Yellow Legal Pad

 October 1, 2020

“When I write a letter or note, I have to jot down my thoughts on scrap paper before I begin.” Our conversation had ranged from what I have been doing lately (remodeling a bedroom, working my bees, leveling and seeding our lawn) to how she and my father started out married life on his salary of $25/week and did quite well, even though they didn’t have any extra for anything. They were happy to have enough to live on. We went from there to politics, reminiscences of days long gone by, to how we organize our thoughts. Mom was a secretary for years, working for Paddy Hill elementary school when I was a kid, to being secretary for our church during my teenage years. Dad at one time suggested that she work for Kodak where she could earn more money, but she said, “I believe this is where the Lord wants me.” End of conversation. When she spoke of always having enough, it was with the satisfaction of having been generous to others whose need was greater than her own.

We to to talking about how kids in this COVID-besotted era are having to do their schoolwork on laptops and iPads, and how difficult it is proving to be for elementary kids who need more interpersonal connection. That’s when she mentioned how she wrote letters and notes to people. I understand. I’m more or less in a sermon preparation group with three other pastors. I attend when I can. We sit down and brainstorm the text for the week, preparing an outline which each is expected to use on the forthcoming Sunday. The three other pastors, about a generation and a half younger than myself, sit with laptops and iPads, editing comments on Google Drive. Not me. 

I use yellow legal pads. Whenever I approach a Scripture with sermon in mind, I have my trusty legal pad and pencil (never a pen) in hand. I make notes, jotting them all over the pad. It starts out quite orderly, but before I’m done, I have arrows drawn from one thought to another, circled numbers indicating the linear order I intend to follow, tiny squiggles of late arrivals in my thinking that get inserted here and there. I can’t do that on a computer. Only when this background work is done do I move to the iPad to put it in legible and orderly form. 

To each his own. I am one of the last of the manual typewriter generation; those who learned on those bulky machines where one needed digital strength to make the type head actually strike a mark through the ribbon onto the paper. Electric typewriters didn’t make their debut till after I had learned to hit those keys with a force that would destroy the tabs on my iPad. 

I’ve often said I grew up at an ideal time and place in history. America in the 50’s was uniquely the powerhouse of the world, Europe and Asia having been devastated by WWII. I grew up with the big band music of the 40’s, the swing and early rock ‘n’ roll of the 50’s, the British Invasion of the 60’s, and the fledgling Jesus Movement songs of the 70’s. My life was shaped through the golden years of Eisenhower’s presidency, the Camelot years of Kennedy, the unrest of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Civil Rights, and of course, my having come to faith in Jesus Christ as a pre-teen at Westside Baptist Church in Greece, NY. And here I am today, retired United Methodist pastor, having a wonderful conversation with my 98 year old mother about the goodness of the Lord in our lives. I am blessed, so very blessed!

No Sparks!

 September 30, 2020

Last night’s debate went pretty much as everyone thought it would, which is to say, disappointing. That’s politics for you—lots of bluster with more heat than light. I used to think people needed to hear my thoughts on such matters, but usually even I don’t need to hear them. Most people live in their own little echo chambers, hearing people just like them reinforce their own biases, listening to the other side just only enough to be formulating a rebuttal. 

My personal musings have often felt somewhat unimportant in comparison with the great issues of our day, but more and more, I’m becoming convinced that being faithful in the often smaller circle in which we find ourselves has significance far beyond that of the talking heads of the media. Take today, for example. My day began with the reading of Scripture; Deuteronomy in particular. It got me to thinking about how we determine which parts of the OT Law are to be taken literally and which we can leave behind. I read today about the punishment for a woman who intervenes in a physical altercation between her husband and another man. If she grabs the other man’s genitals, she was to have her hand chopped off—shades of Sharia! Yet there are other parts we Christians still observe. I’m still working on that one!

The rest of the day was pretty ordinary; hosting our Dunkirk pastor’s prayer group, moving topsoil, showing grass seed where we took down the cherry tree, then picking up a window for our granddaughter’s bedroom before finishing the wiring. I consider it to be a good day when after wiring a room, we flip the breaker and don’t see sparks. Everything worked just as it is supposed to, and I don’t think I’ll need to worry about burning down their house.

So it was an ordinary day. Tonight I am praying for friends dealing with cancer, for others whose marriages are in jeopardy, for teachers and kids struggling with COVID-induced educational chaos, and for my brothers and sisters in Cuba who are dealing with shortages far beyond what we are experiencing. The world keeps turning, the power brokers keep scheming,  the devil keeps whispering, but God is still God, choosing the least, the forgotten, the humble; and for that, I am thankful tonight.

