Thursday, November 30, 2017

Early Morning Bout

November 30, 2017

It’s called a love-hate relationship, although in this case, it’s probably better called a hate-love relationship. I hate crawling out of bed at 5:20 every Thursday morning, but once I’m there, I love meeting with this small band of men who gather to read Scripture, pray, and sing. You read that right: Harry reads a Psalm that launches us into prayer. At 7:00, it concludes with the Lord’s Prayer and singing a hymn before heading to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for the kids who have been dropped off by parents on their way to work. 

This was Harry’s brainchild; my memory isn’t very sharp at 6:00 am, so I can’t tell you exactly how long we’ve been doing this, but except for the early morning time, it’s become my favorite hour of the week. There are usually only five of us, but in this time together we have bonded in a special way. I may drag myself in, but before the hour is over, in my heart, I’m striding around like a boxer who has just scored a knockout in a championship fight. In a way, that’s exactly what happens when men get serious about prayer. We step into the ring with the Enemy of our souls in the far corner, glaring at us in malevolent hatred. The bell rings, we touch gloves, and circle, looking for a weakness, throwing spiritual jabs. 

Our Thursday morning time is only the first round of a match that at times has us against the ropes, sometimes down, but never for the count. We counter, ducking and weaving, throwing prayer-punch after prayer-punch. At 7:00 the bell rings and we head for the corners. The rest of the bout takes place through the day and week as we resist temptation, choose love, forgiveness, and sacrificial service over revenge, bitterness, and selfishness. To be honest, we don’t win every round, but Jesus is our Manager and Trainer. We will come back together next Thursday to swap stories of how the match went through the week. Then as the Psalm is read, we step back into the ring once more. 


Yeah, I’m not fond of the discipline of weekly 6:00 am meetings, but I have become passionate about these hours invested together in this work of God. And I am thankful for Harry, who had a better ear to the whisper of the Father, and who called us to this hour. It has been very good.

Wednesday, November 29, 2017

Trouble from God

November 29, 2017

Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing wrong. Anyone who knows anything about me might think I’m crazy to ask this question. I am not suffering from a serious illness like many of my friends; my marriage is happy and almost totally stress-free; my children are doing well, serving Christ and raising their children; we have a roof over our heads and food on our table. I know people who would love to trade places with me, but I still wonder what I’m doing wrong. 

There is no shortage of preachers who declare with absolute certainty that the signs of God’s blessing are health, wealth, and everything turning up roses. So, how do they explain the tragedies that befall faithful people? I have many friends who love Jesus as much as I do, who are enduring all sorts of trials. Has God abandoned them? Is he punishing them? Or are they experiencing Satanic attack? I’ve heard preachers explain evil in all these ways and more, but I’m not convinced. Scripture bears witness to God using difficulties and troubles to mold and shape us into the image of his Son, even to the point of actively opposing his own people. 

Lamentations 3:43 is but one example of this: “You have covered with anger and persecuted us. You have slain; you have not pitied.” This is said to be God’s Doing; there is no intermediate like Satan to dull the edge of these words. Granted, this is a response to Israel’s faithlessness, but the language is no less startling for it. St. Paul quotes Psalm 44:22 when he says, “For your sake we are killed all the day long...” (Romans 8:36).


I am no masochist. I enjoy comfort as much as anyone else. I don’t go around looking for trouble, nor do I tempt fate. But I know many of Christ’s choice followers who are troubled by the trials they are facing. They wonder if their difficulties are God telling them they’re doing something wrong. That is always a possibility, but I tend to think that it’s when things are going too well that I should be nervous. Hebrews 12:6 tells us that God chastens those he loves. He sometimes uses our troubles to grab our attention so as to correct us. But he also uses them to grab our attention so that we may draw near. I am thankful tonight for my many faithful friends who are stars shining brightly as they are enduring trials that would bring lesser persons down. God is putting them through the fire, and when they come out the other side, their radiance will cause the rest of us to lower our eyes in humility.

Tuesday, November 28, 2017

Reinvention

November 28, 2017

For someone who was raised in the suburbs, they feel like an alien landscape to me now. Once upon a time, the suburbs were to me like Br’er Rabbit’s briar patch, a place so familiar and comfortable that no matter how thick the thorns, it was still home. That was a long time ago. Today, I drove into the eastern suburbs of Buffalo, not exactly the priciest real estate in the country, but still, it was like entering a different world. The lawns were manicured, the houses stately, the shops neat and tidy like a Hallmark movie set. It was all very pretty, but it wasn’t my world. My world consists of mostly old houses, many on the edge of run down. The lawns may be mowed, but there’s precious little landscaping. There are a couple stately homes in the village, but at best they would look a bit sub-standard if they sat where I drove today.

