Monday, July 31, 2017

Finding Our Way

July 31, 2017

Fixing blame never fixes the problem. I need to remember that as we try to dig our way out of the hole we are in. There are often many reasons for a congregation’s decline. The church hierarchy blames the people in the congregation; they aren’t willing to work, or are resisting change, or are set in their ways. The congregation tends to blame the denominational system for saddling them with such deficient pastoral leadership. The pastor is in the unique position to straddle the fence; depending on which way the wind is blowing or who he is talking to at the moment, he or she can blame either the congregation or the system.

It’s only been a couple weeks, but I can already sense the frustration of the congregation, and the bewilderment as to what they need to do to survive. I’ve talked with denominational officials who are frustrated at the failure of the appointments they made to make a difference. It’s tempting to point the finger in this or that direction, but that will solve nothing. 


Sometimes, the solution stands right before you, staring you in the face, but you’re so close to the situation that you cannot see it. So far, I can’t see it, but I believe it’s there. It’s a matter of seeing, really seeing the context. Isaiah told of people who see, but don’t see; they see, but don’t understand what they’re looking at. So we pray that God will open our eyes to the spiritual realities that lie behind that which appears on the surface. The Scriptures tell us that God has given us everything we need for life and godliness (2 Peter 1:3). Either that’s true, or it’s not. If not, there’s not much I can offer the people. But if it’s true, it’s just a matter of discovering what he has given us that we haven’t recognized as a gift from his hand for the life he’s called us to live. I know where to look; according to Peter, what we need is found in knowing Christ, which knowledge is available to everyone. I am excited to be looking for it, and thankful tonight that what we need has already been given, and is waiting to be discovered.

Sunday, July 30, 2017

No Vanilla Worship

July 30, 2017

Four-thirty is early, but I had been wide awake for fifteen minutes when it rolled around, so I rolled out of the sack. Literally. Out of the sleeping bag onto the tent floor. A quick shower, and as the sky began to lighten at twenty after five, I was on the road. Three days was long enough to be away from the people I love most. When I received the schedule of events for this year’s national sidecar rally on Thursday, I had fully intended to participate in the Sunday morning non-denominational worship service, but yesterday’s incident where I was told my prayer over breakfast wasn’t non-denominational tipped the scales for me. I could see no reason to attend a bland worship service where it’s impossible to determine to whom the the songs and prayers are being offered. My new friend Larry, commenting on yesterday’s incident, expressed a common sentiment when he told me, “We all worship the same deity.” I know better, but wasn’t interested in getting into it right then. Just as I wasn’t interested in a no-name, vanilla non-worship service.


Four and a half hours later, I rolled into our driveway in plenty of time for Park’s special worship service on the lake. I wasn’t disappointed. The weather was beautiful, the beach was filled with people, the band was outstanding, and pastor Joe spoke plainly and clearly of our need for Jesus Christ, the Savior who loves us and delivers us from our sins. Not having attended the service at the campground, it would be unfair of me to make a comparison, but if the service is as generic as that one man wanted, I’m thankful for the choice I made.

Saturday, July 29, 2017

Who I Am

July 29, 2017

There was a time when I wouldn't have done what I did. I would have done the socially acceptable thing, remained invisible, and everyone would have been happy. It all started Thursday evening as I was preparing to head to my campsite for the evening. The main pavilion had pretty well cleared out, except for three guys, on of whom called out and asked if I wanted to join them for dinner. Other than my normal introverted preferences, I had no good reason to decline, so I agreed, and followed them to a motor home. Steve is a quiet guy like myself, so it took awhile before he opened up; Paul was somewhere in the middle, but Larry, the owner of the motor home is about as far on the other end of the scale as one can get. Tall and garrulous, speech laced with frequent profanity, he had been a civilian contractor in the Elmira prison, teaching inmates printing, aluminum metal casting, and who knows what else.

I don't suppose a Casper Milquetoast would survive long in a maximum security prison, and Larry is anything but milquetoast. He said he considers it a day wasted if he hasn’t offended someone. But he has a heart for children, and invests huge amounts of time with an organization that helps the most vulnerable of them. The three of us had dinner together, then sat and talked for a couple hours. Actually, Larry talked, in answer to my question about his volunteer work. The guy is passionate about it.

At one point, when he went into his motor home to put away the remnants of our dinner, Paul asked me about my line of work. I told him, and nothing more was said. Larry came back out, and picked up where he had left off. It was getting dark, so I bid them a restful evening and left for my campsite. The next morning, I was down at the pavilion bright and early. Larry and Paul were there, making the coffee. After some small talk, Paul asked if I would like to join them for breakfast, so we piled into Paul's car, headed to town, where we had a good meal before running a few errands Larry needed to attend to as one of the organizers of the rally.

