Almost Missed

February 28, 2018

She turned out to be as small and fragile as her voice had sounded on the other end of the line. She had advertised some almost new snow tires that were just the right size. Next winter, Linda’s car would need them, and the price was right. She happened to call when I was nearby in Brooklyn Square, so I told her I would be over to look at them in a few minutes even though I didn’t have the money on me at the time. The street sign where I needed to turn was hidden by an overgrown yew, so I had to turn around. Otherwise, she would hardly have had time to hang up the phone before I arrived. 

She was shoveling her sidewalk when I drove up. I introduced myself, and she led me up the steps to the side porch where the tires were stacked next to some children’s toys. Baby formula sat in a case on a shelf. “I’m sorry this is such a mess, but I didn’t have anywhere else to put them,” she said apologetically. I assured her it was OK, and she proceeded to show me the receipt for them. They were merely a month old when her old Taurus car finally gave out. She was agitated, apologizing over and over. “My daughter has traumatic brain injury, and is getting hard to handle. I’m taking care of her and her kids...” 

Assuring her that I wanted the tires and would come back the next day with the money for them, I drove off, saddened. It was one of the poorer parts of the city, where life can be hard and unforgiving. She was perhaps ten years my junior, but the lines in her face revealed the hardship she faced every day. 

The following morning, Linda and I drove into town to get the tires and attend to some errands. I stood on the sidewalk and called to let her know I had arrived; she came to the door a few seconds later, and we made the deal. As I handed her the money, I asked about her daughter. Turns out she had been in a serious car accident fifteen years ago. Fifteen years. From the awful news on that terrible day, to the sleepless nights wondering if she would live, to the daily routine of caring for her daughter while reliving days that would never be normal again, here was a woman whose courage and strength belied her small stature. I was humbled at her calm acceptance of her lot in life, and her faithfulness and perseverance through fifteen years of heartbreak and disappointment.

I got in the truck to drive away, but couldn’t. Quickly exiting, I flagged her down just as she was closing the front door. “I forgot something,” I told her. “Would it be alright if I prayed with you?” 

Tears welled up in her eyes as she said, “Please do.” When I finished, she looked at me and said, “This made my day.” My heart was lighter, too. Nothing in her circumstances has changed. Her daughter still has traumatic brain injury; she still provides care; she is still poor, overworked, and overwhelmed. 

I almost missed it. God dropped an opportunity right in my lap, and I almost missed it. I shudder to think of all the times I wasn’t paying attention and missed an opportunity to pray for someone or witness to the saving power of Jesus Christ. The people are all around us, but like in the story of the Woman at the Well where the disciples go into town and see only human vending machines—people who can serve their need, Jesus saw people ready for the harvest. I am too often so wrapped up in my agenda that I miss God’s. This time, I didn’t, and I am thankful for it. And I pray that tomorrow, God will open my eyes and heart, and that I will open my mouth.

Sunshine

February 27, 2018

In the 1991 movie, “Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves,” starring Kevin Costner as Robin and Morgan Freeman as Robin’s Muslim sidekick Azeem, the two of them arrived in England on a typically overcast day. Having been on a ship for weeks, Azeem, grateful to again be on solid land, grabs his prayer rug, and scanning the skies for the sun so he can kneel towards Mecca, asks in frustration, “Does the sun never shine in this place?”

Living in Western New York, one doesn’t have to be Muslim to appreciate those sentiments. We can go for weeks on end without ever seeing the sun; when the clouds finally dissipate, we wonder, “What is that yellow orb in the sky?” This week, we’ve had two straight days of sunshine. The snow in our yard is almost gone, the garage is finally drying out, and the warmth just feels so good. My joy is in the Lord who unlike Western New York weather, never changes, but the today the sunshine makes me happy.

Possible Impossibilities

February 26, 2018

It took the near-implosion of the church to teach me how little I really know about growing a congregation. I had been doing everything the pundits recommended, and the people responded accordingly, with attendance growing in ten years from around 120 to nearly 300. Then, in the space of six months, it all collapsed. I went from being in the know to being in the stew. It took another ten years to dig out of the hole we were in.

When I was asked to take on another pastoral assignment, my first thoughts were how to bring this congregation back from the hole in which they had found themselves through no fault of their own. I had fallen back into my old patterns of thinking I would be able to figure things out and fix whatever had gone wrong. What I hadn’t counted on was how little I still know, and how much church growth is a matter of God’s grace.

