There was a special bond between my mother and Amanda. They often spent many hours working together in the hot summer sun.
Most people who met Amanda didn’t consider her stunning in her appearance. In her world she didn’t stand out from the rest in any significant way. She was regarded by most as just another being, treading the surface of the globe.
To Mother, however, Amanda was special. Amanda was a close friend; someone who listened while you sang or made small talk to wile the hours away. The two of them together made a rather striking contrast. Mother was a lovely eighteen-year-old, dressed in plain clothes, blemishless, clean-scrubbed face. Amanda had knobby knees, a long nose, black facial hair, and long ears — attractive none-the-less . . . to another mule.
Amanda was a rather lowly member of her equine world. Born of a union between a horse and a donkey, she was likely sterile, destined not to reproduce her kind. Life on a farm in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, was hard in the thirties. In a family of sixteen children work was plentiful, money was not. Only two were chosen to go to high school. Mother was not. Instead she helped to provide for the family by working at Gerberich Shoe Company in Mount Joy, a four-mile walk. (The building still stands, sign clearly visible.) During the growing season, Mother’s evenings and Saturdays were often spent with Amanda cultivating corn.
With an air of reverence, Mother fondly speaks of “my Amanda.” Amanda knew her work. She knew “their field” and would dutifully walk to the field, Mother watching over the direction of the cultivator dragging along behind. Amanda would enter the first row and wait for the familiar "gick, gick.” And when the end of the row was encountered, she turned to the head of the second row, waiting for Mother to reposition the cultivator behind. And so it was, row after row, row after row, until dark, or the field was weedless.
Good work is done by the “Amandas” of this world. They know their work. They perform their tasks with consistency and without fanfare, whether they be considered select stock or, as in Amanda’s case, just another mule. They are steady in performance, and when the sun goes down they humbly accept their “bag of oats” and bed down in the straw to rest for another day. God teaches true character in many ways and from many sources and even, perhaps, through a special, inexplicable chemistry between human and beast.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Commentary: Nobody's anything...all the time
There are some large envelopes around our office that contain labels – nifty, sticky little pieces of paper. Sometimes we use them to mail things. Sometimes we use them to label stuff so we know where stuff is, when we need stuff to get stuff done.
There’s a problem with labels. ‘Ever buy something that was too much money in the first place, to be faced by a blasted label that insists on leaving behind its stickiness to be cursed by you every time you use the affixee.
As I understand it, Post-it notes were invented by a guy at 3M who was a choir director. He got tired of little pieces of paper used to mark hymns, falling out of his hymnal. So, he developed a light adhesive that was just sticky enough to get its job done and no more.
We tend as persons, to wear labels, usually affixed by persons intent on classifying everyone they meet. It seems we must always be “something.” We must be conservative, liberal, Republican, Democrat, fundamentalist, universalist, pro-life, pro-choice, and on-and-on, and on-and-on, ad nausium.
How dull!
Nothing could be more unkind or full of baloney. Show me anyone who is anything all the time, and I’ll show you a store manikin. Bill Cosby once said, “Nothing fits in a pigeon-hole except a pigeon.” But it seems we spend our lives being stuffed into pigeon-holes, devised by people carrying labels…with permanent adhesive.
If we’re honest, like Saint Paul, we’ve all been things we’ve later abandoned. We’ve become things we’ve never been before. And we sometimes return to being things we’d given up long ago, good or bad. That doesn’t make us wishy-washy, just very, very human. I’d like to think that I could wear the label “Christian” reliably. Unfortunately, sometimes my behavior more resembles the behavior of an atheist.
So, if you want to attach a label to my forehead, I hope you’re equipped with Post-it notes because I may need a new label in about five minutes.
There is one label I long for. If you’d stick “disciple of Jesus” on my forehead, I’d do my very best to live up to it.
Glad we could get together.
There’s a problem with labels. ‘Ever buy something that was too much money in the first place, to be faced by a blasted label that insists on leaving behind its stickiness to be cursed by you every time you use the affixee.
As I understand it, Post-it notes were invented by a guy at 3M who was a choir director. He got tired of little pieces of paper used to mark hymns, falling out of his hymnal. So, he developed a light adhesive that was just sticky enough to get its job done and no more.
We tend as persons, to wear labels, usually affixed by persons intent on classifying everyone they meet. It seems we must always be “something.” We must be conservative, liberal, Republican, Democrat, fundamentalist, universalist, pro-life, pro-choice, and on-and-on, and on-and-on, ad nausium.
How dull!
Nothing could be more unkind or full of baloney. Show me anyone who is anything all the time, and I’ll show you a store manikin. Bill Cosby once said, “Nothing fits in a pigeon-hole except a pigeon.” But it seems we spend our lives being stuffed into pigeon-holes, devised by people carrying labels…with permanent adhesive.
If we’re honest, like Saint Paul, we’ve all been things we’ve later abandoned. We’ve become things we’ve never been before. And we sometimes return to being things we’d given up long ago, good or bad. That doesn’t make us wishy-washy, just very, very human. I’d like to think that I could wear the label “Christian” reliably. Unfortunately, sometimes my behavior more resembles the behavior of an atheist.
So, if you want to attach a label to my forehead, I hope you’re equipped with Post-it notes because I may need a new label in about five minutes.
There is one label I long for. If you’d stick “disciple of Jesus” on my forehead, I’d do my very best to live up to it.
Glad we could get together.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Editorial: Ready for the journey
If you attended the Wednesday session of the 2008 Northeastern Jurisdictional Conference in Harrisburg, surely your heart was warmed with both the presentation and acceptance of the proposal to draw new conference boundaries within the jurisdiction. The Boundaries Committee laid out the proposal clearly and expertly. And the reception and approval of the idea was gratifying.
It’s an example of how important it is for persons to bring to conference floors proposals “with the homework done.” When complex information is presented in an engaging way and clearly explained, it pays dividends on the floor of any conference session.
If you were from the Harrisburg area at NEJ, you had to be very proud of the persons extending extraordinary hospitality to our guests. You’ll find all of those persons listed on page 10 of this issue, and we want to offer our thanks also for a task very well executed.
Now onto the future for United Methodists in the northeastern and central parts of this state.
For a short period there is likely to be a time of uncertainty and bewilderment as the leadership of both the Wyoming and Central Pennsylvania Conferences discerns the course for the ministry to which God newly calls us. You can find plenty of similar feelings during times of change written up in the Scriptures.
However, while we can agree that there is a certain unsettling aspect to the front-end of this new journey, there is also an excitement about being part of something new. Isaiah would certainly be excited with us: “Behold I am doing a new thing ... now it springs forth!”
We hope you’ll post this month’s poster which springs from Isaiah’s words. Talk about it, pray about it, be willing to offer input when asked. Again we extend our hand of fellowship to our brothers and sisters in Northeastern Pennsylvania. Making new friends will be a pleasurable experience.
JW
It’s an example of how important it is for persons to bring to conference floors proposals “with the homework done.” When complex information is presented in an engaging way and clearly explained, it pays dividends on the floor of any conference session.
If you were from the Harrisburg area at NEJ, you had to be very proud of the persons extending extraordinary hospitality to our guests. You’ll find all of those persons listed on page 10 of this issue, and we want to offer our thanks also for a task very well executed.
Now onto the future for United Methodists in the northeastern and central parts of this state.
For a short period there is likely to be a time of uncertainty and bewilderment as the leadership of both the Wyoming and Central Pennsylvania Conferences discerns the course for the ministry to which God newly calls us. You can find plenty of similar feelings during times of change written up in the Scriptures.
However, while we can agree that there is a certain unsettling aspect to the front-end of this new journey, there is also an excitement about being part of something new. Isaiah would certainly be excited with us: “Behold I am doing a new thing ... now it springs forth!”
We hope you’ll post this month’s poster which springs from Isaiah’s words. Talk about it, pray about it, be willing to offer input when asked. Again we extend our hand of fellowship to our brothers and sisters in Northeastern Pennsylvania. Making new friends will be a pleasurable experience.
JW
Commentary: The Gospel according to Wile E. Coyote
I know it’s not very “high-brow,” but I sure do miss some of the cartoon characters I grew up with. I can do a litany of a host of names, but this might not be the place.
By far, my favorite character in all of cartoondom is Wile E. Coyote.
Unlike most cartoon characters, Wile E. Coyote never speaks. His creators found it unnecessary to give him a voice. He makes plenty of noise to fill up a soundtrack all right, but the gift of gab is not his.
Little talk, plenty of action – that’s Wile E.
You can’t help but love the scrawny flea-bitten critter. By most standards he’s a dismal failure. He’s been outwitted by a roadrunner in every one of hundreds of episodes. Hundreds of schemes (and gizmos, usually manufactured by Acme) have not yielded one forkful of juicy roadrunner filet.
So why be so stupid as to chase a skinny bird all over a cartoon desert? Why, there’s not enough meat on a roadrunner to even stick in a coyote’s teeth. Why not go for a juicy prairie dog or something? For Wile E. that’s never been an issue. The bird remains the prize. And to add insult to injury, the show isn’t even named for Wile E. It’s named for the bird. The bird’s not the star! We all root for Wile E. He’s the star, for goodness sake.
However, Wile E. will “preach,” as we say in my circles.
Think about it for a minute. There’s probably not an adjective describing Wile E. Coyote that is not an admirable component of good character: focused, goal-oriented, resourceful, steadfast, creative, inventive, persistent .... We could go on.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Wile E. Coyote sulk or pout. (Heaven knows he has grounds!) Fur pounded into the dust by a falling rock, he’s never shuffled off into a corner for any woe-is-me stuff. He’s usually puzzled, but never depressed. He pulls his riddled body parts back together, shakes the desert sand out of his fur, climbs up onto the stool beside his drawing board and starts in again, light bulbs flickering above his head.
The Apostle Paul told churches in Corinth, Philippi, and Thessalonica, “Be steadfast, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.” “Press toward the goal for the prize of the upward call in Jesus Christ.” “Do not grow weary in doing good.”