There are five mobile home parks within a five mile radius. I’m talking a bit upscale here; most people would call them trailer courts; in short, there’s a lot of hardscrabble here. It’s not that we don’t have some nice homes, it’s just that they’re not concentrated here like they are in that suburb. And of course, the economic disparity is not any indicator of a happiness disparity. There is as much selfishness, sadness, heartache, and loneliness in the suburbs as here in the country; it’s just that they are able to mask it a bit better.

Having lived in small villages for most of my life, I think I can say I know and understand them, although I’m not sure how much I actually fit in. Sometimes I still feel like an outsider, and I suspect that those born and raised here could pick me out of a crowd as not being quite “one of us.” On the other hand, I know I wouldn’t fit in the suburbs any more. I don’t know how things operate there. 


Take the church, for example. I understand how things work in a small village church. It’s where I’ve spent the bulk of my ministry years. God has blessed us with a measure of success, so that although we’re in a small village, our attendance and membership for most of our time here has outstripped many of the suburban and city churches. I used to think I knew how to grow a church, but a few years ago when things took a nosedive, I re-evaluated. I’m not sure I know how to grow a church anymore, and I am certain I don’t know how to do it in a suburban or urban setting. Which leads me to my point of gratitude tonight. I am thankful to have had the years I’ve been given here in this small village. God has brought some wonderful people into my life, and allowed me to grow deep in friendships. And now that I’m retired, I’ve been given the privilege of serving in a small city church; so I’m still learning. That’s good. Too much retirement is not always a good thing; you can get lazy and go stale. I’m having to reinvent myself, which is good. Maybe the new me will be better than the old me. One can only hope.

Monday, November 27, 2017

Checklist Devotions

November 27, 2017

I must confess that often I enter my devotional time with God in a perfunctory manner, opening my Bible and reading without really paying attention to what is being said. Sometimes, it’s because I’m so familiar with the text that I end up skimming through it just to get through it. Other times, I have other things on my mind and my schedule that intrude upon what should be holy ground. To my shame, I don’t always take the time to quiet my heart before God so I can be attentive to what he might be telling me. So yesterday when I read a devotional from a woman named Kat Lee, it was like an arrow to the heart. She told about a time when her small son wandered away from her in the mall. She was frantic in her searching till she found him. God used that incident to reveal his heart to her. Here’s what she said:

“One of the most important reasons we start every day with Jesus is not that it’s something to check off our Christian to-do list. It’s important because God loves His children unfathomably ... and He’s asking you and me to help reach them. He doesn’t need us to preach from the rooftops. He just wants us to be willing to come before Him each day and ask, “Is someone you love lost? How can I help?”

Shift 1: It’s Not About a Checklist

“Maybe God wants you to reach out to a neighbor today.
Maybe someone in your home or a stranger at the store needs an encouraging word or a smile. Maybe you’ll simply inspire others by the choices you make and the way you live the day. You may never know. But if you take the time to ask Him each morning, you just might get to be the rescuer who leads someone back to their Father who loves them more than life itself.

Maybe the person God wants to rescue is you.

“To have you come close each day to hear how He loves you and cares for you. To give you time to lay your burdens at His feet. Maybe you have deep hurts that need to be healed before you can even think about helping others, and daily time with God is the remedy.

“Whatever the reason, the fact is that the most powerful thing we can do is build a habit of listening to God each day. To bring Him glory, to remember His goodness, and to steady our hearts before the storms hit, begin the day by studying His Word, praying, and worshipping.”


Tonight, I am thankful for faithful saints who share their stories that help me to recalibrate my own life with Christ.

Sunday, November 26, 2017

SOTA

November 26, 2017

A few years ago, someone asked a young man in our congregation if he would teach him to play guitar. Matt agreed, and with this small beginning, our School of the Arts, or SOTA was born. Today, we have a dozen teachers and forty-four students, youth and adults, learning guitar, bass, keyboards, trumpet, drums, sound system, drama, vocal music, and songwriting. Our instructors aren’t professionals; just ordinary people who are doing the best they can with what they have. Most of them can’t even read music, but they know how to read chord sheets and where to place their fingers.

For the past two years, I’ve taught bass, both electric and upright. God knows I don’t know much. When I watch accomplished musicians, I’m almost tempted to give it up, but as long as I’m one step ahead of the students, I can keep going. Most of those I’ve taught have breezed past me, but that’s the point: give them shoulders to stand on.

I was asked to teach the songwriting class this semester, a bit daunting since I don’t know music theory, know only basic guitar chords, and don’t know how to put a melody that’s in my head on staff paper. I’ve written a few songs; not much to brag about, but in reality, it’s the blind leading the blind on this one. I do know how to take a general theme and put it into logical form and orderly progression, but that’s about it. 

The class consists of four girls. They’ve worked hard since September, but for the past few weeks, they’ve been stuck. They’ve tried out melodies, worked on lyrics, all to little avail. Until tonight. Tonight, each one had at least a chorus and a melody to go with it. We had to tweak the melody lines a bit to make them fit the rhythm of their lyrics, but they did it! Before our session was done, each one had produced a melody and lyrics to be proud of, foundations of songs that I think are good enough to use in corporate worship.


