he like the sphere entering the two-dimensional world in order for people to perceive and know God, even in a limited way?
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I wish I had the answers, just as people of all times have sought to find answers too. I am a Flatlander and I hope to one day know fully what I now know only in part.

“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want…”
“Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all the earth.”
 “Lift up your heads, O ye gates”.

Do any of these scriptural quotes seem familiar, or have they possibly been imprinted in your memory? They are all excerpts from well-known psalms, the subject of the Lenten “Soup & Study” program at Westminster Presbyterian Church. This year’s series is “Discovering the Psalms: Passion, Promise, and Praise”, a Kerygma publication authored by renowned theologian and Christian educator Dr. Donald Griggs, who summarizes his subject in this manner: “Psalms is a collection of prayers, poems, and songs that express to God and to God’s people the widest spectrum of human experience and emotion”.

The Psalms are located in the Old Testament between the Books of Job and Proverbs. There are 150 psalms, about half of which are believed to have been authored by King David. Of those, there are thirteen referring to certain historical events in David’s life. The Psalms are also included in the collection of Writings in the Hebrew Scriptures, where their title is Tehillum, meaning “songs of praise”. Biblical scholars have named as many as seventeen different types of psalms. Hermann Gunkel (1862-1932), a pioneer in recognizing that Psalms represent a variety of literary forms, identified these four general types: hymns, laments, thanksgivings, and royal psalms. Both three-year cycle and daily lectionaries contain at least one psalm reading for each day or week in the scriptural rotation schedule.

Churchgoers of all denominations can recall being exposed to psalms from an early age and in many different ways. Psalms may be: read by clergy in worship or at funerals, sung antiphonally or as an anthem by a cantor or choir, reproduced and illustrated in a special book called a psalter, printed in hymnals with both regular and bold-face type as responsive readings, memorized for a church school or confirmation class, or just turned to for comfort and reassurance. Because of a life-long familiarity with the Book of Psalms, many worshippers will be quick to identify a favorite one or two. I especially love Psalm 121, both as a source of solace and an assurance of God’s protection. It begins with the following:
“I lift up my eyes to the hills –
from where will my help come?
My help comes from the Lord,
who made heaven and earth.”

 As a choral singer, I can name no more beautiful an anthem than “How Lovely is Thy Dwelling Place”, the 4th movement of the Brahms Requiem, whose lyrics are based upon Psalm 84. An examination of my church’s hymnal reveals dozens of hymns based upon the lyrical poetry of the Psalms.   

One may ask, “With such lifelong exposure to and seeming familiarity with the Book of Psalms, why spend seven evenings studying them in detail?’ The answer to this question, for me, is that a greater understanding and appreciation of this Bible book, in particular, offers me the opportunity for personal spiritual growth and inquiry. Although I have heard, read, or sung many of the psalms, there are many more that I have not encountered in my church or devotional life.

The objectives of our study include exploring the Psalms as a unique collection of songs and prayers and regarding it as “A Prayer Book for God’s People”. Indeed, our Presbyterian Mission Agency refers to the Psalms as “a school of prayer”. What better source than the Psalms for praying and for learning to pray, whether one reads or chants a psalm aloud or meditates in silence? Eugene Peterson, author of “Answering God: The Psalms as Tools for Prayer” explains it this way: “When we pray the Psalms, and are trained in prayer by them, we enter into this centuries-long experience of being a people of God.”

If you are interested in attending the remaining sessions of Discovering the Psalms, held each Wednesday evening (except for Holy Week) through May 3, we gather in the Social Room of Westminster Presbyterian Church, 17 William Street, from 6:00-7:30 PM. All are welcome to join us for a light soup supper and study time.​

Audrey McNally is a life-long member and current ruling elder of Westminster Presbyterian Church. She sings in the Westminster Choir, moderates the Worship Committee, and serves on the Christian Education Committee.