Stewardship Luncheon Sunday

By Dan Austin, Chair, Stewardship Task Force

We all have had "aha" moments, that time of revelation when something we see or hear gives us insight into how this world of ours really works. One of my best aha moments came almost 25 years ago, while sitting in the pews of a small Episcopal parish in a suburb of Pittsburgh, PA. The rector, a Welshman who truly had seen everything and wasn't fazed by any of it, announced from the pulpit that, after much prayerful consideration, he had concluded that there are, really, only two kinds of people in this world. There are people who wake up every day and say, "Good morning, God!" And then there are those who awake, look at the bright sunlight streaming through the windows, and say, "Good God, morning."

I never forgot that. I'm now -- in late middle age, 60 years out and starting to head home -- a good morning God person.

No doubt some of this is due to the aging process. In my misspent youth -- in college, I was a member of the original animal house fraternity -- partying well past midnight was the norm, and the harsh light of morning was seldom welcomed. Nowadays, I'm usually sound asleep by 10 if not before. But I think one reason I'm happy to welcome the morning -- and my creator -- is that my view of life, of God and of my place in God's universe, has changed.

I am not here to tell you that I was a sinner, and now am a saint. No, this place is still a hospital for sinners, and on more than one occasion, I've needed the emergency room.

But I am here to tell you that I am undergoing a conversion experience. It's nothing exciting, no blinding light, no voice from the burning bush, and it's full of fits and starts, and it seems to never end. But it is bringing me a peace that I, a classic type A, take-no-prisoners kind of guy, never thought possible.

It is broadening my capacity to love my neighbors, even the blockheads next door, and along the way, it is helping me replace rough edges, even anger, with understanding and empathy. And, miracle of miracles in this age of instant gratification, this conversion process is showing me that by giving first of myself, by giving my time, my talent and my treasure, I receive much more in return than any effort to keep up with those nasty Joneses ever brought. I want to share my conversion story because it has everything to do with stewardship, specifically, the stewardship of money, the offering of personal treasure for the benefit of God's people here at St. George's and in the wider world. My hope is that my story won't be what Bruce Springsteen, in his epic song "Glory Days," called "boring stories, eh."

My hope is that my story will make you think about your own story. About where you are as a child of God, as a member of the human race, as someone's son or daughter, as someone's parent or spouse or partner, or perhaps as someone who has chosen to worship God in this beautiful place.

I'm a cradle Episcopalian and through my high school years, was active in my parish, a cathedral parish on the high plains of western Kansas. The dean of the cathedral, Frederick Litchman, was a hard-headed, high-church New Englander who, despite his austere countenance and intolerance of fools, especially young fools, inspired great loyalty in me and other youth. He also taught us a Christianity that went well beyond what we learned in Sunday school.

One quick example: in our Kansas town in the early 1960s, "urban renewal" had arrived, and what it meant then was that a neighborhood of older, smaller homes, which housed a good portion of the town’s minority population, would be bulldozed, replaced by a park and a new Interstate exit ramp.

The residents of this renewed neighborhood would be relocated to what had been military housing on the other side of town, near a Strategic Air Command base.

Needless to say, the residents weren't in favor of being renewed, let alone being removed, or having their houses and their churches torn down. They fought the renewal effort in court, and lost. The pastor of a Baptist church in the neighborhood organized a protest, but few outside that African American community listened. Finally, the town fathers, impatient, decided to proceed with demolition, got a court order to back up the decision, and then sent the county sheriff to enforce it, authorizing him to remove the residents by force if necessary.

On the Saturday morning the bulldozers were set to begin their work, Dean Litchman assembled a squad of acolytes, with yours truly as crucifer, and the cathedral choir, and led us -- all vested -- in car pools to the demolition site. There we encountered a scene straight out of the movies. On one side, the Baptist pastor and several dozen of his flock stood, arm in arm. On the other were two bulldozers, engines running, and an assortment of sheriff's deputies, town police and highway patrolmen, batons at the ready. Right down the middle, led by the dean in his black biretta, stole and purple cassock, came the acolytes -- a crucifer and two candles -- and the choir of Christ Cathedral, singing "Onward Christian Soldiers." The sheriff, who knew most of us, shook his head, put the court order back in his pocket, and told the entourage of police and construction workers to go home.

That day, I saw the power of the Holy Spirit, acting through a small group of people and their priest, change minds, change lives and alter the course of events. The scene would stay with me, filed away deep in my mind. And deep it was. Indeed, within just a few short years after that Saturday morning -- when I had felt so close to God -- I began to fall away from the church, first through the haze of the later 1960's -- and by the way, anyone who tells you he or she remembers the 60's probably wasn’t there -- then the army and Vietnam, and then the launch of a professional career as a journalist, working for one of the most powerful, respected newspapers in the world. There were moments when I would edge back to my faith roots: a rocket and mortar attack in Vietnam, where I learned there truly were no atheists in foxholes. The difficult birth of a child, in which I found myself in serious negotiation with God.

