The Patience of a Seed

The Echo of Love

2011-10-25T15:28:00.002-05:00

I suppose worship to be the heartbeat of faith.
Which, is not to say that it is the heart of faith.

No, worship is not that vital organ: the pressure behind, the force within;
Reservoir and wellspring of our life and the living of it.

I think that that would be God.

And, neither is to say that worship is the heartbeat of faith
To say that it is the lifeblood of faith.

No, worship is not that precious flow which fills and floods;
Current and conveyance of warmth and heat and strength.

I think that that would be the Holy Spirit.

Nor can worship properly be said to be the body
Throughout and through which the heart and blood of faith move:
Raising bones to new life and light in the darkness,
Lifting up the wounded and the broken
And walking with them.

I think that that would be Christ Jesus
And the Church in which He lives.

Leaving worship to be the echo of love,
Re-citing, Re-sounding, Breathing again
The rhythm and pulse of our dancing days with God.

It's About Time

2011-04-16T07:22:00.003-05:00

Got a minute? Thanks! I'll try to make this quick. Not sure why, but I seem to be remembering my life in smaller increments. It's not that I'm forgetting more - just remembering less. Or, at least focusing more on fewer things. Littler things. Simpler things. "Times of my life" seem to be condensing into moments in time. Pieces. Fragments. Shards sharp and clear and beautiful. Experiences that I hope never to forget, but that it is not necessary to repeat. As a matter of fact (or fact of matter, if you will), trying to repeat them would be a waste of time. Because, it's chronologically impossible to experience anything more than once. Kind of a, "You cannot step twice into the same stream," kind of thing. Forgetting the worst-movie-ever with my brother and a pitcher of smoothies. French toast, live music and televised soccer at a Portuguese-Irish pub with my mom. Dad and I calling in sick and hanging out at the Montgomery County Fair. Riding the ferry to Ellis Island on Mother's Day with my wife and kids. Natural wonders. Works of art. Conversations. Presence. Transcendence. Coincidence (if one believes in such a thing). So, what, I'm wondering, could be the relationship between these magic moments - each of these tiny transfigurations - and the steady stream of our lives (minute-by-minute-by-minute) upon which we perfect faithfulness and learn to navigate the hazards and currents of time? How is it that we are able to have and to share the experiences and expressions of such wonderful and unfathomable realities as: the life of God; the lives of a world full of people; and the worlds-within-worlds of imagination, hope and dream? "We must not forget that it is not a thing that lends significance to a moment; it is the moment that lends significance to things." ~Abraham Heschel, The Sabbath

Learning Love

2011-02-08T14:16:00.003-06:00

Written for The Victoria Gazette, February 2011

The Hebrew Scriptures and New Testament repeatedly call us to explore the connection between what we say we believe about God and how we treat others. In the book of the prophet Micah, overzealous worship (the offering of thousands of rams and ten thousands of rivers of oil) is eclipsed by three modest requirements: doing justice, loving kindness, and walking humbly with God, each having more to do with caring for neighbors and God's care for us all. The first letter of John challenges readers with questions like: How can we love a God whom we have not seen if we cannot love brothers and sisters whom we have seen? As a new believer and, sometime after that, as a young seminary student I often felt that what I had to offer - what were truly mine to share - were primarily educated answers to questions about faith, a proficiency in religious ritual, and perhaps even some training in pastoral care. I guess what I'm confessing to you is the belief I once held that God's ability to be present and active in our lives was somehow restricted to my meager understanding of God's love and faithfulness. Eventually I ran into someone who not only showed me differently but also opened my heart to the loving Spirit who bridges this chasm between heart and mind. She was a patient in the ER at St. Luke's in Bethlehem PA. I was a pastoral intern calling myself a chaplain. When the doctor paged, feeling that this woman could use a visit, I was ready. I straightened my tie, picked up my bible, and walked into the room with a mental checklist of things I wanted to know about her. The list was meant to help me respond appropriately; with scripture, with a hymn, with prayer beads, with sacrament, with whatever might help remind her of the Lord of life, lover of her soul, source of all comfort and peace. But, nothing really seemed to "work." Finally, frustrated and a little fearful I asked if there was anything I could get her. And, the answer she gave transformed my understanding of what it means for any of us - for all of us - to love and serve the One who is Emmanuel, God with us. Her request, simply stated, "I just want someone to talk to." I pulled up a chair, put my pretense aside, and let this sister of mine know what I truly believed: that she was seen, and heard, and precious in God's sight.

inTending commUnity

2010-12-01T21:35:00.015-06:00

You spoke, Lord God, and it was so.
You saw that what was - was good!

