Those to whom love is a stranger...

There and back again

2012-02-02T05:56:00.000-08:00

Hello blog. Fancy meeting you here. :)
On March 27, 2011 life changed in a big way. I welcomed my daughter into the world in the wee hours of that morning. Since then, you can tell I've done very little in the way of posts. However, yesterday I had a spark that nudged me to return again. I've always been enriched in sharing a few thoughts in writing (even if no one else is reading). So, starting this month, expect to see some new posts very soon. Until then, may those to whom love is a stranger find in you a generous friend.

Prayer for a nation

2011-05-02T01:33:00.000-07:00

A friend gave me hope this morning when she posted this from the Book of Common Prayer. It gave me the courage to post again. Father forgive us, we know not what we do.
O God, the Father of all, whose Son commanded us to love our enemies: Lead them and us from prejudice to truth; deliver them and us from hatred, cruelty, and revenge; and in your good time enable us all to stand reconciled before you; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. -BCP, 1979

Awkward silence

2011-01-26T16:39:00.000-08:00

There is a moment of suspended silence just after our prayer of confession and before the pastor offers a word of assurance and pardon on Communion Sundays. This awkward silence is often noted in the bulletin by a small phrase in parenthesis that reads (followed by silent prayer). We finish reciting a communal prayer of confession and then there is silence - an opportunity for individuals to share in their heart personal confessions of sin to God. While some can’t wait for the silence to end and move to the next thing, I must confess there are some Sundays when I wish it would last longer. In fact, one of the things that bothers me most in worship is when such a space of time is ordered into the service, but the presider resumes so quickly I’ve barely had time to finish my first thought. It’s not surprising that folks would want to trim or cut short confessing our sins before God. We’re simply not accustomed to a life of self-examination. Often, abbreviating this quiet confession isn’t even intentional. But, most days, I just need more awkward silence.
Jesus & John had a lot to say about the reality that God's kingdom has come near. Someone once wrote: "If the kingdom is coming, we have to begin to live by the king’s rules." In that case, I could use a little awkward silence.

Exercise in futility

2011-01-11T16:16:00.000-08:00

Winter weather abounds if you are anywhere near the Southeastern U.S. Many, like myself, find themselves homebound for another day and glued to 24-hour news coverage by multiple crews reporting in locations across the state. Each station provides hourly updates on the natural progression of water shifting into a different state of matter. It's not that nothing else is happening in the world today; it's just that nothing else is happening in "our" world today. It's amusing to see trained journalists devote so much time and attention to how water is morphed from a liquid into a solid (or vice versa). What's more amusing is I've been watching their exclusive coverage all morning.
The unique thing about all the weather related news across the South this week is it's also an analogy for our human condition. The tv reports all cast this winter weather as an epic battle with road crews, government officials, and common citizens drawing up detailed plans of action. Barely 24 hours have passed since the "onslaught" of precip began and folks are trying everything possible to make sure they are freed from their homes. Officials and crews are doing everything to ensure roads are navigable. Everything about the coverage and our response tells us, in as far as possible, we must maintain life and business as usual. We cannot afford to allow interruption or give the appearance that we are not in control at any given moment. The updates of closings and delays stream across the screen like a list of casualties or lost battles. As the days progress, the shrinking list offers hope the tide has turned and we once again have the upper hand.
I love winter weather. Primarily because you can't do anything about it. You can have as many generators, plows, shovels, technology, or salt that you want; but, if Mother Nature wants to leave a wallop of freezing temperatures and precipitation, something will be coming to halt (at least momentarily). Any effort to prove otherwise is only an exercise in futility.
I tend to think things are much the same for us when God tries make himself known in our lives - to get our attention, plead for us to listen, slow us down, or steer us another direction. Most of the time, we will put a fight. We'll spend years implementing strategic plans to assert control over our own life; reaching the end, we'll wonder why we had wasted so much of our time. In the end, all God wanted was for us to slow down - to be enlightened enough to recognize we were never really in control after all.
Happy snow days!

God came down

2010-11-30T07:59:00.000-08:00

"God is present among you and you are saying with your lives that you aren't interested."
It's an Eugene Peterson quote I stumbled across a month ago that has stayed with me. It seems even more real and appropriate as Advent begins this week.

I think it would make an awesome t-shirt (if only I can be the one to wear it in front of a mirror). I wanted to put it on my business cards and write it over my doorposts. For me, those words just seem to release a scandlous, heartbreaking truth. Everywhere I look testifies to its legitimacy. Yet, it is more than a wearing or issuing of a scathing tesimony to the world in which we live. It's also a recognition and realization of my own willing participation and complacency.

Sometimes things come into our lives that are remarkable gifts, but we fail to ever see them. We let them slip by without so much as a nod. I wonder if it will happen again this year. What unexpected gift might God be offering us this Advent and Christmas season that will simply fall through the cracks? What will sit in the corner never unwrapped?

The message has been proclaimed some 2,000 years: God is present among you. Still, we say with our lives that you are not interested. Maybe this year will be different?

A king's tale

2010-11-25T10:10:00.000-08:00

Sensational Sam, yes, that was his name.
His remarkable character gave his fame.
There was no one quite like the one they called Sam
To him, anyone else was just part of the Fam
The way he encountered each person he met
With laughter and listening and love was at best
A genuine personality, a great deal of charm,
in every dear person he would invest.
Everyone knew him all around town
There was no mistaking this man was quite round.
But bigger than waist or popularty
Was Sam’s great big heart for poor souls like me.

Sam had a way of making everyone special
And just when u needed a boost or spark,
He offered you something to melt through the dark.
But after a while, Sam’s message got old.
It didn’t hold water in the world we’d been sold.
There’s only so much to believe in, you and me.
It doesn’t seem possible that the best things are free.
Long after that day that Sam picked you up,
More likely than not, you were back on the truck
Chasing a dream that wasn’t your own
Walking through life like you lived all alone.
By the time you were older and smarter like me,
You realized there’s no use for someone like he.

No one remembers the day or the time.
I just remember it was a small headline.
Somewhere between the want ads and sports,
Was an article that seemed all out of sorts.
A man was found dead by the creek at the dump.
He was lying with dignity, a folded old lump.
No one was there to see his final act.
After sharing coffee with a wasted old hack,
He reached out and gave her the coat off his back.
The folks back in town don’t remember a thing
But down by the dump that sensational act rings.
To the tramps near the tree, by the creek outside town,
The whole world was turned upside down.
In the midst of that chaos, Sam was a king.
But each time I hear the story it stings.

Dream deferred

2010-11-18T14:14:00.000-08:00

Not everyone has the opportunity to see the fruits of their labor. Over time, that can be quite frustrating if you are unable to find fulfillment in something other than end results. "What happens to a dream deferred" as Langston Hughes once posed. In my own work lately, I've found myself looking around at what I assumed was a bunch of barren land.
As the teaching goes, unless a grain of wheat falls to the earth and dies it remains just a grain. We planted a few packs of zinnias last year and ended up with a garden full. That wasn't much of a surprise. The real surprise came this Fall as I'm trimming off 10 blooms in November from a lone stem that somehow found its way to the surface a year later!
Perhaps there's more to this soil than meets the eye. Perhaps there's a whole garden of resurrection work brewing just below our line of view. Today there are 10 zinnia blossoms. And that's just enough for me to smile. Just enough smile to birth hope.

Trick or treat

2010-11-01T18:35:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was Halloween (or All Hallow's Eve in the Church calendar).
While I didn't have the chance to dress up and parade door to door seeking sugar-filled treats. I did have the opportunity to to witness dozens of other ghouls and goblins masquerade through a Hendersonville neighborhood.
If Halloween is known for anything, it's dressing in costume. Some outfits are custom-designed or homemade. Others have all the detail of high-end hollywood authenticity. All sorts of shapes and sizes and ages. Everyone can get in on the fun.
Of course, some criticize the whole idea of dressing up for a night and pretending to be something you're not. Truthfully, I'm more concerned about us who march around day after day pretending to be something they're not.
Some criticize the idea of hiding behind a mask or masking our true identity. We close ourselves off in a fantasy world and avoid dealing with reality. Yet, over the years, I've found out, more often than not, that our costumes or masks actually reveal a deeper truth about ourselves than we might imagine. A Joker or Cinderella, cartoon character or slasher villan, dinosaur or mummy. Our masked idenity can sometimes free us to speak what our lips may never be bold enough to proclaim. That's worth the effort once a year.
Be yourself. Trick or Treat!

Walls come down

2010-10-26T05:10:00.000-07:00

We've all heard the quote: "Good fences make good neighbors." Most can think of a half dozen reasons to back this up as well. The truth is a barrier or a wall is much easier than having to deal with someone relationally. But, every now and then instead of putting up a fence, we take one down. It seems like it only happens once every fifty years or so (maybe as a jubilee). Oddly enough, I think it happened this week somewhere in a corner of Lilesville. What will happen next remains to be seen. I have a feeling it will be interesting and I think it's just about time someone opened the door for folks to start working on living in community.
What about you? Is there a fence that needs to come down somewhere? In the meantime, it might be worth praying about. "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven."

Good news run

2010-10-22T05:51:00.000-07:00

From all the early estimates, it was not going to be a good week. However, all that changed with a little jog and conversation on a Monday morning.
I love it when someone preaches Good News to me. I spend my week trying to be attentive to ways of doing that for others and for my community. It's my vocation. It's part of who I am. But, when someone offers that grace to me, my spirit is raised up on eagle's wings.
Two miles out from town, I decided to head back. I noticed a lady out washing her car and waved. As i turned to jog back, something told me to stop and strike up a conversation. So, I put the next 2 miles on hold and met a new friend.
She had lost her husband just 3 months ago, so it turned out to be be a great blessing to converse together. Maybe the exchange that morning was mutually beneficial. All I know is that I left knowing everything was going to be okay this week. If a new widow can stand in her yard and testify to how hard it's been, but also acknowledge she is not alone, I think my problems will work themselves out just fine. "Even in a room with a hundred people, we might feel alone. But, we're not. God is with us."
Now that's Good News.

Divine foolishness

2010-09-30T20:40:00.000-07:00

Sandy Davis was a modern day Jeremiah. After 3 years of attentive care to her husband as his body deteriorated to death from Parkinson’s, Sandy was diagnosed 6 months later with cancer. The next two years were spent battling for her own life, even to the point of remission. Yet, the siege had not ended.
In what would be her final year of life, Sandy decided to buy the farm.

Despite facing constant fatigue, a housing market that had bottomed out, fluid build up in her lungs, record foreclosures, the daunting task of moving, and a cancer that had literally spread everywhere, Sandy decided to place her mountain home for the last 20+ years on the market and buy a foreclosure condo near her old hometown by the coast. She wanted to see the sun that winter. She wanted to see the beach again. She wanted to keep living and planning for the future because she knew there was something to look forward to.

Now, it is no good looking for fairy tale endings in life. Sandy died of cancer without ever again really being able to enjoy that sand between your toes day after day. That is beside the point, however. She lived—and died—in faith.

For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why Aunt Sandy would want the last year of her life to be tied up with the stress and trouble of selling a home in a market that had crashed, moving/packing and leaving your closest friends, and investing in some foreclosed piece of real estate hundreds of miles away. Then, I stumbled over Jeremiah 32 and God’s promise that “houses and fields and vineyards shall again be bought in this land.”

The reality was that Sandy was building on a hope far in the future. She didn’t expect to benefit herself so much from this foreclosed piece of land near the coast she bought. But, she knew all along that "houses and fields and vineyards shall again be bought in this land." That in some far off future, someone else would be seeing that sun, and walking that beach, and feeling that sand between their toes.

Jeremiah's field was to him what the condo on the coast was to Sandy—a sign of life, of hope, and a refusal to allow despair to be the final word. To act out our faith is not always easy. Sometimes we would like certainty and absolutes. But we fail to realize that certainty and absolutes are no longer faith.

On the mantel (mantle)

2010-09-15T05:52:00.000-07:00

A family of Hummels (each symbolic of an immediate family member), a three volume novelty display of antique books, a tri-fold picture frame complete with three children's photos, an assorted arrangement of sea shells wedged with broken sand dollar pieces, five candlesticks (2 of Jerusalem olive wood and 3 of polished brass), a large glazed pottery vase filled with decorative stalks of wheat, and a framed Italian watercolor of a seaside town centered above it all. What's this, you ask? A description of a fireplace mantel decorated by my in-laws.

The fireplace mantel originated in medieval times as a hood that projected over a grate to catch the smoke. Over time, as the placement of fireplaces moved to the wall, incorporating chimneys to vent the smoke, the term has evolved to include the decorative framework around the fireplace that can become the focal point of a room. In many ways, a mantel has become a decorative expression of ourselves.

In a similar way, I'm reminded of a mantle in the biblical sense. A different word, a different spelling, but the same pronunciation. The Hebrew word addereth, translated mantle, literally means "glory" or "cloak." It was traditionally a large, normally sleeveless garment made of rectangular pieces of thick material like wool, and adapted to a person's body not by cutting but by wrapping the cloth and holding it with clasps. It was a basic protection against the elements, a cover at night, and an important sign of dignity, status, and power as indicated by decoration, embroidery, dye, fringes, or tassels. To remove it signified a loss of status or transmission of power (often by receiving, touching, or grabbing the mantle). In the ancient world people seldom had multiple sets of clothing; thus garments were precious, expensive, and lasted a lifetime. A mantle was quite literally a symbol of your glory, a reflection of your identity. In one of the most famous biblical narratives, Elijah passes on his mantle to his disciple Elisha.

