Lost Things

May 31

In most areas of my life, I would judge myself as average. I’m quite a bit less than average musically. I fiddle around with the bassoon, am passable on electric bass (although I can’t slap it or do complicated runs), a rank amateur on upright bass. The latter I love far beyond my abilities. As a mechanic, I can change spark plugs, oil, tires, and brakes most of the time. Other than that, I’m the guy who lifts the hood, looks around knowingly, and takes it to the shop. 

People have told me I’m a pretty good preacher; I’ll have to let others be the judge of that. I’ve heard too much really good preaching to rank myself with the masters. I would like to think I was a good pastor, but when I look back, it’s easier for me to see missed opportunities and wasted efforts than wild (or even mild) success. At least I was able to present my successor with a healthy congregation. 

My cooking is legendary. As in, you don’t want anything I’ve cooked anywhere near your mouth. Except for omelettes and cranberry scones. I’m pretty good with those. And with hot dogs on the grill, as long as you don’t mind the bits of char on your teeth.

But I am coming into my own when it comes to losing things. If losing stuff were ranked like the martial arts, I am close to becoming a multiple black belt. From temporarily misplacing keys or tools, I have graduated to completely losing track of my favorite Bible, an English/Spanish bilingual volume that I had in our men’s Bible study two weeks ago, and haven’t seen since. And as I write tonight, I notice that somewhere, I’ve lost two days this month. I haven’t a clue as to where I mislaid them, but as I scroll down the days, they are definitely gone. How is it possible to do this? It’s not as if I can look around the house for them, lifting cushions on the couch or rummaging through my closet.

Though it might not make any difference relative to my Bible or these two missing days, I am grateful that our God specializes in lost things, specifically, lost people. He spares no effort, shrinks from no risk in his quest for lost souls. I am grateful tonight that this is the kind of God I serve; he kept looking even while I was running, and didn’t give up until he found me and brought me back to himself.

Begin in Prayer

May 29, 2018

When the day begins early and ends late, it can be a bit of a challenge to even remember how it all started. For me, it was meeting with local pastors to pray for the transformation of our community through the Gospel of Jesus Christ. The goal was simple and straightforward. From there, it was a mad dash through the morning, visiting city hall to adjust the permit request for our centennial celebration, then to the church to make sure everything was in place for Sunday’s worship, followed by following through on a commitment to my son in law. Finally, it was time to pick up my friend Chuck and head for Syracuse and Annual Conference. 

Clergy session in a group as large as ours has turned into pretty much a rubber stamp process, necessary according to our church canon law, but perfunctory nonetheless. It’s over now, and after a late dinner, time for bed. I am thankful for safe travels, but mostly for the prayer time with friends this morning that set the trajectory of the day. Tomorrow we’ll get down to business, some of which may prove contentious. I’ll start the day prayerfully so I don’t miss God’s presence. It will otherwise be easy to do.

The New Creation

May 29, 2018

New-mown hay has an aroma like nothing else in the world, and the air was filled with its sweetness as I rode my sidecar to town early this morning. The last time I remember that delectable aroma being that strong was some 45 years ago when we lived in Alma, NY. A farmer friend lived on the other side of Wellsvillle, and I can still see his Timothy hay undulating in the afternoon breeze as we stood talking beside his tractor. Just a few years before, I had been transplanted from the olfactory sterility of the suburbs of Rochester, NY to the countryside of the Southern Tier where such fragrances abounded. 

As I drove along reveling in the beauty around me, I thought of the Biblical Creation story in which God spoke all that is into being in a mere six days. Modern cosmology and even theology have done their best to debunk this story, ridiculing the very idea that anyone with any brains at all would have to accede to an evolutionary and scientific method that demonstrates the true age of the universe to be some 13.8 billion of years.

All this misses the point of the story, which was to ground the weekly rhythm of the Sabbath in the very order of Creation, giving ancient Jewish life and practice divine validity. Science and theology have quite different goals and methods, so to judge the Bible because it doesn’t conform to modern scientific theory is to do injustice to both science and the Bible.

