Holy Ground

January 21, 2018

“The Lord must have loved the common man; after all, he made so many of them.” So said Abraham Lincoln, a common man with uncommon ability. The call came in on Monday. A man I’ve never met asked about having a funeral for his father at the church. We talked for a few minutes, with me assuring him that we could make it happen, although I wasn’t sure how we would manage any music. He wasn’t sure when it would happen; Thursday or Friday, as best as he could figure. I took his name and number and told him I would be in touch.

We talked again today, and this afternoon, I drove over to his sister’s house where the family was gathered to put a collage together for the service. It was one of those rather nondescript houses in what had once been a proper middle class neighborhood that had fallen on hard times. Knocking at the door, I was greeted by a shouted, “Come in!” So I did. Immediately, the pungent smell of cigarette smoke hit me like a wave, and I was greeted by a veritable ethnic melting pot of family who welcomed me into their home with offers of something to drink and eat. The rooms I saw were barren of furniture except for the living room which had a wrap around couch facing a large TV on which was appearing the Jerry Springer show.

We sat and talked, daughters, granddaughter, son, and ex-wife, about a man who had lived like the house in which I sat—nondescript and a little worse for the wear. Their love for him was almost palpable. He had been on disability for years, but was known by many as he rode his bicycle and had coffee with friends at various diners around town. They talked vaguely and without any sign of bitterness or judgment of skeletons in his closet, and we talked about the service to come. I prayed with them and said my goodbyes.

Walking to my truck, I thought of Lincoln’s statement, and marveled at the beauty of what I had just witnessed. Later that evening, our president gave his first State of the Union Address. Those on both sides of the aisle speak of their standing up for the common man, but other than photo op moments, most of them couldn’t name a single one with whom they are friends. I am blessed and honored to have the opportunity to get to know this family and others who will only get their names in the newspaper when they die. Friday’s service will be a holy time as they say their goodbyes to a loved one, and I get the sacred privilege once more of entering people’s lives with the Good News of Christ’s love and sacrifice for them. So tonight, I bow and give thanks.

Angels Unawares

January 30, 2018

Angels come in all shapes and sizes, and are mostly wingless. This afternoon on a trip to visit our granddaughter at college, Linda and I ran into an angel in dirty Carhartts and an equally dirty baseball cap. This angel stood about five foot ten, weighed maybe 220 pounds, and sported a scruffy beard. Not very angel-ly looking. 

We had just started crossing a bridge on the expressway when I heard what sounded like a jack hammer on cement. There was a road crew off to the side of the road at the edge of the bridge, so I didn’t think any more about it till about halfway across the bridge, the hammering sound wasn’t receding into the background as per the Doppler Effect. At the other side of the bridge was an exit, so I pulled off to the side of the road, got out, and looked under the car. Not seeing anything, I got back in and started up. We hadn’t gone fifty feet before the hammering sound began. 

If I drove slowly enough, it quieted down, so we crept into a truck stop. I got out and looked again, and this time saw that the air dam underneath the motor had come loose and was dangling, hitting the road, scooping up snow, and making a racket. Note to self: Garages  that work on heavy trucks don’t have lifts. I don’t know what they do when they need to change a tire, but no one had any kind of lift to get my car in the air high enough to deal with the offending piece of plastic. This isn’t just speculation; all three truck stops I visited told me the same story. But they did get one thing right. They sent me (slowly) down the road to a small independent shop on a side road where no one who wasn’t looking for it would think to look.

There was music playing on a radio, so I knocked at the door. No answer, so I pushed it open and peered inside. This was difficult to do, since it was bright outside, and half the interior lights didn’t seem to be working. It was dingy and dirty, with old parts strewn all over the place, a stack of worn out tires in the back, and a couple cars and a rusty truck squeezed into a single bay of the garage. No one was home.

Going next door to the house and knocking on the door produced a slight rapping on a window to my right, where a young woman was motioning me around to the back. When I got there, our angel was coming down the steps. “Just got home from work,” he said casually. “What do you need?” When I told him our problem, he said, “Pull it up to the second bay,” as he disappeared inside. A minute later, the door magically rose on its track; he motioned me in, and I pulled up before he lowered the door behind me.

Dragging an ancient floor jack behind him, he positioned it underneath the frame rail behind the front left tire and started pumping. The car rose, precariously leaning to the left while he grabbed his scooter and looked underneath. “You want me to just pull this off?” he asked incredulously. 

