The More Things Change. . .

In our church office we’re sorting, reorganizing, and occasionally discarding the contents of various file cabinets, dusty, seldom-accessed storehouses of documents, most of which haven’t seen the light of review in years.

For me, what stole the show from our archaeological excavation was the modern relevance of many of the ancient papers:

* Letters to the congregation in several years back in the 1970's and 80's sounded alarms about current and expected financial troubles.
* A 1960's letter from their chairperson chided deacons for their lack of regular worship participation, which made frustratingly challenging the task of scheduling people to distribute Sunday morning communion elements.
* And minutes of a 1970's “worship commission” meeting reported that group’s lengthy and productive discussion about the minutia of said communion service, right down to when deacons were to come forward, stop, move, and reposition as the bread and cup made their way through the pews.

As I read these and other uncovered testaments to the church’s unflagging pursuit of repetition, I smiled, appreciated the company, but then realized how far we haven’t come. We’re still struggling with finances, with irregular church leader worship participation and a demon called micro-management. Jesus called us to go out and change the world; seems like we need to change ourselves first.

The writer of that majestic Old Testament treatise on pessimism called “Ecclesiastes” predicted our discoveries:

“History merely repeats itself. It has all been done before. Nothing under the sun is truly new. What can you point to that is new? How do you know it didn’t already exist long ago? We don’t remember what happened in those former times. And in future generations, no one will remember what we are doing now.”

Well, they will if you keep records in church office filing cabinets.


The truth is I provide my own variations on this cycle of dysfunction. My history-not-learned-from-and-hence-repeated is more personal than institutional, but it is no less indefensible. I still fret and worry over the kinds of things that disrupted my younger years. I question and doubt with the same kind of fury that frequented my past. My capacity to misjudge, mistake, miscalculate, and misunderstand rivals any on file in the Coley archives. On occasion I think I have come along way; other days remind me how limited is my immunity from allegations of recidivist behavior.

A group called Caedmon’s Call sings a song called “Thankful,” whose lyrics I thought of as we peered through the past revealed in our church office files:

You know I ran across an old box of letters
When I was bagging up some clothes for goodwill

But you know I had to laugh at the same old struggles
That plagued me then are plaguing me still

'Cause I know the road is long from the ground to glory
But a boy can hope he's getting some place

But you see I'm running from the very clothes I'm wearing
And dressed like this I'm fit for the chase

Is that ever your song?

This has become an early-morning ramble. Perhaps “Thankful”s chorus will take me home:

So I am thankful that I'm incapable of doing any good on my own, yeah
Said I'm so thankful that I'm incapable of doing any good on my own, yeah

Yeah, indeed.


Pray with me:
Thanks for grace, God. Without it, there would be no need for this prayer, and you would have no need for me. The cross closes in. Lead me, drag me there, if you have to. Show me, compel me to look as grace hangs there, grace every bit as fresh, as real, as needed today as it was then. In the name of Jesus, Amen.