As I sit writing this morning, I'm staring at my own mantel. Just above the fireplace sits a Willowtree and a Hummel figure crafted of a married couple, a framed 10x13 from our wedding day and a 12x18 from a reception three years later, a picture of the "cutest kitty ever" and our first pet(now deceased), and a communion chalice and patten.
So, what's on your mantel/mantle? What does your cloak of glory look like? What does it say about you? And what will we pass on or transmit to others? Just something to think about. What are we decorating our lives with and what is the story it tells?

Sandy clay

2010-09-08T10:34:00.000-07:00

Ever walked along the beach and noticed an assortment of sandcastles and fortresses darting the sandy desert? I had seen a dozen sandcastles that day, some obviously more elaborate than others. Yet, for some reason, this one stopped my eyes in their tracks. And for more than a few seconds, I found myself staring.
I think one reason it grabbed me was because this one was still in the process of being formed. I watched intently as what appeared to be a father and his young son were hustling around to assemble this multiple turret fort that appeared to be sinking and shifting even as they rushed to shore up the foundation. They had already piled up sizeable bucket loads of sand and wet them so they would be sturdier and easier to mold. Behind this fort, a trench had already been carved to hold water.
Perhaps the other reason I found myself attracted to this sand fortress was the location. Until now, all the other sand creations I walked past that morning were dry and set back securely from the oncoming waves. But, this odd pair was building their fort just feet from the shore on already moist sand. (Not to mention the fact that the tide was coming in, not going out). So, my second fascination was why in the world was this father wasting his time so actively and intently teaching this boy about building a sand fort that was only moments from certain ruin? What could he possibly be teaching this young boy in those wasted minutes that day? Perhaps, just how foolish we humans are when it comes to the need to build big and foolishly near to the shore. How we all want to make our mark. Doesn’t he care or know that in a few minutes this boy will be crying and everything they had worked at so tediously would be a complete washout? No wonder folks today are so careless. The wise man built a house on rock, the foolish one built on the sand.
A very wise woman once said: People see God every day. They just don’t recognize him.
Suddenly, I began to re-imagine my sand fort encounter on the shore. I realized what may have truly attracted me to that wasteful scene with a boy and his father fashioning a sand fort in the path of destruction. Maybe that young father wasn’t teaching his boy about the arrogant nature of men to build in extravagant and foolish ways and toil away aimlessly. Perhaps, he was really teaching him about the nature of God; who wants nothing better, and couldn’t be happier, than to simply delight in play with his children. Maybe he was actually illustrating a brilliant lesson of how we are co-creators with God. How we may shift and move sand here or there, but God adds his own touch and molds as he sees fit. Maybe he was actually sharing something with his son without even knowing it. Perhaps, he was actually revealing with sand and water that our world isn’t that perfect, and things can crumble all around us, but it’s all about how we rework and refashion what we have. And, as I watched the first wave surge up to them and seep over their mound of sandy clay, it captured a pond of water in their trench before it retreated again.
I thought to myself: Maybe they weren’t trying to build a fort to withstand the surge of the tide, maybe they were just trying to catch waves of mercy.

How do you spend it

2010-07-31T07:05:00.000-07:00

A remarkable milestone occurred this week. I became old. On Thursday, I officially turned 30. Everyone always wants to know what you did. How did you spend your birthday? Well, I awoke to my loving wife fixing homemade biscuits in the kitchen and a 30th birthday banner in the den. We enjoyed breakfast and spending time together. I spent an hour on the phone with my DS receiving guidance about how to address some fires in a congregation. Played tennis and basketball with my wife during lunch at the park, enjoyed a great BOLT (bacon, onion, lettuce, tomato) sandwich at home for lunch with a side of birthday cake from Sooweet Treats, back on the phone with a member about putting out a church fire, staffed a booth uptown with a few youth anxious to raise money already for another mission trip, ate with Circles of Hope leaders and shared a fun evening with them at FUMC-Wadesboro, returned home to a surprise phone call by a thoughtful youth and a building team friend, shared some more cake, introduced a friend to eating mangoes, walked to the P.O., and called it a day.

Why does everyone want to know how you spent your birthday? It's sort of a false question because the language implies that it's my day and I have a certain entitlement to what I do with it. In reality, every passing moment, and EVERYTHING at all is a gift. I've actually been thinking how Jesus was about 30 when his earthly ministry ended (others would argue 33). It's remarkable to consider what his life accomplished in such a brief span.
Maybe a better question to consider is what have I been doing with my life the last 30 years? I guess then, if you look at my day, it makes a little more sense and carries a little more meaning. I've found someone whose love is almost as genuine as God's and I'm learning more each day about what living that out in covenant community looks like, I'm learning to love myself and realize that God can use me but he doesn't need me, I've noticed that celebrating community and friendships is more fun than celebrating yourself, Giving always seems more rewarding than receiving, investing in the lives of young people is worth everything, and that when u share your heart at least some people will love you and appreciate you for being who you are. And that's not bad for 30 years. It's at least respectable. Here's to getting old. Happy Birthday

Worth it all

2010-07-24T19:38:00.000-07:00

I'm standing in the common room/kitchen of a camp cabin on the final evening of a youth mission trip with a young man from our youth group. Despite being active in our fellowship for over a year, he's never attended one of the youth trips. For whatever reason, he decided to attend this one (making a full week committment to serve on a building team almost 3 hours from home).
I begin asking him about the week: have you enjoyed it, what did you think about it all, are you glad you came? (It was a lot to ask someone who so rarely speaks up and who, having graduated, is moving into a new phase in life). His response was something I will never forget. One sentence: "It's better to work 5 hours a day for a purpose, than to work 9 or 10 to get some money." I could have cried. (I did later that night). This was coming from someone who usually found it necessary to choose work over church activities.
I had been encouraging our students to pay attention to where they saw God this week. I saw him in the common room of that cabin Thursday evening. Evidently, some of our youth had seen him too. I don't care what others might say - that was worth it all! Rest assured that God is doing something special in you.

Benches, sheets, and hookers

2010-07-10T11:04:00.000-07:00

One can only imagine the direction of an article with such an obscure heading. Truth be told, with sun streaming down on a bleached concrete roof as you assemble “petatillos” (tiles) in a herringbone pattern, you begin hearing things and even inventing words that were never there. For most, it was confusing enough to engage in the sacred art of translating instructions from foreman to worker – a linguistic dance of hand gestures and phonetics which occasionally concluded in laughter. While our painting progressed rather easily, the tile work on the roof proved to be a daunting task. (We should have guessed that after “hooking” 7,000 tiles up to the 2nd floor roof on day one).

Whether tiling a roof, or finishing a second floor classroom and bathrooms, laughter was a common language that drifted through the air. The wit and camaraderie of a gifted band of 14 volunteers from the Western North Carolina Conference of the United Methodist Church was equally boosted by the jubilant sounds from school children below engaging in their daily exercise and studies. It was, after all, for them that we were here. The roots of the Mamie Baird Kindergarten in Cortazar date back to the 1930’s when the school’s namesake served as a United Methodist missionary to Mexico for forty years. Around 1935, Ms. Baird opened a medical clinic out of her home to serve the people of Cortazar. Decades later, the clinic became a trade school for young adults and today it has been transformed into a preschool. It remains a safe, loving, and hope-filled place for the children and citizens of Cortazar. The WNCC of the UMC has been involved with the school’s construction for 16 years.

While the majority of our time was spent engaged in repair and construction at the preschool, we relished every opportunity to live into a culture that values the fullness of life. There was a simple beauty to the folks of Cortazar in the way they lived, shared, and celebrated life. Our entire trip was dotted with God-filled moments of grace and unmatched hospitality. We were often moved to tears when our hosts described us as angels sent by God, reminded us that their house belonged to God, spoke of how the Bible teaches to offer hospitality to anyone, and assured us that we were family and that this was our home. We did not want to leave and we can’t wait to return again. In some ways, we came as a response to our call as Christians. Yet, in Cortazar, we were taught what true Christianity looks like.

The world is flat

2010-07-03T06:50:00.000-07:00

There are times in our lives when we open our hearts to love in a really big way, and in so doing, we open ourselves to be vulnerable, broken, and given. Sixteen months ago we opened our lives to Simon bar Jonah, an abandoned siamese rescue, the cutest kitty ever, and to whom love had been a stranger. Simon died yesterday from unknown complications with intestinal cancer. Today is a very sad day for us. I'm at a loss for words but somehow writing helps you cope. In spite of all he may have been through in his life, there was so much good in him and we celebrate the joy and the good that he shared with us. We love you with the love of the Lord, and we could see in you, the glory of our God, and we love you with the love of the Lord. Thanks be to God. Matthew 16:17

Sermon-tossed

2010-05-26T04:48:00.000-07:00

Last week, my wife coined a new buzz word that will likely set the clergy blogosphere ablaze. On Saturday afternoon she crafted a new word to describe my deshoveled look. "Sermon-tossed." Despite how it sounds, she was not referring to that wonderful Friday evening frustration that sets in when you feel everything you've been reading, writing, or working on is worthless and ready to be tossed. And, although it may catch fire in female clergy circles, she was not referring to the dazzling, vivacious look of their "spirit"-blown locks after the delivery of a prophetic word from the pulpit. However, she was referring to hair - my hair. Which, by saturday afternoon, has a fluffy bed-head look after hours of contemplative study and typing, during which I run my fingers through my hair and frequently scratch my scalp. The end result - "sermon-tossed" shine and body that you can't buy in a bottle. You'll only find it in carrels of thelogical libraries everywehere or in the Saturday afternoon study of a rural church pastor. Then again, there could be some real merit to an alternative definition to illustrate what should be done with certain manuscripts after a Sunday service. Sermon-tossed. I think there's a lot of promise for this one. Eat your heart out Merriam-Webster.

The cost

2010-05-14T05:09:00.000-07:00

When I was in the 7th grade, I cheated on a quiz for the first and last time.
The test was simple enough. There was one question. We were to have memorized our social security number in order to appropriately fill in our information for the upcoming End of Course testing. One quiz, one question, and three dozen different, but correct, answers. What is your social security number?

The only problem was I had completely forgotten about this silly quiz. As class began, and Ms Shuford instructed us to pull out paper for the quiz, my heart sank. I'm a straight A student. There's no way I can afford a zero on a quiz. It was then I had the idea to write my number on my desk. It was easily justified. After all, this wasn't really a quiz. It was a silly social security number. It had nothing to do with Algebra. I wasn't really cheating. SO, I found my number in my desk and quickly transferred it in pencil onto the top of my desk.

In a matter of minutes it was over. I wrote the number on my notebook paper, Ms Shuford collected all the papers, and I had saved my perfect grade. The only problem was that I had forgotten to erase the number on my desk. When Ms Shuford made her way around again with our next assignment, she noticed a string of numbers across the top of my desk. My afternoon went downhill from there.

It wasn't long before the word had spread to the rest of the teachers on my hall and I was demoted for the week from level 7 to level 4 status on the conduct system. I was humiliated and embarrassed. The golden child had fallen from grace. And for what? My own social security number. All those years of hard work, determination, trustworthy behavior, and everything vanished in a few minutes on a Tuesday afternoon. It was the first and last time I ever cheated on a quiz.

By the semester's end, I was back in the good graces of all and the top of my class, but it wasn't the same. Everyone had moved on, but the staff and teachers never looked at me quite the same. I could tell. They knew what I was capable of. I was human.

I write all of this to pose the question "What are we willing to pay and to risk to satisfy our desire?" "Is it really worth the cost?"

Over 4 million gallons and counting are wreaking havoc on fragile ecosystems along the Gulf Coast and irreversible damage to our oceans. Our oceans are the only water source we have and our only source of life. Once they are gone and contaminated, so are we. This was a massive accident on one rig out in the Gulf of Mexico. There are over 3,500 more rigs in that Gulf alone. Heartbreaking cries of "drill baby, drill" are determined to see another entire city of rigs created off the coast of Virginia and NC. Odds are, 90% of the time, an accident like this won't ever happen. Yet, as the dolphins wash ashore, rare bird species are lost, turtles are tarred, and an entire seafood industry destroyed, surely someone is wondering if it was really worth it all.

Are a few million gallons of oil really worth the cost of life? If it were a war, the casualties would be immeasurable. A single reef supports untold billions. A brilliance that will never look quite the same. Now we know what we are capable of.

No one listens?

2010-05-04T06:01:00.000-07:00

Spring is here (You'd think it were summer based on the temps) - which means it's time to hit up some garden centers to spruce up the yard with a few flowers. My wife and I were rummaging through the garden center at Lowes over the weekend when an announcement came over the intercom. "Special assistance needed in the blind cutting area." Did they just say what I think they said? The announcement repeated "Special assistance needed in the blind cutting area." I couldn't hold it in any longer so, I began to laugh out loud. Am I the only one that finds this funny? Sometimes it seems no one else is ever really listening. I tried to explain it to Kathryn and thus passed on the giggles to her. Moments later, the announcement again rings through the store and we both start to giggle. Again, the page is repeated at least a fourth time. Well, if no one else is going to help that blind person cut something, I guess I will before somebody gets hurt. :)
Hope someone listening out there finds this as humorous as I did.
PS-(It turns out there isn't a special cutting area for blind persons. I must admit, I knew Lowes carried and sold decorative blinds, but I thought they all came in boxes in certain sizes. I never knew they did custom blinds or actually "cut" them to size. I guess you learn something new all the time.)

