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.

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.

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.

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.