“If you think you can fix it, that would be great! I responded. He pulled his way clear of the car, got up and dragged a second jack to the right side. In a moment, the whole front end was dancing on air while he scraped snow to the floor and surveyed his project. Linda and I stood in wonder, looking around the garage. A row of deer antlers was nailed to a beam. I didn’t actually count them, but there were at least a couple dozen. Rows of belts hung from nails on the opposite wall, against which leaned a couple mammoth tool boxes. Tools were spread out on the floor beneath the antlers, and a pile of junk obscured the man door in the back. Bins filled with nuts and bolts were stacked behind the junk. A huge torpedo heater roared its warmth towards the car, and a tiny office with a desk piled high with papers was between the bays. Above the desk were posted the rates, among which was $50/hour; reasonable enough. The place was absolutely filthy, and reminded me of some of the old time garages we frequented back in the ‘60s. Except for the proprietor, this place was a step back in time.

Twenty minutes after welcoming us into his shop, he was done. “What do I owe you?” I asked. 

“How ‘bout ten dollars?” I couldn’t believe my ears. 

“It’s worth more than that!”

“Naw...it wasn’t much.”

I gave him twenty five, and should have made it fifty. It was worth that to get back on the road so quickly. Next time I go by there, I’m going to stop in and give him some more as a surprise. 

I never got his name. Maybe that’s fitting. Jacob wrestled with an angel who refused to divulge his name. There was no wrestling match today, but I encountered an angel just the same. Maybe tomorrow, I can be a similar angel to someone in need. I hope so. I’ll be thankful if I can, just as I am thankful tonight for this scruffy angel in dirty Carhartts, who ministered to us more than he realized.

What is Man?

January 29, 2018

What we believe about human nature really does make a difference. In the biblical story of Job, this godly man found himself suddenly afflicted by the loss of his wealth, the death of his children, and the collapse of his own health. Behind the scenes, we see him almost as a pawn in what might be termed a cosmic pissing match between God and Satan. The problem is, Job isn’t aware of that dimension of his sufferings. All he knows is that calamity has befallen him, and he can’t understand why.

His friends come alongside him to comfort him. For seven days, they sit in silence, just being there with him, which was the most comforting part of their presence. Once they opened their mouths to try to explain the ways of God, everything starts coming unravelled. Instead of giving comfort, in their efforts to make sense of it all, they try to defend God’s ways, and end up blaming Job for some secret sin that in their minds is the reason for his suffering. After all, if we do good, we should be rewarded, and if we do evil, we should be punished. That’s the way they figured life works. It might be how we would like it to work, but life refuses to cooperate, and in the midst of suffering, any attempt to explain God’s ways is bound to sound foolish, if not cruel, in the ears of the sufferer.

In the middle of their diatribes, Bildad, one of Job’s ‘comforters’ makes a revealing statement, “a mortal...is but a maggot; a human being...is only a worm.” (25:6, NIV) With this kind of belief, it really doesn’t matter what happens to someone; after all, human beings are pretty worthless anyway. This kind of belief lies behind every murderous and genocidal atrocity that has ever been perpetrated, from the young man who callously guns down innocent people, to the liquidation of millions under the likes of Hitler, Stalin, Mao, or even Roe v. Wade. As Josef Goebbels said, “The death of one is a tragedy; the death of millions is a statistic.” Whenever human life is seen in purely evolutionist or humanistic terms, life ends up devalued. 

Contrary to this dreary evaluation of the value of a human being is the statement in Psalm 8:4-7:

“What is man, that you are mindful of him? And the son of an, that you visit him? For you have made him a little lower than the angels, and have crowned him with glory and honor. You made him to have dominion over the works of your hands; you have put all things under his feet.” 

This evaluation of the value of human life is a direct result of the belief that we are made “in the image of God” (Genesis 1:26). Our value as human beings is bestowed upon us by God himself. If we believe that, it affects how we treat others; bigotry, racism, human trafficking, slander, murder, adultery, and even demeaning talk are wrong because they destroy or diminish those who have intrinsic value by being made in God’s image. If a human being is little more than a worm, or an accidental conflation of enzymes, or a blob of protoplasm, we can do with it anything we wish. If on the other hand, we are made in God’s image, every person matters. 

I am grateful tonight for the testimony of Scripture telling us that we matter because we matter to God who created us in his own image, and redeemed us by the death of his Son from the distortion of that image wrought by sin.

Children and Fools

January 28, 2018

Funny, how long-forgotten memories can be jolted by a melody, an aroma, or some visual similarity. That happened to me this evening. What jogged mine is unimportant; and while the memory itself is pretty inconsequential, I thought I’d share it anyway.