This morning, breakfast was catered at the pavilion, and as I was in the staging area talking with another Ural rider (There were only a handful of us), Paul motioned from the pavilion and shouted, “Would you be willing to offer the grace for breakfast?” I agreed, and a few 
Minutes later, did so. And that's when it all began.

I asked the blessing, closing as I always do, by  Jesus’ name. It's not merely a formula for me; I have no standing with God except for the grace of Christ. My spiritual bank account was not only empty; I was in spiritual debt, so praying in my name would be like writing a check with insufficient funds. The prayer would bounce higher than if I wrote a million dollar check. Jesus’ account however, is full, and better yet, he has credited mine with all I need. So when I pray in Jesus’ name, it's like signing his name to the check, and it's all legal.

Immediately after the prayer, a man came up and said, “That prayer wasn't non-denominational.” 

“I know that,” I replied, to which he responded, “It was inappropriate.” He later came up to me and said he hoped I wasn't offended by his remark. I wasn't, and told him so.


The weekend schedule includes a non-denominational service Sunday morning, so his comment didn't really surprise me, but it changes nothing. Years ago, I would likely have prayed an innocuous, vapid prayer that pleased everyone except my Lord. I would have gone out of my way to avoid offending someone. What I've learned though, is that while this prayer may have been offensive, it was not inappropriate. Inappropriate would have been for me to pray a prayer that was not true to who I am as a Christian. Once, I would have done that, but no more. If I am asked to pray over another meal, I will warn the organizers that I will again pray in Jesus’ name. If they want to ask someone else, I am fine with that. I don't want to cause them undue trouble, but I am willing to be offensive in order that I may appropriately live out who I am as a follower of Christ who took my offense upon himself in the cross. 

Friday, July 28, 2017

Wailing and Worship

July 28, 2017

Tonight I’m at the National Sidecar Association Annual gathering, sitting in the campground lodge, writing my nightly gratitude blog. In the background (but not far enough in the background), someone is playing guitar and desperately trying to sound like Dwight Yoachum, all twangy and western-sounding. The only problem is, he can’t sing. At least, not on key. If this were vaudeville, he’d have gotten the shepherd’s crook long ago. It’s almost painful.

Which leads me to what I’m thankful for tonight. Every Sunday, we at Park church get to listen and sing along with some amazing musicians. They aren’t professional, most of them don’t read music, but they sing on pitch, and lead us week after week with dedication and ability. In thousands of churches all across the country, Christians struggle to sing often without any accompaniment, or with accompaniment that is more of a hindrance than a help. God has blessed us with enough talented people that we can field two worship teams, giving us the ability to follow his leading as we launch a second campus. 

Some churches have worship bands that are so proficient that they become performers instead of leaders. The real test of worship leadership is having the worship leaders themselves worshipping, and leading the congregation in the same. If when the worship team backs off from the microphones there is near silence, they aren’t doing their job. If however, they back away and the congregation can be heard offering their own songs of lament, praise, and worship, all is as it should be. 


No one was singing along with tonight’s human tomcat wailing in the dark. It’s just as well. They weren’t songs of praise anyway, but they were a divine reminder to be thankful for the real deal that comes around every Sunday. 

Surprises?

July 27, 2017

Most of the time, I don’t even think of it, but this afternoon it was blatantly obvious. I’m the poor country cousin among sidecar motorcycle enthusiasts. I am attending the National Sidecar Association’s national rally being held in Corning, NY. Pulling into the campground about 1:00 pm, I visited the lodge to get my campsite location, found the site, and set up my tent. It had been spitting rain most of the way here, so I wanted to get business done as soon as possible so I wouldn’t have to be setting up in the rain. A short ride into Corning to get a few supplies, and a call to Linda, and I was ready for the rest of the day. 

The rally area was still in process of being set up, but by 3:00, riders were arriving in a steady stream. Harleys, Goldwings, Indians, BMWs, and assorted other brands were represented, many with fully enclosed sidecars, most representing tens of thousands of dollars, not including the motor homes that hauled the trailers that held some of these bikes. Not another Ural in the bunch. The closest thing to my rig was a nice older BMW, which still made me look by comparison like I’d pedaled in on a Schwinn with a baby carrier attached.


No problem though. I had an enjoyable evening. Invited to join a few men for dinner, we sat outside their motor home and I listened as the alpha dog of the group regaled us with stories of biking, scouting, and the like. Particularly fascinating was his telling me about BACA, Bikers Against Child Abuse; how they support kids who are victims of child abuse by literally surrounding them with biker bodies, protecting them as they go to court or are otherwise frightened by the perpetrators. You never know what you’ll learn or who you’ll meet when you step out of your normal routine for awhile. And you never know where that will ultimately take you. I suspect there will be a few more surprises before the weekend is over. I don’t like being away from Linda, but it’s adventures like this that God often uses to open doors I didn’t even know were there. So I am thankful tonight to be here, and to see what God has in store.