Good things can happen when instead of waiting for the experts, ordinary people do what they can. Good things happen when ordinary kids are encouraged to keep pressing on even when they feel stuck. The Bible tells us that God bypassed the rich and powerful, the high and mighty, in favor of ordinary people, so that it could be evident to all that the result is by his grace and goodness rather than by our ability. I am so impressed by what these kids have accomplished! And I am so grateful for the opportunity to work with them, encourage them, and learn from them. From a simple request a few years ago, we are raising up a new generation of people who know not only how to worship, but how to be leaders in worship. God is good...all the time!

Saturday, November 25, 2017

Not Forgotten

November 25, 2017

Sometimes the story gets lost before it ever gets told. Dorothea Engelharte was my maternal great grandmother’s grandmother. She emigrated to the US from Bavaria in 1868. Exactly where in Bavaria she lived, how old she was when she came here, why she came, or what her life was like, I do not know. All I have is a family tree and her steamer trunk with her name and date painted in script on the front. I know she married and had children who had children, one of which was Josephine Wink, who married and later separated from Otto Hafner back when such things were just not done. Her daughter was my grandmother Henthorn. 

Like the Biblical genealogies, lists of names most of whose only memorable accomplishment was having children, my ancestor Dorothea’s story was buried with her grandchildren. Today, it is a forgotten tale, known only by this arch top steamer trunk that once held all her earthly possessions. Today it holds a tattered family Bible, a few documents, and some pictures painted years ago by my grandmother Bailey. 

My wife used to say that the only thing she feared about death was that she would be forgotten. It’s a legitimate fear; most of this world’s inhabitants are long-forgotten, their names and even their bones gone forever. Or maybe not.

Tomorrow, I’ll preach the last sermon in my series on the Apostle’s Creed, where we declare our belief in the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting. The resurrection of the body is not as some believe, an optional addendum to Christian faith. It is at the heart of it all. We believe in the resurrection not as a mere hope for immortality, but as God’s promise to us that we matter. Let the spiritualists have their disembodied spirits, their wistful hopefulness that there is something beyond, on the other side. We have the resurrection of the body! It’s not based on philosophical reasoning, but on the historical reality of Jesus’ own resurrection. It is bodily because that is the form life as we know it takes. The only way we know people is through living and breathing bodies which are part and parcel of our personalities. 


The resurrection is God’s ultimate affirmation of us, as well as his final victory over sin and death. My great-great-great-great grandmother Dorothea Engelharte is not forgotten by God. And neither will you or I be. Whatever we leave behind will someday gather its own dust, but our life is hidden with Christ in God. Forever. And for that, I am thankful tonight.

Friday, November 24, 2017

Connectivity

November 24, 2017

Connectivity. I’m not sure what else to call it. Today, I filled the firewood bin in the back room, then did some work with the drill press I had given my son a few years back. I then drove to Dunkirk to deposit a couple checks into our account before visiting one of our members who had sprained an ankle. (She must be doing OK; I didn’t find her home). When I returned home, I worked on Sunday’s sermon, then tackled a project with the table saw.

All these activities have at least one thing in common. They involved tools and systems that were already in place, waiting for me to utilize them. The firewood bin a friend made for me a few years ago, the stove was here when we moved in. The drill press was my grandfather’s; it is almost as old as I am, and is the product of engineering, metallurgy, skilled machining and assembly. It was transported from the factory to the store where my grandfather bought it by a truck driven on roads laid out and paved sixty years ago. You can see where this is going. Every single thing I did today involved countless people, past and present, who had skills and interacted with countless others. Everything I did was made possible by this web of life we call civilization. My part in it was minuscule, a tiny fraction of a whole far bigger than we usually imagine.

I’ve worked in countries where the infrastructure we take for granted is almost non-existent, or seriously compromised; where the smallest task required great effort simply because the necessary materials weren’t available. I know people who pride themselves on their self-sufficiency, but in reality, there is no such thing. Even my Amish neighbors who stand outside much of our modern systems realize that they need one another. They live in deliberate community, very much aware that they need each other and us English.


I got a number of projects done today in part, because of my effort, but even more because of all the people, skills, and systems that lie behind all the stuff I use and all the things I do. That alone, is plenty of reason to give thanks. But there is more. That human connectivity is what God used to bring our salvation. His Son took on human flesh, lived among us, gave us life. That Good News has been passed along from one to another—faithful people who connected with others who then passed along the Message till it finally reached us. Without these connections, these human interactions, life as we know it, and as we know it can be, would be impossible. It is not, and I am connected with God himself because of this connectivity he wove into the very fabric of life.