If you visit my office you’ll see Wile E. Coyote standing where he’s stood now for ten years in all his stuffed splendor. The sign I hung from his toe disappeared long ago. It said, “Never give up; tomorrow we catch the bird.”
It’s the Gospel according to Wile E. Coyote.
Glad we could get together.
By far, my favorite character in all of cartoondom is Wile E. Coyote.
Unlike most cartoon characters, Wile E. Coyote never speaks. His creators found it unnecessary to give him a voice. He makes plenty of noise to fill up a soundtrack all right, but the gift of gab is not his.
Little talk, plenty of action – that’s Wile E.
You can’t help but love the scrawny flea-bitten critter. By most standards he’s a dismal failure. He’s been outwitted by a roadrunner in every one of hundreds of episodes. Hundreds of schemes (and gizmos, usually manufactured by Acme) have not yielded one forkful of juicy roadrunner filet.
So why be so stupid as to chase a skinny bird all over a cartoon desert? Why, there’s not enough meat on a roadrunner to even stick in a coyote’s teeth. Why not go for a juicy prairie dog or something? For Wile E. that’s never been an issue. The bird remains the prize. And to add insult to injury, the show isn’t even named for Wile E. It’s named for the bird. The bird’s not the star! We all root for Wile E. He’s the star, for goodness sake.
However, Wile E. will “preach,” as we say in my circles.
Think about it for a minute. There’s probably not an adjective describing Wile E. Coyote that is not an admirable component of good character: focused, goal-oriented, resourceful, steadfast, creative, inventive, persistent .... We could go on.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Wile E. Coyote sulk or pout. (Heaven knows he has grounds!) Fur pounded into the dust by a falling rock, he’s never shuffled off into a corner for any woe-is-me stuff. He’s usually puzzled, but never depressed. He pulls his riddled body parts back together, shakes the desert sand out of his fur, climbs up onto the stool beside his drawing board and starts in again, light bulbs flickering above his head.
The Apostle Paul told churches in Corinth, Philippi, and Thessalonica, “Be steadfast, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.” “Press toward the goal for the prize of the upward call in Jesus Christ.” “Do not grow weary in doing good.”
If you visit my office you’ll see Wile E. Coyote standing where he’s stood now for ten years in all his stuffed splendor. The sign I hung from his toe disappeared long ago. It said, “Never give up; tomorrow we catch the bird.”
It’s the Gospel according to Wile E. Coyote.
Glad we could get together.
Editorial: Invited to live in the tension
Our title is not original; it comes from a phrase in a sermon at General Conference 2008 by Bishop Hee-Soo Jung who serves the church’s Chicago Episcopal Area.
If you want a vivid view of the scope of being a global church as United Methodists, you need to visit a General Conference session. You need to bask in the exhilaration around you, and you also need to feel the tension of a very large body of believers who want to change the world and who have willfully chosen to “live in the tension” and invite others to do the same.
The highest tension for GC2008 centered, as expected, around the legislation to uphold the church’s traditional stance on homosexuality.
The comments made in the sermon titled “Jesus, Remember Me” by Bishop Hee-Soo Jung the morning after the legislation, were noteworthy: “We find ourselves in a debate between those who would like the church to be more flexible in nonessential matters — more open, and those who would like the church to be clearer about its boundaries — more pure.
“One could argue that those who espouse greater openness are holding fast to biblical principles of hospitality. Those who desire clarity in matters of boundaries, however, are adhering to biblical principles of holiness. Both holiness and hospitality are excellent values. Both are biblical values, and both are right.
“Of course, they can also both be wrong. The problem is this: When we concern ourselves only with holiness, we become rigid and inward looking. We make an idol of our purity. When we concern ourselves only with hospitality, however, we lose our sense of who we are.
“Our identity is blurred and we lose the language of our own faith. Our attitudes and beliefs become ambiguous and, at worst, we no longer know why we are Christians or what holds us together.
“Either holiness or hospitality can become a problem if we pay attention only to one dimension and exclude the other. Instead, we are invited to live in the tension that is created by holding both values — holiness and hospitality — together at the same time.”
Many religious bodies have chosen to disregard the tension between these two deeply held views, to close the doors tightly to any discourse.
To its credit, the United Methodist Church has chosen to live in the tension. It’s not the easy choice, but it’s the right choice, and it’s the choice that Jesus would make as evidenced by his ministry.
If you want a vivid view of the scope of being a global church as United Methodists, you need to visit a General Conference session. You need to bask in the exhilaration around you, and you also need to feel the tension of a very large body of believers who want to change the world and who have willfully chosen to “live in the tension” and invite others to do the same.
The highest tension for GC2008 centered, as expected, around the legislation to uphold the church’s traditional stance on homosexuality.
The comments made in the sermon titled “Jesus, Remember Me” by Bishop Hee-Soo Jung the morning after the legislation, were noteworthy: “We find ourselves in a debate between those who would like the church to be more flexible in nonessential matters — more open, and those who would like the church to be clearer about its boundaries — more pure.
“One could argue that those who espouse greater openness are holding fast to biblical principles of hospitality. Those who desire clarity in matters of boundaries, however, are adhering to biblical principles of holiness. Both holiness and hospitality are excellent values. Both are biblical values, and both are right.
“Of course, they can also both be wrong. The problem is this: When we concern ourselves only with holiness, we become rigid and inward looking. We make an idol of our purity. When we concern ourselves only with hospitality, however, we lose our sense of who we are.
“Our identity is blurred and we lose the language of our own faith. Our attitudes and beliefs become ambiguous and, at worst, we no longer know why we are Christians or what holds us together.
“Either holiness or hospitality can become a problem if we pay attention only to one dimension and exclude the other. Instead, we are invited to live in the tension that is created by holding both values — holiness and hospitality — together at the same time.”
Many religious bodies have chosen to disregard the tension between these two deeply held views, to close the doors tightly to any discourse.
To its credit, the United Methodist Church has chosen to live in the tension. It’s not the easy choice, but it’s the right choice, and it’s the choice that Jesus would make as evidenced by his ministry.
JW
Commentary: Ripples on the water
I remember speaking for worship at a church some time ago. I needed to illustrate the impact of a certain life-altering phone call I had received in my history. So I delivered the line, “And then the phone rang,” followed by a dramatic pause. As soon as I paused, I noticed several people looking at each other in shock and then laughing.
I continued with my presentation, but in the back of my mind there was this frantic search for what I had said so outlandish for which I needed to “cover” with some kind of retraction. I could think of nothing. So I concluded my talk with this “cloud” hanging over my delivery.
As I greeted the worshippers leaving the sanctuary, a woman came to me, rather apologetically, and asked, “Do you know what we were laughing about this morning?” I said I didn’t. So she explained, “A split second after you said, ‘And then the phone rang,’ the phone in the open office beside the sanctuary began to ring!”
We had a good chuckle and I sighed in relief that I hadn’t committed some gargantuan blunder.
For several yeaers I occasionally produced multi-image shows for my church and the ministerial association of my home town. For Easter one year, I produced “A Promise in Fowler Woods” with a resurrection theme. I recorded the narration in the back of the woods on my property to capture the outdoor ambient sound. There was a voice-over, “A bird calls and the day begins in Fowler Woods.” Those were the days of quarter-inch audio tape, so my plan was to get out the splicing block and splicing tape and splice a pre-recorded bird call into the space after those words.
In preparation for the edit I listened to those words in my recorded voice-over. To my disbelief I discovered, perfectly timed at a perfect sound level, the beautiful call of some bird in my woods on Rome South Road. I hadn’t put it there; I didn’t even remember a bird call in my recording session.
Ah, yes!
I know I’ve said it before, and I’ll probably say it again, “I’ve never seen the waters parted like Moses did, but I’ve sure seen plenty of ripples on the water.”
When I was a young guy, full of vinegar, I could talk myself out of a God who really knows me and pays attention to me. I can’t do that anymore. God is an omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent God who is not above a sense of humor, a God who occasionally just might enjoy planting a phone ring or a bird call.
Glad we could get together.
I continued with my presentation, but in the back of my mind there was this frantic search for what I had said so outlandish for which I needed to “cover” with some kind of retraction. I could think of nothing. So I concluded my talk with this “cloud” hanging over my delivery.
As I greeted the worshippers leaving the sanctuary, a woman came to me, rather apologetically, and asked, “Do you know what we were laughing about this morning?” I said I didn’t. So she explained, “A split second after you said, ‘And then the phone rang,’ the phone in the open office beside the sanctuary began to ring!”
We had a good chuckle and I sighed in relief that I hadn’t committed some gargantuan blunder.
For several yeaers I occasionally produced multi-image shows for my church and the ministerial association of my home town. For Easter one year, I produced “A Promise in Fowler Woods” with a resurrection theme. I recorded the narration in the back of the woods on my property to capture the outdoor ambient sound. There was a voice-over, “A bird calls and the day begins in Fowler Woods.” Those were the days of quarter-inch audio tape, so my plan was to get out the splicing block and splicing tape and splice a pre-recorded bird call into the space after those words.
In preparation for the edit I listened to those words in my recorded voice-over. To my disbelief I discovered, perfectly timed at a perfect sound level, the beautiful call of some bird in my woods on Rome South Road. I hadn’t put it there; I didn’t even remember a bird call in my recording session.
Ah, yes!
I know I’ve said it before, and I’ll probably say it again, “I’ve never seen the waters parted like Moses did, but I’ve sure seen plenty of ripples on the water.”
When I was a young guy, full of vinegar, I could talk myself out of a God who really knows me and pays attention to me. I can’t do that anymore. God is an omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent God who is not above a sense of humor, a God who occasionally just might enjoy planting a phone ring or a bird call.
Glad we could get together.
Editorial: The Itinerant laity
An average of one out of five meals consumed by Americans, 4.2 meals per week, is prepared in a commercial setting, according to a new National Restaurant Association report.* Undoubtedly, many of those meals are consumed in a wide variety of eateries. And it may be that persons who frequent many different restaurants for their physical nourishment may want their spiritual nourishment served up the same way. A good friend helped us identify those persons as itinerant laity.
Itinerant is a word we have assigned to clergy; but clergy may be asked to share the identity with a new kind of churchgoer.