Some twenty five or thirty years ago, I brought home for Linda a beautiful maroon ‘68 Mustang coupe. She had always wanted a Mustang, and the price was right for this one. Years before, I brought home for her to test drive, a different ‘68 Mustang—blue, with a high performance 289, four on the floor. She turned it down for a wimpy Camaro with a six cylinder automatic. There’s a whole story there, but I digress. It’s years later, and this maroon Mustang is sitting in our driveway, just waiting to be driven. It wasn’t high performance, was automatic instead of standard, but it did have a small block eight under the hood. The only problem was that the steering was a bit squirrelly. No matter how tightly I held the wheel, this wild pony wanted to wander all over the road. Truth be told, it wasn’t safe to drive, so I slowly drove it to my brother in law’s brother’s shop in Frewsburg. The old Mobil station still sits, empty now, at the five corners. Back then, it was most often a beehive of activity. Hobb knew his stuff, and I figured if anyone could decipher what was wrong with this car, he could.

He put it up on the lift, and in short order, diagnosed the issue as loose front wheel bearings. He tightened them up, lowered the lift and told me to take it for a test drive, which I did. I thought the bearings were now just a tad too tight, so I parked it at the curb and walked in to tell him. 

“Bring it back in here,” he said; and that’s when the trouble began. A woman in a big station wagon was filling up at the pump. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t be a problem, but it is a crucial piece of the story. I went out to start my Mustang, but to no avail. I turned the key and heard a ‘click, click, click.’ I knew exactly what was wrong: the battery I knew was OK, but the starter solenoid must have had a flat spot. 

Back then, the solenoid for Fords was mounted on the inside fender well of the engine compartment, right out in plain view. I suspect now that the reason for this was that the solenoids were junk, and often needed the fix I was about to apply. I got a screwdriver that I kept with me for just such occasions, lifted the hood, and jumped the terminals on the solenoid. 

The motor instantly roared to life, which made me happy. But at the same time, the transmission jumped out of ‘Park,’ which did not. If you can imagine the scene, I am standing at the side of the road, screwdriver in hand, watching my driverless car backing down the road, right into the path of the above-mentioned station wagon which had at that precise moment, left the pumps and headed to the street. Needless to say, it was a rather expensive wheel bearing adjustment.

So here I am, years later, smiling at this scene playing out in my head, thankful that no one was hurt, and that God does indeed, watch over children and fools.

Ex Nihilo Again!

January 27, 2018

“For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Cor. 5:21). It’s quite an amazing statement, that the Father made the Son to be sin. This goes beyond even his sending his Son to die on our behalf, which is enough in itself. He actually became the putrefying, disgusting, vile and violent stuff we call sin. More than merely taking on a role or putting on the ugly mess of sin as one would put on a shirt, Jesus Christ was somehow transformed into that to which God had no other choice in his holiness but to turn his back. When on the crossJesus cried out in despair, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” it was God cannot look upon evil, and at that moment, all our sins fell upon his shoulders, and he became the murderous, drunken, addicted, abuser of mankind, the Hitlers, Stalin’s, and Maos of all time, rolled into one.

All this so that we might not merely possess, but actually become the righteousness of God. It’s so hard to comprehend that were it not recorded in Scripture, we would never have imagined it. Jesus Christ not only traded places with us, not only traded his reward for our punishment, his life for our death, his holiness for our depravity; he is literally creating in us a reality that is otherwise nonexistent. Once more, our Creator and Redeeming God has brought forth something out of nothing, and it is good. We aren’t fully there yet, except in God’s imagination, but he has begun a good work in us which shall not cease in this life, but will continue into eternity.

Contentment

January 26, 2018

It happened again. It’s been awhile, but when I stepped out of the car this afternoon, I wasn’t disappointed. Linda and I had picked up Mattie and Nathan from school; they had a half day, but their parents didn’t. After getting them from school, we had a small errand we had offered to run for Linda’s sister Mina and our brother in law Dennis. 

About thirty years ago, Dennis lived with his dog Bailey in a 15’ X 15’ log cabin in the woods. He had felled and prepared the trees and built it by hand. Inside and out, it all the conveniences a man could want, with an outside refrigerator made out of an old chest freezer in and out of which he kept a steady stream of spring water flowing via his hydraulic ram, thus keeping everything cold. Alongside one wall of the cabin was a cattle tank for a bathtub, toilet, sink, and a hot water tank. A wood stove for heat, table and chairs in the center, and his bed on the opposite side of the room, it was his hand built home, sweet home for a number of years. 

