I first learned the term in seminary, I believe. In conversations with classmates, we would speak of “C & E’s” with disdain. The term is shorthand for “Christmas and Easters,” meaning those church members who only show up on those two holidays. In discussions with classmates, we laid the problems of the church solidly at the feet of the C & E’s. After all, if “those people” only attended more regularly and gave more generously, then we would have no attendance or budgetary problems at our churches. Their lack of faithfulness was not only harming themselves, but it was mortally wounding all of Christianity.
I am glad to say that the years have brought me new perspectives in many areas, including this one. After all, we all know that families are complicated. At the holidays, there are those who love every minute of the family gatherings, who revel in the chance to be with their kinfolks. And there are others at the same gathering who are counting the seconds until they get to retreat to the blissful silence of their own homes.
Why, then, should I be judgmental of those whose faith life does not mirror mine exactly? For all I know, the person who is in church only twice a year works at a Sunday job and has had to take precious time off to make it to church that often. Someone else might have been so wounded by the church years ago that it has taken a huge act of faith to step into the door even once a year. Another person might feel so busy or burdened with everyday life that adding regular worship into the mix would be the straw that would break the camel’s back. I cannot know the situation of every person who walks into the door, and so I certainly will not waste my time judging that which I cannot know.
Instead, I can’t wait to welcome anyone who comes through our doors on Christmas Eve! Depending on weather, we are expecting somewhere around 1500 people. Our worship leaders, musicians, ushers, and many others have been working on making sure that there is room for everyone, and that all of our guests feel welcome. Our greatest hope and prayer is that someone out there might hear the Good News in a way that will give them a glimpse of hope, and maybe even change their lives. All we can do is put out the welcome mat as much as possible, and trust that God will do the rest. We’re all in this life together, and I pray that there are people out there who will find their way home on Friday night.
You see, I don’t call them “C & E’s” anymore. I call them “family.”
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Pickets
The first email I got about it said, “Can you believe he has sunk even lower?” Actually, I think he’s already been as low as you can go, so I’m not sure that I would characterize his current plan as “lower.”
The email was about Fred Phelps and his tiny, family church, and their plan to picket Elizabeth Edwards’ funeral. Do I think that it is reprehensible? Of course. But the fact is that I am already too-well-acquainted with Mr. Phelps and his doctrine of hatred. About the only thing that he could do that would surprise me would be to march alongside Jesse Jackson in a civil rights parade.
My one claim to fame is that I have been picketed by the man three times. I was pastor of a church in midtown Kansas City that took some stances that made him mad. The first time that I received the advance-warning fax from him, in which he called me a “lying, sodomite whore,” I admit that I was shaken. What was he going to do? It turns out that what he did was stay home while he sent some family members, including some young children who may have been blessedly unable to read the signs which they carried. When the protesters started to sing “God hates America” while they walked all over a US flag, they attracted the attention of some neighbors and passerby. They left abruptly.
The next time, we were more prepared. We had volunteers flank the sidewalks where the protesters stood, to provide a line of protection as our worshippers walked from the parking lot. When they started singing “God hates America,” we had a guitar and a singing group on the front steps, singing “They Will Know We Are Christians by our Love.” All went well, relatively speaking, until . . . When I was in my robe and headed into the sanctuary for the worship service, I glanced out the door and saw a lone latecomer who was having to run the gauntlet alone. I stepped outside to accompany that person. When the protestors saw me in the robe and realized that I was the pastor- well, let’s just say that they reinforced the message that they had faxed earlier. Yikes.
The final time, they came to protest the Rev. and Congressman Emanuel Cleaver, who was speaking at a program at our church. The veteran of many Phelps protests himself, Rev. Cleaver simply waited until the protesters left before showing up. Without anyone to yell at, they packed up and went home.
It appears to me that Phelps’ “church” has done more to galvanize those who are opposed to his ideas than my preaching could ever do. After all, there are now groups of motorcycle-riding, flag-carrying, kind-of-tough guys who now drive countless miles to show up at funerals in order to quell anti-gay protests. That’s pretty amazing, when you think about it. And it is another reminder that, when it’s love versus hate, love will always have the last word.
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never put it out. Keep picketing if you must, Fred. You’ve already lost this one.
The email was about Fred Phelps and his tiny, family church, and their plan to picket Elizabeth Edwards’ funeral. Do I think that it is reprehensible? Of course. But the fact is that I am already too-well-acquainted with Mr. Phelps and his doctrine of hatred. About the only thing that he could do that would surprise me would be to march alongside Jesse Jackson in a civil rights parade.
My one claim to fame is that I have been picketed by the man three times. I was pastor of a church in midtown Kansas City that took some stances that made him mad. The first time that I received the advance-warning fax from him, in which he called me a “lying, sodomite whore,” I admit that I was shaken. What was he going to do? It turns out that what he did was stay home while he sent some family members, including some young children who may have been blessedly unable to read the signs which they carried. When the protesters started to sing “God hates America” while they walked all over a US flag, they attracted the attention of some neighbors and passerby. They left abruptly.
The next time, we were more prepared. We had volunteers flank the sidewalks where the protesters stood, to provide a line of protection as our worshippers walked from the parking lot. When they started singing “God hates America,” we had a guitar and a singing group on the front steps, singing “They Will Know We Are Christians by our Love.” All went well, relatively speaking, until . . . When I was in my robe and headed into the sanctuary for the worship service, I glanced out the door and saw a lone latecomer who was having to run the gauntlet alone. I stepped outside to accompany that person. When the protestors saw me in the robe and realized that I was the pastor- well, let’s just say that they reinforced the message that they had faxed earlier. Yikes.
The final time, they came to protest the Rev. and Congressman Emanuel Cleaver, who was speaking at a program at our church. The veteran of many Phelps protests himself, Rev. Cleaver simply waited until the protesters left before showing up. Without anyone to yell at, they packed up and went home.
It appears to me that Phelps’ “church” has done more to galvanize those who are opposed to his ideas than my preaching could ever do. After all, there are now groups of motorcycle-riding, flag-carrying, kind-of-tough guys who now drive countless miles to show up at funerals in order to quell anti-gay protests. That’s pretty amazing, when you think about it. And it is another reminder that, when it’s love versus hate, love will always have the last word.
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never put it out. Keep picketing if you must, Fred. You’ve already lost this one.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Graced
As I was making the 10-minute drive to church this morning, an amazingly gorgeous dawn was at its peak. A couple of cardinals flew in front of my car. As my eyes followed them, they flew past an owl sitting in a tree by the road. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a real, live owl hanging out in nature before! I drove a little farther, and a deer on my right paused before disappearing in a flash of white tail. As the road meandered between two lakes, I saw the sunrise in all of its glory. I pulled into a parking lot overlooking one of the lakes, to be able to spend a few moments looking fully at the sky and water. Before I had even arrived at church, my soul had been touched by the beauty of God’s world.
At church, the choir presented their Christmas cantata at two of the services. The music and readings were powerful, and I loved sitting back and allowing the music to convey the message of good news. At the contemporary service, the band did a great job in playing both familiar and new Christmas songs. “Witness,” a women’s musical group, sang songs with incredibly tight harmonies and sweet voices.
So often, weekend worship feels like something for me to make happen. Whether or not people experience God in a new way seems up to the worship service I plan or the words I speak. Today, I was reminded that God moves in times and places that might have little or nothing to do with my own effort. Wildlife, a sunrise, music. All of these things have opened my heart to God today, and there was nothing I did to earn it. There’s a church-y word for these types of things: Grace. And for that, I am thankful.
At church, the choir presented their Christmas cantata at two of the services. The music and readings were powerful, and I loved sitting back and allowing the music to convey the message of good news. At the contemporary service, the band did a great job in playing both familiar and new Christmas songs. “Witness,” a women’s musical group, sang songs with incredibly tight harmonies and sweet voices.
So often, weekend worship feels like something for me to make happen. Whether or not people experience God in a new way seems up to the worship service I plan or the words I speak. Today, I was reminded that God moves in times and places that might have little or nothing to do with my own effort. Wildlife, a sunrise, music. All of these things have opened my heart to God today, and there was nothing I did to earn it. There’s a church-y word for these types of things: Grace. And for that, I am thankful.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Missouri Safety Inspections
Today, I am thankful for Missouri’s requirement of safety inspections for motor vehicles. Like the rest of you, I have had my share of “why do I need to mess with this?” moments in the past. I have wondered if I would be ripped off by a mechanic who could hold me hostage by decreeing my car unsafe for licensing. I even admit that I enjoyed the years of living in Kansas, where we didn’t have to mess with it.
All of that changed last night. Winston had accepted a ride to and from college with one of his friends, rather than drive himself in his own car. It is a six-hour trip, and it made sense to have company. I asked the obligatory parental question, “Is she a safe driver?” I didn’t think to ask, “How are the tires on her car?”
The first flat tire occurred south of Joplin. A passing car stopped to help, and they were on their way before too long. When the second tire shredded similarly thirty miles down the road, they were stuck on the shoulder of a highway exit ramp. Not having a second spare tire, of course, they had to wait for a tow truck. Their flashing lights were on, and they had even placed an orange cone behind the car. In spite of these precautions, a speeding car sideswiped them. The mirror and front bumper were torn off the car, and the side of the car was smushed. The driver never even hit the brakes as he/she sped off.
It could have been so much worse. They were both wearing their seatbelts, and neither one of them was hurt. They were towed to a Walmart that, amazingly, was open and changing tires on the Sunday night of Thanksgiving weekend. The car, while damaged, was driveable. They were able to limp the last 3 hours back to college.
It could have been so much worse. The tire guy said that it was not that they had driven over anything that damaged the tires. The tires shredded because they were literally worn out. If it had been raining, those bald tires could have taken them off the road. When the tires finally gave up the ghost and fell apart, they could have spun out at highway speeds. The car that hit them could have hit them at a different, more dangerous angle. It could have been so much worse.
I’m trying not to dwell on the what-could-haves or the why-didn’t-theys. (Not easy for me so soon after the accident.) Instead, I am choosing to see the Missouri safety inspection requirement in a whole new light. Those tires didn’t go bald overnight, and they were on a car licensed in a state that has no vehicle inspections. While we can’t prevent every bad thing from happening, there are some things that can be averted. So, the next time I am grumbling about having to drag my car somewhere to get it inspected before licensing, I will remember last night. And I will try to tell the mechanic “thank you” for being part of keeping my family safe.
All of that changed last night. Winston had accepted a ride to and from college with one of his friends, rather than drive himself in his own car. It is a six-hour trip, and it made sense to have company. I asked the obligatory parental question, “Is she a safe driver?” I didn’t think to ask, “How are the tires on her car?”
The first flat tire occurred south of Joplin. A passing car stopped to help, and they were on their way before too long. When the second tire shredded similarly thirty miles down the road, they were stuck on the shoulder of a highway exit ramp. Not having a second spare tire, of course, they had to wait for a tow truck. Their flashing lights were on, and they had even placed an orange cone behind the car. In spite of these precautions, a speeding car sideswiped them. The mirror and front bumper were torn off the car, and the side of the car was smushed. The driver never even hit the brakes as he/she sped off.
It could have been so much worse. They were both wearing their seatbelts, and neither one of them was hurt. They were towed to a Walmart that, amazingly, was open and changing tires on the Sunday night of Thanksgiving weekend. The car, while damaged, was driveable. They were able to limp the last 3 hours back to college.
It could have been so much worse. The tire guy said that it was not that they had driven over anything that damaged the tires. The tires shredded because they were literally worn out. If it had been raining, those bald tires could have taken them off the road. When the tires finally gave up the ghost and fell apart, they could have spun out at highway speeds. The car that hit them could have hit them at a different, more dangerous angle. It could have been so much worse.
I’m trying not to dwell on the what-could-haves or the why-didn’t-theys. (Not easy for me so soon after the accident.) Instead, I am choosing to see the Missouri safety inspection requirement in a whole new light. Those tires didn’t go bald overnight, and they were on a car licensed in a state that has no vehicle inspections. While we can’t prevent every bad thing from happening, there are some things that can be averted. So, the next time I am grumbling about having to drag my car somewhere to get it inspected before licensing, I will remember last night. And I will try to tell the mechanic “thank you” for being part of keeping my family safe.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
The Tinkling Christmas Tree
No, I didn’t mean “twinkling” Christmas tree. I meant what I wrote.
Living in a home with a multiply-allergic husband, we have an annual debate about the Christmas tree. He maintains that real Christmas trees bring out his allergies. I counter that artificial trees harbor dust and other allergens, and that it isn’t Christmas without the smell of a fresh tree in the house. Over the years, we have worked out a compromise: we get a real Christmas tree. As you can tell, marriages don’t last 26 years without that type of mutual respect for each others’ needs.
We try to do everything we can to minimize the potential allergens in a real tree. This year, for instance, I bathed the trunk in bleach water, to kill any molds lurking on the trunk. He hosed off the entire tree, to wash off any pollens. The most important thing we try to do, however, is get the freshest tree possible. We found a tree lot in Blue Springs that had Fraser fir trees with lovely soft needles. After picking out the most beautiful tree on the lot, we brought it home. And the tinkling has begun.