We have been labeling persons who float in and out of churches as “spiritual consumers.” That may be simplistic and not completely fair to some who are taking control of their personal spiritual diet in much the same way some persons take control of their own health care. The physician becomes a vendor.
Pollsters are pointing to a growing number who are less willing to commit to any organization for an indefinite period of time. And it may make some churches feel compelled to program so as to offer “menu items” to persons who are looking to fill a specific spiritual need, or even a spiritual diversion, for a pre-determined period of time. It brings pressure on the creative ability to structure unique programs for a marketplace of some very mobile church-goers.Decision-making for itinerant laity about church attendance may include such dialogue as these:
“I saw an ad about a Bible study at ABC Church that looks interesting. It lasts six weeks; let’s join it.”
“We haven’t sung in a choir for a long time. There is a good choir at XYZ Church; let’s join it for a year.”
“QRS Church has advertised a six-Sunday sermon series by Pastor Jones. Let’s go hear those.”
“Our teen children need a youth group. There is a very good one at LMN Church. Let’s go there ‘til they graduate.”
“We haven’t gone on a mission trip for a long time. DEF Church is going to Haiti; let’s go along.”
The idea of an itinerant church-goer brings up all sorts of issues relating to loyalty and community in the body of Christ, but every new age has driven the church to examine its mission in context, and itinerancy on the part of some churchgoers is a new context to ponder.
JW
*See http://www.restaurant.org/rusa/magArticle.cfm?ArticleID=138
The gift of Tom
And speaking of itinerancy – the appointment of Tom Salsgiver to the office of Superintendent of the Lewisburg District means that we swallow hard and look to God’s next chapter. If this editor may speak for the staff and the CPC, we prepare for God’s next chapter with a lump in our throats and with gratitude for the gift of Tom. His heart was shared with all of us and we, and the world, are better for it.
Itinerant is a word we have assigned to clergy; but clergy may be asked to share the identity with a new kind of churchgoer.
We have been labeling persons who float in and out of churches as “spiritual consumers.” That may be simplistic and not completely fair to some who are taking control of their personal spiritual diet in much the same way some persons take control of their own health care. The physician becomes a vendor.
Pollsters are pointing to a growing number who are less willing to commit to any organization for an indefinite period of time. And it may make some churches feel compelled to program so as to offer “menu items” to persons who are looking to fill a specific spiritual need, or even a spiritual diversion, for a pre-determined period of time. It brings pressure on the creative ability to structure unique programs for a marketplace of some very mobile church-goers.Decision-making for itinerant laity about church attendance may include such dialogue as these:
“I saw an ad about a Bible study at ABC Church that looks interesting. It lasts six weeks; let’s join it.”
“We haven’t sung in a choir for a long time. There is a good choir at XYZ Church; let’s join it for a year.”
“QRS Church has advertised a six-Sunday sermon series by Pastor Jones. Let’s go hear those.”
“Our teen children need a youth group. There is a very good one at LMN Church. Let’s go there ‘til they graduate.”
“We haven’t gone on a mission trip for a long time. DEF Church is going to Haiti; let’s go along.”
The idea of an itinerant church-goer brings up all sorts of issues relating to loyalty and community in the body of Christ, but every new age has driven the church to examine its mission in context, and itinerancy on the part of some churchgoers is a new context to ponder.
JW
*See http://www.restaurant.org/rusa/magArticle.cfm?ArticleID=138
The gift of Tom
And speaking of itinerancy – the appointment of Tom Salsgiver to the office of Superintendent of the Lewisburg District means that we swallow hard and look to God’s next chapter. If this editor may speak for the staff and the CPC, we prepare for God’s next chapter with a lump in our throats and with gratitude for the gift of Tom. His heart was shared with all of us and we, and the world, are better for it.
Commentary: The eyes of Africa
I remember the day my dad thrust his prized Kodak Retina II into my hands and said, “Here. Why don’t you take a picture.”
I think I might have been eight.
Since that day my heart races most smoothly when there’s a camera in my hands. I’m in control! I’m ready to freeze time! I’m poised to preserve a moment, like jelly in a jar!
So, you can understand that I was in a little heaven-on-earth when, with wife and friends, I “did safari” on the Serengeti in Tanzania, Africa. You must do it some day.
I’ve had God-moments looking through a camera lens. I could tell you about a few. When God-moments happen they can make you gasp.
The eyes are the gateway of the soul. That’s why we spend more time looking at a person’s eyes in a picture than any other feature on a face.
So I’d like to share a God moment with the photo above. Our last stop in Tanzania was a Maasai village near Arusha. This little guy was in the arms of his mother. I won’t forget the eyes – full of awe and wonder, full of innocence, full of questions . . . . . full of God.
Glad we could get together.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Commentary - A day at the whinery
Of all human expressions, whining is one of the most irritating. The word get’s defined variously, but “to snivel or complain in a peevish, self-pitying way” is to whine. Whining usually gets delivered in a high-pitched, nasal voice with loooong draaaaaawn out syllables with a spine-chill rating close to fingernails on a blackboard.
Got the picture?
Complaining is an older brother to whining, a bit more mature perhaps, but just about as nauseating. Lamenting is an even older brother, but with a degree.
I’m fully aware that complaining about the prevalence of whining puts me on the edge of being guilty of both, but I’ve got to “vent.”
We learn to whine rather early in our years. Remember Shakespeare’s “whining schoolboy, with his satchel and shining morning face, creeping like a snail unwillingly to school?”
It seems to me that an inordinate amount of a day’s communication amounts to a day at the whinery. And it’s depressing.
It wouldn’t be so bad if every tooth-grinding whine was in the company of some happy suggestion or solution.
I had a boss once who said rather emphatically, “If you come to my office to complain about a problem without at least one possible solution to the problem, I’m going to pretend that you’re not standing there.”
I remember showing up once without the requisite solution. Our interchange was rather short, as I recall.
“The tendency to whining and complaining may be taken as the surest sign or symptom of little souls and inferior intellects.” That was one on the chin by Lord Jeffrey, whoever he was.
As Christians, active in our world for good, we must advocate for peace and justice; but if we do it by whining and complaining, by reiterating the problem over and over, without offering well-thought solutions, we’ll get waaaaaaaaay behind.
Glad we could get together.
Got the picture?
Complaining is an older brother to whining, a bit more mature perhaps, but just about as nauseating. Lamenting is an even older brother, but with a degree.
I’m fully aware that complaining about the prevalence of whining puts me on the edge of being guilty of both, but I’ve got to “vent.”
We learn to whine rather early in our years. Remember Shakespeare’s “whining schoolboy, with his satchel and shining morning face, creeping like a snail unwillingly to school?”
It seems to me that an inordinate amount of a day’s communication amounts to a day at the whinery. And it’s depressing.
It wouldn’t be so bad if every tooth-grinding whine was in the company of some happy suggestion or solution.
I had a boss once who said rather emphatically, “If you come to my office to complain about a problem without at least one possible solution to the problem, I’m going to pretend that you’re not standing there.”
I remember showing up once without the requisite solution. Our interchange was rather short, as I recall.
“The tendency to whining and complaining may be taken as the surest sign or symptom of little souls and inferior intellects.” That was one on the chin by Lord Jeffrey, whoever he was.
As Christians, active in our world for good, we must advocate for peace and justice; but if we do it by whining and complaining, by reiterating the problem over and over, without offering well-thought solutions, we’ll get waaaaaaaaay behind.
Glad we could get together.
Editorial - Let's not forget the E, the U, or the B
The month of April is a significant milestone for the United Methodist Church: a time to celebrate, a time to evaluate, and a time to reflect.
As denominations go, a forty-year-old is still a youth; but it’s old enough that many persons sitting in our UMC pews do not remember their church with any other name. Others in the pew will know the church of their heritage as an Evangelical United Brethren church.
While the two fellowships, Methodist and EUB, officially became one in 1968, the union in the pew came about much more slowly and, to this day, it is important for some to identify their congregation as “former EUB.” That identification will probably fade in a generation but, for now, it can serve as a positive reminder of the contribution brought to the union table in 1968 by the Evangelical United Brethren Church.
The three words: evangelical, united, and brethren are good words that served their place in history very well.
The word “evangelical” remains a very good word. Some of our UMC literature proclaims that the UMC is evangelical. Unfortunately, words can change their connotations over the years and when we see the word “evangelical” capitalized we tend to shun usage of the word so as not to be associated with the abuse the word “evangelical” has suffered.
United is the one word in three that survived to the name of the new church, and it remains important to our DNA. The word “united” defines how we strive to go about our work as Christ’s church in the world.
Many in this part of the country are sensitive to the fact that the word “united” often gets dropped from our name in common usage. When persons speak of “the Methodist Church,” we are tempted to retort, “There has not been a Methodist Church since 1968.” That would not be a holy response. However, this editorial goes on record as pleading with the larger body that we be careful to identify ourselves as “united” in our purpose to make disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world.
The word “brethren” is a beautiful word in our history. Somehow its generic meaning was lost over the years. And while most are uncomfortable using the word “brethren,” let us not ever loose the embodiment of the word, and the intimacy in the history of the word. JW
As denominations go, a forty-year-old is still a youth; but it’s old enough that many persons sitting in our UMC pews do not remember their church with any other name. Others in the pew will know the church of their heritage as an Evangelical United Brethren church.
While the two fellowships, Methodist and EUB, officially became one in 1968, the union in the pew came about much more slowly and, to this day, it is important for some to identify their congregation as “former EUB.” That identification will probably fade in a generation but, for now, it can serve as a positive reminder of the contribution brought to the union table in 1968 by the Evangelical United Brethren Church.
The three words: evangelical, united, and brethren are good words that served their place in history very well.
The word “evangelical” remains a very good word. Some of our UMC literature proclaims that the UMC is evangelical. Unfortunately, words can change their connotations over the years and when we see the word “evangelical” capitalized we tend to shun usage of the word so as not to be associated with the abuse the word “evangelical” has suffered.
United is the one word in three that survived to the name of the new church, and it remains important to our DNA. The word “united” defines how we strive to go about our work as Christ’s church in the world.
