Duet

My wife, Chris and I sang a duet in worship this morning.  Sound kind of bland, doesn't it?  She reminded me that we did it seven years ago, just before we got married.  This year it was the Sunday after our anniversary.  Sounds kind of bland doesn't it?  It was anything but.  I felt as close to her in those few minutes as I've ever felt to anyone.  I was so grateful to the congregation, to our minister of music, to God for the opportunity to be involved in worship in that way. 

I realized that so many of us put lids on the possibilities we allow ourselves.  We see ourselves as limited, forgetting the presence and power of the Holy Spirit.  'Oh, I couldn't do that...' becomes a litany of limitation.  But the limitation is not only on us, it's on the community and on how we are allowing the community to become, how we are allowing the community to represent to the world.

OK, OK, I'm making a big deal out of one song.  But this day is the only one that we have.  Today is it.  Yesterday is gone, and tomorrow is uncertain.  This is the day to do what we can, and more importantly, to do what God can, using us.  Maybe it's time to get out of God's way. 

But hey, wow, that was way wonderful.

Epitaph

It's taken me this long to process the loss.  How could he be gone?  'O Captain, my Captain...'  Maybe he was from another planet, left here, marooned here by some cosmic storm.  He certainly operated in multidimensional currents.  No 'coming about' for the unwary listener or watcher.  But in spite of all the surprise and non sequitur, he was so tender, gentle in his unwillingness to hurt.  He saw tangents in every bland statement of reality.  He saw connections and possibilities and dared express them while holding on to us as we stood in wonder at what he could do with a simple question, an answer, or a shawl.

And in these discovered tangents he saw expressions of humanity at its silliest and at its best.  He found thin places, liminal, close to each of our questions about limitation and possibility.  And perhaps close to answers that do not come from rigid logic or the hard arithmetic of stuff, but only rise from where's and when's beyond, and precious in their rising.

Perhaps he was a castaway.  Perhaps he was tormented and alone.  Ahh but he will not soon be forgotten.  And what he leaves is more than the pain.  He leaves a whisper, a vision, and a gentle tear, along with the pure joy of now.  Gifts that will not die, even in the darkness.  The light shines and the darkness has not overcome it.

Go with God.

Pinko Liberal

Pinko liberals

It’s always been hard for me to understand how Christians can get upset with talking about money in church.  If you read just about anything in scripture and don’t waste your time looking for loop holes, you get a very clear indication that if we’re going to live according to what’s there, we’re going to have to get over any preoccupation with defending our own pile. 

My parents were upstanding Americans in the 1950’s, which meant if you weren’t toeing and healing the line, you were suspect.  Dad was pastor of a tall pulpit in the homeland of Ike.  And mother was the classic pastor’s wife.  She wore gloves on Sunday and taught the women’s bible class.  If you read history you know that at the time there was a monster polluting the brains and spirits of this nation.  It was fear.  And some in the political arena used it for their own purposes.  I was a kid and knew very little of what was going on.  But I wore an I Like Ike button and was roundly patted and appreciated as a ‘good kid.’  Even then I wondered what about that button made me ‘good.’

Years later I was asking my then retired parents about what it was like to live in that time.  Did they have any misgivings about the attitudes and assumptions that demanded so much of people and condemned those that didn’t follow the pack.  They both got quiet, which is something neither one was wont to do when discussing politics or social movements.  I said, “OK, what’s going on?”  My mother broke the ice.  “I voted for Stevenson.”  My father almost fell off his chair.  She went on, “Twice.” 

I didn’t put this in the wow category, but it was clear he was amazed.  “You never said a word about this.” 

“I didn’t want to make trouble for you.”  He smiled at her and took her hand.  “I did too.  Twice.”

After the laughter and the tears they had a new sense of alliance.  They talked about their subversive foray into liberalism and its roots in a very simple source, scripture.  They couldn’t leave the poor outside the voting booth.

They taught me that no political party was godly.  They taught me that if I was going to be Christian I had to let others have their opinion.  But they also taught me that if anybody needed something, it was our job to do something about it. 

I would hate to think that the resurrection would make the church liberal.  I’m pretty sure it would make the church radical.     

Tea and Crumpets

   I was pastor of one of the up and coming congregations in the presbytery.  Numerical growth, focused mission, willing to get its hands dirty, active adult education, lots of energy.  The nominating committee had put me on a couple of committees that made big dents in the life of the churches.  I was chair of one and up for reelection.  I was a big cheese. 

   I took some continuing education that included taking a test to determine spiritual gifts.  I was eager to find out the results.  I wanted to move along in harmony with what God had given me.  I was an arrogant young man.

   The sheet of paper listed my highest scores.  At the top was a surprise, a puzzle, and a disappointment.  I wanted to put on armor and slay dragons.  I wanted to lead.  I wanted to discern the will of God for the lost sheep and carry them home.  This score must be wrong.  I put up my hand and asked what if we disagreed with our scores.  The facilitator smiled sadly and inserted a burr under my saddle.  “We often try to run away from God’s calling, ignoring the still small voice that is offering us a new way to go.  Sometimes we’d rather listen to the voices of the world or our own agendas.  I find quiet prayer to be the best response to a sense of dissonance in what we hear.”  I felt handled.  ‘…a sense of dissonance…?’  This was nuts.  I was ready to put up with anything, but HOSPITALITY?  What was I supposed to do with that?  Maybe take cooking lessons?  Or should I study interior decorating? 