Today as I sat in the church office working on Sunday’s sermon, the volunteers for Willow Mission were busy meeting the people, providing food and clothing, and care. They treated each client with dignity and respect, as they do every Monday. I left the office to see if I could connect with a family that came for awhile last fall, but was unsuccessful. I’m finding myself up against an entirely different way of thinking. Life in the city is different than in a small village. Here, I can knock on a door and be confident that if the residents are home, someone will answer. In the city, I am as likely to remain standing on the front porch even if I hear voices and feet shuffling inside. It is humbling to realize again that when it comes to growing a church, I know nothing.

The almost oppressive air of poverty hangs over everything, and although we are doing our best, it doesn’t even scratch the surface of people’s need. There is good, too. I am driven to prayer more than ever before. Humanly speaking, we face impossibilities every day, and so I cling to the angel’s word to Mary: “With God, nothing shall be impossible.” (Luke 1:37). If the Scriptures be not true, we have nothing to offer; but if they are in truth, the Word of God, we have nothing to fear.

Sowing in Tears

February 25, 2018

“Those who sow in tears shall reap in joy. He who goes forth weeping bearing precious seed shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.” (Psalm 126:5-6) “Let us not be wearing in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.” (Galatians 6:9)

For the past twenty five or more years, there has been much talk in Evangelical Christian circles around the concept of spiritual gifts. The basic idea is that God has wired each of us a bit differently, and that discovering how he has done so will help us find our niche in the life of the Church, doing “what I was created to do.” The presence of three different lists of spiritual gifts in the New Testament tend to bolster this concept. Over the years, various “spiritual gift inventories” have been developed to assist people in discovering their particular spiritual gift. I’ve used a few of them, and found them quite helpful, especially the ones developed by the Willow Creek and the Saddleback megachurches. While there is much good in this notion of spiritual gifts, there are a few pitfalls as well, noted in particular by Bill Hybels of the Willow Creek church. In the material that accompanies their inventory, Hybels warns that serving only where one is gifted is invalidated unless one is willing to serve anywhere, gifted or not. Winston Churchill once stated that the world is run by tired old men—who might rather have retired to comfort and peace, but who are willing to respond to the demands of the hour.

Sometimes, as the old gospel song says, “there is joy in serving Jesus.” But at other times, it is simply a matter of endurance, of slogging through the mud of life and refusing to give up or give in. Like Jacob, wrestling through the night with an angel from God, refusing to quit even when he was outmatched and injured, there are times when we look at the task before us and wonder, “how can we even survive?” In a single day, I found myself bouncing like a yo-yo. It started with a wonderful time of worship at Park church, to getting to Dunkirk and realizing I didn’t have my keys, and making a mad dash home and back before the service was to begin. All this week I felt that my sermon was pretty much dead on arrival, until I actually preached it and thinking at the end that it turned out OK. 

Up, down, down, up, then down again, trying to connect with a family I’ve been working with, and beginning to sense that their interest in church and Christ is merely that—interest, but not commitment. I think it’s going to be a long road. But it is at this juncture that the Scriptures kick in. If we only sow when it’s easy, and if we allow ourselves to grow weary in well-doing, we won’t see the harvest. Farming is hard, and often discouraging work. But when after sleepless nights, long days sweltering in the sun, and fitful prayers for rain, the harvest comes, it’s all worth it. I knew when I signed on that it was not going to be a walk in the park, and that if we were going to succeed, it would be only by the grace of God. It is on that grace I depend, and in it I stand, and through it shall prevail. I am thankful tonight for having been at this long enough to know in spite of what I see, that God is working unseen in the shadows of people’s lives, and will if we do not faint, bring us to the harvest rejoicing.

The Boxer

February 24, 2018

When I left my home and my family

I was no more than a boy

In the company of strangers

In the quiet of the railway station

Running scared,

Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters

Where the ragged people go

Looking for the places

Only they would know

In the clearing stands a boxer

And a fighter by his trade

And he carries the reminders

Of every glove that laid him down

Or cut him till he cried out

In his anger and his shame

"I am leaving, I am leaving"

But the fighter still remains...

—“The Boxer,” by Paul Simon 

I always knew it existed, but not in my world. Growing up in suburbia, life was comfortable, predictable, and often sterile. Poverty was something that happened to other people in other places. It didn’t touch us except tangentially in those times when in church we took up offerings for poor people or gave used clothing to the city mission. We weren’t conscious of any sense of superiority or privilege; we did what we could to alleviate the misery of people we would never know because they were “there,” and we were “here.” The closest I ever came to entering that world was when I taught Bible Club lessons in the city and visited some of the homes of the kids in my class. I was but a teenager when standing at the foot of the stairs leading to a dingy second-floor apartment, the young mother of one of my kids came to the landing dressed only in a filmy nightgown through which the light from the open door behind her revealed every feature of her figure.