Between storms

2010-04-30T05:30:00.000-07:00

After a dry spell we've finally received rain in the region again. It swept through in the form of evening thunderstorms earlier this week. Ironically, it happened on a running day for me (actually, more like jogging) and I was determined not to put it off again. I discovered a break in the radar and decided to run between storms. Of course, radar is always delayed 10-15 minutes by the time we receive the info. I turned to head home after about 2 miles and the rains came. (Luckily, no thunder or lightening until I made it back to the house). I'm not sure the last time I ran in a downpour for two miles. I don't think I ever have more than several yards. There was just something so refreshing and invigorating about it. Everything I had was drenched (including the water resistant sneakers). This was a really good baptism. I'm not so sure we Methodists do it right. Direct from heaven. What a gift the rain was that day. I needed to feel free again and something about a 2 mile downpour on a rural road was so alive. Hard to believe it's been over a year now and 44 posts later since I began blogging. Thanks for reading and thanks be to God.
A fellow pastor wrote this week about the last 32 words of advice from Jesus in John 13. I'm no Jesus, but I figured why not try my own (in 16 words or less) based on my experiences this week. So, here you have it:
Dig in soft earth, be with people, protect our oceans, don't/do run between storms.

Smoke and ash

2010-04-27T10:56:00.000-07:00

There's been a lot of talk about the tremendous amount of "stuff" an unpronounceable volcano in Iceland has been spewing out in past weeks. For over a week, international airports all over Europe were closed, flights grounded, and travel came to a halt. Airlines and airports are still reeling to catch up and recover from the backlog of cancellations. Everywhere you turned, everyone was saying the same thing. It was a disaster for airlines and travellers and it was costing untold millions. What would Europe do? How would we survive this mass inconvenience at the mercy of a geological formation/event?
With the talk of money lost came talk of insurance. Airlines and travelers all have it, but, in this case, it was no good. Insurance doesn't cover "acts of God." In all the pandemonium and debate, cost and inconvenience, I heard no one mention anything about the climactic show of smoke and ash as an act of God (outside of an insurance definition). Interesting how things change in a thousand years or so. In those days, such a plume of haze and darkness and dirt would surely have been seen as a sign from God. People would have stopped dead in their tracks in awe and wonder attempting to discover what it all means. To what do we owe this gift of intrusion into our affairs? Instead, night after night, we were treated to complaint after complaint - inconvenience after inconvenience. I don't think it was some prophetic sign of warning from God. I'm not sure what it was - other than a volcanic eruption. Yet, at least for me, it was worth noting how generations approach life so differently. And, presumably, it was a nice reminder that there are some things in life bigger and more important than us.
What's so bad about standing still for a little while? Nothing. We've just always been taught that we can't. So perhaps we needed smoke and ash to give us permission.

What happened

2010-04-22T11:26:00.000-07:00

Last night I was at a care facility visiting, singing songs, and sharing refreshments with the residents. At the end of our program, I came across a familiar face. One of the residents who seemed to have slept through it all used to live at another assisted living facility where I lead Holy Communion each month. I did not remember her name. She said it was 'Anna' but she seemed so "out of it" I'm not sure she knew, or even if I heard her correctly. She just drifted off again.
At first I smiled. She was one of the more faithful and energized of my Communion attendees. 'Anna' had a beautiful smile and would often be moved by the spirit or chime in (after receiving the bread and cup) singing about the blood of Jesus. I tried to ask her about when or why she moved out here but she was far too sleepy or medicated to respond. "What happened," I wondered? Not only what happened to 'Anna,' but what had happened to the others. How many others over the past three years have quietly disappeared, almost unnoticed, and moved on to another facility, another town, perhaps too far gone? It's more noticeable in our prison study as inmates are constantly transferred or step down. Lately, I've noticed just how much of ministry involves delayed gratification, if any. There are very few places or circumstances where one can see or enjoy the fruits of the labor. You are simply out there and folks come and go. Chances are you'll never know what impact you may have had or what becomes of them. Mostly, you find yourself asking what happened...?
I gave 'Anna's' hand a slight squeeze again to say "God bless you sweetheart" and she drifted off again.

Broken chalice

2010-04-01T06:42:00.001-07:00

Nowhere in the gospels will you find evidence of a broken chalice at the Last Supper or the Passover meal. You won't see a description of a beautiful, ornate, earthen vessel rolling off a table to shatter on the stone or dirt floor, with red wine spreading into cobblestone cracks or staining and seeping into the dirt. It's just not there. But, for some reason, that's the symbol I've seen in my head this Holy Week.

On the altar lie the remains of an overturned crown of thorns chalice whose goblet has been fractured in a red pool of juice that is now dripping off the table onto the carpet below. A broken chalice? Maybe at the temple when the tables were overturned, but it's not at Jesus' final meal. Suppose however, when they went out from that meal and off to the garden that night, that no one was left behind to clean up. And, just imagine, that if everything were left as it were, perhaps the next day with an earthquake and the curtain of the temple torn, one might return to the scene of that meal to find a broken chalice lying on a wine-soaked floor.

I had a broken chalice of my own not too long ago. The chalice, along with a host of other materials, had been packed into a basket for transport. However, the weight had not been evenly distributed. As I lifted it out of the back seat of my car, the basket immediately gave way to gravity and dumped the contents of the heavier side. With a muffled crash, a silent whimper, the chalice smashed into the grass. It was so upsetting I could have cursed. Perhaps, I did. What now? What can I do with a broken chalice? I wish now I had not thrown it away. It was still so beautiful. It proved equally difficult to replace. Despite the same style or sku, nowhere I looked had a replacement with the same depth of color and hue.

This week, standing in the kitchen and washing the replacement chalice, I found myself admiring how beautiful the new shades of color are in this one. Perhaps no one else will notice the difference, but it's clear to me. As I soaped and rinsed, I began to wonder why I had been so uptight and frustrated about finding an exact replacement. The beauty and creativity of the artist and potter is not in the monotony of replicas but the variations and evolutions of their craft and pieces. Their lives would be somewhat miserable if they were only able to turn out the same shape and glaze with each firing. Perhaps, mine would be too. I was engaging in the same practice of "worship of the familiar" that grieves me when it spreads rampant throughout church and communities and crusades against the slightest notion of creativity or change. Washing the new chalice and pondering its beauty, I recognized my own stubborn human nature. It was a helpful reminder this Lent of the broken chalice that is me...going on to Easter.

Part of us?

2010-03-27T12:55:00.000-07:00

Easter is one of those special times in the life of the church when we pull out all the stops. We do things differently. It's the holiest day of all in the Christian calendar, and so we act out the message or deliver it in song. There are costumes, robes, volunteers, and anthems. Rehearsals carry on week after week and folks begin to infuse a little bit of themselves into their part. One can only hope that something of their part becomes a genuine piece of their life or sticks with them beyond an hour on Easter morn.
The men get a kick out of picking on Jesus. The ones assigned as soldiers enjoy pushing, prodding, pretending to whip him. They almost seem to enjoy it. Pick on Jesus day. And everybody laughs and giggles as they cut up with one another. Pretty soon, other random folks in the cast are sneaking over to take an imaginary jab at Jesus - a choir member, a stagehand, barabbas, i'm even tempted to do so. Granted, these are all friends who know each other and are just enjoying a good laugh at Easter rehearsal. However, as I watch how more and more join the fray, it seems to take a theological turn. Perhaps there is something in all of us that just has to have our turn at Jesus. Everybody deserves the chance to get a good lick in. We've got so much we carry around, why not just take it out on Jesus. There, now that feels better.
It's been said that the desire to crucify is the way of the crowd. So, what part of us can't wait to nail Jesus? Pay attention to that part of you this Holy Week and perhaps God can use even that to transform us.

Wonder disappears

2010-03-25T04:43:00.000-07:00

I've had a tough time finding the courage and time to write in the last two months. To be honest, I've missed it. There would be rumblings, but I never brought myself to bring it to the page. Last week, I learned a favorite blogger of mine (Ralph Milton) with a gift for words is retiring. In one of his final posts, he offered a beautiful justification for "noticing God in the ordinary stuff." It's inspired me to return to my blog and so I share his words with you. Enjoy, and don't let the wonder of ordinary moments disappear!
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When I was 13 or 14 years old, I decided I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. In middle age, I concluded I was too ordinary to be a writer. Now at a somewhat frailer 75 I realize that ordinariness is the essential quality of a writer.
When I first took up this craft, I didn’t realize how much time you have to spend alone. And that’s exactly how it has to be, because it takes a long, long, time to discipline promiscuous words into an approximation of what you have in your head.
Or what’s in your heart. And that’s where the best writing always comes from. And it often involves intense emotion.
On one occasion Bev came into my office to locate a book. “Why are you crying?” she wanted to know.
It was a reasonable question, but I didn’t really have a reasonable answer. The particular tears on that occasion came when I was trying to capture in words the picture in my heart of Bev and Zoë, in the middle of a quiet afternoon.
Bev was sitting way back in an easy chair. Zoë was on her lap sitting way back into her grandma. And the two of them were singing, one song after another, quietly, unconsciously, simply being there with each other, their eyes half closed.
And as they sang “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” I finally understood the difference between religious music and non-religious music. It has nothing to do with the music at all. It has to do with who is singing what to whom and why.
“Mary Had a Little Lamb” can be a far more powerful hymn of praise and beauty than anything Luther or Wesley or Wren ever penned.
So I sat in the glory and the beauty of that holiness, and tried not to blow my nose too loudly.
At one of the interminable book-signings authors have to endure, a young man asked me, “What are the essential characteristics of a writer?”
I have no idea. All I could say to the young man is that noticing God in the ordinary stuff is what makes me want to write. If I don’t write about it, the wonder and the glory of those ordinary moments disappear. When I write I remember them and sometimes learn their sacred secrets.
The power of the ordinary almost overwhelm me sometimes when I read stories such as that of the woman who poured oil over Jesus’ feet. Somebody who was there saw what happened, heard Jesus’ reply, and recognized it as a holy moment.
The story got told over and over in the early church, and people understood the holiness of that moment, even though they got all mixed up in the details and argued about whether it was Mary of Bethany, or Mary of Magdala, or some other Mary who did the pouring. And what Judas said and why he said it.
But there was someone there the time it first happened – someone who could see the holiness in the ordinary – who had the soul of a writer. Or better yet, the soul of a story teller.
And for that someone, I thank God.

Sandy's last days

2010-03-16T18:53:00.000-07:00

Some people, it is clear, have more than they can handle. What Scripture has always said is not that we will never face more than we can handle, BUT that with overwhelming testing, God will provide a way out that we might be able to endure.
I had the privilege to visit Sandy the week before she died. Although I hated to see her suffer, I smiled at how each time a nurse, doctor, or visitor entered the room she managed to turn on that Sandy charm – to offer a pun, or ask about how their day was going, and always to express how much she appreciated all they were doing for her. She was particularly excited that day because of a passage my dad had read to her in a devotional book. She wanted me to hear it too but she was having a hard time remembering what it was. We eventually found the passage later that day and I began to realize why it had stirred something within her. I think because it opened up to her a deeper understanding of the work of Christ and how we are invited into that. And, how our own suffering in some ways is an open invitation to share in God’s work of redeeming love. That passage was this – There are three tools God uses to work in our lives: the word of God, prayer, and suffering.
Before leaving, I shared with her Psalm 27. The drugs had kicked in and she could barely stay awake at the time but I believe she heard those words after all. “I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.”
I left knowing Sandy was going to die. But, I left smiling because, in every way that day, it seemed clear to me that Sandy had seen the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.”

Commissioner's prayer

2010-03-02T18:32:00.000-08:00

Author of time and space, craftsman of creation, we pause before the handiwork of snow topped hills and ice dusted fields. We thank you for these moments of sheer beauty that captivate us with hope and stir within us childhood memories of days gone by. It is on a night such as this that we stand in awe. And, in moments such as this, when we pause… in awe of the overwhelming responsibilities and tasks which lay before us as a community that will follow the word “Amen.” And yet, there is a blanketing reassurance of grace that nudges us costly back to the tasks at hand - assuring us that if indeed we do find the time to set ourselves before you with each passing day and decision, our meager efforts might be found fruitful, and impossible ventures a little more probable. Here then are we, like the intricate patterns of snowflakes as they lay. Through us or in spite of us, we commit our labor to the cause of justice, loving kindness, and walking humbly with you. So be it. Amen.

aftermath pt 2

2010-02-12T10:10:00.000-08:00

“Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up...But he was speaking of the temple of his body."

Day 3
-wash laundry
-edit the sermon
-lead pre-marital counseling
-round at the hospital
-errands in Greensboro
-celebrate b-day w/ in-laws
-wait for the snow

aftermath

2010-02-10T16:06:00.000-08:00

“Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up...But he was speaking of the temple of his body."

Day 1
-email encouragement to friends
-exercise at the gym
-deliver bread to John
-stop by to see a neighbor who was robbed/assaulted
-visit with a member at nursing home
-dinner w/ my wife
-watch Duke v. UNC

Day 2
-take cat to the vet
-encourage and listen to a few peers
-email friends
-plan for worship
-jog 3.8 miles
-share with a neighbor out of work
-visit a recent widow
-attend a UMW meeting
-make phone calls

Williams to wall street

2010-01-31T15:59:00.000-08:00

As one who lives on Wall Street, I found it surprising to read in the Times Online that Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, had visited there at Trinity Church this week. Of course, Williams was in New York, not LA (Lilesville Area). Rowan delivered timely remarks and criticism during his lesson that targeted the financial greed of our society.

Standing at the lectern of the famously wealthy US Episcopal church, which lies at the head of Wall Street, the leader of the Anglican Communion noted, “Do we live in a broken society? Well, in many ways we live in society where far too many people live deeply fragmented lives even if they’re materially well-off. We live in a world that’s broken in the sense that a very large part of our world, notably Africa, feels, with a good deal of justification, that the rest of the world has more or less stopped thinking about it. In a sense that is brokenness, where one sector of the human family says, we don’t believe that the rest of you have any investment in what happens to us. That’s real brokenness.” He went on to say that society was founded on love, and there would be no sustainable model until this was recognised.