Did Jesus understood the Creation story as a literal six days of creation? It’s quite likely that he did, which makes one of his statements even more remarkable that it first appears. In John 14:1-2, he comforts his disciples with these words: “Don’t let your heart’s be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.” If God made the world in six days, and it’s been 2,000 years since Jesus uttered this promise, I cannot imagine the beauty and magnificence of that place he has prepared. I know this: its glory is not in the place, but in the Person whose presence will permeate the whole of it. I am thankful for Jesus’ promise, and am looking forward to that day, not as an escape from this world, but as the culmination of the Father’s love which gave us his Son, who gave us his life.

Memorial Day

May 28, 2018

Their ranks are thinning. Even in small villages, Memorial Day parades used to involve hundreds of marchers, along with the requisite fire trucks, Scouts, community organizations, and an assortment of little boys on bicycles festooned with flags. The two  World Wars and the Korean Conflict produced a generation of patriotism, spurred on by the many veterans who by reason of the draft, served their time and came home to build a nation. 

Vietnam changed all that as we slowly came to realize that we didn’t really have any strategic objectives there, and that our leaders were lying to us. The ordinary soldier served as bravely and well as any before, but came home to a society ashamed. The volunteer army now produces quality men and women, but there are fewer of them, they serve longer and repeated tours of duty, and like most soldiers, want to put what they’ve experienced on the battlefield behind them. 

The parade didn’t take long, but the crowd gathered at the cemetery for the service numbered at least a hundred fifty; not bad for a small village. We listened to speeches, heard the roll call of wars, prayed for peace. 

In the afternoon, like millions across our land, we gathered with family and friends for a picnic, swapping stories while the kids played games and splashed in the pool. It was a good day, provided courtesy of those who will never observe another Memorial Day themselves. Most of us have no real concept of what it means to have someone give their life for another. Christians should understand better than most; vicarious sacrifice is the centerpiece of our faith. It is also the centerpiece of Memorial Day, and we give thanks today for those who have done so, even as we give thanks for the One who did this on a Cross so many years ago.

Harmony

May 27, 2018

The Everly Brothers had it. So did the BeeGees and the Andrew sisters, and lately, Willie Nelson and his grandson Lucas. I know...I’m dating myself and revealing my musical preferences, but it’s true; there’s something special about the timbre of harmonies sung by members of the same family. This morning in worship, we had the privilege of hearing our son Nathan, Alex and Abi, (two of his daughters), along with their friend Katie Meadows, as they sang four part harmony. Periodically, I stopped singing just to listen to the interweaving of their voices. It was glorious! 

I was never much of an athlete. As in “not at all.” There are times I wished I had done more athletically. I liked the gymnastic apparatus and did pretty well on it in gym class, but never pursued it. Music however, was where I was in my element even though I was more of a second-string team player than a star. I ended up playing bassoon because I wasn’t good enough on saxophone to maintain my spot in the concert band. As I’ve said many times, I am living proof that one doesn’t have to be a good musician to be a good music lover.

I’m at the age when most sports are pretty much out of the question for me. I say that in ignorance, because I can’t say I’ve tried most sports. Maybe I’m just making excuses. Even if I am, one thing I know: music is still a big part of my life. I love playing my bass, and for my birthday, I would love it if we could get all the family singers and instrumentalists together just to harmonize with each other (hint, hint). It would be even better if we were able to record harmonies on some of the songs I have written. Even if that never happens, I am thankful tonight for the harmonies I heard this morning. If that is a foretaste of heaven, it’s going to be over the top wonderful.

John

May 26, 2018

A well-laid foundation will stand the test of time; the storms that inevitably come may be ferocious, but the edifice stands. In 1974, a man started building in Sinclairville. Stone by spiritual stone, he labored for seven years preaching to the saints and ministering to the community. Soft-spoken, with a ready smile and story, he made my early pastoral ministry easier than it should have been. When he moved on in 1981, he left behind a growing and cohesive congregation and a community that trusted his Christian leadership. I walked into a winning situation; it would have taken some determined effort to mess things up. 

John Rough suffered a mini-stroke today. The word that I received is that he is resting in ICU, but expected to be moved to general care tomorrow. For 32 years, I built on the foundation he laid. The structure I built may in places be deficient, but the foundation he laid remains solid and immoveable. I owe him more than I can say. I was young and relatively inexperienced back then, but although he probably had ample reason to, he never interfered with my ministry, but was consistently supportive. Although for many years, it was a back-burner lesson, John taught me how to pass the baton. I am grateful for this man, and pray for a full and quick recovery.