Thursday, November 23, 2017

Mom

November 23, 2017

This could very well be the last one. Linda and I spent Thanksgiving morning on the road, driving to Rochester to see mom. She’s in rehab after breaking her wrist in a fall a couple weeks ago, and even though she seems to be doing well, at her age (95), anything could happen. She has a persistent cough, and although I’m no medical expert, I’ve been around long enough to know that her congestive heart failure could very well present problems with her recovery.

Our visit was filled with laughter and tears, and lots of love. Before we left, my niece Heather, her husband Brett, and their three children popped in to see mom. They live out of state, so it was a special treat for them and us. We left them with mom to have some of their own time with her, and then headed to my brother’s for Thanksgiving dinner with them and assorted nieces and nephews and attached children.

I am thankful tonight for all the Thanksgivings, Christmases, and birthdays I’ve had with mom. True, I haven’t always actually been able to spend them with her; when Linda and I married, we suddenly had to juggle our holidays between two families who lived 2-3 hours apart. But we’ve been given more than most, and now that those special times are likely drawing to a close, each moment we have takes on new significance. They are holy moments, filled with grace. The Bible often tells us to remember what God has done. One of those things is a family that gave me a head start in life. Having had those conversations with mom, I know it wasn’t always easy for them to provide for us, to love each other, to put up with family idiosyncrasies, but they did it, for over sixty years, giving us an example of faith and faithfulness that stood the test of time.

Mom is not only ready, but eager to leave this world to meet her Savior, Jesus Christ. If she had her way, she would be celebrating Christmas in heaven. None of us are eager for that day to come, but we can’t fault her for her desire. When it comes, we will share our memories, weep, and laugh, and release her to God. And we will give thanks.


Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Traditions

November 22, 2017

The annual Bailey Thanksgiving Eve Dinner/Thankful Tablecloth/Leg Lamp Ceremony wrapped up less than an hour ago. Everyone was present and accounted for. The tradition began in 2003 when Linda produced a linen tablecloth and spread it out at Jessie and Todd’s home where we had just devoured her signature Cordon Bleu. Everyone was given Sharpies and instructed to write down on the tablecloth what they were thankful for that year. This tablecloth has documented everything from newborn babies to getting accepted into college, with both fun and serious stuff in between. It has seen the passing of both Linda’s parents and my dad, and the birth of five of our nine grandchildren.


Soon after the tablecloth is duly signed (it’s getting hard to find empty space) by everyone in the family, The Christmas Story dvd is fired up and fast-forwarded to the scene where the father receives his “major award.” This is the cue for Todd to ceremoniously bring out the leg lamp, trailed by most of the grandkids. He sets it on the table under the front kitchen window, while Ian duly strokes the now lit leg, and everyone throws on coats and pours out the front door into the lawn where the movie lines are intoned by one and all. All of which goes to show that traditions don’t have to be serious to be significant. Our family, like all others, has to occasionally deal with differences that threaten our unity. Unlike many other families, we are determined to make sure that the things that connect us are stronger than the forces that would tear us apart. We know how to be flexible, to not say everything that comes to mind, and to ask forgiveness when things have been said or done that hurt another. And we make sure that the traditions are kept intact. I am thankful tonight for the family God has given us, for his grace that has preserved us, and for the future he has prepared for us. If it is anything like the past, it will surely be good.

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

Time

November 21, 2017

“I think I’m done with this!” Nate and Matt went to all the practices, worked hard, and sat the bench all season, in spite of having been on the All-Stars in our previous location. In short, they quit. The coach’s refusal to play them was irritating at the time, but sometimes even bad situations have long-term good consequences.

Linda and I attended the Panama girl’s swim team banquet this evening. Both Nate and Debbra are coaches. All four of Nate and Deb’s girls are, or have been swimmers. Alex set the school diving record her senior year, and both Abi and Izzi have their names on the record board. It’s Jo’s first year, but her day will come. At the banquet, all three of them took home awards, jacket patches, and ribbons. 

After deciding that sitting the bench in baseball was not for them, Nate and Matt decided to try competitive swimming at the Boy’s Club. A couple seasons later, the coach informed them that if they wanted to remain competitive, they would need to join a high school team. So it was that halfway through seventh grade, Nate signed himself out of Cassadaga Valley and signed into Frewsburg. The latter had a swim program; the former didn’t even have a pool. One of the phys-ed teachers at Frewsburg lived just outside of Sinclairville, and although she didn’t know Nate from Adam, he convinced her to give him a ride so he could join the swim team. A year or two later, his brother Matt followed suit, as did their sister five years later.

And now, more than thirty years later, we watched as they presented awards, our granddaughters among those receiving them. We’ve watched through the season as these thirty girls have taken shape as a team, supporting one another, growing deep in friendship and love for each other. Nicole, one of last year’s swimmers and “adopted sister” of Nate and Deb’s girls, has been at every meet and many practices, encouraging, unofficially coaching, taking photos. 