There is real truth in his comments at Trinity. Unfortunately, like most warnings and calls for true repentance, the echoes of prophets fall on deaf ears. The Times reported, "but there were no bankers or traders listening in Trinity Wall Street and, even if there had been, it is unlikely that they would have recognised the old man from Britain with the shock of white hair." As someone preached from the pulpit this morning, "If we give every corner of our life over to Christ, except our finances then we will fail." Awaken us Lord to give every corner of our life to you.

Fine dining

2010-01-30T06:46:00.000-08:00

It was one of those pastel colored, industrial-thick, plastic trays complete with container lid. It’s supposed to seal in the freshness or the heat, but just by looking at this tray container, you begin to doubt how they sanitize these things and if the food will even be lukewarm at all. You know the food trays I’m talking about. Every hospital or care facility around has them.

They placed the tray directly in front of her and her son reached over to remove the lid revealing a perfectly domed scoop of chicken salad on a bed of lettuce. Of course, there was an ice cream cup too - crackers, a cup of black-eyed pea soup, fruit cup, and juice. Her daughter-in-law secured the matching pastel bib around her neck and chest while the grandchildren eagerly helped open the containers and rearrange the food into small edible portions. After situating her napkin, she found her utensils and begin to dig in.

There was no real art to the meal. In fact, at times it seemed she was really shoveling it down. While she could still use a little assistance occasionally, it was a blessing to be able to feed yourself basically on your own. Her family gathered around her table and watched with delight as she ate. It was quite entertaining to watch at times and if there was a spill here or there, or an unexpected burp, it was all the more amusing. She found the chicken salad equally amusing. She would look up occasionally, raise her eyebrows wide-eyed and beam with joy.

Of course, there were others in the dining hall too. Buzz sat by himself facing a wall at the next table over. He was a 74 year-old history teacher with Parkinson’s. If you saw him in his wheelchair, you’d notice how his left leg bounces uncontrollably at times. His hands aren’t so steady either. He struggled to eat from his plastic tray that day. Every time he would get a cup of fruit or juice up to his mouth to gulp, the shaking would start. Yet, he did his best to try to keep from making a mess. After a while, Buzz gave up and he wheeled himself over to their table. They asked if they could help him in any way, but he politely declined and assured them he was finished. "It wasn’t my kind of dinner," he said.

So, Buzz just sat there with them (awkwardly it seemed) and they all watched as she cleaned her plate forkful by forkful. As she finished, Buzz decided it was time to move on, so he started to move away. The family thanked Buzz for joining them and expressed to him how nice it was to have met him. And then Buzz said something that completely changed any awkwardness of that meal. He thanked them. In a gruff, but genuine, voice he admitted that today was the first meal he had enjoyed in a long time. He said, he had hardly eaten anything now in two weeks, but today he learned something.

As he sat around and watched them with their grandmother and watched how she did her best to feed herself, he realized that it doesn’t really matter how you eat or what other people think of you. All this time, as his disease has progressed, he had been afraid and embarrassed of what others would see and the mess he would make. Watching the playful interaction of that family today changed everything for him. It changed everything for them too. A lackluster chicken salad entrée in a plastic container became a fine dining experience that afternoon. It wasn’t so much what was being served as who was there. That made all the difference in the world.

See the game. Save a life

2010-01-24T19:53:00.000-08:00

March 6 is a chance for Methodists in the NC, WNC, & SC Conference to take over the Time Warner Cable Arena and raise money to fight malaria with NothingbutNets. As promised, here is the link and info for how churches and youth can purchase their tickets. Just imagine if a 1000 Methodists raise money and make it to the game on Mar 6th. That's $10000 and 1000 bed nets! See the game. Save a life

Join Bishop Goodpaster and young people across NC to raise awareness, save lives, wipe out malaria with mosquito nets, and rock the TWC Arena with a night of hoops on March 6th.
Churches are asked to raise money for Nothing But Nets prior to the event and report their totals (with a goal of $10 per participant).
Individuals and churches who raise the most will have the chance to join the Bobcats on the floor for the national anthem and serve as honorary ball kids!

Tickets are $20. $5 of each ticket sold goes toward NothingButNets
Come celebrate as we take over Time Warner Arena and transform the world! Ticket Order Link and Fundrasing resources available at:
http://www.wnccumc.org/yth/bobcats.htm

Another year, another pageant

2009-12-25T17:09:00.000-08:00

Tis the season for bad costuming, wisemen and shepherds, angels running down the isles, straw fights in the stable, and more holiday snack food parties than you can imagine. You can easily find a calendar event for every night in December. There's no shortage of Christmas plays and cheesy scripts. Over time, you get the impression that you've seen it all before. And you have. I have.
And yet, as I sit at the back of a packed, small, country church on a frosty winter night, I realize that there is indeed a magic and a moment in all the overkill of these nativity reproductions. It's the exact moment we find Mary, Joseph & the baby in their makeshift manger, or stable, or cave, or whatever the particular location was. No matter how many times this story is told again and again, even if it be the exact same script and outfits year after year, there's a cautious commotion that erupts when the baby is brought out. From the back row, I watch as heads bob up and down, folks squirm for a better angle, or even stand up at their seat just to get a better glimpse. I too rise to my feet to see just what all the commotion is about. Who is the Christ child this year? Is he real or just a doll? What does he look like? Has he really come? Is this the year? Is this the one? God with us.
Perhaps that's it. Perhaps that's why every year, in churches or drive thru front lawns all over the world this time of year, you find people jockeying for position just to get a glimpse once again of the one they call Emmanuel. Who is it? Could it really be? Is he real?
May we never lose our curiosity of the cradle and the suspense of finding out just who or what awaits us in the manger this year. Merry Christmas!

Already...not yet

2009-12-08T04:56:00.000-08:00

I’ve been thinking a lot about this concept of "already, not yet" this Advent season. For some reason, wherever I go, I continue to run into this aspect of already and not yet. The real struggle and essence of “already and not yet” has to do with the kingdom of God. I was reminded of this quite often two weeks ago in Arizona as we toured around the Red Rocks of Sedona.
There’s a chapel built there that juts out as a cross out of a thousand foot red rock wall. It’s a work of art that tourists flock to. I’m standing in the courtyard of the chapel overhearing conversations. One guy runs by catching up to his friend. "Nothing in the gift shop I guess," he asks? His friend replies, “Just a bunch of Christian bullshit.”
If you’re like me, that comment startles you at first. But, then I was saddened by it’s truth. Here’s this beautiful chapel that professes at it’s entry that “Its doors will ever be open to one and all, regardless of creed, that God may come to life in the souls of all men and be a living reality.” And yet, the large sign and stairs to your left as you enter point you down to a gift shop larger than the sanctuary itself, shamelessly selling God in anything from Elvis CD’s to glow in the dark bracelets. The cross juts out triumphantly from this rugged landscape and yet there is a very real reality that it too is far from the kingdom.
Another afternoon, we hiked a towering Red Rock formation. (I’m thankful for a professor I once had who lived through apartheid and taught me that all of us are racist by our fallen nature. We don’t always act it out viciously, but we all learn bias and favor one thing over another). We had reached the summit and climbed on past the trail end to an even more amazing precipice. As we came back down, another hiker had found his way around to this spot too and we told him how incredible it was. So, this young Anglo (I use the term Anglo simply because we had met so many international tourists, I'm not sure if he was American. He just appeared to be Caucasian and speak English) asked us to tell Lizzy and Alice to come around to see this side of the mountain. He had left them sitting back on a rock at the trail end. When we reached the trail again, there were a handful of folks talking, standing around a rock, and two Asian girls sitting there. I said to my brother-in-law, "I don’t think I see a Lizzy or Alice." To which he replied, without hesitation, "I think that’s probably them on the rock." (And it was after all).
Clearly, no harm was intended, but I had simply judged that a name like Lizzy or Alice wouldn’t belong to women of Asian descent or that they wouldn’t be hiking with someone of Anglo descent. It was an unlikely pairing in my mind. (But, then again, so is this theme of Advent in a world celebrating Christmas). My assumption was yet another reminder that while I may be saved by grace, and even called as a pastor, I am not yet the person God intended. The already and not yet was evident all around.

Vortex?

2009-11-30T17:06:00.000-08:00

Sedona is known today by many as a popular new age center for spiritual energy. You don't have to look far for a place to have a picture taken of your aura or to visit a UFO store. It is also the locale for a number of energy vortexes. A vortex is a swirling center of subtle energy coming out from the surface of the earth. Apparently, if you are sensitive to the more subtle things, the experience of standing at one of these vortexes, and letting the energy flow into you and through you, can be almost overwhelming. People come from all over the world to experience this.
Saturday, we scrambled up Cathedral Rock in Sedona. (Arguably the most beautiful spot in all of Sedona). You can begin to see evidence of the funnel shape energy as you climb past the twisted bark/trunks of junipers scattered around the rockface. I don't know much about the whole vortex thing, or if I experienced my aura being completely balanced that morning. All I know is that as I lay atop Cathedral Rock surrounded by towering rock "judges" on either side and a solitary rock-hewn figure standing directly between them and me, it felt amazing for wind gusts up to 30mph to sweep over me from all four sides. I thought about the Holy Spirit as a mighty rushing wind. And suddenly it happened. All of a sudden, maybe for only 30 seconds, every trace of wind ceased. There was nothing. Silence. Stillness. And I remembered that it was in the still, small voice or silence that the Lord was present. Vortex, aura, Holy Spirit, whatever you wish to call it. I found myself refreshed that morning as I made my way back down the mountain.

"Grand" scheme

2009-11-30T15:04:00.000-08:00

Last week, I found myself traveling out of state for Thanksgiving for the first time ever. I was blessed to join my in-laws for 5 days in Flagstaff, Arizona where we enjoyed the beauty of the West - the Grand Canyon, Sedona and the Red Rocks. As many were stuffing themselves around a table with friends and family, we were adventurous enough to hike down almost 6.5 miles into the bottom of the Grand Canyon. I'm not sure who decided on the name "Grand", but it was that and so much more. The more I think of it, there were little God moments all along the way if I consider how encounters that day may have revealed a little more to me about the nature of God - whether it was a sight challenged bird, a massive buck along the trail, an easy-going brother, or a beaming couple from Chile. As I stood on Plateau Point above the Colorado River, I gazed at an endless panorama estimated to have been carved out over some 1.7 billion years. Two things came to mind: 1) Consider how something as beautiful as this Canyon took a patient process of erosion and how patiently God works sometimes in our lives when we tend to prefer high-speed online. 2) While the 1.7 billion year old vast expanse stood before me, I couldn't help thinking about the contrasting youthfulness of the Church I serve that emerged around 2,000 years ago. It's not so much that Christianity is small potatoes. It's just that it puts 'the daily' in perspective when we find so many little things to argue, worry, and fight over during those 2,000 years. Sometimes we need to see the "Grand" scheme of things rather than get caught up or self-absorbed in what amounts to only a drop in the bucket.

Envious

2009-11-17T16:43:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting in the lobby and cafe area of a Durham hotel, snacking on a lite dinner. The only way into this cafe/living space is by card entry or the hotel's front door. A knock at the door was quickly responded to by another guest at a nearby table. After all, it was pouring rain. However, once the family made their way in, it seemed fairly evident they weren't guests. Their conversation was audibly louder than those in the lobby. I could tell the couple who let them in was pondering the same thing. I had been there almost 4 days now and all I had seen were basically working professionals. This motley crew, on the other hand, looked perhaps like a mom, three young children, and a teenager. The meal hostess came out from the kitchen and when she saw them she greeted them warmly and shared hugs all around. They were somehow related or part of her family. "Great," I thought to myself while enjoying a quiet snack. "I bet they showed up just for a free dinner."
Well, It turns out that's exactly what they did. But, almost as soon as I felt that thought escape from my conscience, I felt embarrassed and ashamed. It turns out, I was there for the exact same thing. It was an evening hospitality dinner for hotel guests as a way of making you feel at home. I had not paid for it, nor was I entitled to this pleasant hotel amenity. On top of that, the generous philanthropy of James B. Duke was paying for 80% of my stay.
What is it inside of us that lends us so quickly to rush to jealousy or flirt with entitlement? Luckily, if we take a moment to consider our response, we'll often discover the issue has more to do with grace - a concept we are far from comfortable with. At times, it seems the Church, myself included, considers grace to be a scarce commodity rather than a sustainable resource.
I've always thought the parable of the laborers to be a remarkable gift in the way it pierces our human condition and offers a glimpse of God's nature. "Or is your eye evil, because I am good?" Today it pierced me.

Shining like a burning bush

2009-11-05T07:14:00.000-08:00

It seems Fall is finally creeping it's way down the rolling hills and mountain valleys into the piedmont and sandhills. I've finally turned the heat on and there's a chill in the air. Winter is coming, the nights are longer, echoes of death and hibernation are whispered about. And yet, there is still a burst of vibrancy, a last hurrah, in the brilliant colors of leaves or the beaming glow of family gatherings around tables, stadiums, and community grills. I can't help hearing the words of an Ed Kilbourne song running through my head as I wait expectantly for the tree in our backyard to complete its transformation. "This morning, outside I stood, and saw a little red-winged bird, Shining like a burning bush, singing like a scripture verse." I love Fall. I love the chill before the warmth. I love the giant harvest moon just above the horizon in the early evening. Everything, everything, everything is holy now.