Perseverence

April 20, 2017

Giving up is not an option. Not when you have a dream. And the bigger the dream, the longer it is likely to take. Your dream may not be realized for years, even decades; in fact, you may never see it yourself. But giving up is still not an option. 

Joshua was 40 years old when tapped by Moses to be his assistant. When they marched out of Egypt, he had every reason to believe that his dream of freedom in the Promised Land would be fulfilled in a matter of months. When he, Caleb, and ten other leaders of Israel spied out the land, he and Caleb saw the future where the others saw only the obstacles. In spite of his faith and enthusiasm, the unbelief of the ten carried the day and postponed his dream by 40 years. Finally, they crossed the Jordan. A cursory reading of the text gives the impression that once in the land, the conquest was almost instantaneous, but when Caleb made his request for the inheritance he had been promised, when he spoke of the 40 years in the wilderness, he added the amount of time it had taken to conquer the land. 

"And now, behold, the LORD has kept me alive, as He said, these forty-five years, ever since the LORD spoke this word to Moses while Israel wandered in the wilderness; and now, here I am this day, eighty-five years old" (Joshua 14:10). Not only the 40 years in the wilderness, but an additional five years of conquest. I don't know too many people who had to wait till they were eighty-five to realize their dream. 

This evening I attended a book signing of a friend who recently published his first full-length western novel. During the course of the evening, he read excerpts from his book and talked a bit about the process of writing it, mentioning along the way how patient his sons had been when he was squirreled away with paper and pen. Don is in his seventies; it's been awhile since children graced their household. So I asked how long his book has been in process.

"Louis L'Amour was my mentor. When he pictured a stream meandering through a valley surrounded by hills and forests, he was talking about places he had been, and if you were to go there, you would actually see what he described. L'Amour died in 1988, and I wanted to write a tribute to him." Don's dream has taken nearly thirty years, but I hold in my hands a signed copy of the realization of that dream. It took a lot of hard work, but he didn't quit.

Neither did Jesus Christ. He had every opportunity to give up, take a shortcut, quit, but instead, he followed the course laid out for him even when it led to a cross. No, quitting is not an option. We may not feel like keeping the faith, but giving up is out of the question. I have read my friend's book; it is very good, with an engaging plot, vivid descriptions, and plenty of action. I'm glad he didn't quit. I'm even more grateful that Jesus didn't quit. I don't plan to, either.

Lost and (Not) Found

May 24, 2018

At least it’s not catastrophic. Even though it is my favorite, I have others I can use. After our men’s Bible study Monday night, I put it in the sidecar of my bike and drove home. That was the last time I remember seeing my Spanish/English Bible. It’s all marked up with notes and cross references, so misplacing it is like losing an old friend. The Bible apps on my phone don’t quite cut it; I like seeing Scripture in relation to surrounding verses, which doesn’t happen on the phone. Apps have their place, but actually studying the Bible is not one of them.

Linda and I have looked high and low; every conceivable place I could have left it, to no avail. I’ve misplaced it before, but never this completely. It’s frustrating not being able to just pick it up when I want it. Years ago when I was a teenager, we were encouraged to memorize verses. “After all,” my Sunday School teachers reasoned, “What if your Bible were taken away? What if the only Bible you had were what you memorized?” I’ve never been very good at memorization, but tonight, I wish I had paid more attention to the wisdom my teachers tried to impart to us. 

As I said, it’s not catastrophic. It’s been three days, so even though it’s not ideal, I’m thankful that I have other Bibles I can use. Many believers around the world don’t even have one, while I can probably lay my hand on a dozen or more. I am blessed beyond measure, and will have to take to heart the admonition of Psalm 119:11, hiding God’s Word in my heart so it will be available to me even if I can’t hold it in my hand.

Just a Little Cut

May 23, 2018

Seasonal tasks are usually pretty humdrum, but once in awhile...

It was past time to change out the winter tires, and the afternoon being warm and sunny, I decided today was the day. We are fortunate to have our snow tires on separate rims, so it’s a job I can actually tackle myself. Roll out the floor jack, fire up the compressor, get the air driver, socket and extender, and we’re in business. About three quarters of an hour was all I needed. I almost forgot to check the tire pressure, which would have been a big mistake. Three of the four were right up to snuff, but the right rear was down to about ten pounds. Odd, that only one had lost air. 