So it has now encompassed two generations, and is well underway to a third. A disappointment over thirty years ago God has turned into multiplied influence that has blessed more than thirty girls and their families. His times are not always ours, but they are always right, for which I give thanks tonight.

Monday, November 20, 2017

Time

November 20, 2017

The good stuff always takes time. It has taken Linda and me 47 years to build the marriage we have. Our granddaughter broke her arm back in September; she’s out of her sling, but nearly three months later, is still going to therapy to get full use and strength. Her full healing is still months away. This morning I officiated at a funeral. Their broken hearts will take more time to heal than my granddaughter’s broken arm. It took more than thirty years at Park church to become the pastor God wanted me to be. And the good stuff I’d like to see in Dunkirk won’t happen overnight; it will take time...perhaps more than I have to offer. Hopefully, I can at least lay a good foundation. 


Some wag once said that God takes a hundred years to grow an oak, but only a summer for a squash. The Bible says that God is growing his people to be oaks of righteousness, in a garden of his delight. Years ago, we took that as our vision or picture of what we expected God to be doing in our midst as a congregation. God’s work takes time. We may plant seeds that don’t sprout for a generation or more. And we reap harvests from seeds sown by generations past, people who in their lifetime never saw except by faith the fruit we hold in our hands. Although I can be as impatient as anyone to see immediate results of my efforts, I’m thankful that the good stuff takes time. I don’t have to see the results to believe in them. All I have to do is be faithful and trust that God is, too.

Sunday, November 19, 2017

Eddie the Eagle

November 19, 2017

He finished dead last in all his events, but became the hero of the 1988 Winter Olympics in Calgary. His name was Michael Edwards, but from childhood, he was called Eddie. We didn’t know it at the time, but he overcame multiple obstacles to become Britain’s sole ski jumper. Nobody except him thought he would even make the team. The British Olympic committee tried to bar him from competition by changing the rules for qualification in midstream, but he managed to qualify anyway. 

I remember watching him jump in the ‘88 Olympics. He had only been jumping for about a year before competing, and had been repeatedly encouraged to quit. But he never did, and although everyone else did better, most of us who remember watching couldn’t name the gold, silver, or bronze medalists. But we remember Eddie the Eagle and his pure joy at actually landing his jump. 

Tonight Linda and I watched the movie was made about his journey to those Olympic Games. Like most biographical movies, I’m sure there was a fair amount of imagination added to the actual events, but nonetheless, it is a powerful testament to one man’s determination. He may not have won any medals, but he won the hearts of people around the world, soaring into Olympic folklore as few others have done. 


We Americans are infatuated with being the best in the world. We keep count of the gold and silver medals won by our athletes, and take pride in our accomplishments. However, we often forget that character and virtue are not the byproducts of winning, but of getting in the game and never giving up. Eddie the Eagle taught us that perseverance and courage are more important than standing on the highest podium. I am grateful tonight for this reminder. I will never be a world famous pastor. I’m only a mediocre evangelist, and am a terrible administrator. But by God’s grace, I will be the best I can possibly be. This coming week will surely bring its share of challenges; may I meet them with every ounce of energy I can muster, so that at the end, I can say with St. Paul that I have not run my race in vain so I can someday hear our Lord say, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”

Saturday, November 18, 2017

Small Towns

November 18, 2017

Small communities I believe, are one of God’s gifts. Don’t get me wrong; there is just as much sin, heartache, and trouble per capita as in large cities, but not being jammed tightly together ameliorates it all. Studies have demonstrated that even rats crammed together in the equivalence of our modern cities become aggressive and anti-social. Having been raised in the suburbs, which even back then I realized were pretty sterile, moving to a small town was like going to heaven. Almost, but not quite.

Urban planners often have neglected to consider the impact of the impersonalization of large, cookie-cutter style apartment complexes. The bland sterility of much government housing are little more than human warehouses, and the lives of those who reside there often reflect the architecture. Sometimes however, those in power got it right. Back in the sixties and seventies, mayor Richard Daley was undisputed boss of Chicago. Even back then, Chicago had its share of problems, but living there for a short time in the mid-seventies, I saw the city in a new light. Everyone talked about Daley’s political machine; the corruption and power mongering that was the ordinary business of political life. But he understood cities. We lived in what had been a Danish-Norwegian community. People living in the neighborhood brownstones had often lived in the same small apartments their entire lives. They knew their neighbors. In a big city, it was like living in a small town. 

I can’t say all cities are like that, and today there are parts of Chicago that are virtual war zones, where people live in constant fear of gangs, drugs, and violence. 