Dennis married Linda’s sister and decided she needed a proper house to live in, so he and I formed a partnership to buy timber from the state lands. He built himself a sawmill, and using his ancient tractors and bulldozer, cut down the trees, hauled them to his mill and began sawing them into proper building logs. He took the 6” X 6” logs; I got the 4” X 4”s for a cabin we built on some land her dad had given us. We loved that cabin, and spent many happy nights and weekends there before it was vandalized almost beyond repair some years later. Nate and Deb began their married life there, but it’s all fallen in now.

Dennis on the other hand, built a proper log house in the woods for Mina. It has all the modern conveniences except electricity. The power company wanted a small fortune to run a line through the woods, so they heat with wood, water provided by the hydraulic ram, and propane lamps for lighting. No TV, internet, or electric appliances. When people visit for the first time, the reactions are predictable and inevitable. The women ask Mina, “How do you manage?” while the men take a deep breath and visibly relax with a sigh of contentment.

It was that feeling of peace and contentment that washed over me again as I stepped out of the car. We walked through the woods to the house where we were invited inside for coffee and cookies. Madeline joined us at the kitchen table while Nathan played outside with the dogs, running happily through the woods. We talked for an hour, at the end of which, we cleared the table, donned our coats, and headed back to the car and home. It’s been a couple hours, but the peacefulness of that place and of the wonderful couple who live there is still with me, and for that and them, I am truly thankful today.

Unseen Goodness

January 25, 2018

It doesn’t take any effort and no brains to point out all the problems and evil in the world around us. Network news keeps it in our faces every day, television and movies capitalize on it. Acts of kindness don’t produce ratings, but they can go a long way towards improving our attitude towards life while they actually improve life for others. It doesn’t even take much.

An elderly woman in our church had surgery on her knee. It’s a long story, but it’s likely she’ll not walk again. She didn’t receive good news today, but she did receive care from our pastor, love and prayers from many of our people. She is surrounded by people who cannot change her circumstances, but who can and do love her. A young woman from our church had brain surgery last week. In addition to the visits and prayers, her Christian friends stayed with her, cared for her children, brought dinners to her home.

At our Park church and its offshoot The Samaritan House, and at the Dunkirk church I now serve, people show up weekly to distribute food, clothing, and household items to people in need. Countless hours are given by volunteers who not only distribute what people have collected, but do so in a way that honors the dignity of the recipients. Our people serve as volunteer firefighters and elementary school helpers, and are often ready to lend a hand or simply a listening ear to someone going through a difficult time.

I am thankful tonight for all the small deeds of kindness I see every day. Yes, the world is full of problems, but it is also filled with kindness, grace, goodness, beauty, and love. You just need the determination to look for it, and faith to see it when it’s right before your eyes.

Juggling

January 24, 2018

It’s a hard, but necessary choice. When I agreed to serve as pastor of the Dunkirk church last summer, I knew it would be a challenge to fit everything in when the New Horizons Band started up. I was not disappointed, except in my own performance. Playing bassoon in the concert band, and string bass in the jazz band was fun, but I have to admit that I didn’t put in the practice time necessary to do my part well. I’m a better music lover than music maker. One instrument is enough of a challenge for me; two completely different instruments I can handle if I don’t have work responsibilities, but as it is right now, I’m out of my league. 

It was the recording of last fall’s concert that made me realize this. At the very beginning of the concert, the bassoon and the bass clarinet had a duet; we were the only two instruments playing, and I missed an easy full note. The dissonance echoed through the concert hall. It was the kind of mistake that would have gotten a professional fired. I didn’t even get a dirty look from the conductor; tribute to her grace and kindness.

Yesterday I wrote to her, telling her that due to my resuming pastoral responsibilities, I didn’t feel able to play bassoon for the concert band, but that if possible, I would like to continue playing bass for the jazz band. I was kindly offered the opportunity to play bass for the concert band as well, and was told it was OK to only make the Friday rehearsals. 

I love being with these people, making music as best I can. With so much of my life revolving around church life, having a completely different circle of friends gives a balance I need. I am thankful tonight for this band, for the music, and for Kate, our conductor, who understands and believes that the people and the process of making the music are more important than the performance of it.