Court appearance

2009-10-09T13:53:00.000-07:00

If you've never spent the morning in a county courthouse for roll call, you should. For that matter, if you've never sat in on a trial, (district court or superior court) you should.
Usually, you'll hear folks complain and dread being called up for jury duty 1 day in about 7 years. We can't stand to waste our time in the court system. But, there's a forgotten population of folks for which the court system is a way of life. I knew when I stepped in the courtroom that morning, I was in the right place. Words won't do "justice" to describe the scene. But, if Jesus were still enfleshed he'd have been there, hung out there, conversed outside on the steps during breaks. (Of course, you might say he is in flesh in us, and you'd be right. That's why we should probably spend more time there).
There was a hodgepodge of folks packed in that Monday morning. One couple, or family, or aquaintances came in dragging 6 kids with them. None of them could have been over 4 and the youngest of which was being held. Who knows how many times they'd been in a courtroom already and hardly four years old.
During breaks, everyone clears the courtroom to use the phone or restroom, and many go for a smoke or fresh air.
I'll never forget the image I spotted that morning before heading back upstairs to the courtroom. It was one of those little children, (probably around 3 years old), with a sippy cup in hand and climbing the stairwell to the courtroom. No guardians or adults in sight. Just a little man with sippy cup in hand, making his way upstairs for a court appearance. It broke my heart to think what might be in store for that young boy. Was he getting familiar practice for a rocky future? Was it a foreshadowing of things to come, imprinting a cruel destiny before he ever has so much as a chance? I pray not. Not if I have anything to do with it. (And believe me, we all have something to do with it).

Adoption

2009-10-02T07:30:00.000-07:00

We're celebrating eight months of adoption with our cat, Simon bar Jonah. It's almost as if he's always been part of our family. We couldn't ask for a better one. He's so cute and even likes to help with sermon prep. :)
Yet, even now, as trusting and loving as he is, there are some things he's just not comfortable with. We're not exactly sure of all the details of his previous home, but we do know he must have been thrown at times. He'll sit close to you but, he'll never actually walk over you or serve as a laptop. And, if you start to pick him up, he panics and wiggles loose. We've come to accept that but, we continue to offer and show him as much love as possible. He may never be able to feel comfortable enough to sit in our lap or be held. But, we won't give up trying and we won't give up loving him.
The newsletter from the adoption center came this week too. Inside were a handful of short descriptions and pictures of other Siamese waiting for adoption: Lizzie- senior, diabetic; Marigold - age & hyperthyroidism; Beauty- thrown from a car; Curry- terrified of people; Chance- old, deaf, grumpy, renal failure; Neville- diabetic, geezer; Catnip- 2nd time foster, shy, timid, not people oriented. It's not exactly an attractive list of qualities. It sounds more like a hospital list or chart of flaws and imperfections. Who would want to mess with or deal with any of those miserable cats? The funny thing is, when we open our eyes and look around, there are an awful lot of people like that out there - whose lives seem to be a pitiful mess. We might even be bold enough to admit ourselves among them. If we had any common sense, we'd just put them out of their misery. Luckily, there are people who aren't governed so much by common sense as they are God sense. We often wonder what the kingdom of God might look like. I think it looks an awful lot like adoption and the folks who won't give up trying and won't give up loving them. That is, after all, what God does for us. That's what God wants the Church to look like too - People who look around and see a host of folks with unattractive qualities, deeply flawed, whose lives are falling apart, and decide that no matter what they're not going to give up trying to love them.

Outside looking in

2009-10-02T07:06:00.000-07:00

It was one of those crazy Sunday's with 4 services in one day (luckily i cancelled the 5th a few weeks earlier). The 4th that day was a Homecoming celebration at our 223 yr old church in the woods near the Pee Dee. There's a renovated restroom out back that's only used once a month. My wife just happened to be the one to use it this month. Except, when she tried to exit, she found herself trapped thanks to a faulty doorknob. It was hard not to laugh at the situation. If you'd have been there you'd have realized just how comical it all played out. (Including trying to open the window that was painted shut). However, after a while the humor turned to frustration, anxiety, and panic.
It's always interesting, even comical, when you're the one on the outside looking in. But, the story takes on an entirely different character when you're the one locked in. I wonder how many folks out there feel trapped where they are, frustrated, scared, and suffocating. Yet, most of us will never know. We'll simply keep plugging along. Everything's just fine out here. Rarely do we stop to consider what it feels like to be the one trapped inside. But, be careful what you ask for. If you want God to provide you with opportunities to identify with and be relationally involved with others - you might just get what you asked for.

Season of change

2009-09-24T19:58:00.000-07:00

Last week I returned to Duke University for the first time in 2.5 years for a required seminar with the Board of Ordained Ministry. It was quite an experience traveling back to a campus I had loved since I was youth, and where I spent 4 of the last 7 years of my life. So much had changed and yet so much was just the same. The faces were different, but it was still a richly diverse academic community. New construction, development, and road widening could be seen everywhere. Yet, the great mainstays of the community, like Duke Chapel, were just as beautiful as before.

As I passed through the courtyard on the left side of the Chapel, I noticed the heavy, hewn, wood-beam benches had been replaced by dark metal, steel or aluminum ones (each with the University crest crafted into the top). I remember numerous afternoons sitting here cramming for a Greek quiz or some other last minute reading. It’s also where I received a call about a potential part-time first appointment to serve during my 4th year of school. (I later declined the offer because I wanted to make the most of my last year at Duke and in Durham). More than anything, I remember that bench because I proposed to my wife there. I chuckled to myself as I thought about all the scheming that went into making that moment happen. It was sad to see that wooden beam bench had now been replaced by the modern metal. Nevertheless, that was still the spot. I wondered what happened to those old wood benches. Where did they go? I wondered if I could still track them down and purchase it for memory’s sake. Maybe they were recycled. And, if so, I wonder what purpose they now serve or who’s benefiting from them.

I continued to reminisce on my way home as traveled from Chapel Hill down 15-501S. It was a route that connected to US 1 and became quite familiar to me in my final years of undergrad at USC. I learned that route well as I travelled that 4 hour route back and forth between Columbia and Chapel Hill to visit a special girl I met on a mission trip back in 2001. There’s a Lowes Foods on the right hand side just before you get into Chapel Hill where I would always stop to buy flowers. They made some of the most exotic and beautiful arrangements you could imagine for a fraction of the cost of a typical florist. As I passed, now on my way back to Anson, I suddenly had the crazy thought of picking up flowers (even if we had a yard full back home). I made a U-turn at the next crossroads and went back to Lowes Foods to check the flowers. Unfortunately, I was disappointed to find that the quality of flowers seemed to have dropped over the years. The prices seemed to have remained stable but the quality of arrangements were about what you’d expect from a typical grocery store. Gone were the vibrant and elaborate creations of a few years earlier. So I went home empty handed but full of great memories.

In many ways, going back changes us. We realize we’ve come a long way. The bench outside Duke Chapel and the Lowes Foods brought back a flood of memories, warm fuzzy feelings, that brought me back to a time I was so in love. But, things had changed there. And, things had changed in me. I’m still so in love. But, I learned other facets of that love. There’s more to it than trying to figure out how to manipulate a Tarheel into having a soft spot for Duke, the stories I made up to get her to come to that bench that afternoon, and the forethought and planning to make sure what followed was a special celebration. There’s another side to love than trinkets and flowers every time you turn around. There’s nothing wrong with showering the one you love with those things. But, over time, I’ve seen a deeper side of love that means simply holding one another in the sad and painful times or just being present rather than bringing presents.

Cold call

2009-09-17T04:57:00.000-07:00

Another weekday afternoon that just happened to be my day for volunteer chaplain duty at the hospital. There were no voice mails or written requests for a chaplain that afternoon. Even after checking at the nurse's station, I found no recommendations. So, I decided to round the floor and drop in on a patient or two, introduce myself, and offer any support from chaplain services. We used to call these cold calls in CPE. Neither the patient nor myself knew what to expect going into those encounters. (Not to be confused with Cold Case). The first was a friendly face. We've crossed paths from my many visits to Meadowview.

It was the second cold call that through me for a loop. I noticed the patient just sitting propped up in a recliner, covered with blankets, and all alone. Appearance alone seemed to indicate a different social class and a difficult life. This is why we're here - Enable folks to be heard, to feel valued. I entered and introduced myself. Immediately, the patient was alert and began moaning and moving her mouth. After a few seconds, I realized any speaking ability was severely limited and she was obviously in pain. There were no words. She tried moving her mouth to communicate but there was only a syallable here or there. I wasn't sure if it was a developmental disability, the result of her illness, her medication, or even a lack of education, but I had clearly bitten off more than I could chew. I tried a few more sentences initiating conversation. This time a little slower and clearer, only to receive a simialar moan and wince in response. At the same time, it seemed as if she wanted me in there. I looked myself over. Dressed up, nametag, clipboard in hand. Great, I thought to myself. She thinks I'm the doctor. What have I gotten myself into. Lord, get me out of here, I confessed to myself. In the next few seconds I tried to make it clear I was a pastor, not a doctor. I think she understood, even when I offered a blessing she seemed willing. You have to be careful when there's a communication barrier. You never want to violate a persons belief systems or values by forcing your own. So a word of blessing is appropriate. But, without any other knowledge, invoking Jesus' name over her would have been overstepping that trust. I said my goodbyes and made my exit (inwardly breathing a sigh of relief). What was I thinking? Glad that was over with, I thought to myself.
It's not always easy to answer a call to ministry on a daily basis or at any given moment - even when you're a 'minister'. There are some things that are just easier for us to stomach than others and we all have been pushed outside our comfort zones. That's how we grow. I knew God had been stretching me again that day - especially when I returned home and began looking at the lectionary psalm. And there it was in the 2nd verse: "Day to day pours forth speech, and night to night declares knowledge. There is no speech, nor are there words; their voice is not heard; yet their voice goes out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world." The language of God. I felt ashamed and a little embarassed of my thoughts and feelings earlier. As it turns out, I was the abnormal one in the room. If God does it without words, telling the glory of God, why can't we. Perhaps that's exactly what she did on that weekday afternoon cold call.

Beachcomber

2009-08-29T16:31:00.000-07:00

Some time has passed since my last post. I've had a flurry of activity and a number of good ideas for a post, but failed to make the time.

As we near the end of summer, no doubt many have found their way to the coast this year for at least a day apart (if not a week or weekend). The beach used to be my favorite destination as a child. Sandcastles, mudpies, waves, shells. As I grew into adolescence, it became less inviting as I worried about weight, appearance, and self-image. Now as an adult, I worry more over skin cancer and parking tickets. But, one thing that has never seemed to change is the beautiful spectrum of people you'll find along the shores of a beach. Young, old, short, fat, tan, albino, freckles, leather-like skin, wrinkles, love-handles, one-piece, bikini briefs, sun dress, infants, shades, hats, surfers, umbrellas, wet suits, loafers, bare feet, laughter, tall, chiseled, tears, families, widows, retirees, Asian, southern, tourist, Yankee, ebony, local, burnt. There is no shortage of shapes and sizes, colors or dialects, personalities or species. They all come to the beach. Some for better reasons than others. Some who like to be on the pier, some who like to be under it, some who like to walk by it, some who swim just past it, and some who want to be nowhere near a pier. (The same could be said of the sand or the ocean or anything else characteristic of coastlines). They all come to the beach and they all, for some unknown reason, go through this unique ritual of exposing themselves in a gesture of vulnerability to the elements. They let it all hang out, or at least parts of themselves. They're on vacation and so they just let go. And, for better or worse, people see more of each other than they would at any other place or time. And I'm certainly implying more than just skin exposure. The beach is one of the few places people let down their guard and become the most free and open and emptied. More so even than the church. It's quite a remarkable thing. Even folks who opt for a t-shirt, or pants, or are as self-conscious as me, are more willing to give in to this ritual, knowing that everyone else is foolishly involved. It's a beautiful thing to watch and to realize that perhaps this is just a small snapshot of the foolishness of the kingdom of God. Brian McLaren says: "I think the best glimpses of the kingdom of God come to us unexpectedly in everyday life- and the sermons we hear help us keep our eyes open so that when those moments come, we don't sleepwalk through them...We shed tears because we were given a glimpse of the way life was created to be and is not..."

At times, these last few weeks have been a blur for me. But, I pray this summer you've shared glimpses of the kingdom, rather than sleepwalking through. If not, perhaps you're due for a trip to the coast.

Lessons from my little brother

2009-07-23T19:37:00.000-07:00

Everyone else in the world was getting $10 to $20 a week for doing nothing. Somehow, in the middle of spring, back in the early 90’s, we managed to negotiate an allowance of $5 a week if we did our chores. I still remember hauling the trash all the way to the other side of the yard and securing them in the bins behind the camper. (Even using a push mower to cut ½ the yard). My other friends didn’t have to do anything specifically – just stay out of trouble I guess, and the green would fly. My brother and I, on the other hand, had to work for it. But, we were finally moving up in the world at $5 a week. We saved our money from month to month and when the time came, we could get virtually whatever we wanted at the store.
I was in love with dinosaurs and Dino-riders were all the craze. These humans and space creatures lived in a world where they harnessed the power of dinosaurs for transportation, work, and war. The evil dinos were controlled by electrode metal helmets, or masks, that were branded on them. Of course, the humans didn’t manipulate dino brain waves, they simply trained and cared for them. But, that’s far more than you need to know. The point is, I spent my afternoons arranging these scenarios and battles and I just had to have every dino-rider in the collection.
I had already spent my allowance the week before, so my purchasing power was limited that day. My brother, on the other hand, had over $25 saved up when we walked in Kmart that evening. On the 3rd toy isle, bottom shelf, sandwiched between the other dino-rider gear, was the T-rex - the largest and my favorite. Until now, I hadn’t been able to find it anywhere. Even Lionel Toy Warehouse was sold out. Of course, I had a fit. I begged. I pleaded. I cried. I even bartered for a cash-advance – but my mom would have none of it. I had less than $10 and there was no way I was going home with a T-rex that day. In the midst of that unruly scene, which lasted for our entire trip to Kmart that evening, my brother made an unlikely gesture.
Just before we were leaving, he offered to give me the rest of the money I needed to buy the T-rex. I went home with the most awesome walking dinosaur you could get in 1990. And my brother went home that day with a pack of plastic green army soldiers for less than $2.
It wasn’t the last time he gave up something of himself for me so that I might be able to have what I wanted or so that I might be happy. From the beginning, my brother always had the gift of a compassionate heart. Over the years, as I’ve looked back on some of those moments, I’ve been ashamed at some of my actions and reactions toward my little brother and continually amazed about the lessons he was teaching me. As I considered the stories of David and Jonathan and our call to friendship, I realize I’ve been far more on the receiving end of those friendships than perhaps I’ve ever been on the self-giving end.

