The task of leading change is often challenging, if not down-right difficult for pastors and church leaders.  Usually, the faster the changes and/or the more significant they are, the greater the resistance and difficulty. If, however changes are effected too slowly, renewal and renovation may never occur.

Leaders who are committed to leading the Evangelical church in the discovery and reclamation of our ancient-future faith, commonly encounter challenges and difficulties unique to those pioneering change.  An example of this would be how frequently ancient Christian practices are quickly and thoughtlessly labeled as "Catholic" (i.e. Roman Catholic), as if anything that smacks of being ancient, mystical, contemplative, or involving ritual, repetition, or symbol is automatically Catholic.

And so... I often find myself in conversations with people who, when such topics or practices come up, end up saying the exact same thing: "Isn't that... Catholic?"

What I find myself thinking about -- and it's something many of you can help me with -- is what would a list of wrongly "Catholicized" non-Catholic (or not-exclusively-Catholic) practices look like? 

I'll start a tentative list below, and then invite you to add, edit, and/or comment.

Non/Not-Necessarily Catholic:

• recitation of ancient creeds
• following the Christian Year/calendar
• teaching or reading from the Lectionary
• Communion with common loaf & cup
• Using the word, "Eucharist"
• Wearing of a clerical collar
• praying common prayers together
• display of icons
• use of liturgical colors
• singing the psalms or certain prayers
• standing for the reading of the Gospel
• observing Ash Wednesday, Maundy Thursday, etc.

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Photo credit: © iStockphoto.com/Hande Yüce

Mark Galli has done it again -- and this time it's from a totally different quadrant of church life: the role of liturgical worship.

Beyond Smells & Bells: The Wonder and Power of Christian Liturgy (Paraclete Press, 2008) is a quick and surprisingly delightful read.  I say "surprisingly", because for many evangelicals, the very thought of reading a book about liturgy would be considered odd (not that this should be the case).

Admittedly,  I approached the book rather cautiously, especially after having read through the chapter descriptions:

1. The Basic Outline of the Liturgy
2. How the Liturgical Calendar Can Bring Order to Our Lives
3. How the Liturgy Draws Us into Community
4. How the Liturgy Helps Us Meet a Holy and Loving God
5. The Liturgy as a Mystery Full of Meaning
6. How the Liturgy Is More Relevant Than We Can Imagine
7. How the Liturgy Reshapes Our Sense of Time
8. How the Liturgy Changes Our Sense of Place
9. How the Liturgy Engages the Whole Body
10. How the Liturgy Teaches Us the Faith
11. How the Liturgy Changes Us at the Very Core of Our Being
12. How the Liturgy Helps Us to Know God with Imagination
13. The Liturgy as Poetic Reality that Transforms

When I first scanned these chapter descriptions (the actual chapter titles are more "catchy", and needed further "descriptions"), I thought to myself: "the liturgy does all THAT?"  Yet, as soon as I read on, I quickly came to realize that the liturgy in fact does!

Empty Fullness.  It's one of the most common, powerful, and yet perplexing paradoxes I've experienced.  And it's exactly what I am once again, right in the middle of.

I feel empty. Profoundly empty.  As I think about officiating at my mother-in-law's funeral this weekend, I am almost overwhelmed with my own sense of emotional emptiness.

I have no strength, no drive, no confidence -- nothing at all that I can bring to the table in order to comfort my wife's family and then deliver an eulogy and conduct a service that will touch and bless them.

Yes. This will be the fourth family member funeral that I've conducted in the past 18 months (my mom, my grandmother, my father-in-law, and now my mother-in-law), and I'm sure that this is a factor which is contributing to this emotional void I feel.  But it's certainly not the first time I've felt such things.  Over the years I have often felt overwhelmed with my own sense of emptiness -- times when I felt I had nothing worthwhile to teach, or lead in worship, or offer in encouragement or comfort to others.

Strangely, however, the emptiness is only half of this reality, and the Apostle Paul's affirmation describes it well:

Each time he said, "My gracious favor is all you need. My power works best in your weakness." So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may work through me. 2 Cor. 12:9 (NLT)

It is when I am weak, that through Christ I in fact am strong.  It is when I am empty, that I am truly full.

Today, I may indeed feel profoundly empty, but by the time of my mother-in-law's funeral this weekend, I know that I will once again experience the grace of fullness, and because of Christ, have something worthwhile and God-honoring to give to my grieving family members.

Empty fullness.  It's a paradoxical reality that, although experienced many times, continues to baffle me.

Photo credit: © Izabela Habur, iStockphoto.com

A two-acre spot in the Los Padres National Forest, near Ventura, California continues to baffle experts.  It seems that the "spot" of earth continues to emit an eerie smoke, with surface temperatures soaring near 800 degrees (F).  You can read one of the related news stories here for yourself, but it's kind of got me wondering...

Might there exist "thin places" of a kind entirely different than where heaven and earth seem to meet?  Is it possible that the unseen boundaries between hell and earth might also grow strangely thin in certain places?  Has anyone ever thought of this, experienced this, or written about this?