Wednesday, July 26, 2017

A Tiny Spark


July 26, 2017

Be careful what you ask for…you might just get it. When I agreed to come out of retirement to serve an area congregation as interim pastor, I told the district superintendent that I was not interested in just popping in and out on aSunday morning; that if I were going to do the job, it would be all or nothing. She agreed. 

Then I asked how much freedom I would have to do what I see necessary to engage the larger community. I thought for sure I would be told to sit back and keep things tidy. Today I met with one of the conference persons responsible for new church starts and Hispanic ministry. When I posited my question to him, he said, “You are the pastor here. Do what you need to do.” What I think I need to do involves a lot more work than I had planned on. Again, be careful what you ask for.

The good news is, much to my surprise, I am feeling a spark reigniting inside me. I had actually hoped it had been put to rest for good, but no such luck. I don’t have many ideas as to how to accomplish anything beyond weekly preaching, but I never let ignorance stop me before. A song is now playing in my head, something about fools rushing in. But how can I do otherwise? I preached Sunday about hope when it seems all hope is gone, and about the future God has for us. It would be hypocritical of me to talk hope while walking away from those who need it most. 


So…the spark has been struck. Now for some tinder and kindling. I wonder what kind of Holy Spirit fire we can ignite. Thank you, Jesus, for doing in me what I had no desire to do, but now do.

Tuesday, July 25, 2017

Closer than a Brother

July 25, 2017

“There is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.” So says Proverbs 18:24. If you find one such friend in a lifetime, you can consider yourself blessed. This evening, Linda had a planning meeting for an upcoming Women’s retreat. Her friend Beth was among those on the planning team, so I called her husband, my best friend Harry. “How ‘bout coffee or dinner?” I asked. “Since I’ve been preaching in Dunkirk, I feel cut off from my friends and family at Park.” I didn’t say it out loud, but most of all, I missed talking with him.


For thirty years, we’ve been friends, walking through the fire and flood together. When things were at their worst, Harry was there for me. We’ve worked together, worshipped together, walked together through thick and thin. Tonight, we talked over Beef on Weck and coffee before sitting on his porch as the sun went down, just talking. As a pastor for most of my life, words have been my stock in trade, but I don’t have ones adequate to describe how tonight’s conversation filled my soul. Closer than a brother; that’s my friend, to whom and for whom I am thankful tonight.

Monday, July 24, 2017

Words for Prayer

July 24, 2017

Years ago, I heard a preacher say that the pastor’s prayers can’t be any more powerful in public than they are in private. His point was that private prayers are the foundation and source of public prayer, and if the pastor (or anyone else, for that matter) isn’t a private prayer warrior, his public prayers will be weak and anemic. 


I find it to be just the reverse. It’s not uncommon for me to struggle with private prayers. I often find myself at a loss for words, but when I’m with others, their prayers and prayer requests ignite something inside me that releases thoughts and words I didn’t know where there. Tonight at our men’s Bible study, we began as usual, with prayer requests. We went around the table, voicing our prayers; I was about midway in the lineup. By the time it was my turn, the prayers just tumbled out of me. “Where did that come from?” I thought. All I know is, it wasn’t me. St. Paul tells us in Romans 8:26, “the Spirit helps us in our weakness, for we do not know how we should pray, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with inexpressible groanings.” When I don’t have the words, the Holy Spirit supplies what I lack. That is a comfort to this often wordless guy, something for which I am deeply thankful tonight.

Sunday, July 23, 2017

What Are You Doing Here?

July 23, 2017

Sometimes we don’t know as much as we think we know. Once upon a time, I thought I knew how to grow a church. Park was thriving; I was successful. I knew how to grow a church. Until I didn’t. In the space of about three months, nearly everything I had worked for for the past fifteen years evaporated. We were struggling, not sure if we would survive. We did, but we went through the wringer in the process. Turned out, I didn’t know much at all.

It was the Elijah story all over again. He had just had a smashing victory and was sitting on top of the world. Until Jezebel came along. She was not someone to be trifled with, and let it be known in no uncertain terms that he was in her crosshairs. Elijah did what any courageous man of God would do. He ran. Long and hard. After forty days, he ended up at Horeb, the mountain of God. After a dazzling display of power, God spoke. In silence, if you can imagine that. 

Elijah complained about how he was being treated. I think he expected God to feel sorry for him, to commiserate with him. But the God of all mercy was merciless. Instead of throwing an arm around him and saying, “There, there; you poor prophet,” he threw down the gauntlet. “What are you doing here, Elijah?” He thundered. All Elijah could do was repeat his complaint, to which God repeated his challenge. “What are you doing here?”