There must have been something about Light that pleased You.
Something to the ordering of Sun, Moon and Stars
making You smile.

Something in the Dance of Life across the sky,
through the waters and across the ground
returning your blessing to You.

What then, Lord, did you see and say, "It is not good."?
That the man should be alone.
How is it, Holy Spirit, Voice and Vision,
that two are better than one?
For if they fall, one will lift up the other.

Why, Beloved Son of our Father in heaven,
are the "greatest" commandments hardly breakable
apart from the living presence of community (human and divine)?

Wherever two or more are together in your name--
Where the needs of the very least
reveal the presence of the Most High--

The Love that You are and the Life that You give,
Leave little room for faith that is not a gathering
and a sharing of heart and soul and strength.

Paul's Secret

2010-11-25T17:56:00.003-06:00

(a reading based on Hab 3:17, 18; Phil 4:12 & Thess 5:18)

One: The year now drawing to a close has been a good year!
All: To be honest, it's been a tough year.
One: Yes, there have been many struggles and some setbacks.
All: But, there were also many triumphs and victories won!
One: We have known God's loving favor and shared the Peace of Christ.
All: We have shaken our fist and cried, "How long, O Lord, will you hide your face?"
One: And, not once--
All: No, not ever--have we been left or forsaken.
One: And, not once--
All: No, not ever--has God's grace not been enough.
One: So let us rejoice in the Lord; let us exult in the God of our salvation!
All: For God, the Lord, is our strength!

prepared for the 2010 Community Thanksgiving Celebration hosted by St. Victoria Catholic Church

Making a Fortune

2010-10-01T10:16:00.003-05:00

Everyone loved Mei-Xing, with the possible exception of Mei-Xing. This is not to say she disliked herself; only that she failed to see herself in the light that others did. She could not recognize the Mei-Xing who shone brightly through the veil of self-criticism and unnecessary apologies. Both of them - the Mei everyone loved and the one that Mei did not - kept a small rented room in a neighborhood where stuttering neon signs were never fixed and the family circle was never broken.

To her co-workers at the fortune cookie factory, young Mei was kind and respectful. She was also the swiftest worker they had ever seen. Many of the older women's hands were callused from repeated burns as they peeled thin cookies from a hot press. Mei's hands were flawless. A great number of cookies had to be destroyed if the dough hardened before being properly folded, or because they had been poorly folded and misshapen. Each of Mei's cookies was an exact replica of the masterpiece before it.

This is probably why no one noticed whenever Mei pocketed a fortune for herself and sent an otherwise perfect cookie down the line. Thousands of these tiny messages slipped through her fingers every day. Most of them said pretty much the same thing. She would sometimes laugh quietly to herself to imagine Confucius and Socrates finishing a meal together, breaking open a cookie, and the great Master Kong bragging, "I wrote that!" But, every once-in-a-while a bright turn of phrase or a glimmer of truth would catch Mei's eye and these would be the words alone by which she wanted to live.

Back in her room, Mei had a small vanity at which she would sit and tape her borrowed fortunes to the mirror. She could no longer see a reflection, only the lines and sayings in which she hoped to find meaning; to catch a glimpse of the life of the world to come. Something at hand. Something within. Mei did not know what this hidden life was, but she was becoming more sure of all it was not.

* * * * *

"So, you see, it's a win-win."

Howard smiled as the gentleman closed his laptop and leaned back. He had been on the other side of the table often enough to recognize that it had been a dazzling presentation. Confident but not cavalier; well-informed but not a know-it-all; this young buck earned Howard's respect for style, but something was missing. And, if Howard had learned anything in the thirty years it took him to reestablish his father's business, it was that there is truth to the old saying, "Not all that glitters is gold."

"How about the 300 positions that will be eliminated," Howard asked. "How would you explain to those workers that the loss of their jobs is a 'win'?"

Something tightened at the corners of the young suit's eyes. He sat up straight and leaned in a little toward Howard. "With all due respect, I'd call losing a dead-end job at a rundown factory in a long-forgotten industry a division championship! It'll give folks a fresh start. And, we're offering a generous severance --"

"By eliminating pension and benefits," interrupted Howard.

"They'll have first crack at applying --"

"-- for their old jobs?"

"No, for the twenty new positions we're creating."

"For which none of them is qualified?"

The young gun took a deep breath before answering. "There's paid training. We covered that."

"I know we did, son." Howard nodded slowly, "I know we did."