Friends and Neighbors

January 23, 2018

The greatest commandment, Jesus said, is to love God with all our heart, mind, and strength. The second greatest is to love our neighbor as ourselves. Having said this, he was asked, “Who is my neighbor?” to which he answered with the story of the Good Samaritan, at the end of which he turned the question on its head. According to Jesus, the question is not, “Who is my neighbor,” but , “To whom am I being a good neighbor?” We tend to think of neighborliness as the responsibility of someone else. Jesus put the burden on us. I’ve seen un-neighborly people become good neighbors when someone put forth the effort to be a good neighbor no matter what kind of response they received. Had they responded in the same manner as the unneighborly neighbor, no one would be talking to anyone else.

The problem is multifold. Too many Christians are less than neighborly. Pettiness, judgmentalism, and the fear of unchristian behavior somehow rubbing off on them has kept many a Christian isolated from the people who need Christ most. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s the Christian who needs Christ most. 

On the other hand, some of us have more friends than we can handle. Church activities and church friends occupy so much of our time that many of us have few, if any, friends outside the church. Feeling guilty about this doesn’t help. There are people all around us who are so starved for friendship that even small overtures are jumped on like a drowning man leaps for a life ring. It’s sad that even crumbs of friendship are eagerly eaten by so many. 

I am one of the fortunate few who have so many neighbors and friends that I cannot possibly attend to them all as I’d like. I am grateful for them all, and pray that I can recognize and respond to those who need friendship most of all.

Tonneau

January 22, 2018

About a week and a half ago, I finally bit the bullet and ordered a tonneau cover for my truck. The price was right, and the return policy included free shipping. Shipping was speedy, and last week, I unpacked it and proceeded to install it. The online video made it look easy; reality was slightly different. No matter how I positioned the cover or myself, I couldn’t get the latches to hook properly. After about 45 minutes in a cold, misty rain, I gave up. It was supposed to hook with a cam action lever that grasped the lip of the truck bed to hold it securely. Problem is, my truck has a bed liner with a side rail cap that is glued down. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get the cams to engage.

No problem. Remember the return policy? Ah, but I had failed to read the fine print, which included a 20% restocking fee. My great deal is starting to go the way of most of the great deals I find, and it isn’t looking pretty. But the website offered installation help, so I called, and talked with a pleasant young woman who listened carefully, asked the right questions, and talked twice with her supervisor. Turns out, they thought all 2010 Tacomas have deck rail systems. Mine doesn’t. The young lady said I could return it, so I inquired about their restocking fee, to which she answered that since there was no way to make it fit, there would be no such fee.

Pleasant shock would best describe my reaction. How often do we get to return an item bought online without going through some big hassle? Most of the time, we just suck it up because returning the item isn’t worth what they put you through. Today’s experience was different, and I’d recommend RealTruck.com anytime. 

We have friends in other parts of the world where getting ripped off is a regular part of life, where justice is almost nonexistent, and where doing business is all but impossible. Even had my experience today been negative, the world is full of people who would gladly trade places with me. I am grateful for this company’s business integrity, but also for the ease with which we conduct most of our business.

When a Plan Comes Together

January 21, 2018

In 1983, the A Team made its television debut, starring Mr. T playing himself, and George Peppard playing the captain of the team, Hannibal Smith. Special agents who solved all sorts of problems with an unlikely combination of skills, strategies, and luck, the culmination of every episode was when the bad guys were caught and Hannibal intoned, “I love it when a plan comes together!” 

That’s how I feel when Sunday services are finished, and the Word has been proclaimed with some degree of competence. We work through the week crafting a worship experience that by Christ’s grace we trust will help people enter the Presence of God in worship, in order that they may go forth in Jesus’ Name to serve others. Preachers are given an impossible task. I cannot make someone else believe; I can’t open another’s eyes to the miracle of faith in Christ; I can’t bring about the transformation of a human life that takes a person from darkness to light. All I can do is try to set the stage, to hold open the door and invite people to taste and see that the Lord is good. 

One doesn’t always know if that has actually been accomplished. People bow their heads in prayer, sing the songs of worship, listen to the Scriptures being proclaimed, and come to the Table. But the actual work of the Spirit is, as Jesus said, like the wind: we see it’s effect, but can’t tell where it comes from or where it is going. What I do know is there is often a flow in worship and in preaching that sometimes moves with ease and power, while at other times it seems strained, even forced. Today was one of those former experiences. I had put in the necessary time for the sermon, but was pleasantly surprised at how it seemed to come together. The rest is now in God’s hands, and I am trusting that he will do with it what he wants, and thanking him for the honor of standing before his people and holding forth the Word of Life. After all, I do love it when a plan comes together!