What I can say is that although I know there is always a dark underbelly to even the nicest of towns, living where I do is a gift I never expected when I was younger, and one I do not take for granted today. We have our share of drugs, divorce, and depression, but there is so much for which to be thankful. This afternoon after finishing stacking the wood pile with the grandkids, Linda and I went to the high school for a craft show featuring local artisans. She then spent some time helping at the church for Operation Christmas Child while I tied up sermonic loose ends. I joined her for awhile, then we attended a middle school play in which one of our Dunkirk kids had a part. No, it wasn’t Broadway quality, but it was real, with people we know. 


As we sat in the auditorium waiting for the play to start, I leaned over to Linda and said, “We don’t live in a Hallmark world. Everyone there is young and beautiful, the houses are immaculate and always picturesque. Here, everyone is pretty ordinary.” I wouldn’t have it any other way. Abraham Lincoln supposedly once said that God must love the common man; he made so many of them.” I think he is right. And the best of them I’ve found in small towns like ours. 

Friday, November 17, 2017

Friday Nights

November 17, 2017

It’s Friday night at Meema and Beepa’s. After a full day of meetings and chores, the kids descended on the place, filling it with noise and energy. I had bought a couple cord of firewood that needed to be transported and stacked, a task Nathan tackles with enthusiasm. It’s hard work, but at ten years old, he loves the physical challenge. Halfway through, his cousin Eliza joined in. What would have been a three hour job was done in about half that. 

Dinner with its high-low around the table keeps us abreast of what’s important in their lives, after which we settled in for a Peanuts Special on dvd. A rousing game of dominoes, and everyone’s about ready for bed. Except the boys. They’re watching old sketches from the Carol Burnett Show, discovering anew comedy that actually brings belly laughs. The girls are out in the back room, giggling and girl talking. It’s a good night. 


I don’t intend to parade my family before the world. We are no better than any other, but we are blessed to share so much of life together. In a time when mobility scatters families across the miles, what we have experienced that was common generations ago, most people never know. We continue to pray with and for them, that the times we have had will become a foundation for character, faith, and integrity in a world that is in dire need of them.

Thursday, November 16, 2017

Mom

November 16, 2017

The northern clouds skulked across the horizon in grey, sullen silence, reddened angrily at their edges by the sun setting red in the western sky over Lake Erie. In the south, their cumulus cousins billowed in white effulgence, while in between the sky was brilliant blue. It was a glorious end to a beautiful day spent with mom. She was back to her old self, a welcome change from when I saw her last, wearied by the hours spent lying in the ER, waiting for the care she needed after her fall. 

She hurts when they make her stand in physical therapy, and tires easily, but I guess that goes with the territory when you’re 95. We talked and laughed, and when I prayed for her before leaving, she cried. My prayers aren’t usually that bad. Actually, mom cries at most anything, so I wasn’t surprised. It would have signaled that something was wrong if she hadn’t teared up. 

I didn’t always appreciate mom as I should have. I (and many others) owe her more than I can say. It was her determination nearly sixty years ago that changed the course of my life. You see, when I was a child, we didn’t go to church. I remember feeling sorry for my friends as I watched them sadly staring out car windows on their way to church, while I waved as I rode my bike down the street. Alas! The day came when I became one of those unfortunate kids, staring forlornly out the window as we too, headed to church. To put it mildly, I didn’t want to go. It wasn’t too bad when we attended the Lutheran church my friend Jack went to; there was no end to the mischief we managed to get ourselves into together.  Mom however, wasn’t satisfied, and after about a month, I was transplanted to the WestSide Baptist church down the road where they didn’t put up with my fooling around. I dragged my feet, complained loud and long, but with mom, it was like spitting into the wind; it didn’t bother her, and just made my life miserable. I know it’s hard to believe, but she didn’t care about my feelings. WestSide, it was! 

I well remember that night. I was standing outside the door of the corner room by the kitchen in the church basement/fellowship hall. An elderly gentleman had just finished a little talk with an object lesson that grabbed my attention (to this day, I can tell you exactly how that lesson went), and when he asked if anyone wanted to pray to receive Christ as Savior, I raised my hand. A few minutes later, the pastor’s wife was talking with me, teaching me how to pray. And so it began. 


Nearly sixty years later, mom’s determination is still bearing fruit. Anything I might have accomplished in life, any good I may have done, I must lay at her feet. Her days are numbered. She knows that, and is eager to meet her Savior face to face, and when she does, I think Jesus will lay a hand on her shoulder and gently turn her around to see what she cannot see today—people young and old whose lives have been transformed by the Gospel because she refused to listen to a bratty kid who didn’t want to go to church. Thank you, mom. We all owe you a great debt. Revel in your reward! You can quit crying any time now

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Hope

November 15, 2017

Sometimes we just have to hold on. We live in a society where people often think that everything should come easily, without pain or difficulty. Particularly in matters of faith, people often expect God to make a smooth path for them. Difficulties are often seen as indication of Satanic opposition or a removal of God’s favor, instead of being a tool for our growth in grace.