When I was pumping up that rear tire I noticed it; a cut on the sidewall extending almost to the bead. No wonder it had gone flat! 

It’s not all bad; they were near the end of their tread life with only 2/32” left before they would have had to be replaced anyway. That cut tire decided the matter for me. I had been debating whether to replace the set, but cheapskate that I am, I would have run a marginal set through the summer, which isn’t really a very smart move; tires and brakes are not the place to cut corners, especially with the wife’s car. A phone call later, and I have a new set ordered. 

God watches over children and fools. Too many summers have passed for me to be considered a child, so that only leaves one option. I’m thankful tonight for a cut tire that prompted me to do what I should have done at the beginning, and I’m thankful that God reminded me to check the pressure before driving off. I feel better knowing my wife will be riding on new tread. 

Craftsmanship

May 22, 2018

Working meticulously, I slowly pulled the tape, revealing the crisp edges of the casting and exposing the grey stone beneath. A few days ago, I masked the stone in preparation for the paint I intended to spray on the cast iron framework. Yesterday, I laid down the paint, and this afternoon, it was time to unveil the project. With each strip of tape, a bit more of the stone was exposed till the stove sat there in all its earthen glory, and I stood back to admire my handiwork.

Craftsmanship is almost a lost art these days. “Good enough” seems to be good enough for most people, so when we see real artistry, it captures our attention. Whether it’s a classical musician who plays long, involved sonatas from memory, or the carpenter  whose crown molding fits the corner with a joint so tight you couldn’t slide a piece of paper between them. Years ago when our boys wanted to earn their own money mowing lawns, I inspected their work at the beginning. I made sure they trimmed the edges, swept the sidewalks, and picked up twigs and leaves. They balked, but I told them, “You learn to take care of the details now, when you get a real job, you’ll do what to you is an average job, but everyone will want you because that ordinary work is actually very extraordinary.

I wonder if when he formed Adam from the dust of the ground, God stood in breathless anticipation, examining his handiwork, making a last minute adjustment or two before inhaling deeply and blowing into the man’s nostrils the breath of life. I can imagine him talking quietly to himself, “You really outdid yourself this time!” And when Adam took that first breath all on his own, I can picture God standing there, admiring his work with the same satisfaction I felt this afternoon. Craftsmanship is from God, the Author of detail and beauty beyond our understanding. I appreciate it more than I can produce it, and am thankful for any small portion of it that has rubbed off on me.

Energy at Work

May 21, 2018

Writing to the Christians in Colossae about his calling to preach the Gospel, Paul says something unusual: “We preach [Christ], warning and teaching everyone with all wisdom, so that we may present everyone mature in Christ.” That isn’t the unusual part. He follows these words that I would expect with ones that surprise me: “I labor for this, struggling with all his energy that he powerfully works within me.”

One would think that if the energy of Christ that raised him from death is powerfully at work in me, I wouldn’t have to be laboring or struggling; life would be a piece of cake. Of course, it is not. Life is more like a gristly, tough, old steak that all but breaks our teeth. His resurrection energy doesn’t replace my own; it gives it life and strength. Elsewhere, Paul speaks of boasting in his weakness so that the power of Christ may rest upon him, for “when I am weak, then I am strong.” It’s a paradox; a truth that on the surface cannot possibly be true. And it’s a good thing, too.

Whenever I’ve gotten overconfident, I’ve gotten in trouble. It’s good to stretch, to dream and take a risk for Jesus, trusting in his leading and provision, but it is deceptively easy to subtly drift from trusting in Jesus to trusting in the latest guru, the newest fad, or my own experience and wisdom. Paul’s words steer us between the Scylla of human effort and the Charybdis of a Christian laziness that refuses responsibility for holiness, evangelism, and discipleship. I am thankful tonight for the whole counsel of God in the Holy Scriptures that instructs us for life in this world with a view to the next.

Transitions

May 20, 2018

The four of us met for lunch to talk about the future that was looming ahead of us. Us four pastors had been in our respective churches for thirty or more years and were anticipating retirement; two Methodists, a Baptist, and a Congregationalist. Transitions are rarely easy, and thirty years of fruitful ministry doesn’t make it any easier. I was the first to go, followed by the other Methodist and the Baptist. Last month, the Congregationalist announced to his congregation his decision to retire, and arranged a series of meetings with those of us who have already walked that road. Tonight was my turn.