Fish eggs in the chimney

2009-07-21T04:26:00.000-07:00

This weekend I was called into the kitchen. "Norman," my wife yelped. The "come here right now" was filled in by the tone and pitch in her voice. "Look at this," she said as we hovered over the stove top. "What? What is it?" "Something gross," she said. I must point out that my wife keeps a beautiful kitchen. She's always punctual about cleaning up behind herself or putting away things when she's finished with them. Well trained in her early childhood, I imagine, and orderly. If there's anything stacked up or messed up in the kitchen, 9 out 10 times, that would be my fault. I may be the dishwasher, but I tend to put that off for 6-18 hours if possible. Whatever this thing was on the stove, I assumed it was something to do with me, or an insect, or something to do with an old parsonage. I was only able to see it once she had picked it up with a cleaning cloth and again I inquired what it was. "I don't know. Fish eggs in the chimney or something." Fish eggs in the chimney. Wow! We had been going too fast and for too long. These last two weeks were a bit stressful and overwhelming for us both and we really needed a break for just a day or two. We'd been hearing things (our cat too) that sounded like they were coming from the chimney last week and came to the conclusion it must be some of the barn swallows at the house flying and perching around the chimney. What she meant to say was bird eggs in the chimney, but the damage was already done. We've had next to no rain in the last 2 weeks but somehow there were now fish eggs in the chimney. It was official, we had reached burnout and we would be taking the next two days off from the lake in the sky to head to the ocean by the shore. If you ever have fish eggs in the chimney, I recommend it. I think it's just the remedy needed - that, and a few extra hours of sleep. As for the fish eggs...well, it turned out to be a small piece of broccoli that had fallen out of the stir-fry earlier in the week and somehow managed to avoid my wife's tidy kitchen abilities. May you find sabbath space and time today.

Messy life & blog titles

2009-07-10T10:43:00.000-07:00

It's been nice to have my wife home a few days this summer. Life moves so fast at times and our schedules so different - even in LA. Last month was our 3 year anniversary. Life is indeed good. But, life together is all the more beautiful. Not like a sunset, or a postcard, or a national park beautiful. More like - stuck on the side of the road w/ a flat tire in the pouring rain, but there's no one else i'd rather be stuck with - beautiful. Life is very, very messy. If someone famous didn't once say that, they should have. It is, after all, the intricate, ornate, messiness that makes it beautiful. Over the last three years we've been blessed to navigate these washed-out trails, grueling switchbacks, and unmarked trails together.

For those of you following this blog for a while now or if you've just recently stumbled over it, you're probably wondering why in the world the name of your blog is so long (or where in the world would you come up with a title like 'those to whom love is a stranger')? I'm glad u asked. Well, when I decided to begin the blog this Lent, I found some inspiration from a fellow colleague and respected elder in the WNC Conference who titles his blog 'Bear witness to the love of God in this world.' As soon as I saw the title, I knew where he had taken the language and I knew what my blog would be called. It comes from the wedding liturgy as a benediction in the UM Book of Worship for a Service of Christian Marriage. If there was one thing i paid significant detail to for our wedding - it was the order of service. As we looked over it together, one thing we both absolutely loved and easily agreed upon was choosing the benediction to be: "Bear witness to the love of God in this world, so that those to whom love is a stranger may find in you generous friends." It was the charge to the entire congregation and a charge to us, a newly wed couple. We've never forgotten those words. I pray we never will. They meant so much to us in that moment because there we were experiencing a measure of the fullness of God's love in relationship with each other, and yet at the same time we were deeply aware of so many all over the world (and some right there in our own friends and family) for whom love is a stranger.

To blog and write has been a great discipline for me thus far. Part of my hope is that maybe, just maybe, these reflections, as i too journey on through this life in stages, might somehow be a spark for those to whom love is a stranger. Life is messy. Love is elusive, even foreign. What's new? But in our deepest being, it's there. And, if we're lucky, it's embodied by those we meet along the way. May those to whom love is a stranger find in you (a) generous friend.

Feeling miserable

2009-06-30T10:39:00.000-07:00

I write this at home today realizing that most of my posts thus far have been very reflective, upbeat, and in some sense hopeful. But, if I'm honest with myself, those moments aren't always constant for me. In fact there are often days, like today, when I find myself feeling miserable. I started sneezing and blowing this weekend and by Monday, drainage and a sore throat had left me feeling worthless. I'm trying to work from home, rest up, and keep a low profile today. Believe me, when you're sick no one really cares for a visit from you anyway. In fact, they're pretty appreciative when you spare them the germs.
All these mucky feelings this morning made me think back to my weekend meeting in Mooresville for Confernce Youth Ministry. When I arrived in town, I dashed into a nearby Wendy's to devour a quick burger since no dinner was provided. I don't claim to be a mind-reader or a psychic, but I do tend to have a keen sense of observation and decent intuition. From a young mom and her son at the entrance, to a middle-aged father setting a table for two families with a total of nine youngsters - it seemed as if i kept encountering people whose lives were somehow complete misery on the inside. Both the young lady at the door and the father of the other family in the dining room seemed to look back deeply into my eyes as if i were a welcome relief to this miserable life they were caught up in. Something in their eyes and their glance at me seemed to say "please get me out of this mess and monotony."
As I ate my burger, I said a prayer for the folks at that Wendys and gave thanks for the joy I have in my own life and my relationship with my wife. Three years together have flown by like yesterday. As I left, I began to wonder, how many people are actually going through the motions of this life feeling completely miserable and empty. We've all been there at one point or another. How about you? Are you feeling miserable today? If so, you're not alone. Maybe this can be a space today to let some of that out.

Full spectrum

2009-06-25T20:02:00.000-07:00

During the past week, you might say I experienced the full spectrum of United Methodism. It began with the fixing of the appointments and closing worship at Lake Junaluska. What followed included packing everything you can possibly think of(including a grumpy cat) in your car and returning home for a visitation and funeral on Wednesday, worship planning, a rehearsal dinner and wedding over the weekend, three Sunday services, three Eucharists, 3 adult baptisms, one confirmation, one anointing for healing, one laity award recognition, and two commissionings for summer missions. Who says you can't learn all you need to know about United Methodism in a week. And if that's not enough, just wait until this week is over.
While I rejoice at such a bold and broad spectrum of sacramental life last week, sometimes I'm equally guilty of getting caught up in the frustrations and negativity of the present. Take Monday for example. I could easily lament that my day began with only five inmates at Bible Study, that I spent all afternoon waiting for the results of a surgery, and completed my day with a council meeting that lasted over 100 minutes. However, as I looked back that evening on my day, I began to see nothing but blessing. Despite low attendance at prison we had one of our most engaging discussions yet and those who were present had all studied up and brought something to share about a specific prophet. The hospital wait was filled with humorous conversation, odd stories, and playtime with parishioners and their kids. The surgery couldn't have gone better and I was also able to visit with another member who had been admitted. Although the council meeting ran into worries about stewardship, tithing, and giving, the tone of the meeting was overwhelmingly progressive. The spirit of the church is still alive and I have no doubt we will continue to move forward and find ways to fulfill our mission and ministry. It seemed worth every minute. How about you? Have you taken the chance to experience the full spectrum of your day? of life? Try this. Four little words to help you step into that fullness..."Thanks be to God."

Youth Sunday

2009-06-23T13:34:00.000-07:00

I've been holding on to this one for a while but it's priceless in my book. Just before school finished in June, the youth of our Charge led worship on Sunday. Most of them were part of this year's confirmation class and a few of them were even confirmed that day. The challenge was that they led worship for both churches that morning (so they had a great glimpse of what I do each week running from 1 church to the next). I love youth Sunday even if it involves more work than planning for a normal Sunday service. There's so much freedom and room for creativity. Everyone has something to offer and they each bring something special to the service. This year the Message came from Matthew 6, a reflection from Brian McLaren, and a skit to the music of One Republic "Say." As we hurriedly finished up the first service and scrambled around to get our props, projector, and supplies, I was lucky enough to be the last man out holding the door. As the youth and some of their parents filed out, I overheard one saying "Wow! This is cool. And the best part is we get to do it all over again." Another was overheard saying, "I wish we could do this all the time." It sort of changes your whole perspective about leading multiple services on Sunday. (I'm not sure my wife's ever been that excited about hearing the sermon multiple times).
I'm still smiling on the inside. Sure, some of it is pride, but mostly I'm just overjoyed that these teens are making a real connection with worshiping the living God. I think this is the kind of stuff the bishop was talking about at Annual Conference. We truly need to find ways to reach our young people. More than anything they need mentors in their lives who can help them navigate the call God has placed on their lives. I wouldn't be surprised if we a few young clergy in the making. Pray for them.

Life in the Spirit

2009-06-15T15:48:00.000-07:00

Some weeks ago, I was particularly struck by the words of Paul about hope. It's tucked away in the middle of the 8th chapter of Romans where Paul has been unpacking an understanding of life in the Spirit for a church that he had never visited. Trying to relate to someone whom you've never seen or met is a task in itself, let alone trying to explain the work of the Holy Spirit. Believe me, I've tried both before - with mixed results at best. Sometimes the only way to try to understand the workings of the Spirit is simply to experience it. It can unfold in a multitude of ways. Perhaps in the fulfillment of something beautiful in unexpected places. Perhaps in discovering immense value in something seemingly worthless. Perhaps simply in reading familiar words over and over again or watching familial rituals carried out with a uniquely personal touch.

As I read through this passage over and over again that week, it became clear God was trying to tell me something about hope, about vision, and about the aspirations I have for the congregations I serve. Paul says: "Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience....for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words." Sometimes, I think my dreams and hopes for us as a people of God grow daily. God offers glimpses of vision and direction, powerful images of how we can more fully give ourselves completely to God and one another. Yet, after a few hours, realism sets in and I manage to amass at least 3x as many reasons as to why that just couldn't work now or here. It's too big of a leap, it's too soon, it's never been done before,...etc. Maybe, just maybe, I've been discounting the power of the Spirit. Rather than setting a vision and goals that I can see are already just within reach, perhaps I should be setting my hope in what we do not see. Hope that is seen isn't hope at all.

I've always hoped to see folks actively leading our worship. I dream of a congregation that feels empowered and called to lead aspects of worship (not merely content to sit back and enjoy a one person show). On Pentecost Sunday, of all days, I stumbled into a rural church tucked away in a cove of WNC. The worship order was easily familiar. But something special unfurled that morning and I can safely say it was the Spirit at work. While the rituals of worship were similar they were memorably transformed by the power of uniquely personal story. The face of a 30-something young man with down syndrome danced brilliantly in the light of the flame as he grinned from ear to ear with ecstatic joy when he lit the altar candles. The arms of a bruised, but not broken, lay leader in a full back brace quivered as he took the offering plates and raised them as high as possible during the doxology. Worship and ritual was transformed that festival day, that Pentecost.

Is there anything that is not possible with God? Perhaps I need to be dreaming bigger and hoping for the things not yet seen. What are your deepest hopes and dreams for your community, for your church, and for your family? Listen for the rumblings of the Spirit and don't be afraid to unleash them.

Just an observation

2009-05-22T06:14:00.000-07:00

Tonite I attended a special concert by Filip Wojciechowski in the sanctuary of Wieuca Baptist Church. Wojciechowski is a critically acclaimed concert pianist from Poland who has won numerous awards and has offered flawless arrangements of Mozart, Chopin, Gershwin, and others, to audiences on multiple continents. Of the 1,700 pastors from around the country registered for the conference, I was one of about 80 who chose to attend. At the same time, untold millions were tuning in around the world to see the finale of a musical reality show that shall remain nameless. I’m not trying to figure out what became of some 1600 other pastors on a Wednesday night in Atlanta, nor pass judgment about what constitutes musical taste. I’m simply just offering an observation. All I know is that I enjoyed a great musician for about 40 minutes and then I slipped out myself to enjoy an even better sunset and a short walk home.

Out of touch

2009-05-21T04:42:00.001-07:00

Maybe I’ve been living in Lilesville too long. I’ve forgotten what it’s like living in a metropolis. I’m in Atlanta for a national preaching conference. My hotel was a great deal on Hotwire. I couldn’t imagine having to pay the special conference price, let alone regular price. Even though the hotel’s undergoing remodeling, everything I’ve needed has been at my fingertips. The fitness center has been amazing, given one presently doesn’t exist in our county. The lectures and seminars have been held between 1 of 3 churches. Each sanctuary seats over 1500 – that’s more than the population of the entire Lilesville region! Yesterday afternoon, during free time, I stopped in a Target near the hotel. Not just any Target, but one located in a multi-level garage. The Target was two floors, complete with elevators, escalators, and even a special escalator for your shopping cart. From block to block, each skyscraper is bigger than the next and upscale eateries galore. Everything is so plush. But who can afford that now? I miss my blinking caution light, long leaf pines, and fresh home-cooked meals. I guess I’m just out of touch.

