What am I doing here?

As I mentioned in my first post, the question I got the most frequently as I prepared to go to Iceland was “what are you going to be doing there?” It was a question I was never able to answer, even when I had the syllabus and trip itinerary in my hand. “I have no idea,” I would always admit. ‘What am I doing here?’ was a question I pondered my entire time in Iceland. ‘What am I doing here?’ I thought, as I sat in Boston-Logan airport on January 1st and made small talk with nine total strangers. ‘What am I doing here?’ I thought in awe, as I stared out over the majesty of Gulfoss and pondered the shifting of the earth’s plates at Thingvellir. ‘What am I doing here?’ I thought as I settled blissfully into the warm water at Kopavogur’s public pool. ‘What am I doing here?’ as I stayed up late learning about Icelandic politics and culture from my host family. ‘What am I doing here?’ as I was blessed with the opportunity to sit in on a Confirmation class and discuss who God is with twenty Icelandic teenagers, who graciously agreed to do their class in English so we could participate. And more painfully, ‘what am I doing here?’ as I watched the nine strangers who had become my friends grieve the loss of their friend and colleague in the earthquake in Haiti. ‘What am I doing here?’ or maybe, more specifically, ‘how am I lucky enough to be here?’ is a question I pondered my whole time on a small, beautiful, island nation in the middle of the north Atlantic.

I went to Iceland with one question. Well I went with many questions, but with only one “official,” course-related question. What role does religion and the church play in the culture of Iceland? I think I went with the assumption that because Iceland has a national church, the role would be sort of de facto, expected. I also think I maybe expected the experience of church to be similar to my experience of church here in America, where you are a pastor to your parishioners. From the moment we landed in Iceland, I discovered I was completely wrong. Driving in to Reykjavik from the airport in the inky darkness that first morning with a young pastor, I asked him the size of his congregation. “Oh, about 11,000,” he said off-handedly, “we’re the fastest growing parish in Iceland.” Luckily it was dark, so I don’t think he noticed my jaw drop. 11,000! Was I riding in the car of a mega-church pastor? What was he doing? That was amazing! “How many people come to worship on a Sunday?” I continued, amazed. “Oh, a hundred or so.” I couldn’t make the numbers compute in my head, but I soon learned the problem was in definitions. For the Icelandic church, this pastor’s parish was his neighborhood. Whether they ever worshipped in his church or not, he and his senior pastor were responsible for being the pastoral presence for everyone in his district. This meant providing a worship experience, but it also meant providing pastoral care, support for life transitions, baptisms, confirmations, funerals, etc. Being a pastor in Iceland is not about leading worship, thought that is also an important part of what they do, it is about being the pastor for your community. Gunnar, our host, stressed over and over again that he never asks anyone what church they go to. As long as they are in his district, they are a part of his congregation. I was incredibly struck by this. So often I am hesitant to talk about church, to reach out to others, because I assume that if they want a church, they have their own, and I don’t want to appear to churchy. Watching the Icelandic model reminded me that serving people does not have to mean dragging them kicking and screaming through the doors of a sanctuary. Jesus did not only serve the people who came to his church or heard him preach or believed in him. Jesus served everyone he came across. I pray that as I settle back into life here in the states that I remember the Iceland pastor’s service to his or her neighborhood, and that I might not be afraid to share a God who is bigger than the walls of the church building.

God of the margins. Thank you for your Son, who consistently reached out to all people, not just those who spoke or thought or worshipped like him. Thank you for the hospitality of the people we met in Iceland, who opened their homes, their lives, and their hearts to a group of eleven Americans who did not speak or think or worship like them, and taught us new ways to think, to speak, and to worship. Thank you for the hospitality of the Wartburg community, for welcoming me in as a stranger and making me feel like a part of their community. Be with all those who are marginalized and in need of feeling a part of the whole. Amen.