Pastor Joe and I had already put together a seminar on successfully navigating transition, so I had the basis for our evening’s conversation. We had a good time together, and it turned out that my observations mirrored those of the other two pastors who had already met with them. I am grateful to have been able to use my experiences to help others who will be going through similar situations. God doesn’t waste anything. He can even use my retirement to help others make a smooth transition to the future he has waiting for them in Jesus Christ. For that, I am thankful.

A Royal Wedding

May 19, 2018

The contrast between ideal and reality played out all across the country today. The majesty and pageantry of a royal wedding was juxtaposed against the gritty ugliness of another school shooting. We seem to have a strange fascination with both the glory and the brutality of life, yearning for the one, and recoiling from the other. 

Harry and Meghan’s wedding reflects a longing we all have for beauty, glory, and love; for that which lifts us to God in whose image we are created, while the events that unfolded in Texas remind us all too well of how far short of that image we have fallen. While there will be some who decry the extravagance of the British monarchy, the crowds present and those who watched via media reveal the breadth of that longing. The shooting exposes both the depth of human depravity and the rift in our country over how to deal with that which as a society we have denied even exists, viz. Sin.

I am thankful for reminders of glory, the examples of beauty, craftsmanship, and creativity seen in St. George’s chapel, Windsor Castle, and the myriad of people and preparation that was invested in the royal wedding. Pomp and ceremony still have their place, perhaps an even more important place in a world so wounded that murder and mayhem have become almost a staple of ordinary life. Perhaps the wedding was only a momentary diversion, but if so, it was a welcome departure from the daily tragedies that darken and pollute ordinary life. I am grateful tonight for this reminder of the glory that awaits the coming marriage of the Bride. It will be a day far surpassing the beauty of this royal union.

Fires

May 18, 2018

Embers are all that remain of the fire that crackled so brightly a couple hours before, and before morning, even they will have sizzled out, cooled by the rain that will arrive sometime overnight. It’s a Meema/Beepa night; at least that’s what the grandkids call it. As they get older, they drift in one or two at a time, some for supper, others not till later. The Andersens had to go home so they could get up early together for a family outing tomorrow, but the rest are camped throughout the house, bedded down for the night.

Earlier, Nathan and Ian managed to play two-man kickball. I’m not sure what the rules were, but whatever they were, they didn’t fight over them. Once the fire died down some, we toasted marshmallows and made S’mores. The Bailey girls arrived late, due to a ball game, so I missed my evening coffee waiting for Abi. After a day of Writer’s Group, weedwhacking, sermonizing, and painting the stove, it was good to relax a bit. 

And the fire slowly died, a reminder of my own mortality. The flame isn’t as bright as it once was, and the day will come when the last ember blinks and goes out. We don’t know when that will be. This morning, kids in Texas boarded the buses for school, imagining that it would be just another ordinary day waiting for summer vacation to start. For nine of them, it was the last morning they would see. And in Cuba, nine pastors and their spouses boarded a plane from Havana to Holguin after a spiritual retreat. Their minds were on the experiences they had had and the sermons and ministry to come, but unbeknownst to them, they had already preached their last sermon.

Our grandkids are bright and strong like that early evening campfire, while Linda and I are more like the glowing embers. None of us know when the rains will come or how long the fire will last, but as long as it burns, I want my flame to light this world with the Word of Christ, proclaiming deliverance to the captive, sight for the blind, and life to all who believe.

Weeds

May 17, 2018

A particularly obnoxious weed made its appearance around here last year; at least, that’s the first time I noticed it. It’s actually quite pretty, with a delicate leaf spray spaced evenly along the stem. This stuff grows like ivy, except much faster, and would make a good ground cover if it didn’t engulf everything in its path. That’s how we know it’s a weed; if it grows on its own, needing no help from us, it’s a weed. It got a head start on me last year before I realized what it was and how quickly it grows. 

This year, we’ve been on top of it, but it’s a never-ending battle. As I was pulling...and pulling...and pulling today, the story of Adam’s sin popped into my mind. His punishment, and ours, is recorded as, 

“Cursed is the ground because of you;

through painful toil you will eat food from it

all the days of your life.