The lovely, soft, seemingly fresh needles tinkle to the ground whenever we touch the tree. We pulled out sentimental ornaments one by one as we decorated the tree. Each popsicle-stick children’s ornament or glittery glass ball was met by happy memories- and a cascade of falling needles- as it was placed on the tree. By the time we had gotten the tree decorated, the floor was covered in a carpet of green needles. Adding water to the stand results in a needle-green hairdo. I told the kids to enjoy the green tree before they returned to school, since the tree will certainly be bare brown branches by the time that they come home in mid-December.
Oh well. The most important part of the tree is the ornaments, anyway. We have ornaments that mark different stages of our married life, and our children at different ages. Some ornaments were gifts from dear friends and family, others were acquired on trips, and others are there simply because we thought they were pretty. I will enjoy looking at the ornaments, even as they sit on the stubbly remnants of a Charlie Brown tree. Christmas traditions aren't about perfection, they are about memories and laughter and love, even in the midst of imperfection.
Silver bells may be the sound of Christmas for some people. In our household this year, Christmas will sound like the tinkle of falling needles. Fa-la-la-la-la.
Living in a home with a multiply-allergic husband, we have an annual debate about the Christmas tree. He maintains that real Christmas trees bring out his allergies. I counter that artificial trees harbor dust and other allergens, and that it isn’t Christmas without the smell of a fresh tree in the house. Over the years, we have worked out a compromise: we get a real Christmas tree. As you can tell, marriages don’t last 26 years without that type of mutual respect for each others’ needs.
We try to do everything we can to minimize the potential allergens in a real tree. This year, for instance, I bathed the trunk in bleach water, to kill any molds lurking on the trunk. He hosed off the entire tree, to wash off any pollens. The most important thing we try to do, however, is get the freshest tree possible. We found a tree lot in Blue Springs that had Fraser fir trees with lovely soft needles. After picking out the most beautiful tree on the lot, we brought it home. And the tinkling has begun.
The lovely, soft, seemingly fresh needles tinkle to the ground whenever we touch the tree. We pulled out sentimental ornaments one by one as we decorated the tree. Each popsicle-stick children’s ornament or glittery glass ball was met by happy memories- and a cascade of falling needles- as it was placed on the tree. By the time we had gotten the tree decorated, the floor was covered in a carpet of green needles. Adding water to the stand results in a needle-green hairdo. I told the kids to enjoy the green tree before they returned to school, since the tree will certainly be bare brown branches by the time that they come home in mid-December.
Oh well. The most important part of the tree is the ornaments, anyway. We have ornaments that mark different stages of our married life, and our children at different ages. Some ornaments were gifts from dear friends and family, others were acquired on trips, and others are there simply because we thought they were pretty. I will enjoy looking at the ornaments, even as they sit on the stubbly remnants of a Charlie Brown tree. Christmas traditions aren't about perfection, they are about memories and laughter and love, even in the midst of imperfection.
Silver bells may be the sound of Christmas for some people. In our household this year, Christmas will sound like the tinkle of falling needles. Fa-la-la-la-la.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
TSA
With all of the controversy surrounding the new body scan and invasive pat-downs at our airports, there is a contingent of people who have not been heard from. I have great compassion for the individuals who work for the TSA. These people are charged with ensuring our safety in the skies. To carry out that task, they are now required to look at revealing images and/or invade the personal space of countless airline passengers.
Think about the joylessness of that task. No one bounds out of bed in the morning, thinking “Hooray! Today at work, I might get to see a blurry x-ray of a 48-year old preacher!” No one goes to work hoping that, in the words of the current viral video, they will get to “touch the junk” of some crabby, sweaty passenger who has been lugging baggage around the airport.
If you have ever given birth in a hospital, you might be as blasé as I am about the new security procedures. After all, I remember a constant stream of people in and out of my hospital room, checking how far along I was. (I have a hazy recollection of the person pushing a broom checking me, but Andy assures me that memory was drug-induced.) The birth itself was attended by a cast of thousands. After all that, posing fully clothed for an airport x-ray just isn’t that intimidating.
True, I do not want to be exposed to unnecessary radiation. Nor do I, however, want my airplane to fall unnecessarily out of the sky. In fact, the not-falling-out-of-the-sky alternative is my preference 100% of the time. Having a bored security guard invade my personal space is a small price to pay for the gift of arriving alive.
It saddens me to live in such a time as this, where we have to protect ourselves from each other so aggressively. However, the TSA personnel are not the enemy. They are simply people trying to do a job, a job which has gotten significantly more challenging and unpleasant. During this busy Thanksgiving travel season, I am thankful that they are willing to be there for us.
Think about the joylessness of that task. No one bounds out of bed in the morning, thinking “Hooray! Today at work, I might get to see a blurry x-ray of a 48-year old preacher!” No one goes to work hoping that, in the words of the current viral video, they will get to “touch the junk” of some crabby, sweaty passenger who has been lugging baggage around the airport.
If you have ever given birth in a hospital, you might be as blasé as I am about the new security procedures. After all, I remember a constant stream of people in and out of my hospital room, checking how far along I was. (I have a hazy recollection of the person pushing a broom checking me, but Andy assures me that memory was drug-induced.) The birth itself was attended by a cast of thousands. After all that, posing fully clothed for an airport x-ray just isn’t that intimidating.
True, I do not want to be exposed to unnecessary radiation. Nor do I, however, want my airplane to fall unnecessarily out of the sky. In fact, the not-falling-out-of-the-sky alternative is my preference 100% of the time. Having a bored security guard invade my personal space is a small price to pay for the gift of arriving alive.
It saddens me to live in such a time as this, where we have to protect ourselves from each other so aggressively. However, the TSA personnel are not the enemy. They are simply people trying to do a job, a job which has gotten significantly more challenging and unpleasant. During this busy Thanksgiving travel season, I am thankful that they are willing to be there for us.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Family
My mother’s birthday is Tuesday, and all of her siblings are coming to celebrate. In many families, it is not unusual for families to gather regularly. Our family has never been one for big reunions. Relatives coming this week to Kansas City from California, North Carolina, and Florida are a Big Deal for us.
I got to spend some time last night with my sister and a California Cousin. Since they live so far away and we see them so rarely, they’ve always been “The California Cousins” to me. Although we’ve been together only a handful of times, I was amazed at how quickly and easily conversation flowed last night. We were laughing at family jokes and talking about the stuff of our lives as if we had seen each other days instead of years ago. What is it about simply being “family” that creates those connections?
The three of us do share similar looks and build. Those Radford genes run deep. We share more than looks, however. We speak the same language. We can talk about Who-Who, Aunt Taddy, Honey and Money with easy familiarity. (Southerners have always been creative at family names.) We know who is married to whom and which children belong to which branch of the family. Our mothers wore the same wedding dress, and all three of us wore it too. There are so many things that bind us together.
While we were talking, it came time to nibble on some cheese and crackers. I demurred. My mouth is healing from some recent gum surgery, and soft foods are still easiest for me. That was when I discovered that my cousin has had the same surgery to fix the same congenital condition as me. As I said, those Radford genes run deep.
What is it that creates “family?” Shared language, wedding dresses, and gum problems are certainly facets of being family. Having those things in common somehow opens the door for deeper relationship that is not affected by distance or frequency of visit.
What is it that creates a church family? Perhaps it is in our genes, since we claim the same spiritual heritage. By sharing in rituals and language, we do forge bonds. We connect as we sing carols by candlelight or go on mission trips together. We become family as we pray for one another, mourn the loss of loved ones, and celebrate resurrection hope together. There may be times when those connections fade, but something still holds us together. I cannot fully define what it is that holds us together, but I know some names of what it looks like: faith, hope, and love.
And happy birthday, Mom! It is great to be part of your family.
I got to spend some time last night with my sister and a California Cousin. Since they live so far away and we see them so rarely, they’ve always been “The California Cousins” to me. Although we’ve been together only a handful of times, I was amazed at how quickly and easily conversation flowed last night. We were laughing at family jokes and talking about the stuff of our lives as if we had seen each other days instead of years ago. What is it about simply being “family” that creates those connections?
The three of us do share similar looks and build. Those Radford genes run deep. We share more than looks, however. We speak the same language. We can talk about Who-Who, Aunt Taddy, Honey and Money with easy familiarity. (Southerners have always been creative at family names.) We know who is married to whom and which children belong to which branch of the family. Our mothers wore the same wedding dress, and all three of us wore it too. There are so many things that bind us together.
While we were talking, it came time to nibble on some cheese and crackers. I demurred. My mouth is healing from some recent gum surgery, and soft foods are still easiest for me. That was when I discovered that my cousin has had the same surgery to fix the same congenital condition as me. As I said, those Radford genes run deep.
What is it that creates “family?” Shared language, wedding dresses, and gum problems are certainly facets of being family. Having those things in common somehow opens the door for deeper relationship that is not affected by distance or frequency of visit.
What is it that creates a church family? Perhaps it is in our genes, since we claim the same spiritual heritage. By sharing in rituals and language, we do forge bonds. We connect as we sing carols by candlelight or go on mission trips together. We become family as we pray for one another, mourn the loss of loved ones, and celebrate resurrection hope together. There may be times when those connections fade, but something still holds us together. I cannot fully define what it is that holds us together, but I know some names of what it looks like: faith, hope, and love.
And happy birthday, Mom! It is great to be part of your family.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Rest in Peace, Charlie O'Donnell
Charlie O’Donnell died. That name may mean nothing more to you than it did to me when I first read it. But then his obituary described who he was. He was the voice of “Wheel of Fortune.” He was the man who announced that a lucky contestant had won “ONE HUNDRED THOUUUUUUUSAND DOLLARS!!!” For 28 years, his voice was tied inextricably to the show, even as recently as Friday night. He was also the voice for the Emmys, the Oscars, “The Dating Game,” “The Newlywed Game,” “Joker’s Wild,” and countless other shows.
Can you hear his voice in your head yet?
In many ways, he was a lot like God. We tend to think of God as the voice of thundering pronouncement. “Pay attention. I’m about to tell you what you are supposed to do with your life.” “Marry this person.” “Take this job.” Even “turn right at the next light.” (Oh, wait a minute, that last one is now handled by GPS.) We understand and long for the deep-voiced God whose voice is heard easily over the cheering audience. And, indeed, at times, that is exactly what happens.
However, the Biblical witness also mentions God in the silence, the God of the still, small voice. God’s voice is sometimes found in the midnight carols of angels. Sometimes, we can only hear the voice of God in the calm after the storm. The voice of God might be deep and thundering, but it also might be found in the timbre of the voice of a friend. And, at times, it might simply be carried on a sigh. If we’re only listening for the big and booming voice, we might miss out on the voice that is speaking to us.
Rest in peace, Charlie O’Donnell. Thank you for the years of tidings of joy that you brought to many people.
Can you hear his voice in your head yet?
In many ways, he was a lot like God. We tend to think of God as the voice of thundering pronouncement. “Pay attention. I’m about to tell you what you are supposed to do with your life.” “Marry this person.” “Take this job.” Even “turn right at the next light.” (Oh, wait a minute, that last one is now handled by GPS.) We understand and long for the deep-voiced God whose voice is heard easily over the cheering audience. And, indeed, at times, that is exactly what happens.
However, the Biblical witness also mentions God in the silence, the God of the still, small voice. God’s voice is sometimes found in the midnight carols of angels. Sometimes, we can only hear the voice of God in the calm after the storm. The voice of God might be deep and thundering, but it also might be found in the timbre of the voice of a friend. And, at times, it might simply be carried on a sigh. If we’re only listening for the big and booming voice, we might miss out on the voice that is speaking to us.
Rest in peace, Charlie O’Donnell. Thank you for the years of tidings of joy that you brought to many people.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Politics and Pastoring
It is an interesting season in which to be a pastor. As the level of political hyperbole reaches a fever pitch, I find myself fairly silenced. There are times when I see a political posting on Facebook that makes me smile or chuckle, and I’m tempted to push “like.” I have a church member running as part of a political party, and a member of a former church running as part of another political party. I like them both as people, but pushing “like” for either can be seen as a partisan statement. There are times when I have had to bite my tongue. (Some of you know that is not always an easy task for me.)
It is not that I do not have strongly-held political convictions. I do. I will be exercising my right to vote tomorrow morning, and I will be watching the election returns with definite hopes for the outcomes.
However . . .
My role right now is not to push my political convictions onto others. My role is to talk about faith and life and hope and God in such a way that it might speak to the souls of people. Not every person that I have the privilege of speaking such high truths to will share my same political worldview. I would hate for someone to be unable to hear the Gospel from me because of something as transient as politics. You can be Republican, Democrat, Tea Party, Libertarian, or even part of “The Rent is Too Damn High” Party (which really does exist), and you will still be welcome in worship with us.
Other colleagues of mine (including my bishop) have spoken eloquently about the unhealthy climate that passes for political discourse in these days. I would echo their words and encourage us to treat each other with love and respect, even when we are talking about our political differences. Beyond that, however, there is not much more that I have to say publicly. Except for this:
Be thankful for the gift of a democratic vote. Use it well, vote your convictions boldly. And, when all of the shouting is over, let’s get back to the important business of sharing God’s love with the person next to you. Even if they voted differently than you did.
