We’re not in Kansas, Toto

Being born a Presbyterian of Presbyterian father and Evangelical Lutheran mother, the pope was never much of a figure head to me. There are so many bits and pieces of me that lie far beneath choice, assumptions that preclude the entire idea of such a figure of authority let alone veneration. But as I have formed a personal mythology including mid-evil figures of nobility and authority, tangled with devotion to a very personal Lord makes Mr. Pope more intriguing. The concept, the focus, the incarnate power that all rest on those terribly human shoulders. And so much of the church’s direction depends on that one person’s willingness to reach beyond what has been or what’s comfortable. It's called potential.



All of that came clear to me when the new Bishop of Rome said that the church should be of the poor and for the poor. Something in me lit up. It was more than simply good news about a comment by an important guy. It was a light shining in the world and in my life. It gave me inspiration and motivation to be a more faithful follower of our Lord.



This past Sunday was a train wreck of teaching, worship, preaching, meetings, pastoral work, pre marital work, junior high fellowship, and a concert of sacred music. In the middle of the deluge a homeless young woman came wondering if she could find a place to sleep for a couple hours. Without thinking I opened my office, bedded her down on the couch there, gave her a blanket, got some shoes and sox from my wife and pizza from the youth group. I think my sense of normality, offering without thinking, at least part of it bubbled up from Frances’ statement. See what I mean?



I’m not in the process of converting. The protestant bed rock is still there. But it is nice to have an inspiration in a position of authority. And a Jesuit no less. We’ll see how it goes. I doubt he’ll be wearing the red shoes.

Alma Mater

Chris found a piece of mail I’d sidelined for recycling. It was from Lafayette College, my alma mater. We don’t have the resources, time or money to play in those waters. This was from the fencing team. I was one of them, they guys with the swords and knickers. Actually, I was captain of the team. She told me this would be a good way to decompress.



So, we went back. We went back to the place that put up with my adolescent development and still managed to teach me more than I knew there was to learn. We went back to a place that has changed in a number of ways. Buildings, women (that my friends, is a monster), resources for students, and attitude. There used to be 17 fraternity houses. Most of them are now dorms or administrative buildings. And a student we talked to said that she found there was little room to experience independence. She thought it was more like a prep school.



Construction and social trends aside, it was still Lafayette. Kirby Hall still had the Marquis de Lafayette’s coat of arms carved in high relief over the door, with the family’s motto, ‘CUR NON,’ ‘Why Not.’ That has been one of the pillars of my life. Then, plodding to class I’d pass it and smile, wondering if the stogy philosophy professor that I really couldn’t stand had a clue how revolutionary the stone work on ‘his’ building was. Chris and I climbed to the library of Philosophy and Law there, it still smelled of leather and old books. The reading tables still had the lamps with the green glass shades. The bronze busts of the giants that began our outrageous experiment in democracy still watched whoever came into the place. I used to have conversations with Ben Franklin. His slight smile always brought a bit of wistful humor to my doubts and confusion.



Time warped and my present and past overlapped. But anchoring me in the now was a new glory, a love that smiled at my joy. And even more, when we went to the gym, she got excited as Lafayette beat Lehigh on the basketball court. Go Pards!



The new gym already smells like dirty sox. Maybe they pipe it in.

Pain

Life has a lot of pain. Sinus pain, headaches, broken, dislocated, sprained, fingers, ankles, arms, ankles, bee stings, paper cuts with lemon juice, and so many other forms and incarnations of that four letter word. Eskimos have something like 23 different words for snow. Don’t you think there should be more words for pain?



Anyway, I just discovered another. This morning it felt like somebody drove a nail into my thumb. Arthritis. Either that or some little gnome worked his way into my joint and used a tiny little claw hammer and roofing nail in there. My son asked what was wrong and I diagnosed myself to him. I think it was weird for him to hear his father complain about one of those things that tends to be a curse of age. For him, it was painful to hear that. And then it was painful to see him react like that.