God wasn’t done with him, but before he could lead him into his future, he needed Elijah to do a little soul-searching. So often when we complain about our circumstances, we want God to comfort us, but instead, he confronts us. God had a plan for Elijah, and he has a plan for us, no matter how desperate and hopeless our situation seems. But it begins where we are right now. Why are we where we are right now? And what are we doing while we’re here? While we are busy questioning where God is when we’re hurting, he’s busy questioning us, hoping we’ll begin to look seriously at ourselves and our situation. Because only when we see clearly where we are can we begin to move into the future God has. So, what are you doing here, wherever that may be? Whatever it is, be assured, God isn’t finished with you, any more than he was finished with Elijah. You have a future. You have hope. And for that you can be thankful.

Saturday, July 22, 2017

Mechanics

July 22, 2017

It took me a long time to realize how little I like mechanic’s work. Years ago, I had visions of finding an old classic and bringing it back to life. It almost happened three times. I dragged a 1926 Chevy truck out of the weeds behind Uncle Leonard’s house, hauled it home where it sat till I sold it to someone who knew what he was doing. A 1936 Chevy coupe slipped through my fingers when the young man who owned it sold it for a pittance mere hours before I handed him the $200 he had told me he wanted for it. Then there was the little sports car I found in a private junk yard. I made the mistake of telling a friend about it, who happened to be the nephew of the junk yard owner. He snuck up there a couple nights later, popping my bubble dream of restoring it. 

I worked on my cars back then. I had to. I didn’t have enough money to hire it done. I hated it. When brakes need to be put on, or ball joints replaced, it doesn’t matter that you don’t have the right equipment or that the job needs to be done by tomorrow morning because it’s the only car. you have. Back then, I thought the problem was just my lack of tools, time, and skills. Now, I have the tools, the time, and a few of the skills. What I don’t have is the desire. In my mind, I’ve got better things to do, and fortunately, we now can afford to pay someone who knows what he’s doing, which is a good thing, because cars have become so complicated these days that shade tree mechanics don’t stand much of a chance.

Next week, I plan on taking my bike on an extended ride, and wanted to make sure everything is ready for it. Last Saturday, I cleaned and adjusted the brakes. A few days ago, I got it inspected; today I changed the oil in the engine and transmission, replaced the gear oil in the rear end, balanced the front wheel, and cleaned the grease and oil off the engine. It really wasn’t so bad, but it did take plenty of time. That being said, I am grateful that my bike is old school and fairly simple to work on. And I am grateful that when it comes to vehicles, I can leave our four-wheeled beasts to the professionals.


God plans on taking us on an extended ride some day. We don’t know how soon it will be, but in the meantime, he’s getting us ready for it, making sure everything is up to snuff. He does the necessary cosmetic work, but is more concerned that what’s inside is right, much in the same way as clean oil and gear lube is critical to the survival of the engine. I don’t think God dislikes working on people the way I dislike working on cars, but I am grateful that he doesn’t give up on us. Maybe he’s looking forward to that final ride like I’m looking forward to mine next week.

Friday, July 21, 2017

Making a Difference

July 21, 2017

Miniature golf with a miniature kid is maximum fun. She never got the hang of how to hold the putter, hadn’t the slightest idea of how the game is scored, cared nothing about how many strokes it took to get the ball in the cup. After coaxing the ball down the fairway, bouncing it off one side or the other, and guiding it in with a gentle shove, she celebrated with a little victory dance of joy. Life is much more visceral for a five year old. I suppose we get jaded with age, but every so often when we get to see the world through the eyes of a child, we see life as God intended it to be: filled with wonder and joy.

Sadly, not every child gets to experience life this way. Child abuse, neglect, and parental incompetence all serve to rob children of their childhood, kill their imagination, and destroy their sense of wonder and trust. Jesus’ description of the devil’s work in John 10:10 is all too often the sorry lot of little children. It should not be. 

No single individual can by themselves alter the course of history, but a single individual can change the story of another. The old story about starfish bears repeating. 

“A young man was observed walking a beach littered with starfish that had washed ashore in the previous night’s storm. As he walked, he picked up a starfish and threw it into the sea. He did this over and over, till the woman watching could contain herself no longer.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Saving starfish,” was the young man’s answer.

She gazed down the beach at the hundreds of starfish. “There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of them. What difference does your puny effort make?”

Picking up another starfish, he let it sail into the water. “It makes a difference for that one,” was all he said.

I cannot by myself change the lot of all children, but I can make a difference in the lives of those God has placed in my care. This evening was a difference-maker. Dinner out and miniature golf with a seventeen year old and a five year old. Nothing earth-shattering, but perhaps, just perhaps, it made a difference in one or even both of the grandchildren God gave us tonight. 


In

Thursday, July 20, 2017

Lessons

July 20, 2017

The rain didn’t come today. “Between three and five” was the forecast; it was overcast, looking as if the skies would open up, but no rain. I think one of the qualifications for being a weatherman is having to fail a lie detector test. They are hardly to be blamed however; after all, the only fully accurate way to make such predictions is after the fact, like Charlie Brown’s bullseyes. He shot the arrows first, then drew in the targets. Just a few miles north of us, a tornado touched down. Since the weather stations are in Buffalo, I guess they didn’t completely miss their target. 

