Enforced Integrity

June 12, 2017

There's nothing like a day on the road to help me clear my mind and reorder my priorities. I left this morning at 5:30 am, and got home at 8:30 pm. In between was a trip through Toronto traffic, which is bad enough without the construction added, to Peterborough to meet a friend and deliver the old motorcycle he paid for nearly a year ago. Fortunately, it's a project bike, and he wasn't in a hurry. He has the misfortune however, of dealing with someone who's conscience wouldn't let him fudge the price for tax purposes. For his sake, I wanted to, but in the end, couldn't bring myself to do it. Chalk one up for faith and integrity. Neither come naturally to me, so it has to be the work of the Holy Spirit.

I've never had to take a motor vehicle through customs before, and hope I don't have to ever again. I took the bike in as a repair job and possible sale. If my friend after seeing it, decided he didn't want it or didn't want to go through all the customs hassle, I could then just haul it back home - no problem. That was probably a mistake. Had it gone in as a straight sale, they would have inspected it, checked to make sure the papers matched the numbers on the bike, and I probably would have had to pay duty on it all. As it is, it's in Canada under a temporary ticket that expires in a month. If I don't bring the bike back or they don't get papers of transfer, both of us will be in trouble. So now he has to show up at a customs check point with the bike and the papers I'll be sending him; a bit more bother that we could have avoided. Oh well, live and learn.

I am thankful tonight for the time I had to pray and listen to "The Pursuit of God," by A.W. Tozer, and for customs agents and paperwork that helps my faith keep its integrity. It would have been easy to cheat the system had those systems not been in place. They were, and I thank God tonight for them.

Blessed Pain

June 11, 2017

You know those old people who constantly complain about their aches and pains? "My arthritis is acting up again!" "I tore my rotator cuff, and it's giving me fits." "That slipped disc in my back doesn't let me get a good night's sleep." I never wanted to be one of 'those people.' Listen in on a conversation with old men and women, and invariably that's what you'll hear. I suppose it's because we tend to talk about whatever are our current life experiences. Young children talk about their toys and friends; teenagers and young adults talk about their boyfriends/girlfriends, school or work. Middle age folks talk about their kids, their bosses, their vacations and homes. Old people talk about their aches and pains. It's what we know.

So I'm going to talk about mine. I'm doing this at great personal risk, because Linda has no sympathy. "Have you called the doctor?" she'll ask. When I confess that I hadn't gotten around to it because during the day when I'm busy, I don't think about it, it's 'talk to the hand' time. "I don't want to hear about it." 

I can't blame her. I've done the same thing for years as she has been plagued with headaches on a regular basis. Never having had one myself, I have to confess that my sympathy level is not quite up to par. In my defense, whenever I've suggested a fix to any of her problems, it doesn't turn out well. "I need you to listen, not fix it!" she'll exclaim. Over the years, I've learned the rules, and can play that game. Now, when she is detailing a predicament, I'll ask if she wants me to just listen or to offer some suggestions. I'm a slow learner, but I'm not completely brain dead.

It was probably lugging my bass around campus for jazz band and ensembles that caused it; after all, it started bothering me about the middle of March, when rehearsals were in full swing. A string bass isn't heavy, but it is awkward, and carrying it meant grasping the handles on the case, nestling the neck against mine, and leaning to the left for balance as I walked from the car to the practice room. For the past month, my left hip has been jabbing me three or four times a day, particularly when I sit or lie down. I've been to the chiropractor twice, but even though I haven't picked up the bass in three weeks, that hip still gives me not-so-friendly reminders that it isn't happy with whatever I've done to it. I can live with that, however.

My left hand is another story. Touching thumb to little finger tip sends fire up my arm, and bending it is an exercise in masochism. I won't even try to do a pushup at this point. What bothers me is, as every guitarist knows, the left hand is the fingering hand. Electric bass wouldn't be so bad, but the upright is a very physical instrument, requiring at least a modicum of hand strength to press the strings. If I can't work through this, my playing days may be numbered. That I don't want to even think about.

So, lest anyone think this is just another old man rant, here's what I'm thankful for: Aches and pains are the price we pay for the privilege of living as long as I have. Too many are denied that privilege. I am grateful even for the pain. It's not so severe as to distract me from life itself. It's just a reminder to be thankful that I can get out of bed in the morning, feed myself, work and and pray and love. I may limp a bit, but I am walking. I continually stretch and massage my hand and wrist, and when my bass gets back from the shop, I'll practice gladly. I am here, aches and all, and grateful tonight for it.