It will produce thorns and thistles for you,

and you will eat the plants of the field.

By the sweat of your brow

you will eat your food

until you return to the ground...”

Our actions have consequences, many of which don’t appear on the surface to have any connection to each other. Old Adam ate the apple, and I pull weeds. I wonder what my children and grandchildren will have to endure because of sinful choices I made? I hope they will have blessings to enjoy because of good choices I made. Either way, my choices don’t stop with me. It’s good that they don’t; extended and unintended consequences aren’t God’s punishment; they are his gift that keeps me looking at a horizon that includes more than me. For that, and for weedy reminders, I am thankful.

God’s Calling

May 16, 2018

One of the hallmarks of the Protestant Reformation was the doctrine of the priesthood of all believers. Among other things, this means that God’s revelation is not limited to the professional clergy. Too often, I’ve witnessed pastors come into a new congregation either by call or appointment, and announce that they have a new direction or program that they expect the people to follow. With each new pastor, congregations carom from one program to another, with little or no long term direction for ministry.

I’ve believed in the priesthood of all believers since I first learned of it as a new Christian, but for years, I listened to the ecclesiastical leadership gurus who presented a variety of programs and initiatives touted to be the end-all for successful church leadership. Many of them were very good, most were even helpful, but the one thing they had in common was the underlying assumption that it is the pastor’s job to “cast the vision” for the people to follow.

But if the priesthood of all believers means anything at all, it must mean that God speaks to all his people, not just the leaders. Which means that the task of the leader is to listen to the people and help them recognize what God’s voice sounds like. God is speaking, but often the people don’t know it because they’ve not been taught how to listen. My job as pastor is to interpret to them what God has been saying. If I get it right, they say, “Yeah; that’s it!” If I get it wrong, they say, “Nah; not so much.”

Sometimes God calls people to special service, but they don’t recognize it. Sometimes people think God is calling them when he is not. Part of my job is helping people navigate these waters. Today I had the privilege of praying with pastors from other traditions who shared how they help people discern God’s leading, followed by conversations with two people, one of whom is beginning to recognize God’s call, and needs to navigate what that means; the other, who was surprised to hear that I sense God’s call in his life. It’s not my job to tell them what is God’s will; it is my job to help them see it for themselves. It’s also a great privilege, for which I am thankful today.

Midnight Prayers

May 15, 2018

Linda often wakes up in the middle of the night, and when she does, she has a hard time getting back to sleep. She tells me that when she wakes like that, she just can’t shut her mind off; she thinks about all she needs to do the next day, rehearses conversations with people, frets over the kids and grandkids. She’ll lay there, praying about all that stuff, until she either drifts off (a rare occurrence) or goes downstairs, turns the tv on low, and goes back to sleep. As another proof that compatibility is way overrated as a requirement for marital success, here again, we are totally different. The low hum of conversation puts her to sleep. It keeps me awake.

I’ve never had that problem of sleeplessness. I can usually drift off within a few minutes of lying down, and only wake if I have to use the bathroom. I keep telling her that easy sleep is the sign of a clear conscience, and in reply, she keeps threatening to smother me with a wet pillow. I’ve taken to sleeping with one eye open.

It has often bothered me that when I wake up, I can’t gather thoughts coherent enough to pray. I actually envy those who wake up and turn those midnight hours into fervent prayer. I lay there stupefied till I roll over and promptly fall back to sleep. Until last week. Once last week, I woke in the middle of the night and no matter what I did, I couldn’t get back to sleep. Better yet, I actually was able to use that time praying. My thoughts weren’t all jumbled, so I prayed. For what seemed like hours. I interceded for family and friends, prayed for the Church and our nation’s leaders, worshipped and praised God for his goodness and greatness, and rounded it out in thanksgiving. When I was all done, I felt the closest to God that I have felt in a long time. I’m actually looking forward to the next time God awakens me in the night. Times of sleeplessness will become times of fellowship, and that is worth all the thanksgiving I can offer.