Many in this part of the country are sensitive to the fact that the word “united” often gets dropped from our name in common usage. When persons speak of “the Methodist Church,” we are tempted to retort, “There has not been a Methodist Church since 1968.” That would not be a holy response. However, this editorial goes on record as pleading with the larger body that we be careful to identify ourselves as “united” in our purpose to make disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world.
The word “brethren” is a beautiful word in our history. Somehow its generic meaning was lost over the years. And while most are uncomfortable using the word “brethren,” let us not ever loose the embodiment of the word, and the intimacy in the history of the word. JW
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Editorial: "Within a yard of Hell"
C. T. Studd (1860-1931) was an English missionary to China, India, and Africa. He is quoted with:
Some want to live within the sound of church or chapel bell;
I want to run a rescue shop within a yard of hell.
That sounds Wesleyan.
There are many directions Studd’s quote can lead you, but permit us just one.
Would Wesley be on TV? was a question that got asked in a meeting not too long ago. The question didn’t get an answer.
We’ve been talking at great lengths lately about taking our faith “to the street.” That’s good talk; it’s better action. And it’s even better action when we really understand the full meaning of “street.”
There is an important concept of “street” that always gets ignored. Whether we like the idea or not, television is considered "communication Main Street." That’s still true, even with the web and all kinds of electronic trinkets.
Unfortunately, the Christian church has a bit of egg on it’s face when it comes to broadcasting, television in particular.
II Timothy 4:3 says, “For the time is coming when people will not put up with sound doctrine, but having itching ears, they will accumulate for themselves teachers to suit their own desires, and will turn away from listening to the truth and wander away to myths.”
If you want a demonstration of that verse, watch and listen to much of what is purported to be Christian programming and see for yourself.
Be careful, however. It’s one thing to be upset with shallow, "consumerist" doctrine that sells well, it’s quite another thing to accept some of the responsibility.
Let’s fact it, Wesleyan doctrine is generally absent from communication Main Street and Wesley’s people called Methodists share part of the responsibility.
Somehow, and with some isolated exceptions, religious communities that see through the Wesleyan lens have relinquished the airwaves to “itching ears” doctrine. The subversion and misrepresentation of the Gospel of Jesus Christ is a blemish, not only on the hucksters, but on ourselves as well.
“We’ve a story to tell to the nations,” as the song goes, but we don’t seem to want to get the story dirty or something.
So let’s be presumptuous enough to say that, indeed, Wesley would be preaching on television, just as surely as he preached in a pasture to be chased by a bull.
Some want to live within the sound of church or chapel bell;
I want to run a rescue shop within a yard of hell.
That sounds Wesleyan.
There are many directions Studd’s quote can lead you, but permit us just one.
Would Wesley be on TV? was a question that got asked in a meeting not too long ago. The question didn’t get an answer.
We’ve been talking at great lengths lately about taking our faith “to the street.” That’s good talk; it’s better action. And it’s even better action when we really understand the full meaning of “street.”
There is an important concept of “street” that always gets ignored. Whether we like the idea or not, television is considered "communication Main Street." That’s still true, even with the web and all kinds of electronic trinkets.
Unfortunately, the Christian church has a bit of egg on it’s face when it comes to broadcasting, television in particular.
II Timothy 4:3 says, “For the time is coming when people will not put up with sound doctrine, but having itching ears, they will accumulate for themselves teachers to suit their own desires, and will turn away from listening to the truth and wander away to myths.”
If you want a demonstration of that verse, watch and listen to much of what is purported to be Christian programming and see for yourself.
Be careful, however. It’s one thing to be upset with shallow, "consumerist" doctrine that sells well, it’s quite another thing to accept some of the responsibility.
Let’s fact it, Wesleyan doctrine is generally absent from communication Main Street and Wesley’s people called Methodists share part of the responsibility.
Somehow, and with some isolated exceptions, religious communities that see through the Wesleyan lens have relinquished the airwaves to “itching ears” doctrine. The subversion and misrepresentation of the Gospel of Jesus Christ is a blemish, not only on the hucksters, but on ourselves as well.
“We’ve a story to tell to the nations,” as the song goes, but we don’t seem to want to get the story dirty or something.
So let’s be presumptuous enough to say that, indeed, Wesley would be preaching on television, just as surely as he preached in a pasture to be chased by a bull.
Commentary: Fixin' stinkin' thinkin'
In my years I’ve seen quite a few political campaigns come and go. Thankfully, I can’t remember one campaign that didn’t do both. My skin crawls when they come, and I take a deep breath of clean air when they go.
I’m certain there is a better way to do what we do every two, or four, years, but George, Thomas, Ben, and all the other sweaty guys in powdered wigs in Philly didn’t come up with one. We don’t seem to be improving on it either. So, we’ve got what we’ve got, and it’s best to be thankful.
I have to work on myself in every political campaign not to fall into stinkin’ thinkin.’ It’s so easy to get sucked in to the mire. Stinkin’ thinkin’ is seductive.
Want an example?
I recently passed a display of all kinds of political paraphanelia. Some items were good-natured fun. Most were demeaning to persons. I thought those were pretty funny, so I laughed heartily.
And then came “the voice inside.” Inwardly, I apologized. I should have done so outwardly.
Three thought-problems come to mind in political campaigns that take a lot of energy from me to avoid:
1. Expedient thought. I might find a candidate that comes close to my set of beliefs, and then I adopt all the candidates beliefs as my own to get “my person” elected. That really amounts to prostitution of my beliefs.
2. Hate thought and speech. It’s more true than ever that political campaigns are eventually fueled by hatred of persons, rather than civil disagreement.I need to be an honest Christian. I don’t find license anywhere in the teachings of my faith for “Bill-bashing” or “George-bashing.” It’s OK to bash Bill’s and George’s ideas; it’s not OK to bash Bill and George. In fact, the Scriptures ask me to pray for both.
3. Thought and speech that ignors important information. I’m wise to gather all the facts I can before I decide anything. It’s dangerous to follow someone who just gives me the part that “tinkles their bell.” If candidates can’t level with me on the stump, they will surely hoodwink me in Washington, Harrisburg, or wherever.
Glad we could get together.
I’m certain there is a better way to do what we do every two, or four, years, but George, Thomas, Ben, and all the other sweaty guys in powdered wigs in Philly didn’t come up with one. We don’t seem to be improving on it either. So, we’ve got what we’ve got, and it’s best to be thankful.
I have to work on myself in every political campaign not to fall into stinkin’ thinkin.’ It’s so easy to get sucked in to the mire. Stinkin’ thinkin’ is seductive.
Want an example?
I recently passed a display of all kinds of political paraphanelia. Some items were good-natured fun. Most were demeaning to persons. I thought those were pretty funny, so I laughed heartily.
And then came “the voice inside.” Inwardly, I apologized. I should have done so outwardly.
Three thought-problems come to mind in political campaigns that take a lot of energy from me to avoid:
1. Expedient thought. I might find a candidate that comes close to my set of beliefs, and then I adopt all the candidates beliefs as my own to get “my person” elected. That really amounts to prostitution of my beliefs.
2. Hate thought and speech. It’s more true than ever that political campaigns are eventually fueled by hatred of persons, rather than civil disagreement.I need to be an honest Christian. I don’t find license anywhere in the teachings of my faith for “Bill-bashing” or “George-bashing.” It’s OK to bash Bill’s and George’s ideas; it’s not OK to bash Bill and George. In fact, the Scriptures ask me to pray for both.
3. Thought and speech that ignors important information. I’m wise to gather all the facts I can before I decide anything. It’s dangerous to follow someone who just gives me the part that “tinkles their bell.” If candidates can’t level with me on the stump, they will surely hoodwink me in Washington, Harrisburg, or wherever.
Glad we could get together.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Commentary: Listen up!
I was born before television, so I have a special affection for radio, especially as it lived out its “golden years.”
Radio stations used to take pride in a wide range of programming. Today, radio stations boast a very narrow area of interest. It’s “all talk,” “all country,” “all news,” or whatever. There is one niche radio market that has never been filled and I’m here to fill it. I haven’t approached the FCC about call letters nor frequency. Neither is consequential. I do know my station’s programming however.In the middle of the “all-talk, all-country, all-news” world of radio is my station - “all-silence.”
No, I’m not kidding. This is front-edge programming. It’s high-tech, too. This is silence from the far flung corners of the world, collected by satellite and beamed to your boom box, car radio, or your pocket radio; silence from the Middle East, silence from Moscow, Peking; long periods of silence from London, Paris, you-name-it.There is late-breaking local silence at 11. Silence wrap-ups, drive-time silence, silence spots from local businesses, nationally-syndicated Hush Limbaugh from noon to 3, and Dr. Lull from 3 to 6. There is an early-morning silent team to offer inaudible quips, jokes, and trivia.
Weekends there’s “Top 40 With The Mute Button,” for the kids. Saturday mornings there are gardening shows with recordings of growing plants. There are innumerable erased recordings of commentaries from experts of all kinds and interviews with celebrities and politicians - all suffering with laryngitis. There is even a special call-in show for computer geeks - with no phone number. Oh, and let’s not forget the award-winning “Washington Clam-up.”
Now before you run for the net to throw over me and haul me away, hear me out.We humans are rather poor at this thing called silence. God knew it and had to reprimand us, “Be still and know that I am God.” It’s a polite, biblical way of saying, “ Shut up and listen.” Our lives are so full of prattle and dim-witted noise that we can’t hear a horn, siren, or sonic boom anymore, let alone the voice of God.
I sometimes hear persons moan about the fact that God “seems so silent in my life.” The fact is that God has been using a megaphone but simply can’t get through.
Tune in to my radio station and I promise you: (1) a measure of peace and tranquility that you haven’t known for a long time, (2) new ideas that you never knew you had in you, and (3) a spiritual center with a sense of God’s presence and voice that you never thought possible. Glad we could get together.
Radio stations used to take pride in a wide range of programming. Today, radio stations boast a very narrow area of interest. It’s “all talk,” “all country,” “all news,” or whatever. There is one niche radio market that has never been filled and I’m here to fill it. I haven’t approached the FCC about call letters nor frequency. Neither is consequential. I do know my station’s programming however.In the middle of the “all-talk, all-country, all-news” world of radio is my station - “all-silence.”