I like good times as much as anyone, and do my best to avoid unnecessary troubles. But life has a way of interfering with my plans for ease and comfort. Jesus told us that in this life we would have troubles, and James reminded us to not be surprised by the “fiery trials” that come our way. Trouble, pain, and resident evil are not signs that God has abandoned us. In Hebrews 10:23, we are told to “hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who has promised is faithful.” 

When troubles come, too often we cling to them instead of to our confession of hope. I’ve seen Christians in despair over who holds political office, or the latest misfortune that has come their way, or are given to complaining about everything from their health to the weather. It’s the natural thing to do. Anyone can see the troubles; it takes special vision to see the hope. And it takes a special strength to hold on to it without wavering. We forget that if everything were as we wish it to be, there would be no need for hope. 


Hope is the currency that gets us through this life, and it is thoroughly unreasonable to have it unless the last half of that sentence is true: “he who has promised is faithful.” If he is not, our hope is mere whistling in the dark. But if he is faithful, we have reason to hope, and to hold tightly to it. It requires deliberate and consistent choices on our part to let go of despair and complaint in order to hold onto hope. I am thankful tonight for the Scriptures that keep me grounded and focused, for the hope I confess, and for the God whose promises are faithful and true.

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Delightful Drizzly Days

November 14, 2017

They are mostly old (although they might not appreciate my saying so) and getting tired, but I’ve seldom worked with people so ready to jump into ministry opportunities as are these Dunkirk folks. We are the remnant of what was once a thriving city congregation that has fallen on hard times through little, if no fault of their own. About thirty strong, they operate the Willow Mission, providing food, clothing, and household items for area needy people, without requiring any documentation. Just north of the church, the population is primarily Puerto Rican, which undoubtedly includes some who are here without documentation because of the recent hurricanes there which displaced so many people. They show up Monday after Monday, and these elderly members serve them with grace and kindness.

This evening was our monthly community fundraising dinner. The secretary and her husband were here first thing in the morning, setting up and getting ready for the dinner. Others started trickling in through the afternoon, ready to help. But it was a conversation over lunch that caught my attention. A woman who attends here has found herself in need. She hasn’t asked for help, but in conversation with her, Barbara, our secretary, learned of this woman’s situation. At lunch, Barbara outlined the problem and suggested that the church might be in a unique position to help. The woman stopped in the office, we talked, and I think it might just work out in a way that proves to be beneficial for her and for us.

One of the joys of ministry is seeing how God orchestrates things to bless his people. And when God’s people have eyes (and more importantly, hearts) open to the needs of those around them, amazing things can happen. It’s been a dull, drizzly day. I was up early for a pastor’s meeting, followed by another, both of which were good, but watching God’s ordinary saints looking for and finding ways to serve is a special treat for which I am thankful today.

Postscript: I was the last one to leave the church tonight. I had a few details to catch up on, so was sitting in the office when Barbara, the secretary, poked her head in the door. The Hispanic congregation was worshipping in the chapel, so the back door would remain unlocked, but she would set the alarm that protected the sanctuary and offices, neither of us thinking this plan through. Half an hour later when I stepped through the office doorway into the common area, the alarm sounded, bringing two of the worshippers out to find out what had happened. I had just shut off the alarm when the phone rang. It was the security people. I told them what happened, and that it was OK. “What is the password?” She asked. I told her. “And what is the four digit security code?” That had me stumped. I had never been given a four digit code.


I gave the only number I could think of, which contained five digits. “That’s it,” she said, and hung up. Go figure!

Monday, November 13, 2017

Following in Fear

November 13, 2017

St. Mark tells us that Jesus and his disciples were going up to Jerusalem and, “as they followed, they were afraid.” It’s a pretty amazing statement: They followed, and were afraid. He had been telling them what would be in store when they arrived at their destination, and it scared them. But not enough to deter them. In spite of their fear, they followed. 

This was no Sunday afternoon jaunt; there was no promise of prosperity, health, and happiness. Jesus had told them clearly that a cross awaited, and they were all too familiar with the terrors of crucifixion. No one in their right mind would knowingly seek such torture. And if this was to be the fate of their Leader, their was no insurance that they would escape a similar death by such cruel and horrific means. If a price was on his head, it was on theirs, too. They were afraid, and rightly so. And yet they followed. With the exception of Judas, not a single one turned back. Though they still hadn’t grasped even the basics of his teachings, they followed. Afraid they might be, but they still followed.

Jesus didn’t chide them for their fears as he had on numerous occasions before. This was serious business, for which they had reason to fear. I think that as they walked, he must have been quietly pleased, knowing that they were finally “getting it,” in spite of their fears. Courage is not the same as fearlessness. One can be a fool and be fearless. Courage is moving forward in spite of one’s fears. That is what the disciples did, and I think Jesus was proud of them for it.