It is not that I do not have strongly-held political convictions. I do. I will be exercising my right to vote tomorrow morning, and I will be watching the election returns with definite hopes for the outcomes.
However . . .
My role right now is not to push my political convictions onto others. My role is to talk about faith and life and hope and God in such a way that it might speak to the souls of people. Not every person that I have the privilege of speaking such high truths to will share my same political worldview. I would hate for someone to be unable to hear the Gospel from me because of something as transient as politics. You can be Republican, Democrat, Tea Party, Libertarian, or even part of “The Rent is Too Damn High” Party (which really does exist), and you will still be welcome in worship with us.
Other colleagues of mine (including my bishop) have spoken eloquently about the unhealthy climate that passes for political discourse in these days. I would echo their words and encourage us to treat each other with love and respect, even when we are talking about our political differences. Beyond that, however, there is not much more that I have to say publicly. Except for this:
Be thankful for the gift of a democratic vote. Use it well, vote your convictions boldly. And, when all of the shouting is over, let’s get back to the important business of sharing God’s love with the person next to you. Even if they voted differently than you did.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Good and Faithful Servant
Although I have been a part of many, many funerals, today is one of the few times that I have officiated at a funeral for someone with “Rev.” in front of their name. I had the chance to know Rev. Marvin Fortel only for the few months that I have been in Blue Springs, but that limited acquaintance has been a joy.
The only reason that I can blog about him is that I am fairly certain that Harriet, his wife, does not read these writings. I have rarely met a more modest couple. Even today’s funeral is supposed to be a modest, dignified, and simple affair. I will do my best to abide by their wishes, but I have no control over the number of people who attend. Harriet’s expectations are that only family and a few others will be there. Based on the phone calls that we have had at church, she is mistaken.
My visits with Marvin were a delight. I got to hear some wonderful stories about his life in ministry. For instance, I got to hear about the time when Martin Luther King, Jr. had been assassinated. He partnered with the African-American leaders in his community for a peaceful march. The members of his church were less than pleased to see the pastor of their church splayed across the front page of the paper the next day, co-leading the march. I got to hear about appointments that were easy and joyful, and those that were less so, as is true for every pastor in our system.
Best of all, as pastors are wont to do when together, we talked about current church issues and politics. He had a marvelous take on the whole Koran-burning mess that still makes me smile to think about. (I would tell you, but I still see Harriet elbowing him, saying “Oh, Marvin!”) I always left his house feeling better than when I arrived, and I believe that there are many people out there who would say the exact same thing about his years in ministry.
One day, our associate pastor made a request when visiting him. Rather than Choong-Ho praying for him, would Marvin offer a blessing for him? Marvin did, and both of them were affected by that experience. It was an Elisha/Elijah moment, and I believe that Choong-Ho’s ministry will be more powerful for the blessing of a man such as Marvin. I wish I had thought of it myself. Failing that, however, I am certain that I have indeed been blessed by my too-short friendship with an amazing man.
Today, we will lay Marvin to rest. May his witty, engaged, energetic, forward-thinking, compassionate, obedient, and loving spirit continue on in all of those whom he has blessed in his ministry.
The only reason that I can blog about him is that I am fairly certain that Harriet, his wife, does not read these writings. I have rarely met a more modest couple. Even today’s funeral is supposed to be a modest, dignified, and simple affair. I will do my best to abide by their wishes, but I have no control over the number of people who attend. Harriet’s expectations are that only family and a few others will be there. Based on the phone calls that we have had at church, she is mistaken.
My visits with Marvin were a delight. I got to hear some wonderful stories about his life in ministry. For instance, I got to hear about the time when Martin Luther King, Jr. had been assassinated. He partnered with the African-American leaders in his community for a peaceful march. The members of his church were less than pleased to see the pastor of their church splayed across the front page of the paper the next day, co-leading the march. I got to hear about appointments that were easy and joyful, and those that were less so, as is true for every pastor in our system.
Best of all, as pastors are wont to do when together, we talked about current church issues and politics. He had a marvelous take on the whole Koran-burning mess that still makes me smile to think about. (I would tell you, but I still see Harriet elbowing him, saying “Oh, Marvin!”) I always left his house feeling better than when I arrived, and I believe that there are many people out there who would say the exact same thing about his years in ministry.
One day, our associate pastor made a request when visiting him. Rather than Choong-Ho praying for him, would Marvin offer a blessing for him? Marvin did, and both of them were affected by that experience. It was an Elisha/Elijah moment, and I believe that Choong-Ho’s ministry will be more powerful for the blessing of a man such as Marvin. I wish I had thought of it myself. Failing that, however, I am certain that I have indeed been blessed by my too-short friendship with an amazing man.
Today, we will lay Marvin to rest. May his witty, engaged, energetic, forward-thinking, compassionate, obedient, and loving spirit continue on in all of those whom he has blessed in his ministry.
Monday, October 18, 2010
The Difference Between 48 and 22
The difference between 48 and 22 is 26. This weekend, I discovered that the gap is much larger than that in human years. My 22-year-old son, Winn, was home with us. One day, he went out for a run. After running a few miles around our neighborhood, he discovered a 5-mile long trail in a nearby park, and so he ran it, also. After he got back from his long run, he told us what a beautiful trail it was.
Yesterday, Andy and I decided to hike the trail ourselves. If our son ran it at a pace of about 6 minutes per mile, we figured we would walk about half as slow, so the trail would take us a little bit more than an hour. We took off at a brisk pace, enjoying the beauty of the fall woods on a beautiful afternoon. We saw woodpeckers, groundhogs, and gorgeous lake views. We talked about work and life. We walked. And walked. And walked some more. The sun began to sink lower in the sky. Conversation slowed perceptibly. I stopped noticing the wildlife, and instead I focused on keeping one foot in front of the other. We decided that we must be most of the way there. I kept looking hopefully for any sign that the end of the trail was near. Finally, we emerged from the woods into a parking lot.
Except that it wasn’t our parking lot. It turns out that the trail included a mile of walking on the shoulder of a busy road. Watchfully keeping an eye on the speeding, oncoming traffic, we trudged the mile to the next parking lot. Which, once again, wasn’t our parking lot. We saw a map, showing us that we had almost another mile to go to our parking lot. Finally, two hours after we started out, we made it to the car, where I gratefully collapsed.
Last night, our muscles moaned and groaned. Today, I’m still a little stiff. Mainly, I’m put out that my 48-year-old body can’t romp through a long hike the way it used to. After all, if my son could run it, I should be able to walk it without thinking twice. It looks like some things don’t come as naturally at 48 as they did at 22. I’ll have to work a little harder on working out. However, the increase in wisdom, experience and joy that I have earned over the years- I wouldn’t trade them for anything!
Yesterday, Andy and I decided to hike the trail ourselves. If our son ran it at a pace of about 6 minutes per mile, we figured we would walk about half as slow, so the trail would take us a little bit more than an hour. We took off at a brisk pace, enjoying the beauty of the fall woods on a beautiful afternoon. We saw woodpeckers, groundhogs, and gorgeous lake views. We talked about work and life. We walked. And walked. And walked some more. The sun began to sink lower in the sky. Conversation slowed perceptibly. I stopped noticing the wildlife, and instead I focused on keeping one foot in front of the other. We decided that we must be most of the way there. I kept looking hopefully for any sign that the end of the trail was near. Finally, we emerged from the woods into a parking lot.
Except that it wasn’t our parking lot. It turns out that the trail included a mile of walking on the shoulder of a busy road. Watchfully keeping an eye on the speeding, oncoming traffic, we trudged the mile to the next parking lot. Which, once again, wasn’t our parking lot. We saw a map, showing us that we had almost another mile to go to our parking lot. Finally, two hours after we started out, we made it to the car, where I gratefully collapsed.
Last night, our muscles moaned and groaned. Today, I’m still a little stiff. Mainly, I’m put out that my 48-year-old body can’t romp through a long hike the way it used to. After all, if my son could run it, I should be able to walk it without thinking twice. It looks like some things don’t come as naturally at 48 as they did at 22. I’ll have to work a little harder on working out. However, the increase in wisdom, experience and joy that I have earned over the years- I wouldn’t trade them for anything!
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Something I Never Do
Having served churches in and around the urban core for many years, I have become hardened to the various hard-luck stories that have come my way. More than once, I believed someone and gave them money, only to have them show back up at church a few hours later, their breath reeking of what my money had purchased. I have been burned enough times that I decided I am not a very good judge of human character. Rather than buy alcohol and drugs for whoever has the best story, my default setting has been to not help anyone.
In this church and my previous church, the office staff handles the requests for assistance. There are guidelines that they utilize. When someone seeking assistance gets me instead of the office staff, I refer them back out to the people that can actually help them.
Until today. I first saw the woman’s face as I was in a pastoral conversation with someone else in the sanctuary. She was clearly lost, trying to find her way into the mostly-locked church building. There were tears on her face as she asked if there was a prayer service going on somewhere in the church. Failing that, she asked where the office was. I directed her there as I finished my conversation, but I knew that she and I would end up talking. Sure enough, she was waiting for me when I returned to my office.
I’ve heard it all. I’ve been lied to by the best. I can’t define why her story was so compelling for me. Her face was kind. She didn’t talk about faith in the way that people do when they want something from a preacher. She didn’t exhibit signs of substance abuse. Or maybe it did not have entirely to do with her. On this sunny autumn day, I am so blessed in so many ways. My car runs, my health is fine, I have a job I love. I know where I’m going to sleep tonight, and with whom. So spending my birthday check on a woman who might get a little closer to those things because of my gift makes a certain kind of sense.
At least, I hope so. Ultimately, hope is all I have to give.
In this church and my previous church, the office staff handles the requests for assistance. There are guidelines that they utilize. When someone seeking assistance gets me instead of the office staff, I refer them back out to the people that can actually help them.
Until today. I first saw the woman’s face as I was in a pastoral conversation with someone else in the sanctuary. She was clearly lost, trying to find her way into the mostly-locked church building. There were tears on her face as she asked if there was a prayer service going on somewhere in the church. Failing that, she asked where the office was. I directed her there as I finished my conversation, but I knew that she and I would end up talking. Sure enough, she was waiting for me when I returned to my office.
I’ve heard it all. I’ve been lied to by the best. I can’t define why her story was so compelling for me. Her face was kind. She didn’t talk about faith in the way that people do when they want something from a preacher. She didn’t exhibit signs of substance abuse. Or maybe it did not have entirely to do with her. On this sunny autumn day, I am so blessed in so many ways. My car runs, my health is fine, I have a job I love. I know where I’m going to sleep tonight, and with whom. So spending my birthday check on a woman who might get a little closer to those things because of my gift makes a certain kind of sense.
At least, I hope so. Ultimately, hope is all I have to give.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Facebook Birthday
I think I am pretty convinced that a Facebook birthday is one of the best gifts of this new information age. I am just a few hours into my birthday, and already I have heard from: the girl I sat next to in the flute section of our high school band; someone I scrubbed bathhouses with at a KOA campground during a college summer; my General Conference roommate; the president of my seminary; a niece in Florida; my sister in St. Louis; an assistant general secretary of the UMC (who is way cooler than her title sounds); clergy colleagues; and members of churches past and present. In other words, I have heard from friends from almost all walks and stages of my life. Wow.
It kind of feels like “This is Your Life” for normal people.
If birthdays are about celebrating where we’ve been and looking forward to the year ahead, then Facebook provides the perfect way to do just that. I may look like I’m busy at my desk today, working hard on church matters. Actually, I’m thinking about interminable high school band rehearsals made easier by surreptitious whispering. I’m remembering college summers spent cleaning up after campers. I’m thinking about churches I’ve served, and trusted colleagues who understand what this ministry thing is about. Mainly, I am thinking how blessed I have been by all of the people who have been in my life at just the right time.
I am blessed. Truly. If that’s the only thing that I’ve figured out in these 48 years, then that’s enough.
It kind of feels like “This is Your Life” for normal people.
If birthdays are about celebrating where we’ve been and looking forward to the year ahead, then Facebook provides the perfect way to do just that. I may look like I’m busy at my desk today, working hard on church matters. Actually, I’m thinking about interminable high school band rehearsals made easier by surreptitious whispering. I’m remembering college summers spent cleaning up after campers. I’m thinking about churches I’ve served, and trusted colleagues who understand what this ministry thing is about. Mainly, I am thinking how blessed I have been by all of the people who have been in my life at just the right time.
I am blessed. Truly. If that’s the only thing that I’ve figured out in these 48 years, then that’s enough.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
High School Reunion
My 30-year high school reunion is this weekend. I won’t be making the trek to Atlanta, but I did receive a questionnaire to send in. Most of the questions were fairly straightforward, until I got to the following: “What do you know now that you wish you knew 30 years ago?” After much thought, here is what I wanted to write:
“Life is much better than high school would leave you to believe. Being ‘in’ isn’t all that it is cracked up to be, and being ‘out’ is never the tragedy that it appears at the time. High school is an important time to test out who you are and might become. If you can do so without making any life-altering mistakes, that is all the better. It really does matter where you put a comma and how you use ‘its’ and ‘it’s,’ but it’s less likely that the quadratic formula or Avogadro’s number will come in handy once you are out of school. Parents are not as stupid as they seem, and, in reality, they are as interested as you are in seeing who you become. Even if faith doesn’t always make sense to you, it is invaluable to have something solid to hold on to when the rest of your world changes. High school is neither the end nor the beginning of the world, and the best news is that it ends at some point.”