College in the ‘60s cracked open a door that has been creaking wider ever since. It was the era of Vietnam, flower power, Weathermen, and Woodstock. At the forefront of this were the musicians who divided into two main streams: heavy metal and folk. Folk was where I found a home, and Simon and Garfunkel were two of the high priests of the movement. One of their more poignant songs was “The Boxer,” a tale of a man struggling through a shabby life that fought him every step of the way. The tune was catchy, the message gritty, the story sad. It was the tale of everyone who scratches through the dregs of society’s underbelly, wanting nothing more than respite from all that is pressing in to rob him of every last bit of dignity.

Having spent most of my life in rural Western New York, poverty is no stranger to me, and yet while living in the midst of it, I’ve been singularly insulated from it. While we are not wealthy, we are comfortable, and have never lived in a run down apartment with little furniture, obsolete and worn-out appliances, roaches and rats. My home is pleasant and comfortable, nestled in between a grove of spruce and a trout stream. But I’ve been spending more and more time in a different world, one that more resembles the world of the Boxer. Today, Linda and I sat down for some coffee at one of the local gathering places in Jamestown. Watching people cueing up for their coffee or sitting at the tables, I thought of that song and the poorer quarters where the ragged people go. We were surrounded by them.

The tricky part for middle class Americans is having compassion without pity. It’s easy to pity the poor, just as it is easy to have contempt for them, neither emotion helping in any way. What is harder is to admire them. Not every poor person is to be admired any more than every rich person, but there are plenty who are reflected in the last verse of Simon and Garfunkle’s song; fighters who carry the reminders of every glove that cut them till they cried out, and yet the fighter still remains. I’ve known my share of them, and stand amazed at their tenacity, their refusal to give up, the dignity of their ragged lives and tragic deaths. 

God didn’t pity us when we were lost in our sins. He didn’t have contempt for us. He loved us so much that he came and dwelt among us. Reflecting on the Gospel, I suspect that the only way people are ever saved is when their rescuer insists on living among them. I don’t know what that means for the work in Dunkirk that I’ve been given. I’d like to make excuses for the status quo, but I’m not sure that carries any weight with God, which means I need the prayers of my friends, the guidance of the Holy Spirit, and the heart of Christ. I am grateful that the wisdom I need is promised by the Scriptures, and the grace I need is provided by Jesus himself. I suspect I’ll need a healthy dose of both before this is all done.

Deep Love

September 23, 2018

Romance just ain’t what it used to be. Time was, when it meant flowers and chocolate, dinner at a fancy restaurant, and candlelit evenings. Linda’s birthday today started out with me exercising and a quick breakfast before heading off to writer’s group. Drum roll for the big event of the day: I bought four snow tires for next year; hey—a good deal is a good deal! We did have lunch together before I gathered things up for band rehearsal. 

We weren’t really hungry for dinner, so it was off to the funeral home before taking in one of the grandkids’ soccer games. Now it’s 10:30, and we’re finally home for the night; not exactly fodder for the next great romance novel. Except that it is. If you want to grow a squash, you only need three months. An oak takes a century. When Linda and I were first married, we thought we knew love. Looking back, we had no clue. It stands to reason; in spite of what Hollywood tells us, love does not blossom overnight. It takes years to grow into something strong and tall, able to withstand the storms of life because its roots have grown deep over time. We’ve had the time, the roots are deep, and God has made us strong. Life is good because our love is good.

Practice in Private

February 22, 2018

Today, something just clicked. I’ve been more diligent lately about practicing my bass, even when I don’t feel like doing so. Without a regular schedule, days can get pretty crazy around here; somehow, it never works for me to exercise unless I do it first thing in the morning. Of course, it is always alluring to sleep in just for a few minutes more, but if I do, those turn out to be just the minutes I needed to fit in a workout. Midday isn’t good for planning anything, and evenings are usually filled with everything from grandkids’ sports to musicals, concerts, and a variety of other people stuff. So I squeeze practice whenever and wherever it fits on a given day. Often, I would rather read or even watch a movie on Netflix, but I’m trying to be faithful to a practice regimen.

I’m terrible with my bowing; my arco (the musician’s term for it, I’ve learned) sounds like someone torturing a cow and a cat all at the same time. It’s better than it used to be, if you can imagine that. Poor Linda! I’ve been working on my major scales, one half step at a time, through two octaves, and have been working on the music for band. I have a long way to go, but noticed this afternoon that some of the patterns that had eluded me were starting to come together. It’s not exactly music yet, but at least it doesn’t sound like I need to be put out of my misery.