Anticipating the rain that wasn’t, instead of strapping my bass to my sidecar, I loaded it into Linda’s car and headed to my music lesson. It feels a bit strange being taught by someone not much older than my eldest grandchild, but there’s no question who is the master of this instrument. Every so often, Kieran asks if he can show me something on my bass, then demonstrates why he is the professor. It gives me hope; at least I know how the instrument CAN sound! One of the signs of a master is his ability to see what I’m doing wrong and show me how to do it right. Then it’s up to me to practice, practice, practice, till I can get it right…repeatedly.

Today he encouraged me to slow everything down. “Everyone wants to play it fast, but if you take your time and learn how to make it sound good when you’re going slowly, you’ll eventually get to do it fast, and it will sound good.” Kieran is good with analogies, but before he dives into one, he gets apologetic, thinking he’ll offend me. I’ve been a pastor for forty years; it takes more than analogy and correction to get under my skin. You don’t survive in this business with thin skin. Today he asked if I didn’t teach my grandkids anything. 

“I’ve taught a couple of them how to drive our old 8N tractor,” I replied. “Standard transmission and clutch.”

“Did you start them out in fourth gear?” He asked, knowing the answer. “You started slowly, on flat ground, with no implements, and had them do it over and over again. That’s how you learn the bass. Don’t just practice till you get it right; keep going till you can’t get it wrong.”


Life is like that, too. After Gemma’s soccer game this evening, we invited her and her parents over for ice cream. Sitting at the table, we were talking about raising kids in a technological world. Linda commented that she is glad she’s not raising kids now. I’m sure our parents said the same thing a few years back. But learning life is like learning an instrument. You start with a good instructor who knows how to set the right example. Then you just keep at it. There’s no guarantees, but when you start with a husband and wife who love Christ and each other, who are faithful and disciplined, and who take the time to teach by word and example, you’re halfway there. After that, it’s a matter of practice. I’m grateful tonight for the music lessons that are really life lessons, and for children who are teaching those lessons to our grandchildren.

Wednesday, July 19, 2017

Dark Peace

July 19, 2017

The stars peeked through the darkness in between the spruce and maple that loomed above me as I sat on the patio this evening. I had let Emma out for her pre-bedtime run and decided to wait outside for her. Inside, even though windows were open, it was stuffy, but on the patio, the air was cool even without a breeze. All was still, which doesn’t happen often around here. Constant movement and activity is the norm; this morning I prepared our son Matt’s house for the paint to be applied later this week (Happy birthday, Matt! I literally scraped for your present this year.). A funeral this afternoon, a FaceTime call from Alex in Cuba, and a church board meeting tonight, all added up to a day not given much to solitude. 


Overhead, a few airplanes blinked their way to their destinations, filled with people with things to do and places to go. Down below, it was just me and Emma and the darkness. I just sat, thinking about the prayers I’ve prayed, and wondering about the answers I’ve missed because I was so busy talking that I didn’t take time to listen. So tonight, I listened. Our prayers are so often about all the things we want God to do for us, so seldom about simply being with God, listening and receiving. Tonight was a listening night. No, I didn’t hear some celestial message, no divine interventions, but I did feel the tension inside me begin to relax and melt away. It may not come in audible words or even in biblical guidance, but that melting away was worth the time I invested just sitting. Emma seemed to like it, too. I began to wonder what was taking her so long, till I looked to my left and saw her lying on the bricks in the shadows. A black dog is hard to track at night!

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Father-in-lawing

July 18, 2017

It’s common practice these days for couples who are being married in the church to receive premarital counseling prior to their wedding. In my United Methodist denomination, it is required that we pastors offer such counseling to couples, although there are no rubrics as to exactly what that counseling should cover. How much good it does is another matter, but we require it. 

What is not required, but perhaps should be, is premarital in-law counseling. I’ve never read any articles or books on the subject, even though it can hardly be denied that such instruction could possibly minimize a great deal of the conflict that married couples experience early on in their life together. No one ever gave me the slightest scrap of advice on how to be a good father-in-law. I had to muddle my way through it as best I could, learning through what could best be described as trial and error, on the job training. 

I am a father-in-law three times over, with two daughters-in-law and one son-in-law. Let me tell you, there is a world of difference in being a father-in-law to a woman than to a man. I won’t go into all the details here, but trust me…it is different. Not bad; just different. I cannot speak for other fathers-in-law, because we are as varied as human personalities can be, and those with whom we are in that relationship are themselves uniquely different, so that making generalizations about the matter is really quite a foolish exercise in futility. 

No matter how many times over one becomes a father-in-law, and therefore, more experienced with it, someone has to go first, bearing the brunt of the learning curve, which can throw both sides a few curves along the way. That first one becomes the guinea pig for all the others, to whom they ought to give due respect and honor. That first younger in-law bears scars that are a sort of rite of passage that enables the others to follow more easily.