Pleasant Places

May 14, 2018

“Surely the lines have fallen unto me in pleasant places.” So says the writer of Psalm 16:6. These words came to mind this morning as I drove the back roads to visit a church member who has been sick and absent from worship for a few weeks. The verdant and variegated greens of the spring grasses in the fields, the willows along the creeks, and the brush springing up alongside the road contrasted with the brown of newly cultivated fields awaiting the spring planting. The hills seemed almost to dance with delight as the breezes stirred the trees into rhythmic motion. 

A few days ago, I read an article about war-torn Iraq. One of the accompanying photographs showed a portion of a city that was nothing but rubble. Two men were carrying a body through the debris. It was utter devastation on a scale about which we know nothing. Even the urban blight of Detroit pales in comparison. And here I am, driving through beauty many cannot even imagine.

I know that discord and heartache are not the exclusive property of war-torn places. Behind the doors of many of the homes I passed, tragedies play themselves out in a too-regular pattern of anger, deceit, betrayal, and violence. Some of the homes are well-kept, while others are little more than shacks perched precariously amid a clutter of refuse and decay. But still, the lines have fallen to me...

With manifold blessing comes much responsibility. The Dead Sea is lifeless because the flow that feeds it feeds no one else. None of us were meant to be merely recipients of God’s blessings, whether they come in a flood or a trickle. The only way to thrive is to not only thank God for the blessings we receive, but also to pass them along to others. That’s why my retirement didn’t last long. Those lines that have fallen to me I must gather up and cast before others. The rest of the verse gives the reason: “a godly heritage.” Tonight, I am thankful for those lines, and pray that I will hold them only long enough for someone else to pick them up and discover their new heritage in Jesus Christ.

True Love

May 12, 2018

“I don’t want to live in a desert!” That’s been my stock answer to Linda’s recurring plea for her own chain saw. I like our trees. I like their branches where God put them. Unless the branch is dead or broken, I see no need to cut it off. Linda on the other hand, never saw a branch she didn’t think would look better cut up and burned. If I didn’t know better, I could be easily convinced that the Great Plains were once a forest that in a former life Linda had been let loose in. When she has pruning shears or loppers in hand, saplings tremble!

So when I told her last night that I had the Mother of all Mother’s Day gifts, it did no good to dream of jewelry or furs, neither of which particularly matter to her. A new car holds no attraction; a cruise or a trip would be a cruel joke. But this morning, a lifetime of refusal was negated in one stroke of either lunacy or love, as I plopped down on the kitchen table a genuine battery chainsaw—the real deal, not some toy. It earned me brownie points, I am sure, but I have yet to fully calculate the cost to the foliage around here. She is happy, and as the old saying goes, “Happy wife, Happy life!” She is thankful, and so am I.

Mothers

May 12, 2018

There can be little doubt that the Bible is a male-dominated book. Whether for good or ill, it  is a fact that history is by and large a record of male activity, which makes it an especially significant event when a woman manages to insert herself into the record. Of course, it starts out badly, with Eve’s seduction by the serpent; but in all fairness, she wasn’t there when the command was given to Adam, and shining knight that he was, he stood by while she blundered into sin. He on the other hand, dove in with his eyes wide open.

As with the men in the Story, it is a checkered history. There is Sarah, who laughed at the prospect of bearing a son in her old age. I can hardly blame her for that; I would laugh, too. Rebecca plotted against her own husband to pass the paternal blessing on her favorite son. Zipporah on the other hand, intervened for her husband Moses, actually preserving his life and therefore, the nation of Israel. Rahab started out badly as a prostitute, but saw her chance for a different life and took a risk that ended with her becoming an ancestor of King David, and ultimately, Jesus Christ himself.

There are plenty more—Miriam, Deborah, Jezebel, Abigail, Bathsheba, Esther, and the Marys of the New Testament—good, bad, and everything in between, just like all of us. They are part of the story of redemption, a story that tells of the Father’s love so great for this messy lot of human beings that he gave up his own Son that we might become sons and daughters of God. I am grateful that my mother was one of the good ones; not perfect, but good; and that my wife (if only for living with me these nearly 48 years) is next to a saint. I am grateful too, that for those who avoid looking into their family tree for fear of who they might find hanging from it, there is hope for redemption. If God changed the course of history with the raw material he had to work with, he can surely change the course of our lives by the Word of the Cross and the power of the Resurrection. Happy Mother’s Day to all!