I knew that the above words weren’t in line with the lighthearted comments that they were trying to compile. That questionnaire sat on my kitchen counter for over a week, as I tried to decide what to do. Finally, I completed the form and mailed it off to Atlanta.
When the booklets are handed out this weekend, my classmates will read, “Life keeps getting better and better.” Which it does. Thanks be to God.
“Life is much better than high school would leave you to believe. Being ‘in’ isn’t all that it is cracked up to be, and being ‘out’ is never the tragedy that it appears at the time. High school is an important time to test out who you are and might become. If you can do so without making any life-altering mistakes, that is all the better. It really does matter where you put a comma and how you use ‘its’ and ‘it’s,’ but it’s less likely that the quadratic formula or Avogadro’s number will come in handy once you are out of school. Parents are not as stupid as they seem, and, in reality, they are as interested as you are in seeing who you become. Even if faith doesn’t always make sense to you, it is invaluable to have something solid to hold on to when the rest of your world changes. High school is neither the end nor the beginning of the world, and the best news is that it ends at some point.”
I knew that the above words weren’t in line with the lighthearted comments that they were trying to compile. That questionnaire sat on my kitchen counter for over a week, as I tried to decide what to do. Finally, I completed the form and mailed it off to Atlanta.
When the booklets are handed out this weekend, my classmates will read, “Life keeps getting better and better.” Which it does. Thanks be to God.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Fireplaces
The cool evening last night made us decide to turn on our fireplace. “Turn on” truly is the operative word in our new-to-us home. We turned on the gas and lit the pilot light for the season. With the pilot duly lit, the fireplace is now controlled by a light switch in the wall. I flip the switch, and, poof, flames appear in our fireplace. Not only that, but this super-high efficiency fireplace actually heats the room. It is certainly a convenient way to have a burning fire that is also good for the heating bill and the environment.
I wish I could say that I liked it.
I grew up with a wood-burning fireplace. I still have childhood memories of sleeping in front of the fireplace during a weeklong ice-storm-induced power outage. We all smelled like wood smoke, but the logs kept us warm as we roughed it. The first house that Andy and I lived in did not have a fireplace, but we made sure that our next house did. When Andy and I moved up to a gas starter in a wood-burning fireplace, it felt a little like cheating. Our last house had a gas fireplace with fake logs, but at least we got to use a real lighter to light it. I grew to enjoy the convenience of being able to put out the fire by turning off the gas, even as I still longed for the crackle and smell of a wood fire.
But this house has a fireplace controlled by a light switch. It makes no illusion of being “real” fire. The logs, sealed behind glass, sit at unnatural positions, and the warning label clearly states that repositioning the logs carries great risk of catastrophe. The flames are eerily uniform, which makes watching the fire somewhat akin to watching the burners in the furnace. And the heat that it produces is so strong that, last night, we had to turn it off after only a few minutes.
I miss the real thing. I really do. Don’t get me wrong- my life will still have meaning and purpose, but the smell of wood smoke on a chilly day will always conjure up memories. I’ll be thankful for the warmth this winter, but something will be missing.
I just now looked up from my typing to realize that I now have a wood-burning fireplace in my “vintage” office. That fireplace hasn’t been used in years, but what could go wrong? Hey, it just goes to prove what I’ve been saying; it’s at God’s place that we find what’s really real. (And, if you notice that the pastors and staff of First Church smell smoky, you’ll know why!)
I wish I could say that I liked it.
I grew up with a wood-burning fireplace. I still have childhood memories of sleeping in front of the fireplace during a weeklong ice-storm-induced power outage. We all smelled like wood smoke, but the logs kept us warm as we roughed it. The first house that Andy and I lived in did not have a fireplace, but we made sure that our next house did. When Andy and I moved up to a gas starter in a wood-burning fireplace, it felt a little like cheating. Our last house had a gas fireplace with fake logs, but at least we got to use a real lighter to light it. I grew to enjoy the convenience of being able to put out the fire by turning off the gas, even as I still longed for the crackle and smell of a wood fire.
But this house has a fireplace controlled by a light switch. It makes no illusion of being “real” fire. The logs, sealed behind glass, sit at unnatural positions, and the warning label clearly states that repositioning the logs carries great risk of catastrophe. The flames are eerily uniform, which makes watching the fire somewhat akin to watching the burners in the furnace. And the heat that it produces is so strong that, last night, we had to turn it off after only a few minutes.
I miss the real thing. I really do. Don’t get me wrong- my life will still have meaning and purpose, but the smell of wood smoke on a chilly day will always conjure up memories. I’ll be thankful for the warmth this winter, but something will be missing.
I just now looked up from my typing to realize that I now have a wood-burning fireplace in my “vintage” office. That fireplace hasn’t been used in years, but what could go wrong? Hey, it just goes to prove what I’ve been saying; it’s at God’s place that we find what’s really real. (And, if you notice that the pastors and staff of First Church smell smoky, you’ll know why!)
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Steps
As I mentioned this weekend, I wear a pedometer. It is part of our Conference health plan. They give it to us for free, and they actually pay us cash money for our steps. Last year, I got $310 that I would not have gotten if I hadn’t worn the thing. If nothing else, the pedometer proves that I do indeed have my price. And it’s not that high.
The pedometer gods have issued a challenge: For this week, we are to average 1,000 more steps a day than we did in August. For me, that means that I am supposed to log a little over 11,000 steps per day. On the one hand, I appreciate their interest in my personal health and activity level. On the other hand, I find this latest challenge inconvenient, to say the least. If I am walking, then I am not sitting at my desk working. I am not reading my Bible. I can (and do) pray while walking, but it’s not the same as being in prayerful stillness. I am not patting my dog or snuggling my husband or baking cookies to send to my children. And, unless they are able bodied and have on walking shoes, I am not talking or listening or connecting with other people. In short, this walking business can interfere in my business of being me.
Last night, I had a few thousand steps to get in before bed. I was walking briskly around the house, tidying as I walked. With sustained movement, I was certain that I could hit my goal for the day. And then Andy called out to me from the deck. The thunderstorms to our north were creating a beautiful lightning show, and he wanted me to watch it with him. But I needed to get in my steps. . .
Yes, I made the right decision. The lightning was lovely to watch, and the guy I was holding hands with wasn’t so bad looking himself. Sometimes, our most important steps have absolutely nothing to do with a pedometer.
The pedometer gods have issued a challenge: For this week, we are to average 1,000 more steps a day than we did in August. For me, that means that I am supposed to log a little over 11,000 steps per day. On the one hand, I appreciate their interest in my personal health and activity level. On the other hand, I find this latest challenge inconvenient, to say the least. If I am walking, then I am not sitting at my desk working. I am not reading my Bible. I can (and do) pray while walking, but it’s not the same as being in prayerful stillness. I am not patting my dog or snuggling my husband or baking cookies to send to my children. And, unless they are able bodied and have on walking shoes, I am not talking or listening or connecting with other people. In short, this walking business can interfere in my business of being me.
Last night, I had a few thousand steps to get in before bed. I was walking briskly around the house, tidying as I walked. With sustained movement, I was certain that I could hit my goal for the day. And then Andy called out to me from the deck. The thunderstorms to our north were creating a beautiful lightning show, and he wanted me to watch it with him. But I needed to get in my steps. . .
Yes, I made the right decision. The lightning was lovely to watch, and the guy I was holding hands with wasn’t so bad looking himself. Sometimes, our most important steps have absolutely nothing to do with a pedometer.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Audio Adjustments
This week, my car was in the shop and I ended up driving loaner cars for 3 days. (My car is fine now, but the dealer’s initial repair ended up breaking something else.) After three days in two different cars, I was reassured that I really do like the car that I own better than those other cars I was driving, except for one thing. The stereos in those cars sounded much better than mine.
When I finally got back into my fixed and re-fixed car, the sound system really did sound as bad as I remembered. The loaner cars had surrounded me with stereo sound, while my car just sounded flat. And then a thought occurred to me. I reached up to my stereo and touched a button I had never touched before: “audio.” The word “Treble” appeared on my radio, along with a number- 0. I knew that having 0 worth of Treble was probably not good, so I adjusted it to the middle level of 5. I punched the audio button again and saw “Midrange-0.” I moved it up to 7. Once more, and I saw “Bass-0,” and so I moved it up, also. The next punch of the button told me that the only speakers I was using were the front speakers, so I adjusted that, also.
Suddenly, my car’s sound system sounded as good as the loaner cars! The embarrassing thing, though, is that I have been driving my car that way for three years. I know that I’m not a sound-techie type of person, but, even for me, that’s bad. All I had needed to do was adjust one button, and I would have had the stereo system that my car was built with.
The preacherly point here is either a) I’m really lousy at all things audio or b) at times, one adjustment in our lives can make a world of difference. Okay, it’s probably both. And, if you see me driving around Blue Springs with my stereo cranked up loud, you'll know why!
When I finally got back into my fixed and re-fixed car, the sound system really did sound as bad as I remembered. The loaner cars had surrounded me with stereo sound, while my car just sounded flat. And then a thought occurred to me. I reached up to my stereo and touched a button I had never touched before: “audio.” The word “Treble” appeared on my radio, along with a number- 0. I knew that having 0 worth of Treble was probably not good, so I adjusted it to the middle level of 5. I punched the audio button again and saw “Midrange-0.” I moved it up to 7. Once more, and I saw “Bass-0,” and so I moved it up, also. The next punch of the button told me that the only speakers I was using were the front speakers, so I adjusted that, also.
Suddenly, my car’s sound system sounded as good as the loaner cars! The embarrassing thing, though, is that I have been driving my car that way for three years. I know that I’m not a sound-techie type of person, but, even for me, that’s bad. All I had needed to do was adjust one button, and I would have had the stereo system that my car was built with.
The preacherly point here is either a) I’m really lousy at all things audio or b) at times, one adjustment in our lives can make a world of difference. Okay, it’s probably both. And, if you see me driving around Blue Springs with my stereo cranked up loud, you'll know why!
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Burning
As someone who is always cold and seeking heat, there is rarely a fire that I do not love. However, the pastor in Gainesville, Florida who plans to hold a public Koran-burning on September 11 has me, well, incensed. Persons around the world, particularly in war zones, are pleading with the man to cancel the burning, saying that their lives would be endangered by the backlash.
Pastor Jones is the pastor of a church of 30 people. How has a person who has such a limited impact in his home community suddenly become a player on the world stage? He says that he is praying about whether to do it or not, but he said in a recent sermon, “What we’re doing has no middle of the road. You have to believe it is totally, totally God or absolutely of the devil.” Perhaps he received “amen”s from the couple of dozen people or so that may have been in the congregation that day, but I feel fairly confident that the voices of the angels were not chiming in.
It puts me in an awkward position, trying to respond to one person’s absolute conviction that he is right with my own conviction that he’s not. My parents have been quick to call me to task in the past if I say something along the lines of “If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s intolerance!” Perhaps this situation is similar, and I am blinded to my own bias against people who are biased.
However, as someone who also follows the one whose birth was announced by the angels singing, “Peace on earth, good will to all,” I take personal offense at his planned action. When the course is unclear, the one thing I try to hold on to is love. Jesus didn’t speak about the Koran, or mosques, or many of the other hot topics that grab our national attention. He did say, however, that the two most important things in the whole world were loving God and loving neighbor. Until I get those right, I’m not going to waste my time burning anything- besides logs.
Pastor Jones is the pastor of a church of 30 people. How has a person who has such a limited impact in his home community suddenly become a player on the world stage? He says that he is praying about whether to do it or not, but he said in a recent sermon, “What we’re doing has no middle of the road. You have to believe it is totally, totally God or absolutely of the devil.” Perhaps he received “amen”s from the couple of dozen people or so that may have been in the congregation that day, but I feel fairly confident that the voices of the angels were not chiming in.
It puts me in an awkward position, trying to respond to one person’s absolute conviction that he is right with my own conviction that he’s not. My parents have been quick to call me to task in the past if I say something along the lines of “If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s intolerance!” Perhaps this situation is similar, and I am blinded to my own bias against people who are biased.
However, as someone who also follows the one whose birth was announced by the angels singing, “Peace on earth, good will to all,” I take personal offense at his planned action. When the course is unclear, the one thing I try to hold on to is love. Jesus didn’t speak about the Koran, or mosques, or many of the other hot topics that grab our national attention. He did say, however, that the two most important things in the whole world were loving God and loving neighbor. Until I get those right, I’m not going to waste my time burning anything- besides logs.