Today is the birthday of our first younger generation in-law, Debbra. I cut my father-in-law teeth on her; if you were to look closely, you could probably see traces of my dental records somewhere on her soul. Thank you, Deb, for paving the way; I am honored to be your father-in-law, and hope being the first daughter-in-law hasn’t been too traumatic. Happy birthday!

Monday, July 17, 2017

When We Don't Know What to Do

July 17, 2017

Once upon a time I knew what it took to grow a church. Of course, we all know that the only stories that begin “once upon a time” are fairly tales. That I would know how to grow a church really was a fairy tale. In reality, I never knew as much as I thought I knew. It just took time and experience for me to realize it. And to realize that the Gospel deals more in the “what” of life than the “how.” “How” is a matter of getting good advice and developing good technique. People can go most anywhere for the “how” of life. 

The Gospel of Jesus Christ isn’t a matter of technique. It’s not good advice; it’s Good News. The Good News is that in Jesus Christ, God has done for us what we could not do for ourselves. He has accepted us, forgiven us, given us new life. Park church is healthy and growing; ministry opportunities are coming at us faster than we can process them. We have plenty of talented and energetic people working hard to help us step into these opportunities. The congregation I’ve been asked to temporarily serve has opportunities, but the people are older, and they are tired. Two very different sets of circumstances, but very similar problems. Both congregations have been recipients of good advice, but however good that advice may be, it cannot save.

King Jehoshaphat was surrounded and outnumbered by the enemy. It looked bad; real bad. So he did what most people do when they’re in deep weeds: he prayed. It wasn’t a fancy, formal prayer. It was a cry of desperation that resonates through the centuries: “LORD, we don’t know what to do, but our eyes are on you.” In the days when I thought I knew what to do, I was unknowingly trusting in my own wisdom, which when dealing with people, is a pretty stupid thing to do. If I know what to do, you can bet my eyes aren’t on God, but on myself or the problem, neither of which hold out much hope. It is only when I don’t know what to do that my focus will be unwaveringly on God. 


There is a great deal of freedom in this. I don’t have to be the expert; Lord knows, I’m not the Savior. I don’t have to come up with the answers. All I have to do is faithfully proclaim the Good News that there is hope and life when we trust in Jesus. And for that, I am thankful tonight.

Sunday, July 16, 2017

Ordinary People

July 16, 2017

Not a day goes by but Democrats are predicting a political and national apocalypse because of Donald Trump. Social media is filled with memes and messages with the common lament over this man, his character, and his policies. At the same time, his supporters counter with explanations and attacks of their own. It’s not new. The eight years of Barak Obama’s presidency had conservatives bemoaning the fact that he in a large measure fulfilled his promise to fundamentally transform America. 

The political rhetoric and venomous attacks have been going on for years; whichever party is in the minority declares with increasing vehemence the righteousness of their cause and the dire consequences of any accomplishment of the majority. 

This morning I had once more, the privilege of preaching. I chose Joshua 2 as my text; the story of the prostitute Rahab’s collaboration with the spies who had managed to infiltrate the city. The text tells us that her house was built into the city wall, most likely between the inner and outer walls that protected the city. As a prostitute, she lived on the edge of society; her house bore literal testimony to the marginal life she lived. Hers was not the best of lives, but living on the edge sometimes gives people an edge, for God has a way of bypassing those in power and revealing himself to marginal people.

My favorite Scripture is Luke 3:1-2, which reads, “Now in the fifteenth year of the reign of Tiberius Caesar, Pontius Pilate being governor of Judaea, and Herod being tetrarch of Galilee, and his brother Philip tetrarch of Ituraea and of the region of Trachonitis, and Lysanias the tetrarch of Abilene, Annas and Caiaphas being the high priests, the word of God came unto John the son of Zacharias in the wilderness.” I love this text because it lists all the important people in First Century Palestine. These were the movers and shakers, the ones before whom everyone trembled, the ones who spoke and everyone listened…the ones God bypassed in order to speak to John in the wilderness. 

I was preaching to ordinary people, people who often feel that life has left them in the dust. After worship this morning, about fifty of these ordinary people gathered on the banks of our creek as four people were baptized into the family of God. Then later in the afternoon, some other ordinary people gathered together for a lighthearted Red Ryder BB gun contest. Through the laughter and competition, relationships were strengthened, and I came home with a full heart. Jesus himself was there. People who have an aversion to guns might question that statement, but Jesus himself told us that where two or three are gathered together in his name, he shows up. It wasn’t in the halls of power; it was on the lawn with a bunch of kids and the adults who love them. 


It could be argued that I’m an underachiever, having spent all of my pastoral life in a small backwater community. I don’t see it that way. Sinclairville is today’s version of the biblical wilderness, where God’s Word comes to ordinary people. I am grateful tonight for the honor of living with these ordinary people through whom God is doing and will do extraordinary things.