Billy Graham died yesterday. By his own admission, when he looked back on his life, there were things he wished he had done differently, but for most of my life, he was the one public figure whose integrity was never really questioned. People didn’t always like him; he had his detractors, but he was also squeaky clean. I remember attending his School of Evangelism back in 1983. Most people only ever saw the big crusades; they had no idea the amount of pre- and post- crusade effort that accompanied every one of those meetings. And they never saw his daily regimen of faithfully immersing himself in the Bible, a regimen that was the foundation for all he accomplished.

The master musician seems to play effortlessly, much as words flow from the lips of the master preacher, but that public ease belies an immense amount of behind the scenes work. The same can be said for Christian life and character in general. Many want holiness, but aren’t willing to pay the price in solitude that is required to live a holy life in public. For me, one of the best parts is when after weeks or perhaps months of time in the Scriptures and prayer, suddenly the light breaks through, and it begins to click. It will be awhile before I’m ready to take my place in God’s divine orchestra and play to a heavenly audience, but I’m practicing, and every so often, it actually begins to sound like real music.

Sunday’s Coming

February 21, 2018

Sometimes the best part of a day is that it’s over. It hasn’t been a bad one; my life is filled with good people, a wife who loves me, and resources enough to make life comfortable. But when it came to putting Sunday’s sermon together, it was like my brain was made of mush. I had plenty of notes to work from, but just couldn’t get my mind to work right. Four hours at the desk produced the makings of a sermon, but nothing that makes me really happy. The family I had intended to visit weren’t home. When I got home tonight, Linda kept asking me if everything was OK. It wasn’t, but it wasn’t her. It was that miserable excuse for a sermon.

I’ve been at it long enough to not panic like I used to when I started out. Sunday is still four days away, and God is faithful. Tomorrow is a new day, and with it come new mercies, for which I am thankful tonight.

Hoppe’s

February 20, 2018

There’s something about the smell of Hoppe’s that says, “This was a good day.” It’s certainly not politically correct, especially in the aftermath of school shootings that seem to escalate every time the media descends on the latest scene of tragedy, giving unstable people a platform that draws the attention of the entire country. But Hoppe’s still has that aroma like nothing else in the world. 

For anyone unfamiliar with such matters, Hoppe’s is the solvent and oil I grew up with. It may have other uses, but it has been a staple of shooters for generations. My father used it to clean his shotguns and .22s. Not having been present at the time, I can’t say for sure that my grandfather used it, but the fact that the 12 gauge LeFevre Nitro Special side by side that was once his is still in pristine condition is testimony to the care he lavished upon such a prized possession. I can still almost feel the jolt that sat me down the time I managed to discharge both barrels at the same time. I didn’t make that mistake a second time. The gun now belongs to my son, having passed now through four generations. I expect someday it will be little Nathan’s. If so, it will in part be due to Hoppe’s.

Last Christmas, on behalf of all our kids who chipped in to make it possible, Matt presented me with the gift everyone was waiting for. I had no idea. As everyone looked on, I unwrapped a lever action .38/357 carbine, a beauty I had admired since the previous summer when Matt let me shoot his. It too, is a beauty, and is more accurate than I am. Last week, Matt suggested that with the weather forecast of warmth, and he having the week off work, this might be a good time to sight it in, so this morning, we did just that. The air was springlike as we walked through the woods and set up targets. An hour later, we had exploded a bag full of potatoes, along with assorted milk cartons, pop bottles, and a handful of boards I had salvaged from the take away bin at the pallet factory down the road.

Back home, it was time for the Hoppe’s. The cloth was just a bit cleaner with each pass through the barrel, till it was ready for the protective coating of oil, and I breathed in once more that sweet Hoppe’s aroma. It was a good day, and I am thankful tonight.

Surprised by God

February 19, 2018

It was a small gesture, but means a lot. Tonight at our men’s Bible study, we started out as usual, with prayer requests. I mentioned a family in Dunkirk that I’ve been working with. For various legitimate reasons, they hadn’t been in church since Christmas, and I finally was able to visit them today. When I talked with them last week, he told me that they weren’t in church because he couldn’t get his car started. He bought a new battery, but it sounds to me like either the starter or the alternator. 

I merely asked for prayers for this family, not just regarding their transportation, but because I believe God brought them to us last fall as first fruits of what he intends to do in Dunkirk. If the church is going to grow, like a tree, it will be at the edges with new people. They are eager, ready to even go door to door handing out flyers and inviting neighbors and friends. 

