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.

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.

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!
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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

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

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

“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

“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