Friday, September 3, 2010
First- and Last- Visit to a Doctor
This week, I made a new-patient visit to a doctor. When I walked in, the receptionist and a patient were engaged in a lively, non-medical conversation. Unacknowledged, I stood there awkwardly for five minutes, unsure of what to do. When the conversation ended and I was able to approach the desk to sign in, the receptionist had disappeared. She was continuing her conversation with someone else in back. “Should I sit down?” I asked the other person in the waiting room. “Oh, yes,” she enthused. “This is the friendliest office in town.” The receptionist reappeared, welcomed the other patient by name, and led her away. A few minutes later, she returned and finally spoke to me. “Oh. You must be the new patient. Give me your insurance card.” After copying my card, she thrust some forms to me while talking on the phone to someone else. After awhile, I heard her voice coming from somewhere: “You can come back now.” Surmising that she must be talking to me, I took myself through the door, hoping to figure out where I was supposed to go. From a distance, the receptionist gestured for me to go into a windowless room. For the 30 minutes that I sat alone in that room, I heard lots of conversation going on in the hall. Things did sound very friendly and chatty- out there. There was nothing for me to do in my solitude but look at the previous patient’s x-rays, which were projected on the wall along with the patient’s name, birthdate, and other identifying information.
As I sat alone, I came to some realizations: 1) Being “in the club” was the key to feeling welcomed at that office. 2) I did not know how long it would take me to get “in the club,” nor did I have any personal or professional investment in trying. 3) There were other doctors in the community. And so I left after thirty minutes in isolation.
Now, look back at this story and insert the word “church” for “doctor’s office.” (Okay, you can take out the part about insurance information, too.) It is possible to be the friendliest church in town- to each other- yet still leave the new person standing awkwardly by themselves. It is an easy trap to fall into; after all, if we didn’t like one another, we probably wouldn’t worship, learn and serve together for too long. When we come together for worship, it is a great time to reconnect with Christian friends that we haven’t seen all week. But- if we focus too much on our own friendships, then we may miss out on that new person who is standing there awkwardly.
If someone pays us the ultimate compliment of coming to our house to worship, then we need to be ready to roll out the welcome mat. We need to be willing to walk away from our comfortable conversations to speak to the person we don’t know. Rather than sit in our usual spot, we need to sit with the newcomer, even if it means that we sit closer to the front than we prefer. We need to seek out those who aren’t yet “in,” to help them find their way. Otherwise, newcomers will walk out and never walk in our doors again, and we might miss a chance to change a life.
As I sat alone, I came to some realizations: 1) Being “in the club” was the key to feeling welcomed at that office. 2) I did not know how long it would take me to get “in the club,” nor did I have any personal or professional investment in trying. 3) There were other doctors in the community. And so I left after thirty minutes in isolation.
Now, look back at this story and insert the word “church” for “doctor’s office.” (Okay, you can take out the part about insurance information, too.) It is possible to be the friendliest church in town- to each other- yet still leave the new person standing awkwardly by themselves. It is an easy trap to fall into; after all, if we didn’t like one another, we probably wouldn’t worship, learn and serve together for too long. When we come together for worship, it is a great time to reconnect with Christian friends that we haven’t seen all week. But- if we focus too much on our own friendships, then we may miss out on that new person who is standing there awkwardly.
If someone pays us the ultimate compliment of coming to our house to worship, then we need to be ready to roll out the welcome mat. We need to be willing to walk away from our comfortable conversations to speak to the person we don’t know. Rather than sit in our usual spot, we need to sit with the newcomer, even if it means that we sit closer to the front than we prefer. We need to seek out those who aren’t yet “in,” to help them find their way. Otherwise, newcomers will walk out and never walk in our doors again, and we might miss a chance to change a life.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Goose poop and grace
There are geese in the little pond behind my house. The number varies, anywhere from three to a whole bunch. My first thought when I saw the geese was . . . poop. Face it, geese poop. A lot. And my little white dog loves to roll in it, which makes him become my little white-and-goose-poop-green dog. So, when I first saw the geese, all I could think about was how much I dreaded the poop.
It turns out that the geese are great fun. A solitary goose paddling in the pond makes it a much more interesting pond to watch. When we sit on our deck and watch the sunset, the geese will sometimes fly low over our house. That makes my dog bark, the same way that a bunch of geese honking makes him bark. Since he’s an only dog, I’m glad that he has the opportunity to bark another species from time to time. The other night at sunset, about twenty geese marched single file in a long line through the neighbor’s yard, presumably off to tuck into bed. I thought that was a good idea and marched myself off to bed before long.
Often, something that I dread will turn out to be something that brings unexpected joy to my life. A mandatory grocery store run enables me to see a beautiful sky as I am driving. A pastoral call when I’m tired and ready for home becomes one of those moments where I receive much more than I give. And, yes, geese in my little pond. There's some poop, true, but mainly I know once again that unexpected blessings abound . . .
It turns out that the geese are great fun. A solitary goose paddling in the pond makes it a much more interesting pond to watch. When we sit on our deck and watch the sunset, the geese will sometimes fly low over our house. That makes my dog bark, the same way that a bunch of geese honking makes him bark. Since he’s an only dog, I’m glad that he has the opportunity to bark another species from time to time. The other night at sunset, about twenty geese marched single file in a long line through the neighbor’s yard, presumably off to tuck into bed. I thought that was a good idea and marched myself off to bed before long.
Often, something that I dread will turn out to be something that brings unexpected joy to my life. A mandatory grocery store run enables me to see a beautiful sky as I am driving. A pastoral call when I’m tired and ready for home becomes one of those moments where I receive much more than I give. And, yes, geese in my little pond. There's some poop, true, but mainly I know once again that unexpected blessings abound . . .
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Phone Number
Friday was my first true “day off” in my new home. I had fun doing some arranging and decorating, which is a huge step up from the utilitarian unpacking of the past week and a half. I still don’t know where everything is, but the stuff I have found is mostly where I want it to be.
There was only one problem. It’s been happening regularly since we got our telephone hooked up. Apparently, our brand-spanking-new telephone number belonged to someone else not very long ago. And they are getting calls, lots of calls. Many of their friends and family members are looking for them, in addition to the a/c repair guy, who finally has the part they ordered.
I’m sorry I’m not of much help in this situation. I don’t know how to find the people who used to have this phone number, all I know is that I am not them. I actually find myself vaguely worried about these folks. What is going on in their world that their friends don’t know how to find them? Did some financial crisis cause them to lose their telephone service? Did they ever get their air conditioner working?
Even though I don’t know who had this number, though, I’m not really that worried. All of the things that I don’t know are known by the God who made each of us. At the risk of sounding preacher-cheesy, God’s got my number, and God’s surely got theirs---
There was only one problem. It’s been happening regularly since we got our telephone hooked up. Apparently, our brand-spanking-new telephone number belonged to someone else not very long ago. And they are getting calls, lots of calls. Many of their friends and family members are looking for them, in addition to the a/c repair guy, who finally has the part they ordered.
I’m sorry I’m not of much help in this situation. I don’t know how to find the people who used to have this phone number, all I know is that I am not them. I actually find myself vaguely worried about these folks. What is going on in their world that their friends don’t know how to find them? Did some financial crisis cause them to lose their telephone service? Did they ever get their air conditioner working?
Even though I don’t know who had this number, though, I’m not really that worried. All of the things that I don’t know are known by the God who made each of us. At the risk of sounding preacher-cheesy, God’s got my number, and God’s surely got theirs---
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Letters
Last week, I mentioned that the only mail that had followed me to my new home so far was bulk mail. Magazines. I wondered where my “real” mail was. It turns out that the bills followed soon enough.
Two different couples took the time, however, to send me personally addressed notes. They shared the sentiment that they wanted there to be more in my mailbox than magazines, bills, and junkmail. In this era of email, getting a genuine handwritten note in the US Mail is quite a noteworthy event. (“Noteworthy.” Get it???) And both of those handwritten notes brought a smile to my face. I am so thankful for people whose thoughtfulness at unexpected times can change a whole day.
I always feel faintly guilty when I am the recipient of such undeserved niceness, though. I try to remember the last time that I did something like that for someone else, and, usually, I get stuck. Instead, I work on resolving to be extra-attentive and do something nice for someone in the future. Sometimes it works. For awhile. I try, I really try, but my hopes are often bigger than my reality.
For today, I will set aside the guilt and the false aspirations. I will simply live in this moment and be thankful for the goodness of others. Two different couples on two different days made a difference in my world by writing a letter, sticking a stamp on it, and mailing it to my new home address. God is surely good, and these friends have reminded me of it. Thank you.
Two different couples took the time, however, to send me personally addressed notes. They shared the sentiment that they wanted there to be more in my mailbox than magazines, bills, and junkmail. In this era of email, getting a genuine handwritten note in the US Mail is quite a noteworthy event. (“Noteworthy.” Get it???) And both of those handwritten notes brought a smile to my face. I am so thankful for people whose thoughtfulness at unexpected times can change a whole day.
I always feel faintly guilty when I am the recipient of such undeserved niceness, though. I try to remember the last time that I did something like that for someone else, and, usually, I get stuck. Instead, I work on resolving to be extra-attentive and do something nice for someone in the future. Sometimes it works. For awhile. I try, I really try, but my hopes are often bigger than my reality.
For today, I will set aside the guilt and the false aspirations. I will simply live in this moment and be thankful for the goodness of others. Two different couples on two different days made a difference in my world by writing a letter, sticking a stamp on it, and mailing it to my new home address. God is surely good, and these friends have reminded me of it. Thank you.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Home
Home. When does a house start to feel like home? Last night, I was on a semi-maniacal mission to clear the living room, kitchen, and master bedroom of boxes before bed. Even though it was only our second night in the house, I wanted to wake up to some box-free zones. It helped, it really did. Until I walked into the garage. Or downstairs.
It’s not just the corrugated cardboard that is getting to me. I want this lovely house to start feeling like my home. It still feels like I am a visitor. The kitchen is different, the appliances are all different, even the views are different. The walls are still mostly bare, and I haven’t dug through enough boxes to find the family pictures. This house will make a lovely home, it just isn’t quite my home yet.
And so we’ll just keep unpacking and settling in. We’ll get to know the quirks of the house. The stuff of our lives will begin to accumulate around us. One morning, I will wake up and think how good it is to be home.
As I work with new members to my church, it seems like the same issues exist. Newcomers don’t know their way around the various groups and activities of the church. The worship service may be different than their previous experience. Finding the restrooms or finding a group to eat with after the service can both pose challenges. With time, church becomes home, but it isn’t always easy.
The main doors to the church say, in huge letters, “Welcome Home.” I pray that God’s house feels like home to those who come through those doors.
It’s not just the corrugated cardboard that is getting to me. I want this lovely house to start feeling like my home. It still feels like I am a visitor. The kitchen is different, the appliances are all different, even the views are different. The walls are still mostly bare, and I haven’t dug through enough boxes to find the family pictures. This house will make a lovely home, it just isn’t quite my home yet.
And so we’ll just keep unpacking and settling in. We’ll get to know the quirks of the house. The stuff of our lives will begin to accumulate around us. One morning, I will wake up and think how good it is to be home.
As I work with new members to my church, it seems like the same issues exist. Newcomers don’t know their way around the various groups and activities of the church. The worship service may be different than their previous experience. Finding the restrooms or finding a group to eat with after the service can both pose challenges. With time, church becomes home, but it isn’t always easy.
The main doors to the church say, in huge letters, “Welcome Home.” I pray that God’s house feels like home to those who come through those doors.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
The Truck is Full, We're Done
Yes, we moved out of our house on the hottest day of the year. And, yes, apparently we have a lot of stuff. Not only do we have furniture for a family of 5, we also are now accumulating some things for two of our newly-apartment-dwelling children. We have also, however, been giving away a lot of things, big and small, in preparation of this move.
We were not prepared for what the movers told us at about 5:30 p.m. “The truck is full, we’re done and leaving.” Umm, but what about the things that are still in my house? Apparently, the guy who came and looked to make an estimation of our move underestimated our needs. At the end of a miserably hot day, the movers weren’t going to fix the estimator’s mistake. Apparently, these movers only move as much as they want, not as much as is actually there.
What could have been a huge crisis became an experience in grace. A couple from my church had arrived with a trailer to move some of our boxes that couldn’t withstand sitting all weekend in astronomical heat. They had generously offered to park their trailer in their garage, out of the heat. As the moving van pulled away, they allowed us to load the leftovers in this trailer. Between their trailer and our cars, we were able to vacate our house as scheduled.
I love it when something that could have become an incapacitating problem becomes a way for grace to abound. I will definitely be having a conversation with our movers (after they have safely unloaded our possessions) about their actions- and inactions- yesterday. However, what I will most remember is Nancy and Brian and their willingness to lug our stuff around and thereby care for us. God’s love shows up in the most unexpected ways. Isn’t that just like God?
We were not prepared for what the movers told us at about 5:30 p.m. “The truck is full, we’re done and leaving.” Umm, but what about the things that are still in my house? Apparently, the guy who came and looked to make an estimation of our move underestimated our needs. At the end of a miserably hot day, the movers weren’t going to fix the estimator’s mistake. Apparently, these movers only move as much as they want, not as much as is actually there.
What could have been a huge crisis became an experience in grace. A couple from my church had arrived with a trailer to move some of our boxes that couldn’t withstand sitting all weekend in astronomical heat. They had generously offered to park their trailer in their garage, out of the heat. As the moving van pulled away, they allowed us to load the leftovers in this trailer. Between their trailer and our cars, we were able to vacate our house as scheduled.