After Bible study tonight, one of the men caught me washing the coffee pots and wiping down the kitchen counter. He slipped $15 into my hand. “I didn’t have more on me tonight, but this is for the alternator.” I hadn’t asked for any money, but this man felt the nudge of the Holy Spirit to help out. If anyone asks why I came out of retirement to be a pastor once more, it’s because of moments like this when God catches me by surprise like he did tonight. I am grateful for my friend, his heart for Christ and Christ’s people, and for the opportunity it will give me to be a tangible witness to the love of God through his people.

Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee

February 18, 2018

Like so many things in my life, she just keeps getting better all the time. I write to the accompaniment of a minuet, a lullaby, and a Broadway tune, courtesy of Linda’s practicing. It was right after Christmas a few years ago that she thought she might like to take piano lessons again, having taken them as a girl, and playing occasionally for her own pleasure. Not having a piano nor room to put one, we talked with my good friend Rick Napoli, an amazing musician in his own right. He owns a small music store in Fredonia, and is THE man in Chautauqua County you want to see if you want a keyboard. 

Linda practices diligently, and I can hear her improvement. Radio or cd is nice, but live music is always best, and now at the close of what has been a wonderful day, hearing her melodies from the other room is a delight to my ears. 

It all started this morning. Sunday mornings are not usually my best times. The prospect of preaching always fills me with apprehension; my stomach is usually in knots, and I repeatedly review what I’ve written, asking myself, “Is this what I should be saying this morning? Is it what the people need right now? Is it engaging? Is it Good News, or merely good advice? Does it point to Jesus as Savior of the world?” I am fortunate in that before I lead worship in Dunkirk, I have the opportunity to participate in the congregational worship in Sinclairville. As we sing, I join in, intermittently stopping to pray for the congregations and the Word of God. This morning’s worship began with a joyful rendering of “You’re the Lion of Judah” by Robin Mark, followed by Phil Wickham’s “At Your Name,” which recounts the splendor and power of the Name of Jesus Christ. Who wouldn’t be ready to worship after that?

I was amazed how the paltry words I had prepared came forth with ease and (I hope) power as I did my best to point the congregation to Jesus Christ who alone can transform us in the image of God. The afternoon was spent with our son Matt, his wife Jeanine, and grandson Nathan, having a wonderful dinner, followed by visiting dear friends as they grieved the loss of their father and grandfather. Time for Linda and me to talk added to the wonder of the day. 

Sometimes God’s blessings are what Ann Voskamp calls “hard eucharistos,” blessings that are difficult even as they shape us in the image of Christ. Over the years, we’ve had a few of them, but today, they were anything but hard, and I am grateful for each one, especially as the piano fades with the evening light.

Comforting the Comforter

February 17, 2018

Sometimes it’s the comforters who get comforted. Before I say more, take a good look at that word “comfort.” We tend to think of it in rather maudlin ways, dabbing tears from the eye, giving a hug, or an arm around the shoulder. It can be all these things, but the word literally means, “with strength.” Genuine comfort is an impartation of strength to the recipient. It may involve hugs and tears, but it can also include correction, reality checks, and a strong talking-to. 

That being said, I was called upon today to offer comfort to a Christian friend who has experienced more than her share of disappointment in life. Health issues have mandated a major trajectory change in her life, not an easy path for anyone. In spite of all she’s been through, she still feels the call of God upon her life, which is how I got called into the middle of it. The goal she senses may be quite out of reach, which would be another disappointment. So we talked. About mission work, how we recognize God’s call in our lives, and about how we prepare ourselves for mission service. Tears were shed, questions raised, fears confronted. 

I don’t know where her missionary desire will take her, but I know this: I wish I had a church full of people who are as compassionate and as ready to serve Christ in whatever way they can as she is. What an expansive heart she has! I reminded her that God has given her everything she needs to serve him right now, just as he did before her illness. It’s just that the service is a bit different. We talked about some possibilities, prayed together, and I left. I don’t know if I helped her, but she certainly ministered to me! This comforter was comforted—strengthened by this servant of Christ who opened her heart and poured out love.

Worth It

February 16, 2018

“I hope she’s worth it.” At first, it was funny, emblazoned in black spray letters across the side of a late model white Nissan sitting on the flatbed we passed on the Thruway. However, those five words, revengefully funny at first, reveal a disappointment and hurt that cut to the heart. 

For most of my adult life, I’ve witnessed society descending into a moral and ethical morass that my grandparents would have been shocked to see. Back in the ‘60s, I remember my grandfather disgustedly turning the channel on the black and white TV, declaring that whatever he had seen was “smutty,” a word I haven’t heard in years, and a sentiment that has all but vanished.