   I’ve discovered something about myself.  When I hear something about myself I’m not satisfied with, I get defensive.  I find justifications about the inaccuracy of the judgment and other good reasons to discount what I don’t want to hear.  And here I was again, denying what I didn’t want to hear.

   In this culture, we tend to discount ‘homemakers.’  We don’t consider helping people feel cared about and cared for to be as valuable as producing, overcoming, and winning.  And the list goes on.  The virus had infected me.  And now this crazy test had the audacity to remind me that I had the less valuable gifts, at least valuable in the accounting of the world.  It took me a while to process this experience.  And when I did, I went in to the presbytery executive and talked to him about creating a hospitality committee.  I offered sound theological and organizational justifications and I volunteered to form the bunch, and we’d let them pick a chair. 

   We became known as the Tea and Crumpets Committee.  We organized retreats, dinners, parties, talent shows, and support groups.  We ended up publishing a cook book.   We developed a reputation for having the most fun of any committee in the history of the presbytery and having the most interesting reports.  And we managed to do almost all of it without spending presbytery money.  Obviously, we weren’t important people.  We were just trying to listen to our call.  Who said cucumber sandwiches never accomplished anything?

Summer evening

   Summer takes us to another environment, if we let it.  Chris and I sat in the gazebo last night after we ate leftovers, and watched the birds taking turns at the feeder and the fountain that burbles in the middle of their bath.  They were unconscious of our presence because we were still and silent.  How often are we thus?  When do we sit and watch the world go about its business in our own back yard?  As it grew dim, the lightening bugs began to transform the shadows into flickering corners of elven magic, gentle and just beyond clear sight.  You see?  Another environment.  These summer evenings are seductive.  They invite us to lay down our labor and appreciate what the breezes bring, the sounds only heard if we are silent, the lights too twinkling to see in the glare of normality. 
   Don't be afraid.  There is no waste here.  Evening comes.  There, did you hear the owl?

Community

There’s a willow tree I planted in a pot near the fence in my back yard.  It’s grown well for a couple years, but the clear, hot days of July seem to be baking its roots.  I soaked it but realized that the sun would still play havoc, heating the dirt in the pot beyond reasonably healthy temperatures.  So I dragged a couple other potted plants over, creating a bunch, protecting the willow and at least one side of each of the protectors. 

   We’re made to run in bunches, packs if you will.  Like wolves we are built to protect and help each other.  Our instincts all lead us toward each other, give us empathy and reward us with the advantages of civilization, art, philosophy, science, technology, architecture, and baseball, not to mention families, education, medical care, love songs, and the Super Bowl.  We’re tied together by more than choices or ought’s or should’s.  Deep within us is a magnet that pulls us toward each other, leads us to make friends, build families, and communities.

   I find it ludicrous if not a bit dangerous for us to preach individualism.  We just aren’t built that way.  And alone we are likely to fall to the vicissitudes of day to day living.  Just ask the willow tree in my back yard.  Besides, the geraniums and sunflowers make the whole thing more colorful.

Awards

   On the wall of what is affectionately known as ‘David’s Hole’ hangs an interesting collection of debris: mirrors (to keep the vampires in line), masks (offering various views into the souls of the artists), sculptures (from the crucified Christ to a commemorative bottle of bourbon (sadly empty), pictures of angels, a close up of a sculpture of a Madonna, an elderly woman walking past a grave yard, fishermen bringing boats onto the beach, waves breaking, the Giants winning the Super Bowl, a sea bird in flight, , Marilyn holding down her skirt,  the church where I grew up, the twin towers (lots a pictures).  Then there’s a shaggy doll of Gerry Garcia, a clay casting of an Assyrian battle plaque, a Chinese Dog, a Butterfly in a plastic case, a muskrat’s skull, an amethyst geode, a silver trophy given to my father for being first in his class in high school, crossed foils, my high School varsity letter, two bronze medals for college fencing, a nautical map of a section of the Maine coastline, Ethiopian spear heads, a fork made by my grandfather, a brass fire nozzle, homemade knives (not by me), a Goofy hat from Disney World, a Celtic cross covered with fish and sea monsters, a whale tooth, a dragon claw (novel in the works), a cork board, a hanging plant, and a ton of books (or at least half a ton).  There are other things I haven’t mentioned, awards given in honor of some things I did along the way. 

   Awards are nice.  They say nice things.  They bring back memories.  They remind us that somebody is watching and appreciating.  But in some ways all the ‘debris’ on the walls and shelves of my ‘hole’ are awards.  They commemorate days lived, adventures come home from, glimmers of beauty and glory that lit my life. On my desk is a picture of my birth family with my kids, gathered on a sand dune just after my mother’s funeral, yelling at the camera, and next to it is a close up of my wife.  Are they awards?  More like blessings living outside of time forming me as surely as everything I’ve been recognized for and managed to collect. 

   All our lives have awards.  We just have to claim them and treasure them.  They are invested with the power of the moments that brought them into our lives.  Don’t be afraid of such debris.  I knew a guy who collected rocks.  Each one had a name that reminded him from where it came and what had happened in his life there.  It was a hard collection to move around.  We don’t need monuments.  We just need to appreciate the miracle of life as it comes to us and open ourselves to our role in it.    

   As Bobby Burns said:

                        I burned the candle at both ends, it did not last the night

                        But oh my foes and ah my friends, it gave a wondrous light.