I love it when something that could have become an incapacitating problem becomes a way for grace to abound. I will definitely be having a conversation with our movers (after they have safely unloaded our possessions) about their actions- and inactions- yesterday. However, what I will most remember is Nancy and Brian and their willingness to lug our stuff around and thereby care for us. God’s love shows up in the most unexpected ways. Isn’t that just like God?
Monday, July 19, 2010
Newbies
This past weekend at church, I asked at each service for a show of hands as to how many lifelong United Methodists were present. I then asked for a show of hands as to how many people had been United Methodist for less than a couple of years. I simply wanted to get an idea of the makeup of the group to whom I was about to preach a sermon on Methodism. I got sidetracked by my innocent question. At the first service, there was not a single person who ‘fessed up to being a newbie. I couldn’t help it. The first time it happened, I thought, “We’re not doing a very good job of bringing in people.” The thought made its way to my lips, the microphone I wear is very good, and so everyone heard my thought. I felt a little bad about saying something like that out loud, especially since it was only my third week there.
I had some time to think about it before the next service. The next time it happened, I said it a little louder. At two of our four services this weekend, there was no one who had not been a UM for less than two years. The other services did have a healthier representation of new people, and, admittedly, those services are at times more likely to attract visitors.
It is easy to be around people who are like us and like us. My comfort zone is always to be with people I know. One of the reasons we go to church is because it is comfortable. We know what it will be like and who will be there. I get that. If I could, I would want it to stay that way, too.
However, we’ve got some great good news to tell. There are so many people who could use a little good news in their lives right about now. Staying in my comfort zone will keep me comfortable, but it won’t do a thing for anyone else.
I had some time to think about it before the next service. The next time it happened, I said it a little louder. At two of our four services this weekend, there was no one who had not been a UM for less than two years. The other services did have a healthier representation of new people, and, admittedly, those services are at times more likely to attract visitors.
It is easy to be around people who are like us and like us. My comfort zone is always to be with people I know. One of the reasons we go to church is because it is comfortable. We know what it will be like and who will be there. I get that. If I could, I would want it to stay that way, too.
However, we’ve got some great good news to tell. There are so many people who could use a little good news in their lives right about now. Staying in my comfort zone will keep me comfortable, but it won’t do a thing for anyone else.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Reading and Driving
Yesterday, I was driving home along Highway 50 (a commute I will have to do only a handful of times more!) There was a car in front of me that was driving oddly. It was going slower than the prevailing traffic speed, and it was drifting from side to side of its lane. I assumed it was one more person occupied with a cell phone, whether talking or texting. I passed the car carefully, giving it a wide berth and watching for any unexpected swerves. As I drove past, I glanced over to see that the distraction was. The driver had an open book on his steering wheel and a cigarette in his hand! He was reading a novel and smoking while hurtling down the highway at over 60 miles an hour. I was totally shocked. I kept him in my sight in my rearview mirror until there was a large distance between us.
He’s gotten me to thinking, though. Not just about how terrible it was that he was risking not only his own life, but the life of the other people unfortunate enough to share the road with him. I wonder, though, how often we go through life paying attention to one thing, while the most important thing escapes our attention entirely.
I know that sounds like “preacher talk,” but it helps answer a question I’ve been pondering. My habit has been to not take my computer on vacation with me, to avoid getting sucked into work. This year, though, I had been reconsidering. After all, I’m new to a church, and there might be important things that come up. After watching reading-smoking-man, though, my answer is clear. I don’t want to spend precious time with my family in a beautiful place surfing the internet, doing email, or (sorry!) even writing blogs. I want to look around me and be able to pay attention to what is really important. The computer stays home, and I intend to notice the gifts of God that surround me.
He’s gotten me to thinking, though. Not just about how terrible it was that he was risking not only his own life, but the life of the other people unfortunate enough to share the road with him. I wonder, though, how often we go through life paying attention to one thing, while the most important thing escapes our attention entirely.
I know that sounds like “preacher talk,” but it helps answer a question I’ve been pondering. My habit has been to not take my computer on vacation with me, to avoid getting sucked into work. This year, though, I had been reconsidering. After all, I’m new to a church, and there might be important things that come up. After watching reading-smoking-man, though, my answer is clear. I don’t want to spend precious time with my family in a beautiful place surfing the internet, doing email, or (sorry!) even writing blogs. I want to look around me and be able to pay attention to what is really important. The computer stays home, and I intend to notice the gifts of God that surround me.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Best Place to Live
I just saw that Money magazine voted Blue Springs the 49th best place to live, out of the top 100. My joy in reading that fact is magnified by the fact that my house is (pending final inspection) sold, enabling us to move to Blue Springs.
As we have gotten to know the church these past couple of weeks, we have become even more anxious to call Blue Springs our home. This church community has been so welcoming, and it has been fun to explore the area. The only thing left is to be able to go to sleep at night in the same community where I am in ministry. And, pending final inspection, we will be able to move in on August 16.
We can’t wait to move to “the best place to live.” The funny thing is, Andy and I didn’t need Money magazine to tell us that Blue Springs is the best place for us to live. Blue Springs is where we have our church home, and where we have each other. It is, without a doubt, the best place for us to live.
As we have gotten to know the church these past couple of weeks, we have become even more anxious to call Blue Springs our home. This church community has been so welcoming, and it has been fun to explore the area. The only thing left is to be able to go to sleep at night in the same community where I am in ministry. And, pending final inspection, we will be able to move in on August 16.
We can’t wait to move to “the best place to live.” The funny thing is, Andy and I didn’t need Money magazine to tell us that Blue Springs is the best place for us to live. Blue Springs is where we have our church home, and where we have each other. It is, without a doubt, the best place for us to live.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
The Start of Something Beautiful
What a great start to worship in Blue Springs! I had been joking that moving from 2 services in Warrensburg to 4 services in Blue Springs meant that I would have to work twice as hard- 4 hours a week instead of 2. In reality, my fears had been more mundane- would I be able to keep the different services straight, and would my voice hold out?
The services were all beautiful. Each service has its own personality and its own group of committed people. The music at each service was outstanding, verifying what I had been told about the quality of musicians in Blue Springs. Amazingly, about 600 folks showed up on the 4th of July weekend. They were warm and welcoming in countless ways. And, my voice made it through each service, thanks to the tea with honey that I kept drinking all morning.
What has surprised me most is Sunday afternoon. Typically, Sunday afternoons are made for napping at my house. In spite of the rigorous weekend, including leaving the house at 6 a.m. this morning, I have been unable to nap today. I am simply too excited about the great day that we had! God is at work in some powerful ways in Blue Springs, and it felt great to be a part of it this weekend.
Rather than sleeping away this afternoon, I have savored this day. I have thanked some people (although not nearly enough) for their part in making today the day it was. Mainly, though, I am thankful to God for a beautiful beginning.
The services were all beautiful. Each service has its own personality and its own group of committed people. The music at each service was outstanding, verifying what I had been told about the quality of musicians in Blue Springs. Amazingly, about 600 folks showed up on the 4th of July weekend. They were warm and welcoming in countless ways. And, my voice made it through each service, thanks to the tea with honey that I kept drinking all morning.
What has surprised me most is Sunday afternoon. Typically, Sunday afternoons are made for napping at my house. In spite of the rigorous weekend, including leaving the house at 6 a.m. this morning, I have been unable to nap today. I am simply too excited about the great day that we had! God is at work in some powerful ways in Blue Springs, and it felt great to be a part of it this weekend.
Rather than sleeping away this afternoon, I have savored this day. I have thanked some people (although not nearly enough) for their part in making today the day it was. Mainly, though, I am thankful to God for a beautiful beginning.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Lasagne as Soul Food
The last few days have been quite full. Several members of my now-former congregation drove my office (books, etc.) to my new church on Tuesday. It seemed somehow fitting to be following them out of Warrensburg. They were wonderful, and actually carried my boxes in for me. I gave them a brief tour, and then they left. And there I was. It was reminiscent of being dropped off by my parents at college. As they drove away, I had this sense of “Now what?”
Everyone that I have met here has been warm and friendly. The tasks of settling into a new church, however, can be downright tiring. Any usually-simple acts are complicated by having to figure out how to get hooked up to the internet or the office network printer. My desktop is a mess. Books need to be unpacked, files need to be filed into different drawers. My phone is telling me I have a message in voicemail, but I have no idea how to access voicemail, and I have no clue as to whether the message is for me or my predecessor.
Right when the details of this move threatened to overwhelm, a Sunday school class here showed up in my office with dinner for last night. I made the trip home with a Styrofoam chest squeaking promisingly in the back. Last night, my weary self- and family- were nourished by delicious lasagna, salad, rolls, and a dessert too yummy to be named. My soul was fed, and I was newly grateful to be coming to a church like Blue Springs.
Now what? I’m not entirely sure, but I do know that I’ll have strength for the journey. Sometimes, God’s grace tastes a lot like lasagna.
Everyone that I have met here has been warm and friendly. The tasks of settling into a new church, however, can be downright tiring. Any usually-simple acts are complicated by having to figure out how to get hooked up to the internet or the office network printer. My desktop is a mess. Books need to be unpacked, files need to be filed into different drawers. My phone is telling me I have a message in voicemail, but I have no idea how to access voicemail, and I have no clue as to whether the message is for me or my predecessor.
Right when the details of this move threatened to overwhelm, a Sunday school class here showed up in my office with dinner for last night. I made the trip home with a Styrofoam chest squeaking promisingly in the back. Last night, my weary self- and family- were nourished by delicious lasagna, salad, rolls, and a dessert too yummy to be named. My soul was fed, and I was newly grateful to be coming to a church like Blue Springs.
Now what? I’m not entirely sure, but I do know that I’ll have strength for the journey. Sometimes, God’s grace tastes a lot like lasagna.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Water Pipes and Tears and Grace
Yesterday was such a beautiful Sunday, a beautiful culmination of some great years of ministry. It began, perhaps appropriately, with my arrival at church to discover a burst pipe and a flooded basement. My contribution to the effort was to call the right church people on the phone. Before long, the offending water line was shut off, and the floor was being suctioned dry.
My biggest fear was that I would be a crumpled and teary mess from the very beginning of the morning and continue that way throughout the day. Instead, I was able to hold myself together and enjoy the experiences of the day. There were some powerful moments of God’s grace that morning. I did really well, until the final verse of “Blest Be the Tie,” the traditional Methodist hymn of parting. “When we asunder part, it gives us inward pain . . .” I just clutched onto Andy a little bit harder and made it through. The luncheon was a great deal of fun, and the gifts from the church were heartfelt and amazingly generous.
As I now turn my attention fully to where I am going, I know this: God’s grace, which has provided so abundantly so far, will surely guide me in this next adventure. I have only one fear (so far) about next Sunday morning: If I get to church and a water line is burst, how will I know who to call?
My biggest fear was that I would be a crumpled and teary mess from the very beginning of the morning and continue that way throughout the day. Instead, I was able to hold myself together and enjoy the experiences of the day. There were some powerful moments of God’s grace that morning. I did really well, until the final verse of “Blest Be the Tie,” the traditional Methodist hymn of parting. “When we asunder part, it gives us inward pain . . .” I just clutched onto Andy a little bit harder and made it through. The luncheon was a great deal of fun, and the gifts from the church were heartfelt and amazingly generous.
As I now turn my attention fully to where I am going, I know this: God’s grace, which has provided so abundantly so far, will surely guide me in this next adventure. I have only one fear (so far) about next Sunday morning: If I get to church and a water line is burst, how will I know who to call?
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Last Day in the Office
The boxes stacked behind my desk chair block my view out the window. I reach for needed items in my desk drawers, only to realize that they are empty. My Book of Worship sits, solitary, on my bookshelf, in case of a last-minute funeral. (Thankfully, it does not seem to be needed.) I’m finishing up my last sermon, and the rest of my to-do list is pretty well done in this place. Soon, I’ll crank up the Jimmy Buffett and Beach Boys and start into my final packing. Once I’m done today, this office will no longer be “mine” in any functional way.
People who will not be present at church on Sunday have been saying goodbye already. One especially dear friend just dropped by, and we stood awkwardly amid the boxes and tried not to cry our farewell. I am steeling myself for Sunday. I want to smile and celebrate and laugh at memories. The good times here deserve no less. I want to acknowledge my certain assurance that God is at work in this move, and I want to do so in a way that will allow the church here to share that same trust. I really don’t want to cry the entire morning on Sunday. But I just might.
Endings and beginnings are part of God’s good plan for us. Shortly, beach music will be resonating through my office in Warrensburg one last time. And, on Tuesday, I’ll crank up the beach music in Blue Springs as I begin my unpacking into a next wonderful adventure. I hope the staff there likes Buffett . . .
People who will not be present at church on Sunday have been saying goodbye already. One especially dear friend just dropped by, and we stood awkwardly amid the boxes and tried not to cry our farewell. I am steeling myself for Sunday. I want to smile and celebrate and laugh at memories. The good times here deserve no less. I want to acknowledge my certain assurance that God is at work in this move, and I want to do so in a way that will allow the church here to share that same trust. I really don’t want to cry the entire morning on Sunday. But I just might.