Promises Kept

 September 29, 2020

Deuteronomy 23:23–“That which has gone from your lips you shall keep and perform.” Psalm 15:4 puts it differently when speaking of the person able to live on God’s holy mountain—“He who swears to his own hurt and does not change.” 

Keeping one’s word is important. I grew up at a time when “a man’s word was his bond,” and a deal made with a handshake was considered inviolable. Today, we prevaricate and look for the slimmest escape clause through which we can wiggle out of our promises; claiming that our words were taken out of context, or that we didn’t really mean what we said. Lawyers get rich on inexact clauses in contracts, but the rest of us are poorer for it. Case in point, our political life is in chaos because of broken promises on both sides of the aisle.

Civil life depends on the kind of stability that can only exist when promises are kept. Jesus told us to let our “yes be yes, and our no be no.” Speaking plainly and honestly, and keeping our promises would prevent a lot of heartache and trouble in this world. What is more, there is no expiration date on integrity. Over fifty years ago, I made a promise to “love, honor, comfort, and keep” Linda. I have to admit, I haven’t always kept that promise as well as I should have. I’ve said hurtful things, put my own feelings and desires ahead of hers; I haven’t perfectly loved her as Christ loves the Church. Thankfully, we have both kept our promises to “keep ourselves only unto each other as long as we both shall live.”

Whether in marriage or life in general, making promises we cannot or will not keep is an offense to God, and a betrayal of our own integrity. Eight years ago, I promised God and myself to refuse to comment on political stuff on Facebook. I’ve slid from that promise and need to focus once more on only that which is positive and uplifting—something that’s in short supply on Facebook. After all, it’s not my responsibility to correct every goofy thing people say or believe, any more than it is their job to correct the goofy things I say and believe. It may be a small matter, but the promise is not. That promise came out of my mouth, and I am bound by my word to keep it. I’m sure many will thank me; those who need a positive word, and those who won’t have to listen to my contrary ramblings. It’s a win-win for which everyone can rejoice.

Vacation Time

 September 28, 2020

The ancient Deuteronomic code specified three times each year when God’s people were to gather together for what were called “holy convocations.” Passover, the Feast of Weeks or Firstfruits, and the Harvest Feast of Tabernacles which was preceded by the Feast of Trumpets and the Day of Atonement. Aside from their religious purpose, these were times when work-weary people took a mass vacation and celebrated together their heritage and faith. Vacations are important, a fact I didn’t realize when I was younger. I never took all the time off allotted to me, and I wonder now how wise it was to do that. 

This week, I’m helping a friend with a remodeling job, wiring my granddaughter’s bedroom in preparation for the drywall, taking a trip to Rochester to give my brother a break from caring for our mother, and still need to spread some topsoil and seed the side yard where we took down a tree. I’ve been asked to remove some bees from a barn, but that will have to wait till next week. The back entry to the house needs to be torn down, and Linda appreciates it if I take time to give her some attention. 

It’s easy even in these COVID-restricted times to get so many things going that I lose sight of what it means to actually live in the presence of God. I find it easy to read my Bible perfunctorily, seeing the words, but not really paying attention. God promises strength for each day, but requires us to not take on more than he intends for each of those twenty-four hours. Being stressed out is the price we pay for biting off more than we can chew. After so many years, it’s hard to slow down, even when I’m tired. But if I keep going, it can cost me my soul. There is a bright spot in all this: when I visit mom, she sleeps a lot. I guess she’s making up for those busy years in her life. I don’t want to wait till I’m 98 to take a break, so when I visit, I slow down. Putting the brakes on takes determination, but I’m not a quitter, so that’s what I’ll do. It’s not quite the same as the ancient Hebraic feasts, but the effect is much the same—time to pause, reflect, and reorient my life to the rhythms of God himself.

 September 27, 2020

Wayne and I had flown to Portland, Oregon to learn about lay led small group ministry, but flew home with so much more. Dale Galloway was the pastor who had developed a robust lay pastor ministry where small group leaders actually functioned as pastors to those in their group. We adapted his model and the ministry here began to take wing. 

Unexpected in all our learning that week in 1993 was the impact of contemporary worship. Space limitations had forced us into running two services, but they were identical; opening prayer, three hymns spaced out between announcements, pastoral prayer, and the sermon. Everything was done by the book, with organ and choir, replete with robes. The 8:30 service was attended by a handful of people, just enough refugees from 11:00 to ease the pressure on that hour. Our technology wasn’t sophisticated; an overhead projector with someone placing the clear plastic sheets with lyrics to praise choruses popular at the time. With Wayne on electric bass and me on guitar, we jumped in both feet, not realizing we would instantly be in over our heads.