How often I’ve given in to my fears, preferring to be a Christian incognito instead of boldly following! How many times I have like Peter, denied I knew him—maybe not in so many words; but I’ve done it, warming my hands by the fires of the ungodly, hoping no one would notice. They were afraid, and rightly so, but they still followed. I am convicted by these simple men who knew better than most the cost of discipleship, and yet chose to stay with Christ rather than melt back into the crowd. I am thankful tonight for these six words that are like arrows to my soul, cutting to the heart of the matter, challenging me to faithfully follow, no matter what...even though afraid.

Sunday, November 12, 2017

Less is More

November 12, 2017

Sometimes, less is more. The thermometer is dropping around here. In short, it’s freezing outside! Linda joined me in Dunkirk this morning, and when we arrived at the church, we walked again into the huge vaulted sanctuary that sucks up heat like a sponge. It was fully fifteen degrees cooler in the sanctuary than in the office. The east door of the office opens to the sanctuary, but the north door…the north door takes us to the small chapel…which was warm. 

We gathered hymnals and altar candles, hastily posted a note on the front sanctuary doors, and squeezed in. Thirty people in a fifteen by fifteen chapel has an entirely different feel than those same thirty people in a sanctuary designed for 250. We were warm, but even more importantly, we were together—really together, rubbing shoulders as we sang and prayed. Less space, more closeness. It wasn’t just the physical proximity; that spatial intimacy reflected a spiritual and emotional closeness that didn’t seem to be present in quite the same way when we were scattered across that huge sanctuary last week. Less was truly more, and until we outgrow this small space, I think this lesser space might just continue to offer us more than we imagine. 


Saturday, November 11, 2017

Veterans

November 11, 2017

The “Great War.” “War to End All Wars.” That’s how people thought of it at the time, not imagining that within thirty years, the world would be plunged into a conflict that thoroughly eclipsed World War I. In both of those conflicts, our (primarily) men saw less than five years of action. Those years were bloody and horrific, with casualties numbered in the hundreds of thousands, not including the millions of Europeans, Africans, and Asians whose lives were snuffed out in the course of the wars.

We have not declared war since then, but have sent almost continuously our young men and women into harm’s way, often for multiple tours of duty that leave some of our best with physical and emotional trauma that plagues them throughout life. 

I am not a veteran. During Vietnam, the draft was by lottery, and my number was high enough that I was never called. I spent those years in college and seminary, the latter which was thoroughly liberal, with liberalism’s requisite antipathy towards our men and women in uniform. It was a travesty that still haunts many of those who served. My friend Rell, a Vietnam Vet, tells me that I ought to be thankful I never had to go, his response to my recurring feelings of guilt for not having done my part. “You don’t want to know what it was like.” I’m sure he’s right, so I am thankful for not having had to deal with memories that refuse to stay buried. I am thankful also to those who went on my behalf, many of whom never returned to their families, nor had the privilege of growing old. 


Since those years, many more have left home and country, serving with distinction. In my family, a great-great grandfather served in a New York regiment in the War Between the States, and at the turn of the last century, my maternal grandfather lied about his age and joined the Navy to escape a bad home life. My father served in the Army Air Corps and my only uncle flew the Hump in Burma during World War II, and my brother joined the Navy during Vietnam. I am grateful for them, and for those I’ve never met. I live in peace and security in part because they chose not to.

Friday, November 10, 2017

Not Yet

November 10, 2017

All the way home, my mind was spinning, thinking of what I would say. It must be the pastor in me. While helping a friend with a small, but important task, the phone rang. “Your mother has fallen. They think she broke her wrist, and possibly her hip. Also a nasty bump on the head.” Linda was relaying the message she had received from my sister-in-law a few minutes before. I hurriedly wrapped up what I was doing, excused myself, and got in the truck for the drive home, where Linda and I quickly threw together a few things for the trip to the Rochester hospital where they had taken mom. 

After about ten hours in ER, she finally got a room where they would keep her overnight for observation. It was midnight before Linda and I got back to my brother’s where we were staying the night. Broken wrist, but her hip and head were OK. There was one slight problem. Mom lives alone, and her apartment has a step up into both her kitchen and her bathroom; as wobbly as she is, navigating her walker with one hand wasn’t going to work, steps or not. We were determined to talk to the social worker in the morning, but knew that it’s harder to get someone into rehab from observation status than as an inpatient.


This morning, when we told the charge nurse that we wanted to see the social worker, she said she would contact her. When we turned around to head back down the hall to mom’s room, the social worker was standing there. She had already talked with mom and decided that she needed rehab. Insurance would cover it. Sarah was an answer to prayer. And yesterday’s self-conversation can be laid to rest for now. You see, I’ve witnessed too many situations where an elderly person falls, and it turns out to be the beginning of the end. I had been putting together mom’s funeral, rehearsing her eulogy in the truck. I am thankful tonight that I don’t have to do that quite yet. Mom may be slow, but she’s tough, and we continue to be blessed by her presence, her prayers, and her love.