Saturday, July 15, 2017

Offering Grace

July 15, 2017

Friends have been congratulating me about my temporary assignment preaching at the Dunkirk church. “I am so happy for you,” is a comment I’ve heard more than once. My elation is a bit more subdued. Being out of the pulpit for three years makes the return a bit intimidating. Sometimes the Comeback Tour turns out to be less than stunning. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll know how excited I am to be back on the job.


One thing for which I am definitely thankful: serving Communion again. Years ago when I started offering communion each week, I never imagined how doing so would change my own life. Part of every communion service is what is formally called The Examen,” when we reflect upon the past week, confessing our sins, and preparing ourselves to receive the forgiveness. Worship music is always uplifting, the prayers and sermons helpful, but it is in receiving communion that grace shines forth. It is my weekly spiritual checkup, when the slate is once more wiped clean. To be able to offer this grace to others is a privilege I haven’t had in three years. Tomorrow, I get to offer it again. For that I am thankful tonight.

Friday, July 14, 2017

Foundations

July 14, 2017

Sometime while I was repairing the garage floor, we accumulated a few extra grandkids for the night. Two of them I knew were coming; the other two were firmly ensconced in the back room with our regulars. Cameron and Ellie are up from Texas, visiting their old stomping grounds; those two I knew were coming. Izzi’s friends Hailey and Kaitlyn were our surprise guests. It can be a bit tricky finding enough floor space for everyone, but we seem to manage. Let’s see…the count right now is eight regulars and four honorary grandkids. Breakfast tomorrow will be interesting.

The garage floor repair is framed in; a replacement joist for the one that dry-rotted, plus about ten cross ties for support. It was a day-long job, cutting out the old and framing in the new, but the foundation is in. Laying the foundation for the kids sprawled throughout the house can’t be done in a day. That work is measured in years, but it is worth the work. Truth be told, most of the time, it’s no work at all; they are fun to have around, and it is a privilege to be able to build into their lives. 


St. Paul told the Corinthian Christians that he had laid the only foundation worth building on: Jesus Christ. It was up to them to build well upon it. Prayer by prayer, hug by hug, example after example, we are laying a foundation of faith and faithfulness, of love and grace, of peace and laughter. As the years go by, we will watch them build. We won’t live long enough to see the finished structure of their lives, but that doesn’t matter. Eternity will offer plenty of time to see what we now behold only in our minds. In the meantime, we give thanks for foundations, of whatever sort they may be.

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Unknown Saints

July 13, 2017

A full day spent researching theological curricula for use with lay pastors in Cuba makes me realize how far I’ve drifted from the world of academia. I found some detailed material on the website of my seminary Alma Mater; merely looking at the syllabi makes my head spin. I don’t remember digging that deeply when I was in the M.Div. course! Forty years later, it’s hard to tell how much of that education made any difference in the day to day work of ministry. Learning to think theologically certainly laid a foundation, but the more pragmatic courses on church administration were outdated even when I took them. Education is a good thing; I’ve watched pastors and church ‘professionals’ make unnecessary mistakes simply because they didn’t know better. Most of what I know about ministry however, has been learned through the School of Hard Knocks. Experience is a good teacher, but she is also tough: she tests first, then teaches.

To be able to look at this material from the perspective of someone who is on the tail end of his professional ministerial life is a freeing experience. I am glad I don’t have to write academic papers anymore. Those with whom I have spent most of my life are more receptive to plain talk, and that is what I’ve tried to give them. It doesn’t take an education to tell someone you love them; a PhD isn’t required to sit silently by someone’s side as their loved one slips away into eternity. Those letters after one’s name have a place, and I am as impressed by scholarship as anyone else. But what really impresses me is faithfulness, integrity, loyalty, and forgiveness. I’ve experienced grace far beyond what I deserve, and hope I am even half as good in dispensing it as I have been at receiving it.

The people most influential in my life have not been men and women of great education; but they were people of great love and faithful service. Their names are unknown by most people today, but their faces are etched in my mind and on my heart. For them, I am not only grateful, but also deeply indebted.


Wednesday, July 12, 2017

Reality and Fantasy

July 12, 2017

He pulled into the turn-around from the oncoming lanes and stopped. The signs clearly say, “No U-Turn,” but it was just as clear that a u-turn was exactly what he was going to do. I was in the passing lane, hemmed in by a semi beside me and a white sedan on my rear bumper. As I approached the No U-Turn sign, he suddenly pulled out directly in front of me. I slammed on my brakes, hit the horn, and checked my rear-view. Traffic behind me was skittering all over both lanes, trying to avoid hitting me and each other. Mr. Don’t Bother Looking nonchalantly continued on his way while I tried to catch my breath. I came within a hair’s breadth of accordianing the car and myself. Fortunately, no one was hit and no one was hurt. Unfortunately, there was no trooper on site to pull him over.