A little trash by the roadside

2009-05-12T06:19:00.000-07:00

It's hard to preach a text on Sunday if you're not living it. As I worked through 1 John 4 and John 15 last week, I found myself called to spend less time in study and commentary and more time in community bearing fruit. Torn between disciplined study and relational interaction with others, time and again, I opted to find inspiration by living into the text. I was deliberately initiating conversations with folks on the street corner, learning more about gardening and the 81 various soil types in Anson County, and even taking an evening off to spend with my wife on the town. On a whim Saturday morning, we even decided to head to Wadesboro for a Clean Sweep Litter Day. Why not spend time making our county a cleaner place? We could have stayed and done the same on our street, but part of the motivation was to join in the community and interact with other like-minded volunteers that day. Who knows? Perhaps we would even make new friends and contacts? As luck would have it, we were the only ones to show that beautiful spring morning. But, for the next few hours, we (along with the program coordinator) spent the morning filling a handful of giant orange bags along the roadside (and even made a friend in the process). We canvassed the area and picked up everything in sight that didn't naturally belong along the green shoulder. Everything, that is, except for a cracked styrofoam cup. It was obvious and in plain view but, ultimately we decided to leave it. You see, inside a medium-sized, ornately decorated spider had created a home - complete with a large egg sac. Our coordinator was partial to creatures of all kinds and could tell the eggs were ready any day now. It wasn't the best of makeshift homes, but it was a bold attempt and adaption to a world increasingly cluttered by waste and junk.
Today, two big meetings are taking place as we move forward locally with a United Methodist global initiative to help folks move out of generational poverty. There's a lot of excitement building about this and yet there are many who still have a hard time coming alongside or coming to terms with why such an effort is needed. I, myself, find it ironic that the Circles model we are launching and funding, sounds exactly like what the Church is supposed to be. However, the little styrofoam cup we left by the roadside and the storyline to the new movie The Soloist, have been eye-opening reminders that it's hard to do something about poverty if you're not living it. As we go forward, guided by the Spirit, we must be keenly aware that what we may perceive as the solution or the ideal standard, is not always what's best for someone living it. Sometimes the best or most important thing we can do is just to be a friend. Sure, I want a world free of roadside garbage. But Saturday, it seemed to be okay to leave a little trash by the roadside. I was just glad to be a friend to a fellow creature. And after all, that's what thousands of folks desperately need anyway - a friend. I hope we can do that with this initiative and I'm thankful this model seems to value that. I hope you'll consider learning more. And, if you're looking to take in a movie this week, why not give The Soloist a try. It's not the best film ever, but it's a great story (and the scene of the Lord's prayer voiced-over a view of an LA community was extraordinarily moving). http://www.wnccumc.org/chs/PovertyInitiative2.htm
http://www.movethemountain.org/

Howell's Reflections on Psalm 23

2009-05-02T19:18:00.000-07:00

It's not often I would quote something full text. And I'm not one of those huge followers of James Howell. However, knowing Psalm 23 is dear to so many, I thought this might be the best avenue to share these thoughtful words offered by Rev. Howell (a fellow colleague and elder in the WNC Conference). May you discover this Psalm speaking to you in a fresh way this week.
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The 23rd Psalm is a perennial favorite.
And yet for all its familiarity, there may be some nuances to the Psalm we have missed, some reflections scholars might share to deepen our sense of the most comforting words ever composed.

Consider one four letter word in verse four: thou. The second-person pronoun "thou" is old English, a relic from the 1611 King James Version. The vast majority of the time we prefer modern translations of the Bible – but Christians cling to a 400 year old translation of Psalm 23. Why is this? Could it be that elevated language, words with some lineage and dignity, are appropriate to the grandeur, the majesty, the immeasurable grace of God who is indeed our shepherd?

And here is a fascinating item: James Limburg points out that, in the original Hebrew of Psalm 23, there are exactly twenty six words before and after, "Thou art with me."1 Perhaps the poet was boldly declaring that God being with us is at the very center of our lives.

God is with us. We are not alone down here. The whole Gospel is that God is with us. Jesus was called "Emmanuel," which means "God with us." John Wesley's dying words were, "The best of all is, God is with us." God doesn't shelter us from trouble. God doesn't magically manipulate everything to suit us. But the glorious with is unassailable, unchangeable, the only fact that matters.

This marvelous news draws our attention again to the Thou. For the first three verses of the Psalm, God is spoken of in the third person: "The Lord is my shepherd... he leads me... he restores my soul." But with the Thou, the third person shifts to second person: "for Thou art with me, thy rod... thou preparest a table..." Instead of talking about God, the Psalmist begins to talk to God; instead of God in the head, God is a friend in the heart. A conversation happens, a relationship grows. This is faith, the only true comfort.

If we genuinely and in the marrow of our being believe that God is with us, then the only logical consequence would be, "I shall not want.

"We've read it, uttered it, delighted in it: but have we thought about it? Or lived it out in reality? I shall not want? Our whole life is about wanting: I want, I shop, I look, and when I have it, I want new stuff. In our consumer culture, I shall want, I shall always want. I shall never stop all my wanting because the mall entices me with ever new, shiny, unnecessary objects, and I am instructed from childhood on to want--and not merely to want, but to have.

I shall not want? "The Lord is my shepherd." If the Lord is the shepherd, then I am a sheep, and the reason sheep need a shepherd is simple: sheep nibble themselves lost.

Sheep are not brilliant creatures, and we cannot be flattered that the Psalm thinks of us as sheep. Leave a sheep without a shepherd, and he nibbles a bit of grass here, wanders over there for some more, sees a patch just past that rock; and before you know it the sheep is lost, or has fallen into a ravine, or been devoured by a wolf.

The Hebrew original is perhaps better translated, "I shall lack nothing," or "I shall lack no good thing." What do I lack? Well, I lack an iPhone or a house at the coast. I lack a fully-funded pension and I lack... We can fill in the blank endlessly.

But it is more to ask "What do I lack?" in the sense of "What really matters that I do not have?" What, at the hour of death, would I dare not lack? The answers aren't iPhones or vacation houses. Jesus spoke with the rich young ruler (Luke 18:18-30), who claimed to be good, and had plenty of stuff. What did Jesus say? "One thing you still lack."

We don't lack lots of things: we lack just one. The one thing we lack is intimacy with God. The one and only thing that can cause us to say, "I shall not want," or "I lack no good thing," is God. Nothing else. Just the Lord who is a good shepherd to his sheep.

God is our satisfaction. God is good enough. Or, to be truer, God exceeds whatever we may think we desire.

If "Thou art with me" is the focal point of the Psalm, and if "I shall not want" is the beginning of a new life of being satisfied with God, then the end of our life with God is this: "I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

Why do we want stuff like iPhones and vacation homes? Is it sheer coveting? I don't think so. We want communication devices because we long to connect. We want a house, or a better house, because no matter how far we travel, no matter how happy or sad our nuclear family might have been, we carry inside a yearning for home. In our mobile society, we may be clueless about where that might be, or if it really exists. But we still want, above all else, to go home.

Perhaps T.S. Eliot was right: "The end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time."2 Or consider this: if you are lucky, you have fond memories of summertime junkets to the home of your grandparents. For me, it was a house that is factually small, but as a child it was large in love, in special treats, in cousins and fun. It was another home, one without problems or homework or chores, a special place of a more unconditional kind of love.

Does God give us such places in our memory so that we will learn to desire the home for which God destines us when this life is over?

Isaac Watts often recast Psalms into slightly different language. His metric version of the 23rd Psalm is eloquent, elegant, and moving: "The sure provisions of my God attend me all my days; O may Your House be my abode, and all my work be praise. There would I find a settled rest, while others go and come; no more a stranger or a guest, but like a child at home."

Like a child at home. Yes, some children bear the misfortune of a home that is more warfare than peace, more division than love. But the fact that we recoil at the idea of any child anywhere not enjoying peace and love at home is evidence that God has wired into our hearts a keen sense of a proper destiny, which looks like me as a boy at my grandmother's table or on my grandfather's lap.

Various happenings in our life strike us as urgent. They make us anxious, or perhaps we have some fun or face trials. But it is all a preparation for a grand homecoming, when we will "find a settled rest... no more a stranger or a guest, but like a child at home." Or as the Psalmist sang, "And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever" (23:6).
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1James Limburg, Psalms (Westminster John Knox Press, 2000).
2T. S. Eliot, "Little Gidding" in Four Quartets, 1943.

Middle School Retreat

2009-04-28T12:16:00.000-07:00

Some folks say that if there's one group of kids they just could not work with, it would be middleschoolers. I, on the other hand, find that group of 6-8th graders remarkable. If I had to pick a favorite age group to work with, you guessed it, it would be 11-14. Perhaps it's because they're so wide open to possibilities and not quite jaded enough to wreck their imagination or inquisitive nature. They're awkward and they know it. And like most folks, they just want to be valued, appreciated, and to know someone cares. Last weekend, I spent Friday and Saturday with about 400 of these incredible youth from all over the WNC Conference. I was exhausted driving home at 2am to return and lead worship services on Sunday, but it was worth every minute. Just imagine 400, 11-14 year-olds gathered under the stars in an outdoor amphitheatre by the lake. A holy hush seemed to calm their spirits that night and with utmost reverence they began singing "How great is our God" in a low whisper. God seemed to embrace us all around with the breeze from the shore, the twinkle of stars above, and the flames of the campfire dancing before us. It was a beautiful moment and a beautiful weekend. One young man in my cabin shared in our group that evening. "This weekend has been like the best thing that's ever happened to me. It's like I'm just awakened inside."
The best part was seeing how God was working in the lives of all of those youth and the unique masterpiece of their lives. God always amazes and inspires me when he speaks through such young people. It reminded me of a friend who wrote to me last week about being appointed to serve a pewless community of homeless, pimps, and pushers on the streets of Asheville. He said: "Resurrection feels closer than it has in a long time. Hope the same is true for you." Thank you Brian. You are in my prayers (along with Alex, Cameron, Jake, Ethan, Jonathan, Sam, Austin, Justin, Miles, Damian, Collin, and Will). Resurrection feels closer than it has in a long time. Hope the same is true for all of you.

Resurrection appearance

2009-04-21T07:02:00.000-07:00

I continue to be moved by Nouwen's quote about resurrection every day. Last week, I spent an afternoon with a wonderful lady confined and strapped to a bed due to Parkinson's disease. Her legs are padded and secured by foam for her own safety when she has what she calls "fits." She's been living with the symptoms for over a decade, but recently it has progressed further. Barring a miracle, there's not much chance of reversing the progression of such a disease. But don't tell that to her. She's determined that she's going to get better and she "tries her best." Between apologies for her lack of control and inability to realize what she's doing with her arms, she shared with me about her Easter memories. How she missed dyed eggs and how one time she and her siblings had gotten new Easter clothes and shoes, went with her family to show them off, and then got stuck in the mud along the way. I felt a lot of mixed emotions that afternoon. It was hard to see her struggle to figure out how to get her mouth to create suction around a straw in order to tease out even a taste of water. And yet, there was something beautiful about just being able to sit there, hold it to her lips, wait patiently and encourage her. I thought a lot about my grandmother that afternoon. I didn't get to see her before she died. She never had Parkinson's, but she was starting to exhibit signs of dementia. Before leaving, I offered her some more water and shared with her the post-resurrection story of Thomas in John's gospel. It's amazing how scripture comes alive in context. I read aloud a story she had probably heard many times. Part way through, her hands began their usual uncontrollable shaking. As I continued, I reached over and took her hand in mine and for a moment it stopped. A broken world often responds to touch, even just for a moment. I came to the verses where Jesus instructs Thomas to reach out and touch the scars in his hands and side and Thomas confesses "My Lord and my God." Her shaking had already returned, but in that moment I had an overwhelming sense that I was touching the scars of "my Lord and my God." Another day, another resurrection appearance...

Signs of resurrection

2009-04-17T06:43:00.000-07:00

Henri Nouwen once wrote: "While many question whether the resurrection really took place, I wonder if it doesn't take place every day if we have the eyes to see and the ears to hear."

Mark's Gospel says it was very early in the morning, on the first day of the week. It was Monday- very early in the morning, on the second day of the week. After an exhausting first day of the week Easter celebration, I struggled to make myself get out of bed and off to prison for a morning Disciple Bible Study. As I drove down 74, with sleep in my eyes, my body kept saying "what were you thinking?" Why did I agree to stick around to lead an Easter Monday study? I knew if I just found a way to make an effort, God would bless it. As I fought to shrug off those voices calling me back to sleep in my bedroom tomb, I began to pray. Lord, show me evidence of your resurrection in this place today. As I pulled into the parking lot and walked to the gate, a crew of workers were landscaping the massive compound. Even in the middle of these massive slabs of rectangular concrete and reinforced barbed wire fences green grass was thriving everywhere. So alive, it had to be cut back. In a matter of seconds God was already opening me to resurrection in this place. Many of the guys today were also reluctant to show this morning - especially given they were going to be fully searched and padded down right before they entered the chapel. I can only imagine how frustrating and dehumanizing. I know how hard it is for folks outside to get up the courage or make the effort to come to church or be part of a Bible Study. But, then imagine, once you get there you're searched and padded down before you could even begin. As we shared prayer requests, I quickly learned that yesterday had been a joyous day for Chapel here too. More than a dozen men were baptized into the family of God. One of the young men was there and praising God for this new gift and new life. I had a new brother in Christ! Alleluia! He's not here. Resurrection has already spread everywhere - even by the second day of the week. That's worth getting up for.