Endings and beginnings are part of God’s good plan for us. Shortly, beach music will be resonating through my office in Warrensburg one last time. And, on Tuesday, I’ll crank up the beach music in Blue Springs as I begin my unpacking into a next wonderful adventure. I hope the staff there likes Buffett . . .
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Soft-spoken, yet Outspoken
Today, I learned another reason to hold my dad in great admiration. While helping my parents get ready for their impending move to an apartment in Kingswood Manor, I found old newspaper story about my father. During the late 1950’s into the early 1960’s, Dad was a journalist for the then-Atlanta Journal. He wrote a features column which often held a mirror to the city in the early days of the civil rights struggle. Dad interviewed Martin Luther King, Jr. the night that he was in the Atlanta jail- an interview that never was published, but that’s a different story . . .
Most of the time, however, his stories were more indirect. One of my favorites was his account of the segregated gallery for observers of the Georgia Legislature. Rather than rail against the injustice of the accepted practice of the time, my father simply narrated the story of a young African-American boy who kept slipping past the guard who was guarding the empty, whites-only front row seats. The boy was too young to read the “whites only” sign, and he was eager to get the best view of the proceedings possible. The boy’s persistence was no match for the guard, and so the color barrier was broken that day by a young child.
When my dad moved to another job, a colleague wrote an article about him. In that column, my father was described as “soft-spoken, yet outspoken.” I love that phrase. It describes perfectly the man I’ve been privileged to have as my father. I still want to be like him when I grow up!
Most of the time, however, his stories were more indirect. One of my favorites was his account of the segregated gallery for observers of the Georgia Legislature. Rather than rail against the injustice of the accepted practice of the time, my father simply narrated the story of a young African-American boy who kept slipping past the guard who was guarding the empty, whites-only front row seats. The boy was too young to read the “whites only” sign, and he was eager to get the best view of the proceedings possible. The boy’s persistence was no match for the guard, and so the color barrier was broken that day by a young child.
When my dad moved to another job, a colleague wrote an article about him. In that column, my father was described as “soft-spoken, yet outspoken.” I love that phrase. It describes perfectly the man I’ve been privileged to have as my father. I still want to be like him when I grow up!
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
What Books Do After Dark
Okay, I have discovered what it is that books do during all of those long nights alone in my office. They mate and multiply. I have spent the better part of the last two days packing the books in my office. As I pack, I am trying to cull out as many books as possible, and my donation pile is growing.
There are some very good books in my donation pile. There are books that have been an instructive part of my past, and many that are still relevant. There are some old friends in that pile. However, as I look at my books as potential items to pack, lug, and unpack, I have been discarding many worthy books. My current criterion is to ask myself, “Will I open this book ever again?” For instance, many preaching books that I relied on a decade ago, when the lectionary was the main guide for my preaching, are not as useful now. When I do preach on the lectionary these days, I do much of my research online. Other books are outdated, and other books simply weren’t as good as I thought that they would be.
There are still plenty of books that have made the cut and are moving to Blue Springs. These are books that I hope will help me to be a more effective pastor, whether through the import of the theology, the beauty of the language, or the practicality of the advice. (All of my Erma Bombeck books are coming, of course.) These books, however, had better know how to behave themselves after dark!
There are some very good books in my donation pile. There are books that have been an instructive part of my past, and many that are still relevant. There are some old friends in that pile. However, as I look at my books as potential items to pack, lug, and unpack, I have been discarding many worthy books. My current criterion is to ask myself, “Will I open this book ever again?” For instance, many preaching books that I relied on a decade ago, when the lectionary was the main guide for my preaching, are not as useful now. When I do preach on the lectionary these days, I do much of my research online. Other books are outdated, and other books simply weren’t as good as I thought that they would be.
There are still plenty of books that have made the cut and are moving to Blue Springs. These are books that I hope will help me to be a more effective pastor, whether through the import of the theology, the beauty of the language, or the practicality of the advice. (All of my Erma Bombeck books are coming, of course.) These books, however, had better know how to behave themselves after dark!
Monday, June 21, 2010
Completion
Yesterday was my penultimate Sunday in Warrensburg. (Gee, I’ve always hoped for a good occasion to use such a hefty word!) In one way, though, it was a day of completion. When I arrived here 5 years ago, we were on the cusp of a capital campaign to raise money to do something with our outdated, inaccessible facility. That “something” turned into a beautiful addition and a renovation of our entire facility, including the sanctuary. As we designed and drew and redesigned, there were some things that we placed on a “not right now” list, due to cost. One of those items was a cross to be hung on the back wall of the chancel.
On Sunday, we dedicated the newly-installed cross. The cross was given in memory of faithful woman, Elsa Engelmann, who sang in our church on her 100th and 101st birthdays. The cross is beautiful, made of the same oak that fills our sanctuary, with an inlaid brass channel. It is simple and classic, and it adds so much to our worship space. During the doxology, I found myself looking up at that cross. Seeing it there adds such a sense of reverence.
And so now I look at the sanctuary and can say, “It is complete.” There is another improvement, yet to come after I leave, but this cross completes what was on our original drawings, part of our original hopes and dreams. And I am thankful for the ways that God does indeed fulfill hopes and dreams. God works in us and truly completes each of us.
On Sunday, we dedicated the newly-installed cross. The cross was given in memory of faithful woman, Elsa Engelmann, who sang in our church on her 100th and 101st birthdays. The cross is beautiful, made of the same oak that fills our sanctuary, with an inlaid brass channel. It is simple and classic, and it adds so much to our worship space. During the doxology, I found myself looking up at that cross. Seeing it there adds such a sense of reverence.
And so now I look at the sanctuary and can say, “It is complete.” There is another improvement, yet to come after I leave, but this cross completes what was on our original drawings, part of our original hopes and dreams. And I am thankful for the ways that God does indeed fulfill hopes and dreams. God works in us and truly completes each of us.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
The Methodist Way
I was having breakfast yesterday with a trusted friend, who knows much about our denomination. He said, “I wish that our system gave pastors a couple of weeks between appointments, to prepare themselves mentally for their new appointment.” Alas, that is not The Methodist Way.
My world, however, feels similar to what he described. True, I am showing up at my current church most days. My phone has stopped ringing, and the tasks ahead of me in this place are minimal. I won’t pack my office until the week before I leave, and so I am in an interim period. I have found that this time has been a time of special blessing. I’ve been reading some books that I hope will make me a better pastor. I’ve been studying up on my new congregation and working to finish up a few more things in my current congregation. There has been some added time for reflection, prayer, and celebration. The rate of goodbyes is accelerating daily, as I encounter more “last” things here. This time of closure feels precious.
Stepping into a new place the very next Sunday after I step of my current place may seem rushed to some. For me, I expect that it will feel like a continuation of the ministry which I’ve been in for the past 26 years. And getting to experience a lot of “hellos” on the heels of many “goodbyes” sounds like a good and healing way to live in God’s world.
My world, however, feels similar to what he described. True, I am showing up at my current church most days. My phone has stopped ringing, and the tasks ahead of me in this place are minimal. I won’t pack my office until the week before I leave, and so I am in an interim period. I have found that this time has been a time of special blessing. I’ve been reading some books that I hope will make me a better pastor. I’ve been studying up on my new congregation and working to finish up a few more things in my current congregation. There has been some added time for reflection, prayer, and celebration. The rate of goodbyes is accelerating daily, as I encounter more “last” things here. This time of closure feels precious.
Stepping into a new place the very next Sunday after I step of my current place may seem rushed to some. For me, I expect that it will feel like a continuation of the ministry which I’ve been in for the past 26 years. And getting to experience a lot of “hellos” on the heels of many “goodbyes” sounds like a good and healing way to live in God’s world.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Sneior Discount
Senior Discount. This morning, at a chain restaurant in Lee’s Summit that shall remain nameless (but rhymes with “gherkins”), something happened to me for the First Time Ever. The waitress handed me a menu and pointed out the “senior specials” on the back. The menu even said, “for those 55 or older.” I am 8 years too young to qualify for that menu!
Initially, I was kind of hurt. I don’t think that I am particularly vain, but I also don’t think that I look like I qualify for a senior discount. I was about to be quite indignant, but then something caught my eye. The eggs benedict that I had been about to order off of the regular menu were on this menu- but as a smaller serving and a smaller price. Hmmm. What had initially been slightly insulting now seemed like an opportunity.
As I dug into my senior-sized plate of eggs benedict, I decided happily to myself that growing old really does have its benefits. Why fight it? I’ll be sure to open the next solicitation that AARP sends me, so that the benefits can roll in!
Initially, I was kind of hurt. I don’t think that I am particularly vain, but I also don’t think that I look like I qualify for a senior discount. I was about to be quite indignant, but then something caught my eye. The eggs benedict that I had been about to order off of the regular menu were on this menu- but as a smaller serving and a smaller price. Hmmm. What had initially been slightly insulting now seemed like an opportunity.
As I dug into my senior-sized plate of eggs benedict, I decided happily to myself that growing old really does have its benefits. Why fight it? I’ll be sure to open the next solicitation that AARP sends me, so that the benefits can roll in!
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Still Here
Things have hit, suddenly, the summer slow down. Memorial Day weekend is upon us, and things at church are slow. Throw in the natural movement of the end of a pastorate, and things are slow in my world. People aren’t talking to me about current issues or future plans much. I’m only preaching 2 of the 5 remaining Sundays in Warrensburg. I wish I were packing my house for a move, but it hasn’t sold yet. Things are unusually slow. But- I am still here!
I heard that it was announced at a church meeting the other day that, since the incoming pastor’s first Sunday was scheduled for the July 4 holiday, he was going to have June 27 as his first Sunday instead. Ummm. No. Every pastor in Missouri moves on the same day. Which means that every incoming pastor in Missouri, including yours truly, will have to deal with the Fourth of July weekend in their new pulpits.
I’m looking forward to June 27 around here. I’ve been working on the sermon already. It’s called “The Last Sermon.” We’re going to have a lunch afterwards, and there will even be cheese grits on the menu. It should be a great day! And, until then, I’m still here. I really am.
I heard that it was announced at a church meeting the other day that, since the incoming pastor’s first Sunday was scheduled for the July 4 holiday, he was going to have June 27 as his first Sunday instead. Ummm. No. Every pastor in Missouri moves on the same day. Which means that every incoming pastor in Missouri, including yours truly, will have to deal with the Fourth of July weekend in their new pulpits.
I’m looking forward to June 27 around here. I’ve been working on the sermon already. It’s called “The Last Sermon.” We’re going to have a lunch afterwards, and there will even be cheese grits on the menu. It should be a great day! And, until then, I’m still here. I really am.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Cleaning the Front Walk
Driving through town this morning, many things caught my attention. On a sunny and finally-warm morning, the things that still bear marks of neglect from a long and hard winter seemed to stand out more. I saw some signs that were faded, with peeling paint. Lawns that have gone unmowed, possibly since last fall. Piles of stuff that need cleaning up. Nothing too major, but things that clearly haven’t been attended to for awhile.
And then I drove past a restaurant that has recently opened. Out front, I saw a man wearing a shirt and tie, bending down to pick up some small pieces of trash. It was early, about 8:00 in the morning, and this man, dressed for his restaurant work day, was taking the time to pick up the street in front of his establishment. And something about seeing that touched me. I thought, “If he gives that much care and attention to his establishment looking clean and cared for, I imagine he gives even more care and attention to the food.” I’ve never eaten there, but I now intend to. I just want to see if I’m right.
How do we show we care? Most often, it is not in the grand gesture or sending the perfect greeting card. Most often, we show we care by doing the little things that we don’t have to do, simply because we think it might make a difference for someone. How will you show someone you care today?
And then I drove past a restaurant that has recently opened. Out front, I saw a man wearing a shirt and tie, bending down to pick up some small pieces of trash. It was early, about 8:00 in the morning, and this man, dressed for his restaurant work day, was taking the time to pick up the street in front of his establishment. And something about seeing that touched me. I thought, “If he gives that much care and attention to his establishment looking clean and cared for, I imagine he gives even more care and attention to the food.” I’ve never eaten there, but I now intend to. I just want to see if I’m right.
How do we show we care? Most often, it is not in the grand gesture or sending the perfect greeting card. Most often, we show we care by doing the little things that we don’t have to do, simply because we think it might make a difference for someone. How will you show someone you care today?
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Another Rainy Day
We are all so sick of the rain. For many of us, it’s an annoyance and an inconvenience. And perhaps a slight depressant. People are dragging into the office this morning, blaming yet another rainy day. What is an inconvenience to us, however, is much more for many others. Farmers are watching some freshly-planted seeds rot in the field. The recent flooding in Nashville cost lives and property. When driving across Missouri the other day, I saw a rain-swollen Missouri River. How much more rain can our saturated land take?
There is hope. The long-range forecast shows (finally) a shift in the weather beginning tomorrow. The rain will end, and springtime warmth will come. Or so we hope.
On this rainy day, I am working on a Sunday sermon. Jesus was saying goodbye to his disciples on the eve of his death. Things were going to get much worse in the immediate future, before they got better. Even as he was saying goodbye, though, he was promising them a future of hope. “My peace I leave with you,” he told them, so “don’t let your hearts be worried, and don’t let them be afraid.” Audacious words from a man who was about to die a horrible death.
