What Do We See?

I was standing on the chancel, up in front of the church, half way through a funeral. A granddaughter was speaking about her ‘Pop-pop.’ I was behind her, backing her up in case she fell apart. Above her head, all the way on the other side of the sanctuary, colors, deep stained glass colors shining out of the louvers that control the volume of the pipe organ. The colors came through the organ, all the pipes, bellows, air boxes in the dark back there behind the balcony. I stood there, amazed.
Later, I looked up and the lovers were in a different position, revealing only shadows. I real ized I’d never look up there again without searching for the stained glass shining through.

What do we see when we look at something or someone? How much of our expectations have to do with a moment, a glimpse that becomes the template for what we see? How many of our prejudices, our fears, our guilts, barriers that separate us from each other and from hope and acceptance have to do with simple perspective? How many walls in our world are nothing special until we see through them to the colors shining through the darkness?

I think I’ll alter my expectations about blank walls and shadows. You never know what might come shining through.

Watermelon and Skinny Dipping

It’s February. We’re past the celebrations of Christmas, cleaning up in the infancy of the year. We get to whoop and holler during the Super Bowl. We get to be romantic on Valentine’s, but the month is hard. It’s cold, and we’re tired of it. It’s dark. Each morning feels like we’re tunneling out from under this rock better known as winter. Everybody ought to get a trip to the Bahamas included in their health insurance as a preventative strategy for health and well being. In our dreams. And then there’s Lent. Hey, if there’s a season to intentionally put pebbles in our shoes, this is it.



That’s not a snide comment. We’re rarely interested in spiritual disciplines at times when everything is clicking along, happening the way we’d like them to. The grand concourses of life rarely draw us to disciplines of self examination and contemplation. But these narrow, in these narrow, dim days it seems natural to consider depths that we would rather skim across.



So, right now we’re considering what we’ll use as a Lenten fast and a Lenten intention. We give up something and we do something extra. A friend of mine, who lived in the warm and balmy state of Wisconsin, always gave up watermelon and skinny dipping. The depth of his sacrifice was less than effective at self examination or contemplation. He told me that story in seminary. Something changed. He found the value of seeking that which cannot be found in the shallows.



Two years ago we gave up popcorn. That was rough. It doesn’t sound so difficult, but it had become a ritual of comfort and sharing after rough days. The salt and butter didn’t hurt, but its value lay far deeper than taste. So we found out. We wouldn’t have without giving it up. I suggested we give up working. Certain problems arise with that. This needs to be a reminder, not an injury. We’re working on it. I’ll let you know what we come up with.