You'll never wash me

2009-04-08T20:03:00.000-07:00

The bathtub was ready. The drain was plugged and a pond of fresh warm water filled the tub almost a ¼ full. It was time for his bath. So, I called to Simon and down the hall he came and stopped in front of the bathroom door, staring intently as if to say “what now?” I motioned him in by the tub and he joined me standing there in front of the sink. Then, ever so gently, I scooped him into my arms, holding him securely to my chest. I stepped into the tub, gradually crouching down into the water to place him in the warm bath. As soon as his feet submerged into the 4” deep pool, he let loose a horrendous yell. You’d have thought I pierced his side with a spear. My gut reaction was to stop and to raise him up just above the water’s surface, but that was a mistake too. The wailing continued. And, while I held him securely, I was not holding his legs together. So, now his legs are flailing in every direction and kicking water this way and that. His whole body was squirming and Kathryn, who had joined us in the bathroom to help, was freaking out. She didn’t know what to do, but she managed to close the bathroom door just before I let him loose onto the bath mat. He moved as far away from the tub as possible, but the door was shut. So, he did the only thing he knew to do and began treading linoleum like there was no tomorrow. He was determined he would somehow dig his way out under the door. This is the stuff sitcoms are made of. Part of me was laughing inside, while the other part of me was trying to figure out how in the world I would ever be able to give him a bath. After minute or so, he gave up on digging his way out and moved back to the rug. I moved close to try to reassure him before picking him up but the cries started again. This time, he decided to quickly barricade himself behind the toilet tank - wedged between the trash can and the sink. Few would consider such a locale as the promised land but for the moment, it was salvation at last. That is, until we removed the trash can and reached back behind the toilet and slowly pulled him back out. For several minutes, we tried to reassure him and shower him with affection while Kathryn and I verbally tried to figure out what we could do next. Kathryn was feeling heartbroken and ready to abandon the bathing operation. She couldn’t bear to see him in such agony. I, on the other hand, had a cat with four wet feet sequestered in a bathroom and I hadn’t come this far to turn back now. I was determined to try again, this time using the flap of skin on the back of his neck to lift and hold him. Supposedly, that’s how their mother would carry them as kittens. So, it was hard to say no when being guided by a remembrance of a mother’s care. Although still noticeably unhappy, Simon cooperated much easier. As I crouched and placed him in the now lukewarm water, he yowled again. After an initial squirm, he seemed to settle in. That is, until we actually began to pour a cup of water on him. It was the most ungodly, gut-wrenching cry I have ever heard from a cat. For a moment, I actually considered that I was really inflicting bodily injury on him. After a few more cups of water the yowls quieted and the bath began. And let me tell you, it was the quickest, most uncoordinated bath in the history of bathing. You should have seen us. My knees were giving out from crouching while I struggled to hold him with both hands and Kathryn was timidly and cautiously trying to bathe him - pausing with every movement, unsure of what Simon might say or do next. In less than two minutes, it was all over. Simon had been washed (or at least part of him), the bathroom floor was a wet, furry mess, I was beginning to regain feeling in my legs, and Kathryn was beginning to loose the ringing in her ears from the otherworldly yowling. All this on a Wednesday - with presiding at my first baptism to look forward to on Sunday. I sure hope it will be a little easier. But, then again, given the audacity of the Gospel message we encounter through the ministry of Jesus, perhaps we should go to our baptism kicking and screaming as well.

Pray for surf

2009-03-28T07:05:00.000-07:00

Since visiting my friend in Hawaii in high school, I've always wanted to learn how to surf. There's something that just draws me to it, a majesty, a mystery, and thrill of it all. Just coasting on the motor power of tide. You and the ocean. You and the water. You and God. My friend always said of surfing "for many, that's church." We even did a few of our own dawn patrols with body boards. (Never actually any surfing, but I began to get an idea of what it meant).
Yesterday was my first trip to a beach in almost a year. A rainstorm had just rumbled through and the last mists of drizzle fanned across the windshield just as I parked the car by the access. Greeted by sand dunes and the wave of sea oats, the beach was empty of human traffic (and rightfully so moments after a rainstorm). I had almost forgotten what it felt like to meander along the coastline with the ebb and flow of the tide and the gusts of wind passing over you. Flocks of seagulls were standing guard at the shoreline, staring out at a breathing ocean. Walking on, I now noticed several yards ahead of me the first signs of humanity. A man in a sleek, black, body suit, with board in hand, darted into the ocean and paddled away from shore. As I moved closer to that spot, looking out to sea, I realized I was not the only one on the beach after all. (Perhaps just the only one on the shore). As many as twenty or thirty guys in sleek, black suits bobbed up and down on the waves like buoys. They looked like a whole flock of pelicans floating along after their last meal and plotting their next move. Or, like a bunch of nondescript penguins staring out into an endless horizon of sea waiting for something, or watching intently for something they knew was there, but just couldn't see it yet. "What is this that even the wind and the waves he commands."
For several minutes, I too (stood from the shore) stared out taking it all in and remembered how my friend had associated surfing with church. Yes, the Church is just adventurous enough to leave the shoreline and paddle out into a watery abyss. Just vigilant enough to diligently keep watch for something they know is there and yet can't quite see it. Just audacious enough to try wave after wave and trust that the guiding power of the Most High will guide them through the foamy surf of life. But then again, the Church has also been known to be so focused on itself, waiting for the perfect wave, that it's oblivious to the life that carries on along the shore. And then again, how do you know which wave is the one, the one you've been waiting for? Who's to say it's this one and not that one? Why is it that all thirty surfers, respond to the tide and a different current? But then, there's something about the nature of each wave that assures that each ride ends with one emerging completely baptized and breathless from foamy waters - perhaps even commissioned to set out again for a moment of nature's raw communion. I'm not sure what it is, but for a few brief moments, I'm mesmerized and perplexed by this thing they call church. I've always wanted to learn how to surf. Maybe someday we will.

Filling Containers

2009-03-20T05:54:00.000-07:00

Almost six months ago, I was running around from Dollar Tree to Dollar General trying to find appropriately sized storage containers (plastic shoeboxes) and 18 of them at that. After trips to Monroe, Rockingham, and Wadesboro, I had finally obtained all 18. Then came the announcements. I shared with our youth about the Project Agape initiative in Armenia and also with one of our United Methodist Women groups. Everyone seemed on board and excited to do something. I was determined that our youth and church would be involved in this mission to Armenia again and that this year we would write notes as well. Despite the deadlines set, it was like pulling teeth to get some of the boxes back. Some folks never returned calls, some dropped their stuff off by the garage the night before, some had only managed to get their container half full while others had containers overflowing, and one lost the container but had a tote full of gifts. The next 48 hours, I found myself scrambling to repack the containers so each were filled, sealed, and contents appropriately labeled (even adding a picture with the cards of our youth group). The plan was to deliver them to the Mission Response Center above Lake Norman on my way to Franklin, NC. By the time I was packed and my trunk filled with boxes, it was already after 5. So, I made a few phone calls and arranged to meet a friend in Denver that evening who would deliver them to the Mission Center the following morning. What a great guy. On the way, I found a CVS and purchased another container for 3x the cost of the others, just so the extra supplies someone bought could get to another child in Armenia. By 9pm that evening, I had successfully transferred the boxes from my trunk to my friend's and was on the road again with three hours of driving still ahead.

Flash forward 6 months... and I'm preparing to be away with Confirmands on a retreat this weekend. Despite being away, I had to somehow coordinate a few mission/outreach opportunities for Saturday so that everyone has an option or ability to participate in our District's "One Great Day of Mission." I know the concept and purpose of this event/effort is admirable. Yet, for me, it's just bad timing. It's really frustrating trying to organize others to be in some form of active mission on a Saturday, when I'm leaving town for a youth retreat. Then it happened. In yesterday's mail, I discovered a card marked "brought back to America for mailing from a friend of Armenia." My mind fluttered with ideas and flashed back to the crazy ordeal of boxes 6 months ago. And then came a beautiful peace and joy. I knew why we had done it and the card in my hand addressed to Lilesville UMC was worth it all. Giving of ourselves and reaching out in unfamiliar ways can be much like the experience of filling plastic containers for children in Armenia. We buy and arrange things we hope a child might enjoy or need and then pack them away in a plastic container, snapping the lid. What have we done and what will become of it? Somehow, I think whatever happens this Saturday God will be present. Even in the midst of doubt or anxiety, bad timing or poor planning. I hope somehow in six months, or even six years, from now we might look back and smile knowing it was worth it all. For now, my heart is strangely warmed and my prayers are with all those who will be filling containers again this Saturday. Thanks be to God

So what?

2009-03-10T07:45:00.000-07:00

I'm finding one of the most rewarding ways to start my week is in prison. There is something about the biblical text that comes alive in new ways when studied and interpreted among a group of inmates. I'm new to this experience of facilitating Disciple Bible study at a state prison, but the guys I work with have remarkable spirit. We were discussing the significance of call and covenant in the Biblical narrative (especially with regard to Abraham). Someone piped up..."well you know, God's call is for everybody, not just a few. God calls everyone of us." As our discussion continued, we found ourselves trying to answer how we know God is calling us to this and not something else. I suggested we try to tackle it from the narrative of Abraham. Were there times for Abraham or Sarah when they questioned whether or not God was actually calling them to something? The responses were varied and vibrant but perhaps the one i'll remember most was this: "So what! So what if I have to wait around 15 or 20 years for God's promise to become real. So what if I have to sacrifice. God's put me here for a reason and I can complain or rebel about the fact that I'm in here and all that I've lost, or I can give thanks to God that he is doing something in me and that he is shaping me and that I can be in here and study his word. So what if I have to go through all that like Abraham. I'm not going to miss my blessing."

What was on the wood

2009-03-04T09:31:00.000-08:00

Chances are, you probably never heard of him. Few have. But, John Odom was a beautiful young man. Today my heart grieves for him and for his family. Make no mistake about it, John was far from perfect. Like many teens, he had his share mess ups and altercations. By the time he was 18, he already had an aggravated assault charge and was also known to have tried his share of alcohol and drugs. But, he loved music and he loved baseball. He was a better guitarist than most and an even better baseball player. Yet, sometimes he’d report to practice with a bad elbow because of extensive guitar practice. Unlike many, however, John had the distinction of being drafted to play professional sports. He was drafted in the 44th round by the SF Giants and spent almost four years moving through their minor league system with less than stellar results.
Last year, in an unusual trade deal, John made a few headlines by being traded to the Laredo Broncos by the Calgary Vipers for 10 maple bats (black, 34”, double-dipped, maple bats). The bats were branded with “John Odom Bat Trade” and were later sold to Ripley’s Believe It or Not to raise money for charity. John smiled and made the most of it as news crews and reporters picked up the story. It wasn’t intended as a publicity stunt or to take a shot at John. Nevertheless, when John changed teams, something of himself changed too.
He packed up and drove nearly 30 hours to Laredo and when he arrived everyone wanted to know about the bats. In one of his first outings, the home team cranked up the Batman theme song as John warmed up on the mound. He was taunted and mocked for three ruthless innings until his manager knew he had to get him out of there. When he realized John becoming more and more withdrawn, a team meeting was even called to alert everyone that there would be no more talking about the trade or bats. After his third successful start, John told his coach he just couldn’t take it any more and he was going home to get his life straightened out. Five months later, John was found dead at the age of 26 by an accidental drug overdose. The Broncos and his coach only found out two months later when they tried to call and see if he was interested in pitching again.
I don’t presume to know by any means what all was going on in John Odom’s life. Nor do I presume to know what’s going on in yours. And I don’t presume to know why such a remarkable young man died at the age of 26. I do only wish he had died knowing that he was precious child of God. So many people we encounter everyday go through life being told they aren’t worth the space they’re taking up. Many sometimes feel they’re about as useful as a piece of wood. But God tells us that each one of us were formed for an eternal and divine purpose. Whether we are living in the slums of Mumbai or dusting the furniture in a penthouse on 5th Ave - Each one of us has sacred worth. Each one of us was given life at a great cost. The trade involved a piece of wood. But it wasn’t so much the value of the wood as it was what was on the wood. In the fullness of time, God offered his Son, stretched out on a piece of wood, for the redemption of the whole world. For everything else there’s MasterCard, but for you, and me, and for John, it had to be priceless. It reminds me of the old violin parable “The Touch of the Master’s Hand.”

It was battered and scarred,

And the auctioneer thought it

hardly worth his while

To waste much time on the old violin,

but he held it up with a smile.

"What am I bid, good people", he cried,

"Who starts the bidding for me?"

"One dollar, one dollar, Do I hear two?"

"Two dollars, who makes it three?"

"Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three,"

But, No,

From the room far back a gray bearded man

Came forward and picked up the bow,

Then wiping the dust from the old violin

And tightening up the strings,

He played a melody, pure and sweet

As sweet as the angel sings.

The music ceased and the auctioneer

With a voice that was quiet and low,

Said "What now am I bid for this old violin?"

As he held it aloft with its' bow.

"One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?"

"Two thousand, Who makes it three?"

"Three thousand once, three thousand twice,

Going and gone", said he.

The audience cheered,

But some of them cried,

"We just don't understand."

"What changed its' worth?"

Swift came the reply.

"The Touch of the Masters Hand."

And many a man with life out of tune

All battered and scarred with sin

Is auctioned cheap to a thankless world

Much like that old violin.

A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,

A game and he travels on.

He is going once, he is going twice,

He is going and almost gone.

But the Master comes,

And the foolish crowd never can quite understand,

The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought

By the Touch of the Masters' Hand (by Myra Brooks Welch)

10 maple bats stamped with the words “John Odom Trade.” It wasn’t so much the value of the wood as it is what was on the wood- John Odom. And John Odom, yes, you are a child of the Most High. People are dying to know they are a child of God. And not just to hear it, but to know it and to experience it. It’s time for the Church to be the Church! May those to whom love is a stranger find in you generous friends. Yours are the hands and feet of Christ! Choose this day to transform the world with the hope of Jesus Christ.