"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?
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
A king's tale
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.
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.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Dream deferred
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.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Trick or treat
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!
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!
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Walls come down
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."
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."
Friday, October 22, 2010
Good news run
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.
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.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Divine foolishness
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
On the mantel (mantle)
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?
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?
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Sandy clay
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.
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.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
How do you spend it
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
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
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Worth it all
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.
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.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Benches, sheets, and hookers
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.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
The world is flat
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
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Sermon-tossed
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.
Friday, May 14, 2010
The cost
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
No one listens?
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.)
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.)
Friday, April 30, 2010
Between storms
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.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Smoke and ash
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.
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.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
What happened
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.
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.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Broken chalice
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.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Part of us?
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.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Wonder disappears
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!
----------------------------------------
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.
----------------------------------------
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.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Sandy's last days
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.”
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.”
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Commissioner's prayer
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.
Friday, February 12, 2010
aftermath pt 2
“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
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
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
aftermath
“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
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
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Williams to wall street
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.
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.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Fine dining
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.
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.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
See the game. Save a life
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
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
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