No, I’m not kidding. This is front-edge programming. It’s high-tech, too. This is silence from the far flung corners of the world, collected by satellite and beamed to your boom box, car radio, or your pocket radio; silence from the Middle East, silence from Moscow, Peking; long periods of silence from London, Paris, you-name-it.There is late-breaking local silence at 11. Silence wrap-ups, drive-time silence, silence spots from local businesses, nationally-syndicated Hush Limbaugh from noon to 3, and Dr. Lull from 3 to 6. There is an early-morning silent team to offer inaudible quips, jokes, and trivia.
Weekends there’s “Top 40 With The Mute Button,” for the kids. Saturday mornings there are gardening shows with recordings of growing plants. There are innumerable erased recordings of commentaries from experts of all kinds and interviews with celebrities and politicians - all suffering with laryngitis. There is even a special call-in show for computer geeks - with no phone number. Oh, and let’s not forget the award-winning “Washington Clam-up.”
Now before you run for the net to throw over me and haul me away, hear me out.We humans are rather poor at this thing called silence. God knew it and had to reprimand us, “Be still and know that I am God.” It’s a polite, biblical way of saying, “ Shut up and listen.” Our lives are so full of prattle and dim-witted noise that we can’t hear a horn, siren, or sonic boom anymore, let alone the voice of God.
I sometimes hear persons moan about the fact that God “seems so silent in my life.” The fact is that God has been using a megaphone but simply can’t get through.
Tune in to my radio station and I promise you: (1) a measure of peace and tranquility that you haven’t known for a long time, (2) new ideas that you never knew you had in you, and (3) a spiritual center with a sense of God’s presence and voice that you never thought possible. Glad we could get together.
Commentary: The little girl at Keilah
Not far from St. Catherine’s Monastery at the foot of Mt. Sinai there is a small oasis where the ancient city of Keilah was located according to 1 Samuel 23. David, along with six hundred of his men, fled from there after being warned by the Lord that Saul “was plotting evil against him.” Our caravan across the Sinai Desert pulled to the side of the road at Keilah on our recent tour of Egypt.
As with all our stops on the Sinai, we were suddenly surrounded by Bedouin boys selling trinkets. On this stop, however, there was a young girl moving quietly among the tourists of our caravan.
Alongside the road in front of me she spread a dirty blanket on which she emptied a ragged bag of trinkets.
She pointed at the trinkets and pointed at me.
I shook my head. (I didn’t need any more trinkets.)
I opened my hand and held out a dollar bill, pointing at my camera lens and then at her.
She took my dollar and shyly smiled her approval.
Click.
She left me pondering.
In many parts of the Middle East, women are remarkably invisible. Up to this point on our trip we were approached only by very noisy Bedouin boys selling their wares.Why was this young girl here? Was she off-limits? Would her presence here be unacceptible to the traditions of her world? What ancient code would demand that she be invisible?
I wondered.
Glad we could get together.
Editorial: It's time to talk about honesty
The headlines these days paint a rather dismal scene of our understanding of honesty. Lying, cheating, and stealing in high places (and all the rest of the places) are taking a high toll on our lives. We are locking doors as we’ve never locked them before. New security measures are costing billions.George Barna in his book “Real Teens” claims that 66 percent of teens agree that “to get by these days, sometimes you have to bend the rules for your own benefit.” Fifty-nine percent agree that “the way things are these days, lying is sometimes necessary.”
There will be any number of explanations of “how we got here,” but for starters, if you examine closely, you won’t find many places where basic principles of honesty are taught. It’s understandable to be concerned about “establishment” issues in public schools; but if it’s not permissible to have “Thou shalt not steal” on the wall, where is the moral code or compass to take its place?
If I’m the typical young person in the U.S. where do I find out that it’s harmful to me and everyone else when I tell a lie, cheat on my examination, or steal someone else’s Nikes?
It’s a question for which we’d better find an answer and rather quickly. In the church we’ve shied away from “moralizing,” assuming that everyone can figure out moral issues on their own without any “commandments” as such. The cost of that is becoming oppressive.
In whatever ways we can find, by sermon and example, we will need to teach honesty: What does the Bible say about honesty? How can we practice a lifestyle of truth and integrity? What are the dire consequences of being dishonest?
There will be any number of explanations of “how we got here,” but for starters, if you examine closely, you won’t find many places where basic principles of honesty are taught. It’s understandable to be concerned about “establishment” issues in public schools; but if it’s not permissible to have “Thou shalt not steal” on the wall, where is the moral code or compass to take its place?
If I’m the typical young person in the U.S. where do I find out that it’s harmful to me and everyone else when I tell a lie, cheat on my examination, or steal someone else’s Nikes?
It’s a question for which we’d better find an answer and rather quickly. In the church we’ve shied away from “moralizing,” assuming that everyone can figure out moral issues on their own without any “commandments” as such. The cost of that is becoming oppressive.
In whatever ways we can find, by sermon and example, we will need to teach honesty: What does the Bible say about honesty? How can we practice a lifestyle of truth and integrity? What are the dire consequences of being dishonest?
Editorial: Keep politics out of the pulpit
It has become an annual warning, or at least a bi-annual warning, from the General Counsel of the United Methodist Council on Finance and Administration to restrain ourselves in endorsing political candidates from our pulpits. “Churches should take stands on appropriate issues, but it cannot be a substantial part of their ministry," Jim Allen told Linda Green, in a recent United Methodist News Service article.
Every election year, blatant abuses of that admonition continue from “left, right, and middle.” Candidates from all political parties often are seen in pulpits or at church functions delivering their messages or seeking endorsements.
Numerous complaints of inappropriate political involvement by churches and other non-profits brought warnings in 2005 from the Internal Revenue Service that political campaign activism could endanger church tax-exempt status. Recently the IRS unveiled its Political Activity Compliance Initiative to expedite investigation of claims of improper campaigning in churches. Investigations have become more frequent. A 2006 IRS guide defines the role that churches, hospitals, universities and other entities can play in political matters. The guide also makes clear that, under 501(c)(3) of the IRS code, violating prohibitions "may result in denial or revocation of tax-exempt status and the imposition of certain excise taxes."
The rules are fair. The church has asked for, and been granted, preferred status as it relates to a variety of taxes – local, state, and federal. The separation of church and state cuts both ways, however, and it will behoove us to keep our activity above board no matter how impassioned we may be about any issue.
It might also be said that a certain responsibility for inappropriate advantage taken of church and non-profit platforms, be born by persons running for public office. Politicians are in a position to know that such activity is illegal. It is a matter of impropriety and should be a blemish on the record of any candidate who requests an appearance at any church service or event.
Every election year, blatant abuses of that admonition continue from “left, right, and middle.” Candidates from all political parties often are seen in pulpits or at church functions delivering their messages or seeking endorsements.
Numerous complaints of inappropriate political involvement by churches and other non-profits brought warnings in 2005 from the Internal Revenue Service that political campaign activism could endanger church tax-exempt status. Recently the IRS unveiled its Political Activity Compliance Initiative to expedite investigation of claims of improper campaigning in churches. Investigations have become more frequent. A 2006 IRS guide defines the role that churches, hospitals, universities and other entities can play in political matters. The guide also makes clear that, under 501(c)(3) of the IRS code, violating prohibitions "may result in denial or revocation of tax-exempt status and the imposition of certain excise taxes."
The rules are fair. The church has asked for, and been granted, preferred status as it relates to a variety of taxes – local, state, and federal. The separation of church and state cuts both ways, however, and it will behoove us to keep our activity above board no matter how impassioned we may be about any issue.
It might also be said that a certain responsibility for inappropriate advantage taken of church and non-profit platforms, be born by persons running for public office. Politicians are in a position to know that such activity is illegal. It is a matter of impropriety and should be a blemish on the record of any candidate who requests an appearance at any church service or event.
Commentary: Come away to a deserted place
February 10, 2007, 3:30 p.m. found me in the back seat of a van next to daughter Tammy. Up front were my wife, daughter Trina, and our driver and guide for the past 24 hours. Behind me was an armed guard directed to us by the U.S. Embassy to look after us on our journey across the Sinai Peninsula.
Outside the windows was Cairo.
Cairo, Egypt! How do you describe it on a Friday afternoon?!
We were clawing our way to the Cairo Museum through a racket-symphony of horns, gunning engines, screeching tires, and assorted raised voices. Traffic lanes drawn as five were used more like eight. Most intersections were signal-less. An occasional police office made a futile attempt at order.
After awhile I needed a break and reached to the lower pocket of my cargo pants, pulled out my travel Bible, and began to thumb through the Gospels, red-letter-style, past the “woe to you” passages and finally to a single red line, “Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while.” It became the text of a Lenten messages I delivered a week later.
Not all that many hours before we were in the middle of the Sinai Desert where I took a photo. To fully appreciate the photo you must imagine no sound at all. Sinai silence is deafening.
There’s something about a deserted place like the Sinai that beckons, even seduces you away from the frenzy that has you standing there in your shoes – senses numbed, soul languishing in a spirit-less hole.
The deserted places must have been precious to Jesus. I’ve a feeling he had a mind-map of every deserted place to which he could occasionally escape ... to hear the voice of God ... to hear the murmerings of his own soul.
The invitation of Jesus to “come away to a deserted place” was especially poignant for his apostles who “had no leisure even to eat.” (Mark 6:31)
And so for us.
Glad we could get together.
Outside the windows was Cairo.
Cairo, Egypt! How do you describe it on a Friday afternoon?!
We were clawing our way to the Cairo Museum through a racket-symphony of horns, gunning engines, screeching tires, and assorted raised voices. Traffic lanes drawn as five were used more like eight. Most intersections were signal-less. An occasional police office made a futile attempt at order.
After awhile I needed a break and reached to the lower pocket of my cargo pants, pulled out my travel Bible, and began to thumb through the Gospels, red-letter-style, past the “woe to you” passages and finally to a single red line, “Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while.” It became the text of a Lenten messages I delivered a week later.