Hope is like that. It triumphs even in the face of death. Or another rainy day.
There is hope. The long-range forecast shows (finally) a shift in the weather beginning tomorrow. The rain will end, and springtime warmth will come. Or so we hope.
On this rainy day, I am working on a Sunday sermon. Jesus was saying goodbye to his disciples on the eve of his death. Things were going to get much worse in the immediate future, before they got better. Even as he was saying goodbye, though, he was promising them a future of hope. “My peace I leave with you,” he told them, so “don’t let your hearts be worried, and don’t let them be afraid.” Audacious words from a man who was about to die a horrible death.
Hope is like that. It triumphs even in the face of death. Or another rainy day.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
When is Coffee Worth $4?
When is a cup of coffee worth $4? With the amazing growth of Starbucks, this question has become more prominent in recent years. Some people refuse, on principle, to spend $4 on a cup of coffee. Others will drive 30 miles each way for the privilege of drinking some of their coffee. I am not going to take a position either way with regards to Starbucks, besides to acknowledge that I do enjoy it when the opportunity arises.
But here in Warrensburg, there is a place where a cup of coffee or iced soy chai latte or anything else is worth that much. There is a local coffee shop that offers much more than just coffee or free internet. They offer community. I know that, if I go by at a certain time each morning, I can be fairly assured of seeing some of my favorite people. If I go by on Tuesdays, I can catch some of the nicest women I know. And pretty much anytime that I walk in, I will see someone I know.
The coffee and tea are very good there and worth the price. The chance to be in community and to make connections- well, as they say on the commercials- priceless. Whether it is in a coffee shop or a church, we all need those places to be with other humans.
But here in Warrensburg, there is a place where a cup of coffee or iced soy chai latte or anything else is worth that much. There is a local coffee shop that offers much more than just coffee or free internet. They offer community. I know that, if I go by at a certain time each morning, I can be fairly assured of seeing some of my favorite people. If I go by on Tuesdays, I can catch some of the nicest women I know. And pretty much anytime that I walk in, I will see someone I know.
The coffee and tea are very good there and worth the price. The chance to be in community and to make connections- well, as they say on the commercials- priceless. Whether it is in a coffee shop or a church, we all need those places to be with other humans.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
A great night, wish I wasn't there
Saturday night was a wonderful night on many, many levels. Andy and I were at the Kansas City Juvenile Diabetes Research Fund Gala. A gala . . . can you imagine? I’m not sure when was the last time that I shopped for a formal dress that didn’t involve one of my daughters and the word “prom.” It was my night to step out with my man, who was quite darling in his tux. The dinner was delicious, the auction was entertaining, and our tablemates were interesting. We even ended up sitting next to some Methodists from Liberty!
Why, then, did I find myself spontaneously welling up with tears throughout the evening? Because, every now and then, the thought would hit me. “I really really don’t want to be here.” No, I didn’t have a better place to be that night. I did not want to be there because I did not want to be a part of the many families who are affected by juvenile diabetes. I still remember the shock of my daughter’s diagnosis and the days spent in pediatric i.c.u. I see her living daily with the failure of her pancreas. Unlike Type 2 diabetes, her diabetes will not go away with diet and exercise. She has an autoimmune disorder that means that her pancreas is gone for good, and she must rely on insulin to stay alive. Don’t get me wrong- I am thankful for the advent of insulin and JDRF’s ongoing search for the cure. But I really really wish that my daughter did not have to live with it firsthand.
And so, while waiting for a cure, we take the best care of her diabetes possible. We wear bracelets and pray for a cure. And, every now and then, we hide our pain by throwing a great big party and raising all the money we can to try to save the lives of people we love.
Why, then, did I find myself spontaneously welling up with tears throughout the evening? Because, every now and then, the thought would hit me. “I really really don’t want to be here.” No, I didn’t have a better place to be that night. I did not want to be there because I did not want to be a part of the many families who are affected by juvenile diabetes. I still remember the shock of my daughter’s diagnosis and the days spent in pediatric i.c.u. I see her living daily with the failure of her pancreas. Unlike Type 2 diabetes, her diabetes will not go away with diet and exercise. She has an autoimmune disorder that means that her pancreas is gone for good, and she must rely on insulin to stay alive. Don’t get me wrong- I am thankful for the advent of insulin and JDRF’s ongoing search for the cure. But I really really wish that my daughter did not have to live with it firsthand.
And so, while waiting for a cure, we take the best care of her diabetes possible. We wear bracelets and pray for a cure. And, every now and then, we hide our pain by throwing a great big party and raising all the money we can to try to save the lives of people we love.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
The Man Who Married Me
Thursday, April 29, 2010
The Man Who Married Me. No, not that one. Elbert Cole married me and Andy on June 30, 1984 at Central UMC in Kansas City. I always wanted to be like him as a pastor. He had amazing gifts in relating to people. When he was talking you, you felt like you were the only person in the whole world that mattered to him in that moment. He had a wonderful gift for names, faces, and details of life. As Andy’s own father was in failing health, Elbert would offer words of comfort and advice. Andy would say that Elbert was like a father to him at many times. Elbert was well known for having started the national Shepherd’s Center, but I’ll always know him for his genuine concern for individuals.
I always felt a special honor that Elbert married me. To be married by a man who was such a spiritual giant was a gift. And, almost 26 years later, I can say that Elbert did great work in creating our marital bond.
I learned yesterday that Elbert died on Tuesday, at a ripe old age. I am so grateful for his life and ministry. I always wanted to be like him. I still do.
The Man Who Married Me. No, not that one. Elbert Cole married me and Andy on June 30, 1984 at Central UMC in Kansas City. I always wanted to be like him as a pastor. He had amazing gifts in relating to people. When he was talking you, you felt like you were the only person in the whole world that mattered to him in that moment. He had a wonderful gift for names, faces, and details of life. As Andy’s own father was in failing health, Elbert would offer words of comfort and advice. Andy would say that Elbert was like a father to him at many times. Elbert was well known for having started the national Shepherd’s Center, but I’ll always know him for his genuine concern for individuals.
I always felt a special honor that Elbert married me. To be married by a man who was such a spiritual giant was a gift. And, almost 26 years later, I can say that Elbert did great work in creating our marital bond.
I learned yesterday that Elbert died on Tuesday, at a ripe old age. I am so grateful for his life and ministry. I always wanted to be like him. I still do.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Last Supper
As I sit at my desk in my office, the aroma of dinner is wafting tantalizingly around. Tonight is the last of our regular Wednesday night meals for this school year. The meals will resume in September, but I won’t be here to eat them.
Perhaps it’s the smell of pork loin and baked potatoes that is making me feel a bit of sentimental melancholy. After all, my family did not always eat dinner at these meals. Our busy schedules, plus Andy’s hour-ish commute from his office, meant that we often ate dinner at home on Wednesday night long after the dishes were done and put away at church. But I have always enjoyed walking around and talking with people on Wednesday nights. They ate, a captive audience, and I got to talk and connect with people. It is also the main time during the week that we welcome our neighbors who are in need of a free, hot meal. It’s a great time to see people.
In reality, it’s not the food I’ll miss. It’s the people. There are some lovely “hello’s” in my future, but, right now, pork roast smells like “goodbye.” And I am convinced that God is in every goodbye and every hello.
Perhaps it’s the smell of pork loin and baked potatoes that is making me feel a bit of sentimental melancholy. After all, my family did not always eat dinner at these meals. Our busy schedules, plus Andy’s hour-ish commute from his office, meant that we often ate dinner at home on Wednesday night long after the dishes were done and put away at church. But I have always enjoyed walking around and talking with people on Wednesday nights. They ate, a captive audience, and I got to talk and connect with people. It is also the main time during the week that we welcome our neighbors who are in need of a free, hot meal. It’s a great time to see people.
In reality, it’s not the food I’ll miss. It’s the people. There are some lovely “hello’s” in my future, but, right now, pork roast smells like “goodbye.” And I am convinced that God is in every goodbye and every hello.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Azaleas
Azaleas. I grew up with them in Atlanta. Each spring, I would be amazed at the abundance of brilliant blossoms from these towering shrubs. Our backyard was filled with white and pink azalea bushes, many of which were taller than me. We had some lipstick-red azaleas by the front door of our house, but they were smaller. I loved all of those azaleas. When Andy and I moved into our first house in Kansas City, the first thing I did was plant azalea bushes.
They promptly died.
I tried a few more times, but I learned that azaleas really don’t thrive in this Midwestern climate. Last weekend, though, when I was in Arkansas, I found the towering white and pink azaleas of my childhood memories! So now I have a picture of adult me in front of taller-than-me azaleas, to bookend my childhood azalea pictures.
I left those Arkansas azaleas behind with some regret. And then, yesterday, as I was walking into church, I saw lipstick-red azaleas blooming profusely by the front door of the church. They were planted by a gardener who knows about growing things, so they will have a better chance of surviving this Midwestern climate. And they are protected by the church building itself.
Azaleas in Arkansas and points farther south are one thing, but brave azaleas in Warrensburg are another thing entirely. The assurance of God’s love and grace in good times is one thing, but that same assurance in challenging times is another thing entirely.
They promptly died.
I tried a few more times, but I learned that azaleas really don’t thrive in this Midwestern climate. Last weekend, though, when I was in Arkansas, I found the towering white and pink azaleas of my childhood memories! So now I have a picture of adult me in front of taller-than-me azaleas, to bookend my childhood azalea pictures.
I left those Arkansas azaleas behind with some regret. And then, yesterday, as I was walking into church, I saw lipstick-red azaleas blooming profusely by the front door of the church. They were planted by a gardener who knows about growing things, so they will have a better chance of surviving this Midwestern climate. And they are protected by the church building itself.
Azaleas in Arkansas and points farther south are one thing, but brave azaleas in Warrensburg are another thing entirely. The assurance of God’s love and grace in good times is one thing, but that same assurance in challenging times is another thing entirely.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
A Rainy Day in Boxland
Andy and I spent a rainy Saturday afternoon down in our basement storage area, in the area we call “Boxland.” Those were the boxes of various stuff that we moved with us 5 years ago and have not touched. “If we haven’t used it in 5 years, we don’t need it” was our motto, and we made great headway. The boxes of sentimental things were sorted and consolidated, and we were even able to get rid of some things that have become decidedly less sentimental over time. (I discovered I still had some old letters from old boyfriends, even though I’ve had my current boyfriend for over 26 years.)
We found some real treasures, too. My 3rd grade Bible, presented to me at Northside UMC in Atlanta. Andy’s “last will and testament” that he wrote as a senior at Nevada High School, bequeathing funny things to the debate team. Pictures from important points in our life together.
So we packed those precious memories away, this time in waterproof bins. I’m already looking forward to a rainy afternoon in a dozen years or so, when we stumble onto these treasures again, and remember together once more. Who knows what memories we’ll add by then?
We found some real treasures, too. My 3rd grade Bible, presented to me at Northside UMC in Atlanta. Andy’s “last will and testament” that he wrote as a senior at Nevada High School, bequeathing funny things to the debate team. Pictures from important points in our life together.
So we packed those precious memories away, this time in waterproof bins. I’m already looking forward to a rainy afternoon in a dozen years or so, when we stumble onto these treasures again, and remember together once more. Who knows what memories we’ll add by then?
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Happy Earth Day
I saw an amazing sight a few weeks ago as I drove along 50 Highway. Just to the west of Powell Gardens, I saw a bald eagle perched in a tree. I had never seen one in the wild before, but, as if to confirm that I really did see what I saw, I saw it again a few days later. A real bald eagle. Right on 50. Amazing
I grew up, you see, in the age of DDT. In case you don’t remember, in the 1960’s and 70’s, the then-popular pesticide DDT was killing off the bald eagle population. It thinned the eagle eggs, killing the eagle chicks. The national symbol was a greatly endangered species, and I grew up with little hope of ever seeing one in the wild.
The act of banning DDT, in addition to statutory protection from hunting, had a dramatic effect on the bald eagle. Slowly, the population began to recover. The bald eagle became one of the few species to fight their way off of the endangered species list. And so, a few weeks ago, I saw something I never thought I would see in my life. A bald eagle. In the wild. In Kingsville, Missouri.
Happy Earth Day. Never forget that we truly can make a difference in our planet. God has given us such a beautiful and abundant world to inhabit. Live in it as gently as possible, so that future generations can enjoy the same gift of God.
I grew up, you see, in the age of DDT. In case you don’t remember, in the 1960’s and 70’s, the then-popular pesticide DDT was killing off the bald eagle population. It thinned the eagle eggs, killing the eagle chicks. The national symbol was a greatly endangered species, and I grew up with little hope of ever seeing one in the wild.
The act of banning DDT, in addition to statutory protection from hunting, had a dramatic effect on the bald eagle. Slowly, the population began to recover. The bald eagle became one of the few species to fight their way off of the endangered species list. And so, a few weeks ago, I saw something I never thought I would see in my life. A bald eagle. In the wild. In Kingsville, Missouri.
Happy Earth Day. Never forget that we truly can make a difference in our planet. God has given us such a beautiful and abundant world to inhabit. Live in it as gently as possible, so that future generations can enjoy the same gift of God.
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