Pain. Ben and Jerry don’t have as many flavors as there are permutations of this tiny word. But down at their base there’s a lot there that gives us information we need, information that opens realities and possibilities that we wouldn’t consider or imagine. In spite of all that good stuff, sometimes I’d rather have a gnome or two. Then again, ewwuu.

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.

Coming Home

Coming back from study leave is always a bit wrenching. From the quiet to the bus station that is our home and my work. There I made choices between reading, writing, walking, napping, or staring and wandering into spaces beyond here and now. Here I choose between priorities established by calendar and issues and needs, few of which are of my choosing. As I said, it’s a bit wrenching.



The past week was a gift, undeniably. And as all gifts it must be treasured, appreciated for its value, if it is to be used well. I learned some things, the most significant of which has to do with limitations, my own. The chief purpose of Sabbath, a time of rest, is not to allow us to refuel our engines that we can keep on grinding through our lives. If that is all they do for us, then they are not holy, consecrated, set aside. They are part of our unrelenting toil. Their purpose is to allow transformation to creep into our existence. Transformation allows what is to become something new, allows it to evolve beyond the limited structures we have claimed as our turf, our lives.



Our choices are obviously less than full of the grace that would take us to peace and healing and hope. Without these we become prisoners existing in cages built of demands and necessities and fears. I considered the bars of my cage. I considered Sabbath rest. I considered some options and I realized however I looked at the situation, there were real limits to the speed I could move. There were real limits to what I could accomplish. There were real limits to the significance of the judgments that I fear. And there were no limits to the grace of God. Funny thing.



I think I learned something. Welcome home

Study Leave V

When I came down this morning, Sister Frances was already there. “Sit down and eat your porridge.” The bowl was already on the table. I hesitated. “While it’s hot.” There is little in this world that can stand against the wind or the sea or Sister Frances. I took my jacket off and thanked her. She’s going to visit a lady in Toms River. An early start is necessary. So, the two of us sat eating as the place slowly came to life around us. Eating in silence can be an oppressive experience. So much hangs in the air, it gets hard to breathe. But it can also be soothing, a quiet meal with another. By the time I was finished, she was up and gone. Others came to take her place, but I had a walk to take.



I made up my mind yesterday to climb down the cliff. It is easier said than done. Boards, timbers, bushes, plywood, rocks, concrete, plastic bottles, gravel and all manner of junk lays up against the clay escarpment. Any step has to be picked carefully. Any step must be an act of faith. There are no guarantees that what looks solid is not about to collapse, even without the weight of a clumsy intruder. So, do it quickly. It collapsed. But it also deposited me on the beach. I moved away from the avalanche that followed me. Didn’t even get my hands dirty. God watches over fools.



The beach is mostly gravel, stones worn smooth, from pea size to a couple inches across. Sand that’s left is under these fields of small stones. They fascinate me. They are so much alike and yet each one is etched and worn individually, cracked along lines of inclusions, broken and then worn again. As I walked on them they crunched.



To the south of the center two houses hang, clinging to the cliff, parts of their supports and guts hanging over. Windows that had revealed breathtaking views were now boarded over. Yellow tape drapes across them like derelict Christmas decorations. They are broken, sad. These aren’t homes, they’re summer houses. But hanging there, they’re sad.



Further toward the jetty and bulkhead, a hole, ten feet deep, ten feet wide, has been carved out by the tides’ brutal intrusion. It’s eerie. It seems a grave for an SUV or a dream. Leaving it behind, I moved away from the rocks and timbers that still defend what’s left. And so, I found a gift. For some reason only known to the uncaring sea, the cliff there is only a high step for a stretch of fifty feet. A large vacant lot stretches at the top of the step toward Ocean Avenue, bordered by hedges, populated by a back yard timber jungle gym. The grass is unmowed, long and hummocked, if that’s a word. Perhaps since there was no structure to assault, the storm was kinder here. It left a kindness for me. I trudged through the grass inland to the road and back to the center.



As I came back I realized I hadn’t considered climbing back up the cliff. As I said, the Lord watches over fools.