Seeing

January 20, 2018

Last week when I had my annual checkup with the eye doctor last week, he told me for the second time that I had the beginnings of cataracts. Not enough to warrant any immediate action, but it’s the first shot across the bow of an engagement to come that promises to be interesting and intense. I didn’t think any more of it till this morning as I was driving to my grandson’s basketball game. The sun was bright in the sky, in itself a rarity in Western New York; a patchwork of snow-covered fields and brown woodlots stretched before me as I crested a hill. Turn of the century houses in all states of repair dotted the landscape, and I soaked it all in as I drove. 

I’ve written recently on any number of subjects that have crossed my mind, but it’s been awhile since I’ve focused on gratitude, and I’ve subsequently noticed my joy has diminished somewhat.  So as I drove, I thought of sight and seeing. I am thankful today to have seen the faces of my grandchildren as they woke up this morning, to have been able to navigate past the daybed in the back room on my way to starting a fire to warm the room for Abi sleeping on it, all without tripping or stubbing my toes. I am thankful to have been able to open my Bible and see the words conveying life to me, and to be able to look into the eyes of my wife and see love reflected back to me. I could go on, and in my mind and heart, I am doing so, giving thanks for this marvelous and miraculous gift of sight.

Broken Stuff

January 19, 2018

The following is an edited text conversation I had with pastor Joe. And no, it’s not edited because of language or inappropriate content; some of our conversation isn’t relevant to my purpose in writing.

Me: “Joe, I was given a good working microwave to give to someone who might need one. Last I knew, the ones in Park [church’s] kitchen weren’t working too well. If you want this one, tell me which one in the kitchen you want replaced, and I’ll exchange them. Or if you know someone needing one, let me know. P.S. Are you feeling any better? We’ve been praying for you.”

Joe: “Thank you for the prayers! I am almost back to normal...although that’s always debatable. I think the kitchen swap is a great idea. Can it wait till Sunday to look at? I think there’s one to the right if so, that one doesn’t work. The one to the left works...most of the time.”

Me: “We can wait, but it’s in my truck now, is about the same size as the one to the right, and I’d be happy to deliver.”

Joe: “Let’s go with it, and send one with you next week? Part of me thinks there may be only one in the kitchen, now that we are talking. Why would I have kept the broken one around?? Stranger things have happened though!”

Me: “If it’s there, I’ll do the swap today. Pastors love broken stuff. That’s why we’re in business.”

I actually believe that last statement. Linda can testify to all the broken and seemingly useless stuff lying around in the garage that I kept because I’d find a use for it someday. I’m not exactly a hoarder, but it is hard to throw out something that still might have some use in it. It’s harder still to throw out broken people.

Mother Teresa was once washing the putrefying sores of a dying man the Missionaries of Charity had found on the streets of Calcutta. A tourist watching this scene commented, “I wouldn’t do that for a million dollars.” 

Her answer was short and to the point: “Neither would I.” She did it for Christ.

Broken stuff and broken people; that’s why we are in business. Maybe the broken stuff in my garage can be a reminder of the broken people Jesus is in the business of repairing. I hope so. And if it does, I’ll give thanks for all the seemingly useless and broken stuff around here that are signposts pointing me to God.

A Little Means a Lot

January 18, 2018

“BAM!” Is not a sound you want to hear when you’re working on a delicate vintage instrument. Let me explain.

The other day when I was practicing my bass, I noticed that the E and G (lowest and highest) strings were buzzing, indicating that the strings were too close to the fingerboard and needed to be raised. Last summer when I had my bass checked out by the repair shop, they replaced the old, possibly original bridge with a new adjustable one. It’s a simple principle; instead of being made as a single piece of wood, the feet of the bridge are cut and drilled to receive a threaded rod that raises or lowers the height of the bridge. For anyone unfamiliar with the terminology, the bridge is in the middle of the instrument body; the strings run from the head of the instrument, down the neck, pass over the bridge and down to the tailpiece. There is roughly 150-250 pounds of pressure on the bridge of a string bass, meaning those little threads have to withstand some pretty intense pressure for everything to work well.

To rid myself of that pesky buzzing, I loosened the strings and rotated the adjusters. Nothing happened. They kept turning, but the bridge didn’t rise. So today I took the instrument in to my bass professor. As we turned the adjusters, they would grab, then release, which indicated that the threads were stripped. We removed the bridge, turned the adjusters, and everything raised up just fine...until we replaced the bridge and started tuning the bass. Suddenly there was a loud pop. The adjusters had indeed stripped their threads and were unable to bear the pressure of the strings.