They sat in silence for several moments while the waitress brought the check. "Xie xie," Howard offered her, and waved off his would-be partner, "No. No, I'll get this." As he handed over a credit card, Howard pushed a small plate forward with two fortune cookies on it. "Go ahead. Maybe there'll be some guidance for us in one of these."

The young Turk declined to read his fortune out loud; laughing it off as stupid and superstitious. Howard suspected he may have felt convicted by what it actually said. This was a suspicion confirmed by what Howard had discovered in his own cookie. Stopping in the men's room on the way out, Howard crumbled the pieces in his fist and dropped them into the trash. He held out his hand, looking it over carefully. There had been no fortune in his cookie. As he washed at the sink, Howard searched the reflection in the mirror. Instead of a line or two of timeless wisdom to go on, he had been left with only the lines of his face to read for meaning; to catch a glimpse of the life of the world to come. Something at hand. Something within. Howard knew exactly what he was trying to avoid having to face, but he suddenly became unsure of what it might find as it turned its face to him.

Right on the Money

2010-09-03T13:22:00.004-05:00

There is a New World Order
Of Commodity and Consumption,
An Economy of Want and industrial-strength Pride.

And, there are lilies to consider.

The blueprint goes all the way back to the Garden,
Tightly coiled around a Tree.

But, no one can serve two masters,

Even if one is yourself.

The Tower of Babel has been foreclosed on!
It's a great steal -- or deal,
Depending on your Legal Tender.

Why do we bury our hearts

And wear our treasure on our sleeves?

Debts Public and Private
Forgiven us, as we --
Well, We Trust in God
To sort that out.

Another camel threads a needle.

A rich young ruler turns away.

An unseeing eye
Approves our Undertaking

And a poor penniless widow

Bears the image and inscription

Of unseen things above.

A Child, A Shovel & the Deep

2010-08-01T08:28:00.003-05:00

There's a little boy at the beach. He's sprawled out on knees and elbows with a plastic shovel in one hand and a little red bucket floating out to sea behind him. The ocean shouts a warning, whispers his name, but he doesn't listen. The sun looks down from on high, burns his shoulders, throws a dark shadow out in front of him, but he's busy.

Digging in the sand. Digging down. Digging deep.

To where the water comes seeping in and slipping through all the spaces in-between:
Unnumbered grains of sand
The surf and the shore
His tiny fingers

On the rim of this excavation, the boy begins to fashion for himself a world. A kingdom of towers and arches and walls cleverly buttressed with driftwood and shells and glass from the sea. But, with no real citizens. Silent streets. Empty city squares. All flooded. Unmade and dissolved even as they are built.

Any moment now. One day soon. The tide will come in - so far and so fast - catching the little boy by surprise. Perhaps a small breaker or two will try to get his attention. Maybe it will be a wave of some height and significance, cresting well over his head. However it happens, he will turn and see and hear and taste and know all-at-once the great difference and the great oneness of the water in his little dugout basin and the fathomless depth of sea and sky.

And, then the story will begin.

I think the one may be us.
I think the second may be our religion.
And, I think that the third just might be God.

Sometimes, When I Pray

2010-07-05T09:09:00.002-05:00

Sometimes, when I pray,
I bow my head, cup my hands,
And hold them out in front of me as though I were:

Raising Living Water to my lips
Waiting to receive the Bread of Life
Offering up my heart, my soul, my strength
Sheltering a small spark of the Light of the World
Setting free a cloud-white dove to find us a token of Peace

Sometimes, when I pray.

For Us and Of Us

2010-06-23T09:30:00.004-05:00

When we were not a people
Love made us one.
When we were without help or hope in the world
Love made us one.
When there was no place we could call "home"
Love made us one.

A people of Love
And, for others

Help and hope for the life of the world

Where Love's weary and burdened children
Come to a place of rest.

For us and of us
The Beloved Son is building His Church.
For us and of us
The Spirit of Love is raising the Temple.
For us and of us
Unending Love has made a home.

Amen.

The Feeling of Falling

2010-06-06T16:58:00.003-05:00

Like velocity with no direction,
Direction without aim.

adrift and astray
wondering and wandering

Waiting for a question to the answer?

falling fast
falling free

Through a thousand passing glances,
Unknown and unknowing,
Blind and unseen.

wishing to fly
wanting to land safely

On holy ground
In the arms of Love.

~for Lily May / for us all

Living the Dream

2010-05-01T09:02:00.002-05:00

I suppose to be "living the dream"
One has to be awake.
No longer asleep.
Not dreaming.