Orthodox Freedom

June 10, 2017

At first, the Presbyterians had me. My earliest church recollections are dim memories of being taken from the beautiful gothic sanctuary of Bethany Presbyterian church to the pre-kindergarten Sunday School somewhere else in the building. This imposing building was right behind my grandparents' home, and was my grandmother's church for most of her adult life. For reasons unknown to me, we stopped attending there sometime before I turned six. For the next six years, I was the neighborhood pagan, watching my friends hauled off to church on Sunday mornings while I happily rode my bicycle around the block.

All that changed when I was twelve. My mother decided that we should start going to church, so over my vociferous protestations I became another statistic, unhappily joining my friends whose parents were cruel enough to dress them up and drag them along to church on Sunday mornings. Our first stop was a local Lutheran congregation where one of my friends went. I liked it because the two of us managed to do a fair job of goofing off and instigating our share of mayhem. Someone apparently ratted us out to our mothers, and next thing I knew, we were visiting West Side Baptist.

It was a good thing, for there on a Sunday night in 1961, I stood outside the kitchen with our pastor's wife and prayed to receive Jesus Christ as my Savior and Lord. For the next six years, Westside's faithful people patiently taught and shaped my life as a Christian.

Four years at a Wesleyan college, followed by two years preaching at a tiny Evangelical United Brethren church to gracious people who patiently schooled me in the basics of pastoral ministry. The EUBs got swallowed up by the Methodists when the merger came in 1972, and I've been a faithful, albeit sometimes a bit disgruntled, United Methodist ever since. 

I've learned from all these traditions, as well as from my Pentecostal and Catholic friends. But lately, I've been reading and learning from our Orthodox brothers, gaining an appreciation for the liturgies that take them through the day with worship at dawn, 9:00 am, noon, 3:00 pm, and in the evening. I've particularly appreciated the prayers fashioned after the Lord's Prayer that acknowledge our sinfulness and need of forgiveness and grace, coupled with a matter-of-fact acceptance of and gratitude for that forgiveness that even makes it possible for us to pray. Thanking God for his grace and asking him for his help, the prayer reads as follows:

"All envy, all temptation, all the work of Satan, the counsel of wicked me, and the rising up of enemies hidden and manifest, take them away from us and from all your. People and from this your holy place. 

But those things which are good and profitable do provide for us, for it is you who. Have given us the authority to tread on serpents and scorpions, and upon all the power of the enemy..."

I've learned from each of the Christian traditions to which I've been exposed. This particular tradition has taught me to acknowledge my moment by moment dependence on God and his faithfulness that enables us to live in joy and freedom. Prayers such as this are sure to be answered because they fall clearly within the will of God. In advance, I am thankful for the answer to this prayer.

Listening Prayers

June 9, 2017 The prayer list is never-ending. I say that, not in frustration, but as a matter of fact. Each Monday, our church office prints out the requests and praises that have been turned in the Sunday before. Usually, it consists primarily of prayers for healing of various ailments, sometimes for relationships or deliverance from addictions, occasionally that someone would find work or housing or guidance in decisions. Once in awhile there is even a request for a pet. Prayer lists are funny things. They are reflections of our own hearts, our desires and longings, our hopes and fears. When people feel powerless over their circumstances, they turn to prayer. It is only rarely however, that we begin praying by asking God what he wants done. For example, we pray for someone's healing, assuming that is what God wants. But what if God is using illness to awaken a sleeping soul to its greater need for salvation? We pray for a marriage to be restored, but what if God is interested in first healing the wounded wife who distances herself from her husband because that was the only way she knew how to deal with an abusive father? What if God is delaying that job as a way of teaching the job seeker to trust in his grace? I wonder how many prayers go unanswered because we assume we know God's mind, and in the process, have missed his heart. I have often asked people how they want me to pray for them; I have not often asked God how he wants me to pray for them. We are assured that we will have whatever we ask for when it is God's will. When we fail to search out that will, we pray ineffectively, and when we pray ineffectively, we soon cease praying at all. I suspect that much of my struggle in prayer is due to not having taken sufficient time to first seek God himself, and to yield to his will. Doing this first is necessary if we are to pray powerful prayers. So I am slowing down and trying to listen first, before making my requests known. And I am thankful that God knows what we need even more than we do. We can relax, and pray with conviction and power when we've taken time to listen not only to the command to pray, but also to the heartbeat of God himself, whose Spirit takes our prayers and makes them worthy of presentation to the throne of grace.