Not all that many hours before we were in the middle of the Sinai Desert where I took a photo. To fully appreciate the photo you must imagine no sound at all. Sinai silence is deafening.
There’s something about a deserted place like the Sinai that beckons, even seduces you away from the frenzy that has you standing there in your shoes – senses numbed, soul languishing in a spirit-less hole.
The deserted places must have been precious to Jesus. I’ve a feeling he had a mind-map of every deserted place to which he could occasionally escape ... to hear the voice of God ... to hear the murmerings of his own soul.
The invitation of Jesus to “come away to a deserted place” was especially poignant for his apostles who “had no leisure even to eat.” (Mark 6:31)
And so for us.
Glad we could get together.
Commentary: Leap of faith
I’ve often pondered the lowly spider. I may alienate myself from some of my friends, but I admire those “crawley” little critters.
On more than one occasion I’ve found myself in some contorted position, watching the engineering spectacle of a spider spinning a web in order to snag some unsuspecting dinner.In the times I’ve watched that phenomenal display, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the spider stop to take a rest. It’s just a frantic scurry to get the web in place in time for a unwary culinary delight to fly by.
I’ve also wondered what goes through a spider’s tiny brain when the spider, by merely making an entrance, sends beings, thousands of times the spider’s size, screaming from the room. What power, what supremacy, what dominion the spider must feel by the experience.But I think the most profoundly I’ve been spoken to by a spider was recently. On a Saturday morning my wife and I were the first to enter the sanctuary of Camp Hill UMC. The first blinding rays of a spring sun were piercing the unlit space.
My wife pointed and said, “Look!”
Glistening in the sun was a tiny, silky, silver strand hanging from the very center of the ceiling to the carpet below.
I could only imagine the preceding night.
Somewhere in that sanctuary there must have been a little spider looking on at these two humans in awe of his nocturnal feat.
If you put the spider into perspective, and if my math is right, diving 40 feet for the spider is comparable to you and me diving 1,800 feet.
Hmmmmm!
Somehow, during the night a little spider, perched on the ceiling of the Camp Hill church, looked at the situation. There were three options: (1) stay on the ceiling and figure out the rest of life lived on the ceiling, (2) crawl to the side wall and crawl down, taking hours and hours, or (3) take a calculated leap to the floor to arrive in a matter of a minute or two.
Somehow a little spider’s brain picked a leap of faith, a feat of daring-do, a risky flight without a parachute. A little spider decided there were enough resources down inside of his little anatomy for a safe landing on yonder carpet.
A silvery strand hanging in front of us proclaimed a spider’s wise courage and coaxed us to a our own leap of faith.
Glad we could get together.
On more than one occasion I’ve found myself in some contorted position, watching the engineering spectacle of a spider spinning a web in order to snag some unsuspecting dinner.In the times I’ve watched that phenomenal display, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the spider stop to take a rest. It’s just a frantic scurry to get the web in place in time for a unwary culinary delight to fly by.
I’ve also wondered what goes through a spider’s tiny brain when the spider, by merely making an entrance, sends beings, thousands of times the spider’s size, screaming from the room. What power, what supremacy, what dominion the spider must feel by the experience.But I think the most profoundly I’ve been spoken to by a spider was recently. On a Saturday morning my wife and I were the first to enter the sanctuary of Camp Hill UMC. The first blinding rays of a spring sun were piercing the unlit space.
My wife pointed and said, “Look!”
Glistening in the sun was a tiny, silky, silver strand hanging from the very center of the ceiling to the carpet below.
I could only imagine the preceding night.
Somewhere in that sanctuary there must have been a little spider looking on at these two humans in awe of his nocturnal feat.
If you put the spider into perspective, and if my math is right, diving 40 feet for the spider is comparable to you and me diving 1,800 feet.
Hmmmmm!
Somehow, during the night a little spider, perched on the ceiling of the Camp Hill church, looked at the situation. There were three options: (1) stay on the ceiling and figure out the rest of life lived on the ceiling, (2) crawl to the side wall and crawl down, taking hours and hours, or (3) take a calculated leap to the floor to arrive in a matter of a minute or two.
Somehow a little spider’s brain picked a leap of faith, a feat of daring-do, a risky flight without a parachute. A little spider decided there were enough resources down inside of his little anatomy for a safe landing on yonder carpet.
A silvery strand hanging in front of us proclaimed a spider’s wise courage and coaxed us to a our own leap of faith.
Glad we could get together.
Commentary: Parable in the sky
It was very early morning in late May. I pulled into an empty parking lot, grabbed my planner, swung my door open, and headed a few dozen yards to the front door of the office.
Half way there I stopped.
In the sky, far in the distance, was a veritable two-ring sky-circus of honking, squawking, flapping wings as several dozen Canada geese headed in every direction.
I watched, feet glued to the asphalt.
Occasionally geese would fly from one writhing cluster of geese to the other as if choosing up sides for a baseball game, all the while making no progress in any direction.
The Barnum-and-Bailey-thing-in-the-sky continued.
I soon noticed the two groups of geese were forming a single gathering that began moving, ever so slowly . . . in my direction. The circle began taking a triangular shape, began spreading apart. Birds moved about, lining up.I watched . . . watched . . . watched. Two lines of geese formed, spreading wider and wider, wingtip to bill, moving swiftly . . . more swiftly . . . yet more swiftly . . . closer . . . closer . . . closer!
An icicle shot up my spine as one of the largest, most perfect, formations of Canada geese I had ever seen, swept over me.
Above the swish, swish, swish of wings there was barely a sound – only an occasional, single honk. I watched the formation out of sight, noticed an occasional transfer of the lead.
It’s one of those moments when you want to grab for your shoes so’s to stand barefoot as you stare at the handiwork of something so much bigger than you. It’s one of those moments when you feel you should salute something, sing something, call somebody . . . maybe even write something.
This time I wanted to call to the sky, “God, do that again! I need another one of those! I gotta’ have just one more like that one!”
But I was left standing there in the parking lot, swallowing past a lump, with nothing more than an inner voice that seemed to scoff, “Here, bud, have a parable! Chew on this one for awhile.”
I don’t know about you, but I sure enjoy a creative God, a God that talks to me in ways that make my pulse race, my feet sweat, and my spine shiver.
Glad we could get together.
Half way there I stopped.
In the sky, far in the distance, was a veritable two-ring sky-circus of honking, squawking, flapping wings as several dozen Canada geese headed in every direction.
I watched, feet glued to the asphalt.
Occasionally geese would fly from one writhing cluster of geese to the other as if choosing up sides for a baseball game, all the while making no progress in any direction.
The Barnum-and-Bailey-thing-in-the-sky continued.
I soon noticed the two groups of geese were forming a single gathering that began moving, ever so slowly . . . in my direction. The circle began taking a triangular shape, began spreading apart. Birds moved about, lining up.I watched . . . watched . . . watched. Two lines of geese formed, spreading wider and wider, wingtip to bill, moving swiftly . . . more swiftly . . . yet more swiftly . . . closer . . . closer . . . closer!
An icicle shot up my spine as one of the largest, most perfect, formations of Canada geese I had ever seen, swept over me.
Above the swish, swish, swish of wings there was barely a sound – only an occasional, single honk. I watched the formation out of sight, noticed an occasional transfer of the lead.
It’s one of those moments when you want to grab for your shoes so’s to stand barefoot as you stare at the handiwork of something so much bigger than you. It’s one of those moments when you feel you should salute something, sing something, call somebody . . . maybe even write something.
This time I wanted to call to the sky, “God, do that again! I need another one of those! I gotta’ have just one more like that one!”
But I was left standing there in the parking lot, swallowing past a lump, with nothing more than an inner voice that seemed to scoff, “Here, bud, have a parable! Chew on this one for awhile.”
I don’t know about you, but I sure enjoy a creative God, a God that talks to me in ways that make my pulse race, my feet sweat, and my spine shiver.
Glad we could get together.
Commentary: Feed and be fed
I suppose you could call me consumed, obsessed or something, but when I’m having a good time, bad time, or so-so time, I’m often wondering what eternal message I may be staring at . . . but missing.
A couple weeks ago I stood belly-deep in the bath-water surf in Clearwater, Florida, fishing pole in hand. Somewhere out in the surf, maybe twenty yards or so, was a tiny baitfish, tethered to my pole, hook through his middle, fighting to escape the inevitable.
My good friends Gene, George, and William were close by, similarly outfitted.
It came to me as I watched pelicans and gulls all around me (much better at fishing than I) that the creature world, both in the sea and in the woods, is pretty focused. Whether you’re wearing scales or fur, be you bear or tarpon, your Franklin Planner motto for the day will read the same as it did yesterday, and it will read the same tomorrow: Eat and don’t get eaten.
It seems to me that the Creator extended the option of a higher plane for we humans: feed and be fed.
On a very simple level, have you ever noticed how different food tastes after you’ve first served up a generous portion to a hungry person. I think mothers and fathers who cook may enjoy food most. Do you suppose?
Feed and be fed.
Unfortunately, we seem often to want to remain the creatures of the sea and woods: eat, consume, devour . . . and watch your back.
What a miserable way to live!
Glad we could get together.
A couple weeks ago I stood belly-deep in the bath-water surf in Clearwater, Florida, fishing pole in hand. Somewhere out in the surf, maybe twenty yards or so, was a tiny baitfish, tethered to my pole, hook through his middle, fighting to escape the inevitable.
My good friends Gene, George, and William were close by, similarly outfitted.
It came to me as I watched pelicans and gulls all around me (much better at fishing than I) that the creature world, both in the sea and in the woods, is pretty focused. Whether you’re wearing scales or fur, be you bear or tarpon, your Franklin Planner motto for the day will read the same as it did yesterday, and it will read the same tomorrow: Eat and don’t get eaten.
It seems to me that the Creator extended the option of a higher plane for we humans: feed and be fed.
On a very simple level, have you ever noticed how different food tastes after you’ve first served up a generous portion to a hungry person. I think mothers and fathers who cook may enjoy food most. Do you suppose?
Feed and be fed.