When you think about it, compared to the pressure they must withstand, there’s not much surface area on a threaded rod, or in the wooden hole into which they are threaded. Usually, it’s enough, but not always. The difference between success and failure is surprisingly small. Life itself can be like that, too. Races are won or lost by thousandths of a second, a fraction of a degree can spell the difference between a billiard ball landing in the pocket or bouncing off the rail. A single element of an equation determines a right or wrong answer. A single additional sin can be the final straw in a marriage that is on the ropes.

By the same token, a single step taken in the right direction, a simple act of repentance, a small kindness, a single word of forgiveness can be just enough to turn a life around, to bring hope where there has been despair. I had saved the old unadjustable bridge, and we installed it this afternoon. I can once more make music, or at least make an attempt at it. It’s not quite right; after all, it’s more than eighty years old, but it works, and I’ve been reminded of an important lesson: A little means a lot. Maybe tomorrow, whatever little I can do for someone else will mean a lot, and enable that person to make beautiful life music once more.

Business Meetings and Love

January 17, 2018

I HATE business meetings! There; I’ve said it. Especially when I have to leave a nice warm fire, go out in single digit weather, and drive in the dark. I’d much rather stay home, stay warm, and just relax. I could justify leaving home to attend one of the grandkids’ games or concerts, but a meeting? Nope. Nope. Nope.

I forgot to mention...I LOVE these people! Once there, even a business meeting gives me joy. Don’t ask me how that is possible; I don’t know, except for the people who make the cold, dark drive worthwhile. We talked about businessy kinds of stuff, just like anyone would expect at a business meeting. But there was more. Through all the agenda there was a constant attitude of genuine caring for one another, and for the community in which God has placed us. 

And for me, there’s something else. I’m retired. I’m only pulpit supply. I don’t have to show up to anything other than Sunday morning. So for the first time in my life, I am actually volunteering. When I go to the office on Mondays and Wednesdays, help out with a dinner, or attend a meeting, it’s not because it’s a part of my job for which I’m being paid. It is my gift to them, and to the Lord. Jesus taught us that it’s better to give than to receive, and I’ve found that to be true in so many ways. I like to receive gifts and love as much as anyone else, but the real joy is in the giving, especially when there is no possibility of reciprocity. Giving to this church and these people has been fun, particularly so because there’s no requirement to do any of it. When one HAS to do something, it’s a job; when it’s done for the joy of giving, it is a blessing that returns, pressed down, shaken together, and running over.

Time

January 16, 2018

The heat was sweltering up in the balcony that summer morning. I don’t think air conditioning had yet been invented; if it had, it hadn’t arrived at the Westside Baptist Church where I was attending the Vacation Bible School. But it’s not the heat I remember most; it was the lesson. Visuals always help nail things down in our minds, and this was no exception. It was a simpler time; kids today wouldn’t be impressed with the wooden clocks we punched out of the pre-stamped luan plywood. All painted up, they were quite impressive crafts, at least to us kids. Each one bore an inscription which we dutifully painted in bright colors: “My times are in Thy hand.” It’s a quote from Psalm 31:15. The rest of the verse is a prayer for deliverance from enemies, which probably wasn’t too applicable back then. I’m not sure this eleven year old kid from the suburbs had too many enemies to worry about.

The entire week’s lessons centered around time. Later on, we memorized Ephesians 5:16, “Redeeming the time, because the days are evil.” All this was from the old Authorized Version, the only Bible we knew existed back then, apart from the Revised Standard Version, which we were taught was not the “real” Word of God. Elizabethan English can be a bit daunting for people, but I grew up on the rich, sonorous phrases of the revered King James Version, and that is what we memorized. I like many of the modern translations, but when I’m trying to remember a verse, I think in King James. But I digress.

Today’s been busy from start to finish, filled with people and activity. There’s been no downtime whatsoever, but it’s all good. When we know our times are in God’s hand, the pressure of the calendar or clock recedes to its proper place—IF we make sure we are redeeming the time, i.e. exchanging it for that which is worthwhile. When I was a kid, my mother used to save S&H Green Stamps. She would get them every time she went grocery shopping. Spend a certain amount of money, and get a corresponding number of stamps which then got pasted in books. Save enough of them, and they could be redeemed for all sorts of items, from pots and pans to entire dinner sets. The stamps were redeemed—exchanged for something of value. 