Who to Believe

June 8, 2017 I didn't even look at today's newspaper. This past week, I've tried to force myself to read it, but today I gave up. The political acrimonious partisanship and grandstanding is just too much for me to stomach. It reminds me of the story of Nero fiddling while Rome burned. Truth takes a back seat to political intrigue and power. For two entire weeks in Cuba, we didn't see a TV or newspaper, had no access to the internet, and no radio. When we got back home, the same people were arguing about the same things as when we left. Nothing changed, no progress on any of the issues that matter the most. I'm developing a sneaking suspicion that the politicians and media are in collusion to focus on stuff that doesn't matter in order to draw our attention from that which does. So I'm back to where I started back in 2012, eschewing the news which never seems to change so I can embrace the Christ who never changes. At least he tells me the truth about myself and the world in which I live. And unlike the media, Jesus Christ gives hope. I am thankful tonight that I am not limited to what the media and the world believe I should know. I have the alt-news which is the Good News of a future I can believe in because I have a Christ I can believe in.

Home

June 7, 2017 On this, our daughter's birthday, I spent the better part of the day in Cassadaga, trimming grapevines, cutting deadwood off the apple tree, and preparing a couple doors for painting. The realtor we hired last week called to let me know that tomorrow he would be showing the house. That call was repeated twice. In less than a week, he has generated more interest in our house than the last realtor did in six months. Showing doesn't mean selling, but the signs are good. I've been repairing the curtains in the TV room at the top of the stairs; not a difficult, but certainly a tedious job. It's late now, nearly 1:00 am. Years ago, we were blessed by the arrival of our daughter. Today, our blessing is anticipatory, hoping we'll get a workable offer from the three prospects. I miss that house. It holds many good memories, and has a classiness about it, with its oak flooring and stair handrails. We put a lot of work into it over the 13 years we lived there. I liked living near the lake. I love that house, but I love Linda more, so when she wanted to move here, I agreed, even though I knew it would be more work. Right now, our Cassadaga property is merely a building where we used to live. It's the people who make a house a home, and Linda and I are here, and here is where our hearts and our home is. I am thankful tonight for two houses; one a former home, and the other our present home. Hopefully, our Cassadaga home will become someone else's home soon.

47 Years

June 6, 2017 Forty seven years ago, Linda and I penned the first lines of a romance that we've been writing day by day ever since. The plot was simple: no matter what, we are in it for the long haul...together. Formally, this translates to, "for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, to love and to cherish, until we are parted by death." These weren't just words we said; they were the commitment we made, and kept. The story has had drama, laughter, and sorrow, with the constant thread of faithfulness to God and to each other. The earliest chapters had but two main protagonists along with a host of supporting characters, but as the story progresses, three others are introduced, one by one. Page after page the plot advances, sometimes quickly, sometimes plodding. Line by line, characters were introduced, some who would later fade from the story; others who would remain, helping to carry its weight, weaving its thread through subplots and asides. Our story has scenes all over the world, but always comes back to the center that is our home, our faith, our determination, and ultimately, our love. It's not been constant sweetness and light. Love is like that. Our premarital counseling was pretty minimal, but the one thing I remember is pastor Wayne Ostrander telling us that "love is not running hand in hand through sunlit fields of daisies; love is getting up at three in the morning to change a dirty diaper." He was right. Our commitment to each other has been tested, stretched, and attacked; the blood, sweat, and tears have been real, but they have been worth every drop. We haven't yet read the last page; of course, we would like it to be a "happily ever after" ending, but there are no guarantees. Sooner or later, the last lines of the wedding prayer I have prayed over couples hundreds of times will come true for us: "until at last one lays the other into the loving arms of God." That page hasn't yet been written. One thing we know by faith alone: we will continue writing this story with increasing gratitude for the life God has given us together until one of us pens the last line, God willing, many years from now.