Human depravity has always been with us, but usually without the blessing of society at large. Premarital sexual activity wasn’t invented in the ‘80s, but the dreamy sexual revolution of the ‘60s that was supposed to free women has ended up a Harvey Weinstein nightmare. Broken homes, broken hearts, and broken lives are the price tag we are paying for our determination to live without restraint. It all sounds so innocent and inviting at first, but the doors we open in our quest to fulfill all our imagination can conjure up open to an abyss from which there is often no return.

Was she worth it? No. Not when it forces children to choose one parent over the other. Not when women and children are thrust into instant poverty as their income is slashed while expenses increase. As Linda and I drove on, we reflected on the choices we make every day to love, forgive, yield and bend. A home to which we both want to return at night, children who are serving God and raising our grandchildren to do the same are abundant reward for never having had to ask the question, “Was s/he worth it?” Not by a long shot. The more important question is, “Are we worth it?” The answer of course, is a resounding, “YES! More than worth it!”

Trashy Love

February 15, 2018

The headlights barely cut through the fog that lay in diaphanous patches across the landscape, slowing the last leg of the drive home almost to a crawl. It had been a long day, beginning with our regular 6:00 am Thursday morning prayer time followed by serving the Wrap kids a pancake breakfast. I was home just long enough to change into dress slacks, shirt and tie prior to the trip to Buffalo and Rochester to attend a wake. 

It was a full thirteen hours later before the familiar twist of the road and crossing the bridge signaled that I was home. As I pulled in, I passed the trash and recyclables sitting at the end of the driveway, so it was only fitting that just before bed, I wiped down the shower. Taking out the trash is not a big deal, but of all the household tasks, it’s the one I hate the most, just as Linda hates having to wipe down the shower after she’s done. I guess everyone’s entitled to their quirks, and these are just two of ours. 

That pile by the driveway was a love note written in trash, just as was my offering to wipe down the shower. When Emily Dickinson penned, “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways,” I’ll bet taking out the trash and wiping down the shower weren’t on her list, but it’s on ours. I don’t think we’ll be writing any poetry about it, even though I am thankful for it.

Valentine Penance

February 14, 2018

Many Christians are in a quandary today. For the first time since 1945, Ash Wednesday falls on Valentine’s Day. So, do we eat chocolates and send those we love mushy (and hopefully sincere) cards, or do we spend the day in prayer and fasting? Even the Catholic Church seems a bit undecided about this, with some bishops saying that Catholic teaching doesn’t allow a pass for such events, and others declaring that indeed, faithful Catholics can multi-task. Of course, the entire dilemma is in one sense, a fabrication by the greeting card, candy, and fashion industry, since Valentine’s Day wasn’t always an advertising and money-making affair. 

If we look at tradition alone, Ash Wednesday must get the nod, having a far longer history than our American celebrations of Valentine’s Day. Add to this the fact that Valentine himself was a Christian saint and martyr, and it seems the Church has a pretty strong claim to the day, not that it will deter those who are more interested in Madison Avenue. Of course, those of the “free” church traditions which eschew anything Catholic, have no problem in singing the praises of romantic love.

Every Wednesday, there is a Bible study at the Dunkirk church where I serve, followed by a lunch prepared by one or another of those who attend. As we were cleaning up from lunch, one of the women said that she sees it as God’s Valentine, telling the world that he loves us. Lent is the preparation for Good Friday and Easter, the one our remembrance of God’s gift of love in Jesus’ sacrificial death on the Cross; the other our celebration of his victory over sin and death in the resurrection. Today, we are at the starting gate; Easter is the finish line, so perhaps this woman’s assessment is worth consideration. Christ’s sacrifice for us is God’s proof of his love for us (Romans 5:8), and for that, on this solemn day, I give thanks.

True Treasure

February 13, 2018

Gold, silver, and bronze. The world watches as athletes compete. We cheer on our own, and tally up the medal totals for our country. Winners are interviewed, all smiles, while the also-rans quietly head home to their families. With few exceptions, those we fete today will be forgotten tomorrow. The medals will hang on walls, be displayed in trophy cases, or perhaps lie forgotten in a drawer or box.

The writer of the Ecclesiastes had known the pinnacle of success and the heartbreak of failure, and at the end of it all, declared our endless striving to be vanity and a striving after the wind. Most of us have experienced this disappointment, this ennui, and most attempt to fill the emptiness with simply more of that which hasn’t yet satisfied. The Rolling Stones spoke for us all when Mick Jagger screamed, “Can’t get no satisfaction!”