Unfortunately, we seem often to want to remain the creatures of the sea and woods: eat, consume, devour . . . and watch your back.
What a miserable way to live!
Glad we could get together.
Commentary: Cheap Candy and Sick Lambs
I was lucky to work with Leo for many years. Leo played out a country-bumpkin persona to everyone's amusement. He'd often exit for lunch with the announcement, “I’m out for a cool RC and a Moon Pie.” Or, he’d get up from his desk at quitting time and bellow, “It’s time to blow the pop-stand.” (You must be from Ohio to understand that one.)
Leo feigned a Jack Benny-esque stinginess at every opportunity. He often found a way to break the ice with a new employee with some kind of prank. I remember the day he placed on the desk of a rather new secretary, a well-worn, heart-shaped Valentine candy box, complete with empty paper candy cups and cheap jelly beans. There was a note with a simple request: “Would you fill the papers with the candy so I can give the box to my wife for Valentine's Day?” I can still see Charisse glaring at those dime-store confections and the tattered candy box in disbelief and disgust.
When we want to convey our deep-felt affection for someone, we look for the best that we can find or afford – the best chocolates, the most voluptuous roses, the grandest restaurant.
In Malachi 4, the prophet relayed the angry words of God, “You show contempt for my name.” The reply from the priests was, “Who? Us? How!?” And the answer was simply, “You place defiled food on my altar. You bring blind, crippled, or diseased animals as a sacrifice. Oh, that one of you would shut the temple doors so that you would not light useless fires on my altar. I am not pleased with you and I will accept no offering from your hands.”
God asks from us our very best – our best sermon, our best solo, our best lesson, our best meeting … the best we can muster with our resources and our talents.
Glad we could get together.
Leo feigned a Jack Benny-esque stinginess at every opportunity. He often found a way to break the ice with a new employee with some kind of prank. I remember the day he placed on the desk of a rather new secretary, a well-worn, heart-shaped Valentine candy box, complete with empty paper candy cups and cheap jelly beans. There was a note with a simple request: “Would you fill the papers with the candy so I can give the box to my wife for Valentine's Day?” I can still see Charisse glaring at those dime-store confections and the tattered candy box in disbelief and disgust.
When we want to convey our deep-felt affection for someone, we look for the best that we can find or afford – the best chocolates, the most voluptuous roses, the grandest restaurant.
In Malachi 4, the prophet relayed the angry words of God, “You show contempt for my name.” The reply from the priests was, “Who? Us? How!?” And the answer was simply, “You place defiled food on my altar. You bring blind, crippled, or diseased animals as a sacrifice. Oh, that one of you would shut the temple doors so that you would not light useless fires on my altar. I am not pleased with you and I will accept no offering from your hands.”
God asks from us our very best – our best sermon, our best solo, our best lesson, our best meeting … the best we can muster with our resources and our talents.
Glad we could get together.
Commentary: Gentle Persuasion
I’ve pondered this question lately: What is my work as a disciple of Jesus Christ and how should I go about it?
I think I’ve come up with a simple definition of my work. My work is to change minds and thereby change hearts. It was the work of Jesus.
So, if that’s my work, how am I supposed to go about it? When I meet someone who holds a different world view than I, who voices and lives out philosophies that are contrary to mine, when persons act and live in ways that I see as dangerous, what am I to do.
That’s the tough part.I could choose to make all the common mistakes:
1. I could argue; make all the right points loudly enough so that I melt down the other person’s view and fill a room with nodding heads.
2. I could intimidate the other person; make them feel less educated, less sophisticated.
3. I could label them and look for ways to identify them as such to my family, friends, co-workers, and the whole world so as to alienate them.
4. I could campaign for a law that would make the other person’s view illegal.
5. I could even go so far as to call down fire and brimstone on their heads and declare them headed to hell.
An old adage comes to mind, “A person convinced against their will is of the same opinion still.”
The words of a gospel song come to mind. Remember these lines?
Soft as the voice of an angel
Breathing a lesson unheard,
Hope with a gentle persuasion
Whispers her comforting word.
Remember “Whispering Hope”? Two words jump at me from that song: gentle persuasion.
I’ve changed my mind and my heart in the past. So how did it happen?
Sometimes I changed my mind when I saw someone living in a way that I admired, and when, in a kind manner, they stated their view, I was drawn to their belief.
Sometimes I changed my mind when someone respected my view, asked me to explain it, and I struggled for a believable answer.Sometimes I was driven to study and revise my belief by a simple suggestion or question from someone who really seemed to care about me.
I think I’ve found a clue to how I should go about my work.
Glad we could get together.
I think I’ve come up with a simple definition of my work. My work is to change minds and thereby change hearts. It was the work of Jesus.
So, if that’s my work, how am I supposed to go about it? When I meet someone who holds a different world view than I, who voices and lives out philosophies that are contrary to mine, when persons act and live in ways that I see as dangerous, what am I to do.
That’s the tough part.I could choose to make all the common mistakes:
1. I could argue; make all the right points loudly enough so that I melt down the other person’s view and fill a room with nodding heads.
2. I could intimidate the other person; make them feel less educated, less sophisticated.
3. I could label them and look for ways to identify them as such to my family, friends, co-workers, and the whole world so as to alienate them.
4. I could campaign for a law that would make the other person’s view illegal.
5. I could even go so far as to call down fire and brimstone on their heads and declare them headed to hell.
An old adage comes to mind, “A person convinced against their will is of the same opinion still.”
The words of a gospel song come to mind. Remember these lines?
Soft as the voice of an angel
Breathing a lesson unheard,
Hope with a gentle persuasion
Whispers her comforting word.
Remember “Whispering Hope”? Two words jump at me from that song: gentle persuasion.
I’ve changed my mind and my heart in the past. So how did it happen?
Sometimes I changed my mind when I saw someone living in a way that I admired, and when, in a kind manner, they stated their view, I was drawn to their belief.
Sometimes I changed my mind when someone respected my view, asked me to explain it, and I struggled for a believable answer.Sometimes I was driven to study and revise my belief by a simple suggestion or question from someone who really seemed to care about me.
I think I’ve found a clue to how I should go about my work.
Glad we could get together.
Commentary: To Phil
Driver Tom nodded to his left, “I sure miss Phil’s flower garden.”
“Yeah, I do, too.” I said.
Phil.
Twice a day, to and from work, I get a reminder of Phil when I drive by what used to be Phil’s flower garden. Now the spot is occupied by a new house ready for somebody’s move. Nice house, but not as nice as Phil’s weedless garden full of all kinds of flowers.
I met Phil ten years ago. For ninety minutes, I sat around an interview table with Neil, Ed, Sharon, Cal, Louise . . . and Phil . . . at the corner of the table to my right.
I don’t remember if Phil asked me any questions. I think he mostly just sat there . . . and smiled. It seemed as if he was fulfilling some sort of grand mission, not to ask any brilliant questions, but just to listen intently . . . and smile.
Phil was a rather important guy. He’d been a chief meteorologist for a chunk of the middle of Pennsylvania, was a lay leader of his church conference. Phil and I had some great conversations in the years that followed. ‘Not sure I ever caught him without that . . . smile.
Phil got busy caring for his wife of many years. We didn’t talk very often.
A few years ticked by.
Three o’clock in the afternoon, on a Wednesday, my desk phone rang. “Hi, I’m Jim, Phil’s pastor. Phil’s in the hospital. He asked to see you.”
I dropped everything.
“Phil,” I whispered to the man sleeping upright. His eyes opened . . . the smile . . . and then, “Jurry!” (That’s “Jerry” in a Pennsylvania Dutch accent.) We talked . . .. . . and talked.
I prayed for Phil . . . waved goodbye.
Phil waved . . . and smiled.
Friday I walked into Phil’s room. There was no response . . . and no smile. Phil took it along with him the next morning.
The church was packed. There were tears, but there were more laughs. We listened to mischievous farm-boy stories. A very tall police chief told a story of faking an arrest of Phil in Kentucky.
Beside the Lutheran Church in Tusseyville there is a little cemetery with the name Phillip Neff carved in a stone. I stopped there one day . . . thanked God . . . thanked Phil . . . and smiled.
I’ve learned a lot from the people I’ve known. So, Phil, I think I’d like to talk a little less in the future; maybe smile more.
Glad we could get together.
“Yeah, I do, too.” I said.
Phil.
Twice a day, to and from work, I get a reminder of Phil when I drive by what used to be Phil’s flower garden. Now the spot is occupied by a new house ready for somebody’s move. Nice house, but not as nice as Phil’s weedless garden full of all kinds of flowers.
I met Phil ten years ago. For ninety minutes, I sat around an interview table with Neil, Ed, Sharon, Cal, Louise . . . and Phil . . . at the corner of the table to my right.
I don’t remember if Phil asked me any questions. I think he mostly just sat there . . . and smiled. It seemed as if he was fulfilling some sort of grand mission, not to ask any brilliant questions, but just to listen intently . . . and smile.
Phil was a rather important guy. He’d been a chief meteorologist for a chunk of the middle of Pennsylvania, was a lay leader of his church conference. Phil and I had some great conversations in the years that followed. ‘Not sure I ever caught him without that . . . smile.
Phil got busy caring for his wife of many years. We didn’t talk very often.
A few years ticked by.
Three o’clock in the afternoon, on a Wednesday, my desk phone rang. “Hi, I’m Jim, Phil’s pastor. Phil’s in the hospital. He asked to see you.”
I dropped everything.
“Phil,” I whispered to the man sleeping upright. His eyes opened . . . the smile . . . and then, “Jurry!” (That’s “Jerry” in a Pennsylvania Dutch accent.) We talked . . .. . . and talked.
I prayed for Phil . . . waved goodbye.
Phil waved . . . and smiled.
Friday I walked into Phil’s room. There was no response . . . and no smile. Phil took it along with him the next morning.
The church was packed. There were tears, but there were more laughs. We listened to mischievous farm-boy stories. A very tall police chief told a story of faking an arrest of Phil in Kentucky.
Beside the Lutheran Church in Tusseyville there is a little cemetery with the name Phillip Neff carved in a stone. I stopped there one day . . . thanked God . . . thanked Phil . . . and smiled.