Continuing on my way home, I began to think about ‘What If,’ and ‘If Only.’ What if I had been going a mere mile an hour faster? What if I hadn’t been paying attention? What if he had waited a split second longer to pull out in front of me? What if the guy behind me had been following just a little closer? The trouble with questions like this is that they deal in fantasy, a world that doesn’t really exist.There are just two doorways into fantasy: these two questions. ‘What if’ deals with decisions not made, circumstances that have no reality, while ‘If only’ has to do with regrets over decisions made which cannot be undone. Neither of them deals with ‘what is,’ which is the only reality that exists.

Doubters and skeptics would pillory Christian faith by trying to convince us that we are trading in fantasy. We pray to a God we cannot see, and who by our own admission, doesn’t always or perhaps even often grant us our petitions. How do we counter such thinking? 

I say that Christian faith deals in reality; in fact, it is the only approach to life that does so. Prayer is not an exercise in ‘what if,’ somehow hoping that we can conjure up something that has no independent reality. We don’t pray for healing as if wholeness wouldn’t exist if we failed to pray. We pray for healing because the healing we seek is already a present reality with God for Whom there is no past or future. Both past and future are immediately present to God. 

The Bible talks about predestination, but predestination is not soothsaying, predicting something that will happen, but which has no present reality. Predestination is like a roadmap, as my friend pastor Roy Miller points out. A map doesn’t necessarily get you to your destination, but it makes that destination possible. But a map is only as good as the reality it represents. When we pray, we aren’t engaging in an exercise in fantasy, but in a means towards reality; the very real future that is already present to God. With God, there is no ‘what if,’ or ‘if only;’ there is only what is, and this is what we claim in prayer: that which is already a reality to our eternal God.


So tonight, I am thankful for the almost accident that made me ponder the reality of what is right now, and not what might have been, and for the prayers that receives life as it is, and is in itself, positive activity to change this real world into a better real world, not a fantasy world.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

My Birthday Gift

July 11, 2017

“Here’s your card. You need to have it tonight instead of tomorrow.” With these words, Linda handed me a birthday card last night. In it were tender words, some money, and the gift of time; My entire birthday together doing whatever I chose. It’s hard to do birthday presents when there’s nothing we need. Spending money just to say we’ve bought something doesn’t make much sense, so after my Tuesday morning obligations, we headed south.

First stop was an antique shop in Findley Lake, where we bought a small gift for someone else’s birthday. Then to the Erie mall where I found a summer dress Linda had wanted. We looked for a dress shirt for me, but couldn’t find one that met my specifications. Then, a wonderful dinner at the Texas Road House. 


So, happy birthday to me! Two gifts for others and dinner together, lots of Facebook greetings; sounds just about right. Anyone else want to go birthday shopping with me? It could pay off for you! Today was a good day for which I am thankful tonight. Tomorrow, some theological reflections on what was an almost tragedy, the ‘almost’ part being a continuing source of gratitude in our household.

Monday, July 10, 2017

Sentiment or Idolatry?

July 10, 2017

“Was this dad’s?” My mother examined the watch on my wrist. “I found it in the drawer of a dresser I kept in the closet in our Cassadaga house,” I said as I held out my arm.

“No, it wasn’t dad’s,” she answered. “Maybe it was Poppa Bailey’s.”

“That’s what I thought,” I replied. “If it wasn’t dad’s, it had to be poppa’s.”

It’s quite a nice piece, a self-winding Elgin with onyx panels on the band. Back before the days of electric quartz watches, self-winding was the cutting edge. The pendulum motion of your arm as you walked was supposed to keep it wound and running. Being probably sixty years old, I have to occasionally wind it, but when wound, it keeps good time, and looks good.

Wearing got me to thinking. I don’t know how much this watch would bring if I tried to sell it. Whatever price it would bring, the value of this particular watch cannot be measured in dollars and cents. The fact that it was owned by my grandfather is what makes it valuable to me. This bit of metal and glass represents a relationship that helped shape my life. It’s the relationship, the sentiment attached to it that gives it value.

So, how close is sentiment to idolatry? The biblical prohibition of images is not because the image itself is anything. The prohibited material images represented/personified the immaterial spiritual reality behind it. The material was the bridge between the spiritual reality and the earthly reality of the individual connected to it, much in the same way in which this material watch is a connection between my grandfather and me. 

So is sentiment a form of idolatry? It’s possible, but I don’t know for sure. What I do know is that I need to be careful about my attachment to the many material items that have been passed down through the family. Sentiment may be permissible; idolatry is not, and the line between them may be thinner than I think. There are many things for which I am thankful tonight, one of which is the memories of my grandfather conjured up by this watch, a material item that in my mind and heart connected me once again to this diminutive man whose impact upon me was anything but diminutive. Along with my gratitude is my prayer that these material items not become idols that rival my loyalty to Christ.