The older I get, the less willing I am to waste time on that which is unimportant, and I am unfortunately finding more and more in life which fits that description. There are fewer miles ahead of me than behind me, and I want to make the most of them, which is why conversations with those I love and respect have become so important to me. Being able to talk about the meaning of life, about the experiences that reveal the handiwork of God; to be able to see with someone else the sacred and holy in the midst of the ordinary and profane, is a tremendous gift. All of which is why I am thankful tonight for the time today that I was able to spend...no,...invest, with my friend George. We both have fewer days ahead than behind us, and have come to treasure what is truly important. To treasure those things together is a rare and wonderful privilege.

Loved

February 12, 2018

She showed up promptly at noon, just as she had said she would. It wasn’t necessary for her to do it, but that’s just how she is, doing something she has no desire to do, for the good of someone else. And today, I happened to be that someone. I had a doctor’s appointment in Buffalo. Being blessed with more than a few moles and what TV ads used to call “horrid age spots,” I have annual appointments with a dermatologist who has frozen a couple skin tags and diagnosed and arranged for surgery for a small malignant carcinoma last year. So when I noticed one of those spots on the side of my face was growing and itching, I did what they tell you to do: get anything that changes checked out. 

She hates riding in the car, would much rather be home than anywhere else, but she loves me more than she hates riding, and offered to go with me, even though I was well able to handle this alone. We talked the entire way to Buffalo, talked through lunch, and all the way back to the church, where she had showed up four hours earlier. I said that today I happened to be that someone who was the recipient of her kindness, but truth be told, I am the one most often blessed by her, and am so very thankful for it. I just wish every man could experience the wonder of being so fully loved. It is an amazing gift, far more than I could ever have earned or deserved. That the spot on my face pales in comparison to the love I know. Let’s see now...am I loved all the way to California and back?

Special People, Special Blessings

February 11, 2018

Most Sunday evenings at 5:00 will find me at Park church, teaching a class on upright bass, which in and of itself, is a rather odd and unlikely scenario since I can barely navigate the instrument myself. At our School Of The Arts (SOTA), the only requirement for teaching is to be one step ahead of the students, which is a good thing, because much of the time, I’m only a half step ahead at best. For the past few years, I’ve taught electric bass to a couple teenagers who were better than me except for the fact that I could read the music and they couldn’t. 

This semester, I have only one bass student, my granddaughter Abi, which has been a special treat for me. We work on the music, figuring out how to put a bass run together, how to figure out the patterns of arpeggios, and how the various notes fit together on the fingerboard. But the best part of it is simply the time I have one-on-one with her, talking about the music, but also about college, her dreams, and the opportunities God is opening for her. Best of all is the hug and the words, “Love you,” at the end of our time together. 

After our lesson time this evening, I had a conversation with a young woman whose life didn’t turn out as she had planned. Unforeseen medical issues brought an end to the life she had known and worked so hard to achieve, but instead of feeling sorry for herself, she took what God had placed in her lap, and is using her own experience to help others whose dreams have been shattered by unexpected difficulties. Her faith and joy are an inspiration to me as she transforms what had to have been a disappointment into a ministry. 

None of us know what the future holds, but as Christians, we know who holds the future, and because we do, we can live fully in the present, taking time to let the richness of the moment yield its full blessing as we give ourselves in service to others in the Name of Jesus. How could I not give thanks when I am surrounded by so many wonderful people who fill me up just being their best selves through the grace and love of Christ?

Wrestling with God

February 10, 2018

Genesis 32 records an odd encounter between Jacob and an unnamed stranger as they wrestled through the night. As they grappled together, Jacob reveals his name to his opponent, signaling that although he wasn’t giving up, he knew he couldn’t win. As they are locked in each other’s grip, the stranger gives Jacob the new name of Israel, “Prince,” revealing that Jacob had unknowingly been wrestling with God. Jacob asks the name of his adversary, who refuses his request. Jacob likewise refused to give up, and limped away from the match with a dislocated hip and a blessing from God himself.

Sometimes I find myself wrestling with an opponent I cannot name. It is a most troubling experience, knowing that something is wrong, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. I like it much better when I can name what it is that’s bothering me. Even if it’s bad, at least I know what I’m dealing with. But when I don’t know, when there is this vague feeling of unrest, it is very unsettling. 