I’ve learned a lot from the people I’ve known. So, Phil, I think I’d like to talk a little less in the future; maybe smile more.
Glad we could get together.
Commentary: Sam
On any given morning when my wife, Ruth, called out the back door, “Good morning, Sam,” there was a resounding, “HONK!” that echoed across the back yard. If I called “Good morning, Sam,” out the same door, there was always stone silence across the back yard.
Sam was a Chinese goose. Big bird; mean, too. Great “watchdog.”
Sam was a widower; Samantha died years before, probably exhausted from laying dozens and dozens of eggs for the skunks to eat.
Ruth bonded with Sam years before. Sam was her bird.
Sam and I “unbonded” the day he escaped his pen and I stepped all over him, trying to bundle up his thrashing wings. If the neighbors saw Sam and me they probably decided I was making a giant feather pillow. Anyhow, I remember I finally resorted to grabbing Sam by the neck, and unceremoniously, web-feet-over-beak, firing him home over the fence. I think our bond snapped somewhere mid-air.
Sam and I weren’t particularly “close” after that.
Sam’s mission from that day was to even the score with me. I’d be on my knees, pulling weeds in the garden and suddenly I’d hear swishing through the grass. I’d look up and here would come Sam, feet flying, head straight down, charging in my direction. As soon as our eyes met, Sam would come to a halt, neck up, head looking around the yard as if to say, “I wasn’t doing anything.”
Sam didn’t understand his pen. It was about as classy as a foul pen could be, a fourteen-poster with a slanted fence cap. There was plenty of food and water.
Sam didn’t understand that outside a fence a lot of critters around our place would love a feast of goose a la feathers. Out of love for Sam, Ruth sweat-built that fence. So, she was the most exasperated with Sam’s wanderlust that occasionally compelled him to “fly the coup,” so to speak.
One snowy day Ruth returned home to find Sam missing. A search along goose prints in the snow all around the neighborhood found Sam at a farm about a quarter mile away. The trip home could have been a painting, best described as, “country wife drags goose by neck with goose feet sliding through snow while school bus children laugh and wave.”
Sam’s trajectory into the pen was similar to the flight plan I had filed sometime before.
You know, God’s had to return me to my pen lots of times. I keep thinking I know better than the loving God who prepared a way of living for me, outside of which there are many critters that could eat me, feathers and all. God’s corrective actions can be humiliating, make you want to charge at something, pinch something with your beak.
But that’s a good God, isn’t it?
Glad we could get together.
Sam was a Chinese goose. Big bird; mean, too. Great “watchdog.”
Sam was a widower; Samantha died years before, probably exhausted from laying dozens and dozens of eggs for the skunks to eat.
Ruth bonded with Sam years before. Sam was her bird.
Sam and I “unbonded” the day he escaped his pen and I stepped all over him, trying to bundle up his thrashing wings. If the neighbors saw Sam and me they probably decided I was making a giant feather pillow. Anyhow, I remember I finally resorted to grabbing Sam by the neck, and unceremoniously, web-feet-over-beak, firing him home over the fence. I think our bond snapped somewhere mid-air.
Sam and I weren’t particularly “close” after that.
Sam’s mission from that day was to even the score with me. I’d be on my knees, pulling weeds in the garden and suddenly I’d hear swishing through the grass. I’d look up and here would come Sam, feet flying, head straight down, charging in my direction. As soon as our eyes met, Sam would come to a halt, neck up, head looking around the yard as if to say, “I wasn’t doing anything.”
Sam didn’t understand his pen. It was about as classy as a foul pen could be, a fourteen-poster with a slanted fence cap. There was plenty of food and water.
Sam didn’t understand that outside a fence a lot of critters around our place would love a feast of goose a la feathers. Out of love for Sam, Ruth sweat-built that fence. So, she was the most exasperated with Sam’s wanderlust that occasionally compelled him to “fly the coup,” so to speak.
One snowy day Ruth returned home to find Sam missing. A search along goose prints in the snow all around the neighborhood found Sam at a farm about a quarter mile away. The trip home could have been a painting, best described as, “country wife drags goose by neck with goose feet sliding through snow while school bus children laugh and wave.”
Sam’s trajectory into the pen was similar to the flight plan I had filed sometime before.
You know, God’s had to return me to my pen lots of times. I keep thinking I know better than the loving God who prepared a way of living for me, outside of which there are many critters that could eat me, feathers and all. God’s corrective actions can be humiliating, make you want to charge at something, pinch something with your beak.
But that’s a good God, isn’t it?
Glad we could get together.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Commentary: The walk to Avacado
Friends Sharlene, George, and William said, “We’re going to Guatemala for Thanksgiving, ‘Wanna go along?” We couldn’t think of a reason not to.
Guatemala is an incredibly beautiful country in November: lots of flowers, beautiful green vegetation. We spent a couple days high in the mountains above Guatemala City at the Hogar Maguel Magone, an orphanage for sixty boys; spent some time painting beds, learned to know Karen who began the orphanage ten years ago with three boys, learned the challenges of running an orphanage in a country with no government help for education, no help for orphanages for boys.
Sunday was a special day. A Rotary Club from Guatemala City brought games, a jumping gym, and pizza for an afternoon of fun. Added to the boys from the orphanage were children from a little hamlet close by called Avocado.
The sun began to set and we joined the kids for the short walk to Avocado, past a Catholic church, back a long narrow path to the home of Loraina, a young woman of 17 years who works at the orphanage. With an absent mother and father, she cares for her six younger siblings in a tiny shack. Two strong young men had to help us navigate the muddy hill to the most meager of living arrangements.
I stood there in the dark with the delightful chatter of neighborhood children all around me. And once again in my life, I tried to reconcile the plight of so many living in a world where so many have so much and so many have so little. At home I imagined there were shoppers dashing about, grumbling, still stressed from Black Friday, grabbing more stuff to pile on top of the stuff already piled up.
In contrast were the goodbyes from little people in Avocado and Hogar Miguel Magone, hugging us around the knees, and little smiling faces looking up and saying, “Gracias, gracias!”
Glad we could get together.
Guatemala is an incredibly beautiful country in November: lots of flowers, beautiful green vegetation. We spent a couple days high in the mountains above Guatemala City at the Hogar Maguel Magone, an orphanage for sixty boys; spent some time painting beds, learned to know Karen who began the orphanage ten years ago with three boys, learned the challenges of running an orphanage in a country with no government help for education, no help for orphanages for boys.
Sunday was a special day. A Rotary Club from Guatemala City brought games, a jumping gym, and pizza for an afternoon of fun. Added to the boys from the orphanage were children from a little hamlet close by called Avocado.
The sun began to set and we joined the kids for the short walk to Avocado, past a Catholic church, back a long narrow path to the home of Loraina, a young woman of 17 years who works at the orphanage. With an absent mother and father, she cares for her six younger siblings in a tiny shack. Two strong young men had to help us navigate the muddy hill to the most meager of living arrangements.
I stood there in the dark with the delightful chatter of neighborhood children all around me. And once again in my life, I tried to reconcile the plight of so many living in a world where so many have so much and so many have so little. At home I imagined there were shoppers dashing about, grumbling, still stressed from Black Friday, grabbing more stuff to pile on top of the stuff already piled up.
In contrast were the goodbyes from little people in Avocado and Hogar Miguel Magone, hugging us around the knees, and little smiling faces looking up and saying, “Gracias, gracias!”
Glad we could get together.
Commentary: The fox and me
It had rained hard that early morning before I started out for work. The droplets of water hanging from limb and blade sparkled in the sunrise that broke through the heavy clouds.
From my car window I caught the dark form of an animal sitting by the side of the road.
Curious, I turned the car around to find some sort of critter, dripping wet, just sitting by the road trying to figure out how to dry out his world. Was it a dog, a cat, a big rat? It was hard to tell. I rolled down the window and our eyes met.
Aha! “Good morning, Mr. Fox,” I said, sounding like a faux Mr. Rogers. We stared at each other for awhile then shared a slow journey down the road. Mr. Fox walked. I drove.
Mr. Fox disappeared under a small bridge.
For just a fleeting few moments it seemed that the two of us broke through the inborn distrust between fox and human: He didn’t ask about guns; I didn’t bring up chickens. And it was rather grand.
Two years later - same spot - same fox (?) we met again. This time a fluffy, beautiful, red fox stared at me as I rolled down the window and began to talk. Did he remember me, that he was willing to stare and listen for perhaps two minutes? Had we formed some sort of bond two years ago? Would this moment happen again? I guess I’d like to think so.
Trust. What an illusive, wonderful, God-thing it is to know and experience. When you trust me and I trust you, what a wonderful world it is.
Trust. So difficult to build and so extraordinarily easy to destroy! I didn’t see Mr. Fox by the road today - maybe tomorrow. I trust so.
Glad we could get together.
From my car window I caught the dark form of an animal sitting by the side of the road.
Curious, I turned the car around to find some sort of critter, dripping wet, just sitting by the road trying to figure out how to dry out his world. Was it a dog, a cat, a big rat? It was hard to tell. I rolled down the window and our eyes met.
Aha! “Good morning, Mr. Fox,” I said, sounding like a faux Mr. Rogers. We stared at each other for awhile then shared a slow journey down the road. Mr. Fox walked. I drove.
Mr. Fox disappeared under a small bridge.
For just a fleeting few moments it seemed that the two of us broke through the inborn distrust between fox and human: He didn’t ask about guns; I didn’t bring up chickens. And it was rather grand.
Two years later - same spot - same fox (?) we met again. This time a fluffy, beautiful, red fox stared at me as I rolled down the window and began to talk. Did he remember me, that he was willing to stare and listen for perhaps two minutes? Had we formed some sort of bond two years ago? Would this moment happen again? I guess I’d like to think so.
Trust. What an illusive, wonderful, God-thing it is to know and experience. When you trust me and I trust you, what a wonderful world it is.
Trust. So difficult to build and so extraordinarily easy to destroy! I didn’t see Mr. Fox by the road today - maybe tomorrow. I trust so.
Glad we could get together.
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