Amazingly, that service took off, and within a year, it was 11:00 that was struggling, and not very happy about it. We didn’t give up, and bit by bit, we added others to the lineup; Pete on drums, Jeff on lead guitar, and a fledgling Nate Bailey, tentatively strumming guitar in the background. Did I mention we didn’t give up?

Fast forward twenty five years. As worship leader, Nate usually is at the center mic, acoustic guitar in hand, leading the congregation with utter abandon. We have two worship teams in Sinclairville and one in Cassadaga, and a host of young people coming through the ranks in our School of the Arts. And today Todd, who usually plays lead guitar, was worship leader, with Jess on keyboards, Leslie on bass, Joel on drums and Bri on vocals. Nate was in the background playing slide guitar, adding riffs, enhancing the music. It was absolutely glorious (and can be heard on YouTube and Facebook)! That cross-country flight those years ago was a seed planted that grew and flourished, and has come back to bless me and others time and time again. God is good...so very good!

#blessedatpark 

Simplicity

 September 26, 2020

He had only a Bible school education; three years at Practical Bible Institute. He started out bi-vocational, working at Kodak while pastoring the fledgling congregation he and a handful of young men and women founded on the west side of the city; hence the name: Westside Baptist Church. We weren’t charter members, but also weren’t far from it when my mother decided we needed to start going to church. Though the church has grown and changed much since then, I can still point to the place in front of the kitchen where I received Christ. The sanctuary where I walked the aisle to publicly profess my new faith is now the gymnasium, but to me, it is still holy ground.

Shortly after I left that church to go to college, there was a change in pastors. The community was growing, was becoming a bit more sophisticated. A pastor with only a Bible school education wouldn’t do; a seminary-trained pastor was needed. Or so they thought. The man who got the job was a good man, more sophisticated perhaps, but things were never quite the same, and when the new pastor received a call to a larger and even more sophisticated church, he jumped at the chance. The church has had a string of pastors since then, none of whom I ever met.

Pastor Ellis (no one ever thought of calling him by his first name) took on a quaint meeting house congregation in a more rural setting, and eventually retired. I had the opportunity years later to visit him in his retirement community in Florida where I told him how much his ministry meant to me. When I think of what it means to be a faithful pastor, I still think of him. And today when I read one of the day’s Psalms, his face came into focus in my mind. It was just a phrase, but it captures his ministry, and hopefully, mine. I had the privilege of going to seminary, but when I think theologically or ministerially, I go further back to my roots at Westside Baptist. The phrase that caught my attention was this: “The LORD preserves the simple; I was brought low, and He saved me.” (Psalm 116:6) 

I’ll leave the philosophy and critical theory to others. I’m no deep systematic theologian; my mind works much more simply. As John Newton was wont to say, “I was a great sinner, but Jesus is a great Savior.” I am thankful tonight that I came to Christ under the ministry of a simple Bible-school educated preacher, and that simplicity hasn’t left me in the sixty years since. The Lord truly does preserve the simple and saves those brought low in humble repentance. 

Honey

 

September 25, 2020

It’s been twenty years since I’ve last smelled that sweet pungency which greeted me as I entered the driveway today. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it. The bees are making honey, and I’m a bit closer to heaven tonight. This morning I brought home a colony I took out of a barn. Being so long since I last did this, I made a few mistakes along the way, and I’m not sure I managed to save the queen. I fear not, in which case, this colony probably won’t make it. They haven’t made any queen cells, and the colony is too disrupted to start any this late in the game. It’s too bad; I hate to see a colony die, especially if I’m responsible for it. 

We’ll see. I may get lucky, but even if not, the other colonies are doing fine, and the honey flow is on. In the meantime, I understand the richness of the Biblical description of the Promised Land as a land “flowing with milk and honey.” Even with all the sweeteners available to us today, nothing quite matches the delicacy of honey fresh from the comb. The processed stuff you can buy at Walmart or even Wegmans is to the real thing like a Big Mac compared to filet mignon. 

A few facts about honey. Its sugar content is so high, it cannot spoil. I have honeycomb in my freezer that I took from my hives twenty years ago. It is almost as fresh as that which I cut from the barn yesterday. It is antibacterial. Again, the sugar content prevents bacteria from growing. Slather it on a burn or a cut to speed up the healing process. Just don’t sleep in a tent where there are bears nearby. Local honey can help alleviate pollen allergies. Some of the pollen the bees collect gets into the honeycomb, acting as a sort of inoculation against the allergens. The last trivia concerns the bees themselves. Honeybee stings have been proven to help alleviate the symptoms of arthritis and even MS. The honeybee is a marvelous creature; just one more reason to praise the wisdom and glory of the God who created them. Tonight, I am thankful for my bees. They are worth every single sting, and tonight’s airborne aroma is heavenly.