Pastors’ Column

I loved the first day of school. I loved pulling out my new pencil box with perfectly sharpened pencils, admiring the brand new crayons still in perfect order. I remember organizing and reorganizing my backpack so everything would be ready.

It was the first day of first or second grade, when we were given a simple assignment to draw a picture from the summer. My crayons were at the ready! One of the students sitting next to me looked nervous. “I forgot my crayons,” she said as I let her borrow mine.

2017 marks the 300^th anniversary of the Presbytery of Philadelphia. I am still getting used to the frequent refrain in this part of the world where we are privileged to find the first university, the first library, the first mint, the first zoo, the first hospital, even the first volunteer fire company in the United States.

So it should be no surprise that Philadelphia is home, not just to the oldest Presbytery in the country, but some of the oldest Presbyterian congregations as well.

It is hard to imagine that just a few miles away from Bryn Mawr Presbyterian Church there are churches twice as old as we are! For half the life of this Presbytery, our congregation didn’t even exist.

This week our middle school students took the Urban Plunge into the Youth Initiative program at Broad Street Ministry (BSM) in Philadelphia. There we took part in new and different worship services, discussions about poverty, racism, and the bible, and experienced many different work sites where we served in diverse ways.

This week I experienced my first Fourth of July in the greater Philadelphia area. I went to a cookout in Glenside. Everybody knows the right foods for the Fourth: hot dogs, potato salad, baked beans, lots of fresh fruit and luscious vine-ripened tomatoes, not to mention chilled beverages. Well-fortified, we made our way down to the parade. Glenside has a hoppin’ parade; the streets and lawns were lined with people, old and young in a dazzling array of reds, whites, and blues. I saw one girl with a star shape braided into the hair on the back of her head. I don’t know how you do that, but I was impressed. For one afternoon, we all seemed proud to wear our country on our sleeves, our backs and even woven into the very fibers on our head.

“Like trying to take a drink of water from a fire hose.” That’s how I’ve described these first few weeks of my life and work here at BMPC. Maybe it’s because I came from a small congregation in a rural part of the country. Or maybe it’s because in a church this large, there are a lot of systems and programs with which to become acquainted. Or maybe it’s because I’ve gotten lost more than once and somehow ended up in the Sanctuary basement. Regardless of the reason, I’ve felt the strong urge to nap every time I come home for lunch.

As each child runs past me, I read the same question written across the back of their VBC T-shirt: “How do you tell the story of God’s love?” This week as we’ve been learning about Jesus’ parables and the ways he described God’s love to the world, and while we’ve been learning those parables, I’ve also seen the story of God’s love told in the actions and the work of our camp’s participants.