That’s how I’ve felt most of the day today. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t nail it down. Early on, I asked Linda if something were bothering her—sometimes I sense something is wrong between us, even if I don’t know what it is. Or perhaps something outside our relationship is bothering her. But when I asked, her reply was that she felt something was going on inside me, and that I was mad at her. When wrestling with an unnamed foe, the struggle often spills over on others. 

What I do know is that when I can’t name the issue, I need to look for what God wants to do in me. And usually, he wants to change my name and make me limp a little. He wants to take me from where I am towards becoming the man he intends me to be—from Jacob (or James, lit. “the Cheater), to a Prince. To do that, he often has to wound me, to make me limp enough to realize with every step I take that God has touched me, and I had better not forget it. I don’t know if Jacob ever figured out what it was that was troubling him that night. Maybe it was memories of a rather sullied past, or fears for the future. But after that wrestling match, none of that other stuff mattered. And whatever was bothering me really doesn’t matter. I don’t always have to have an ‘aha’ moment, as long as there is a limp that makes me know I have been touched by the divine hand of God. 

I’ve had all day to think about this, and as the darkness settles in, I am at peace. I still don’t know why I was so agitated, but I do know God has his hand upon me, which gives me reason for praise and thanksgiving tonight.

Significant Gratitude

February 9, 2018

It’s not complicated, but it can be difficult. Every night I stare at my iPad screen, my mind scrolling back through the day, remembering people and occasions, some significant, others not so, about which I can give thanks. There’s no shortage of subjects, but finding one that might interest anyone else can be a challenge. 

Plenty of wood to keep the stove stoked, a house that my wife has turned into a home, strength and health to enjoy them, vehicles that get us where we need to go, family and friends...the more I reflect, the more I find that fuels my gratitude. When I started writing four years ago, I gave my musings the title “RefrigeratorWordArt” for a web blog. Most parents and grandparents have refrigerators festooned with pictures of or by their kids or grandkids. They are galleries of love and significance that a visitor may notice, if only in passing. But to those who live there, the refrigerator is their own Louvre filled with treasures of immense value. 

Maybe it’s not so important if what I write is significant to anyone else if it somehow inspires someone to give their own thanks for things great and small. Lord knows, there is enough subject matter for complaint lying all around on the surface of life, but the gems of gratitude often have to be mined. And like rubies and diamonds, they are beautiful for their rarity and for the intentionality required to bring them to the surface and place them in mountings that display their glory for all to see.

My Best

February 8, 2018

Former president Jimmy Carter tells the story of when he was a junior officer in the Navy and was called before his senior officer regarding something that hadn’t been done quite right. This particular officer was known as a stickler for detail, and Carter was sweating it out as he stood before him trying to explain his actions. The officer looked him in the eye as he sat in his chair behind his desk. “Did you do your best?” he asked. 

Carter hesitated as he tried to think of how to wiggle around the question, but finally said, “No, sir; I didn’t.”

The officer wheeled around in his chair and with his back to Carter, simply said, “Why not?” Carter had no answer, and stood staring at the back of his officer’s head till he was dismissed to sheepishly slink out the door. That question became the basis for a book he later wrote, “Why Not the Best?” and is a question worth asking today.

This evening, Linda and I attended a basketball game, Jamestown Community College vs. Monroe Community College. A couple of the girls on the JCC team we’ve known for years, and watched them all through high school. Monroe boasts one of the best teams in the country for community colleges, and they showed why tonight as they beat JCC by some twenty points. Our girls did well, made some great plays, but were clearly outmatched by these girls from MCC. Even though we were losing, it was a pleasure watching some of the moves they made. It was poetry in motion. They were that good.

I feel the same way when I listen to the kids at Fredonia college at their recitals. Last Sunday, I attended the BassFest—seminars and performances by students and professionals alike. The skills that they demonstrate are utterly amazing to me. I get the same pleasure out of watching and listening to them as I did watching the ball game this evening. Excellence is always worth watching.

Which makes me wonder with former president Carter, “Have I done my best?” Have I done my best as a husband and father, as a pastor and preacher, as a Christian bearing witness in the world? I’m afraid I often have to respond as he did so many years ago, and wonder if God isn’t shaking his head and asking, “Why not?” If one’s best is expected in sports or music, in business or medicine, why should it not be expected in religion? We have way too many churches foundering because too many of us pastors aren’t putting in the work to do our best. That’s not the only reason, but it is one, and I don’t want to some day stand before God when he asks that question, hang my head in shame and say, “No sir, I didn’t.” 

The Good News is, even if I must hang my head for past failures, grace says I can do better tomorrow. Each day brings its new mercies, the Scripture says, and standing upon that sure foundation, tomorrow I can, and will, do my best.