Orderliness

May 11, 2018

Little Gemma is asleep at the foot of our bed, the older girls are giggling in their room while Linda talks with Abi, and the boys and Izzi are getting ready for their weekend Monk fix. It’s been awhile since they’ve all (minus Alex, away at college) have been here the entire evening. As they get older, sports, school activities, and friends claim more of their time, which is as it should be. 

When I was their age, overnights at my grandparents were an infrequent treat, but every Friday night we were at my mother’s folks for dinner. We kids played outside, exploring the twenty or so acres of fields and woods behind their house, staying until the Friday night fights were over. Saturday evenings were at my dad’s folks. I can still see my grandfather, who played semi-pro ball as a young man, sitting on the porch listening to baseball on the radio while leaning through the living room door to watch Lawrence Welk on TV.  

That weekly routine still lives in me as part of the foundation that defines my life. The regularity of those weekends, like the regularity of Sunday worship, is still a reminder that  God is faithful and orderly; that life need not be as chaotic as it sometimes appears. If we can do the same for our grandchildren, we will have accomplished much in this world, and I will be very thankful.

Sick

May 10, 2018

It’s been a long time since I’ve been this sick. I wasn’t feeling my best, so I turned in about 9:00 last night. It all began about a half hour later. Hershey Squirts, puking into a wastebasket, sweating like I was in a sauna. Every fifteen minutes or so, it was back to the bathroom for another episode. Other than those brief interludes, I’ve been in bed for the past eighteen hours, and my body feels it. Everything aches. But I’m not looking for sympathy. This little interlude has given me a new appreciation for those who undergo chemo for cancer. Returning to the chemo just about the time you’re feeling somewhat normal takes a lot of courage and strength. I am in awe of those who do it, week after week. 

Then there are those who are bedridden for months or years at a time. Eighteen hours of being confined to my bed, and my body is screaming for relief. Those who are thus confined for extended periods of time have my respect. 

For me, this is already passing. I’m no longer nauseous, although everything hurts. In a few days, things should be back to normal. I am grateful for that, even as I tip my hat to those for whom nausea and pain is an everyday, and never ending ordeal.

Thankful

May 9, 2018

Sometimes I’m just not up to the task of trying to find something for which to give thanks that might be meaningful to someone else. Tonight is one of those times. It’s been a busy day, and I’m fighting what is shaping up to be a chronic congestion that is sapping my energy. So tonight, I’m thankful that I can breathe at all. I’m thankful for the warmth and sunshine that filled the day. I’m thankful to have been able to spread gravel and fill low spots in the lawn. I’m thankful for the pastors who prayed together this morning for our community. I’m thankful to have been able to use ideas that came to me in the middle of the night to write a sermon this morning. I’m thankful for the people I met when I went out into the community this morning to have coffee at a Puerto Rican bakery. I’m thankful for the people at the Dunkirk church who meet every Wednesday for Bible study and lunch. I’m thankful for my wife, who keeps going when she doesn’t feel well. I’m thankful to have been able to watch two granddaughters play softball this evening. I’m thankful for our home, and for a warm bed tonight. This doesn’t cover it all, but it’s as good as I can do tonight.

Fruit

May 8, 2018

Right now they only look disheveled, while the others are neatly trimmed. Most of the vineyards have been tended, but a few have been left to their own. In another month, the untended vines will look as luxuriant with foliage as those that have been pruned, but come fall, the difference will make itself known. The untended vines will be full, but their yield will be stunted, the plant’s energy having gone to producing more leaves instead of grapes. 

We often talk about growing as Christians, as if that were the goal of Christian living. I seldom hear talk about fruitfulness, but the whole point of growth is fruit. We can sport luxurious Christian foliage, but if we aren’t producing fruit, we aren’t fulfilling our purpose. Fruitfulness is a direct result of pruning, tending by the vinedresser who knows what needs to remain, and what should be trimmed and discarded. Experiencing pain in some areas of my life is a good thing. It’s a sign that God is at work, and a precursor to fruitfulness. 

Today the pruned vines look stark and barren, but the end result of all that hard work by the vinedresser will be a bountiful crop. The untended vines are abandoned, left without anyone who cares about their purpose. When we are being pruned, it may feel as if God doesn’t know or care, when in reality, the pain is from his hand and for his purposes. Looking good is not the point; fruit that blesses other is. And it only comes when we allow God to prune us early on.