The hours, minutes, and seconds of this day I exchanged for conversations with people I value. I think the exchange was worth it, and I leave it with gratitude in God‘s capable hands.

Monday and Sunday

January 15, 2018

Today was somewhat of an odd day for me. It’s MLK day, and I suppose I should say something fitting about it, but instead, I spent the morning and early afternoon with my granddaughter working at our Dunkirk church food pantry and clothing shop, talking with clients and with the developmentally disabled people from the Resource Center who work sorting clothes for the latter. Dr. King was keen on preserving the dignity of every human being, so we did our best to do this with those whose lot in life has been more challenging than mine. I think that’s as good a tribute as attending a ceremony would be.

Mondays are often a bit challenging for me. One of the benefits of retirement was not having to always have my brain in gear (although there are those who could legitimately question whether it ever is). After preaching on Sunday, it would be nice to simply back off and relax, not having to begin thinking about next week’s service, but as a part-timer, I don’t have that luxury. I’m supposed to merely be pulpit supply, but Mondays and Wednesdays in the office, a monthly board meeting Wednesday evening, an extra ride to pick up some furniture for the Willow mission, visiting a few people facing some special life circumstances, added to a few non-church commitments, and before I know it, Sunday is here again.

I suppose I could complain about it, but then I remember; I chose this life. Again. And when it’s all said and done, I am loving it. My only concern is whether we can turn things around in the time I have left to offer these good people. Ultimately, that’s in God’s hands, as is the outcome of whatever we do. I am hopeful; there have been some good signs, but there is much to be done. And today is Monday. I’ve already begun thinking about Sunday’s service, and trust that as I let the Word of God simmer in my soul, the Holy Spirit will from that simmering produce a meal nourishing and appetizing. Like a good meal, a good sermon isn’t fast food, so it takes time. Fortunately, God isn’t in a hurry, and slow growth doesn’t bother him. It is winter, and the dormancy is a necessary part of it all, perhaps even in church life.

So Monday, I read and pray, think a little, and begin to put it all in God’s hands. And I give thanks even as a part of me feels anxious about Sunday, trusting that the Holy Spirit will reveal exactly how he wants to bring glory to Jesus Christ just six days from now.

Salt and Light

January 14, 2018

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus tells his disciples that they are salt and light, following it up by saying that if as salt, they lose their savor, there is no remedy, and that light hidden under a basket is of no use at all; it must be raised on a lampstand for all to see. Of interest to me is how often people misunderstand what Jesus plainly says here. I’ve often heard people say, “I don’t talk much about Jesus; I just let my light shine,” implying that somehow living a good life will move others to faith in Christ. The problem is, that isn’t what Jesus says here. Matthew 5:16 says, “Let your light so shine among men that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.” It is clearly evident that our light is not our good works; it is what illumines them.

If I go around doing good, people will naturally say, “Look at all the good Jim is doing. He is a good man.” Just doing good brings attention to myself. But if I illumine those good works by telling people it is because of what Jesus Christ has done for me, seeing my good works, instead of giving me glory, they give glory to God. My words have illumined my works. The light about which Jesus speaks is our words.

So what about the salt? Salt has many uses; it is a preservative, it flavors our food, can kill snails, and it lowers the melting point of ice. It is this latter characteristic that is pertinent here. Most of us know people who are quite vocal about their faith, but whose lives are anything but exemplary. Their words fall on deaf ears because what they do is speaking louder than what they say. But if my words are backed up by my works, it is a winning combination. 

I think what Jesus is saying here is that if we are careful to do good, we melt people’s icy hearts to hear the words of the Gospel. Or if you will, like a salt lick attracts wild animals, the salt of our good works attracts people, readying them for the witness of our lips. Either one by itself is inadequate; together, our works and our words can be effective in bringing people to our Heavenly Father.

More than fifty years ago, an elderly man gave an object lesson using a light bulb, a dish of water, and some salt. He had wired a light bulb to an electric cord, one strand of which he had cut. He placed the cut ends of an electric cord in a bowl of water and plugged the other end in before slowly pouring salt into the bowl. The bulb began to glow. Salt and light together did their job. I understood, and that night at his invitation, I prayed to receive Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. That elderly man was a lonely widower who later would marry my widowed grandmother, making my spiritual father my adopted grandfather. Tonight I am thankful for this Scripture which opened my eyes and my heart to Christ, and for the life lesson it continues to offer to me and to anyone willing to listen.