Mostly, though, my wife Gail and I were simply too busy for church. To humor my parents, we would go on Christmas and Easter, usually. But the idea of giving money to the church? A non starter, for us. I was a journalist, not an investment banker. When our first child was born, Gail wanted to stay home with him through at least the pre-school years -- a nice idea but after a move to expensive New Jersey from inexpensive Detroit, an idea we quickly discovered we could no longer afford. She found weekend work, I became Mr. Mom on Saturday and Sunday, and we scraped by. A couple of bucks in the collection plate, even on Christmas, seemed a stretch.

That began to change with the birth of our second son. I had remembered enough of my religious heritage to know that the child needed to be baptized, even if I couldn’t remember quite why. We had Dean Litchman come out of retirement to baptize our first son at that cathedral in Kansas, but his declining health ruled that out the second time around. We had just moved to Pittsburgh with our newborn, didn't know a soul and so decided to church shop.

I would like to say my conversion began there, the day we walked into St. Peter's Episcopal Church, Brentwood, PA, with a baby and a four year old in tow. And in a way it did. We were greeted warmly, I got over the shock of the 1979 prayer book -- I had missed all the controversy that preceded its adoption -- we began to make lasting friends, our baby was baptized and, believe it or not, I soon found myself leading a bible study -- I hadn’t had to cram that hard since my western civ exams in college.

But as we became more involved in this Western Pennsylvania community, I found myself reflecting more and more on why I was back in church after all these years, and why it felt so right.

I recalled the example my Kansas parish and its cathedral dean had set in taking on the urban renewal bulldozers. And then it struck me: they had sought to follow the mind of Christ, even at personal risk, and they had prevailed.

In the epistle today, St. Paul tells the Hebrews that "the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edge sword, piercing until it divides soul from spirit, joints from marrow; it is able to judge the thoughts and intentions of the heart."

What a concept! God knows who I am, sees through all my artful dodging and prevarication, and still chooses to be active in my life, moving me, and others like me to stop acting for ourselves and start acting on behalf of our families and friends and neighbors, even on behalf of our enemies, to let loose ties that bind us -- the ties of material want instead of material need, the ties of hate instead of love -- and free us for the truly good life!

My faith continues to be a roller coaster ride, but at each turn, I've come closer to grasping this essential truth: it is better to give than to receive.

St. Matthew quotes Jesus as saying "where your treasure is, there will your heart be also." Billy Graham adds, "Give me five minutes with a person's check book, and I’ll show you where their heart is."

Thus, my conversion experience really began in that suburban Pittsburgh parish when Gail and I decided to begin giving regularly to the church we were coming to feel comfortable in.

It wasn't much at first -- probably around 2% of our income -- and it didn't always grow every year. But the more we gave, the more we gave. It wasn't only to the parish church either. Episcopal groups, charities of other denominations, secular non profits with humanitarian aims, educational institutions, art museums, all begin to get checks from the Austins. Not big checks, mind you, but regular ones. By the time we got to St. George's, we didn’t need to be told twice about the importance of stewardship -- writing out a check every week and putting it in those little envelops had become a pleasurable habit. Eventually, and I do mean eventually, we realized that our annual total giving amounted to about 10% of our gross income -- the biblical tithe -- and that we weren't missing a penny of it.

I'm still not sure I would be comfortable with Billy Graham or Bernie Poppe looking at my checkbook. They might wonder about the check to Dave's liquors for a case of that great pinot, or might be inclined to ask if I really needed a new car every three years. Moreover, I know that financial circumstances change. When our last child graduated from college, and I was no longer on a first-name basis with the Cornell bursar's office, it felt like I had gotten a gigantic raise. We were happy to share some of this windfall with the rest of God's creation. On the other hand, last February, in a variation of Jesus' warning that he who lives by the sword shall die by it, a corporate restructuring and cost-cutting effort eliminated my position and sent me into an unplanned retirement.

Our financial situation is now unclear. I got a decent severance payment, but while I'm now close to accepting another job, I know it won't pay nearly as well. But here's the thing. It doesn't matter. We'll get by -- we’ve lived on hot dogs and beans before, and we'll do so again if necessary. We have learned to be good stewards of whatever we are given, and to give cheerfully in return. St. George's, this wonderful parish with its great people, ministries and outreach, along with other very worthy causes and groups, will still get 10% of whatever we have. How could we not support this loving community! More important, I will continue to wake every morning, rain or shine, and say silently or aloud, "Good morning, God!"

Amen.

© 2006 Dan Austin