Because - you know -
You're living the dream.

Right?

And, it's all good.
It doesn't get any better than this.
Tonight's going to be a good, good night.

But, I wonder...

If we're living the dream -
Who's living the life?
Who's dreaming the life?
Who's dreaming the dream?

Hitting the Notes

2010-03-29T11:04:00.003-05:00

I wish I were a musician
Who could speak with Authority
To the difference between
Hitting the notes
And, singing the song.

Because, I think there is one
A difference –
Between the flawless performance
Of what’s on the page
And, a faithful conversation
With the Composer –
Mystic, sweet communion
With the heart and soul
Of the Music.

If I were
A musician –
If I could
Speak with Authority –
And, should we find together
The difference between:
A note and a sound
Recital and remembrance
Sheet music and joyful noise …

Would we speak any longer
Of Love and Law
Justice and Mercy
The Word and Will of God
As though these were not all the same thing?

“It don’t mean a thing (if it ain’t got that swing).” ~Duke Ellington

"What Is Truth?"

2010-03-13T18:29:00.006-06:00

I'm not sure I'm convinced
There was an actual Good Samaritan -
But, I do know that I'm convicted by this good man's example.

And, I'm not holding my breath
For archaeological proof of the Prodigal Son's big party -
But I have felt his father's embrace.

Perhaps the Truth of a Story
Is not its literal correspondence to fact -
But that it can be recognized by the eyes of our heart
Or called to the remembrance of our soul?

"Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten." ~G.K. Chesterton

FW:

2010-03-07T06:03:00.003-06:00

I don't normally do this, but just had to share!
~Brian

-----Original Message-----
From: Brian Dixon dixonflock@msn.com
To: Ears to Hear
Sent: Sun, Mar 07, 2010 6:12 a.m.
Subject: FW:

I’m forwarding this / To tell you how angry I am
With what “they” are doing to my church.

“If you love Jesus”
You won’t delete this.
You don’t lose it [to find it]
Or, lay it down [to take it up again]

How could you? Why would you?

No, you’ll be first
To share my [good] news
You’ll be the greatest
Servant of all [interested parties]

Who are dying to know “what’s going on?”

The [t]ruth is –
I’ll come right to the point –
This is an internet first [stone] –
No beating around the [burning] bush –

i’m scared

To death,
Of life,
Love

And learning
That I’m no better
Than the lost, the last & the least

Maybe even more in need
Of the Grace, Mercy & Peace
I’ve been unwilling, ill-prepared and disinclined
To either give or receive in the blessed name of Jesus.

You know…
Delete / Forward / Reply All
Aren’t our only choices.

There’s also Save
Which, is what Jesus does.
Pass it on.

A Tree in the Forest

2010-02-22T14:30:00.006-06:00

There’s a prayer

‘Neath ev’ry prayer
One question

Asked many ways:
“Can you hear me?”

And there’s one answer
Ev’ry answer really means:
“Yes.”

Everything Changes

2010-02-14T14:49:00.002-06:00

An older Jewish couple is seated together at the head of a long table, spread lavishly and lovingly. They are surrounded by family, friends and neighbors, and it seems as though several generations of children and childen's children are swirling about the room, in and out of the house, laughing and playing loudly. The scene is clearly one of abundant blessing, great joy and celebration.

"Do you remember our wedding?" The wife leans into her husband's shoulder and asks.
"What! I thought our anniversary was next week?"
"No, not our anniversary. Do you remember our wedding?"
"Our wedding?"
"Yes, our wedding."
"Oh. Well, yes, of course I remember our wedding. You were beautiful."
"I was beautiful?" She sits up and raises an eyebrow at him.
"You are beautiful." He takes his wife's hand and places a kiss on her cheek.
"And you," she smiles, "are a smart man."

There's a pause in their conversation. The husband gets up to see how the guests are doing. Second helpings are encouraged. "There's plenty for all." Dessert is waiting in the wings. Cups are filled. His wife smiles contentedly as he returns to her side.

"Do you remember Mary, all upset about the wine running out?" She asks.
"Yes." He laughs. "I really thought we would have had enough."
"But, we did. Didn't we?"
"More than enough!"
"You know, at first I didn't believe the servants' story."
"About what Jesus, Mary's son did?"
"About what Jesus, the Son of God did."

They are silent. There's a stillness to this old couple as they take in the festivities knowingly, joyfully and at peace.

"Do you remember the day he died?"
"The day they killed him." His voice is sad and bitter.
"No," she gently corrects. "The day he laid down his life to take it up again."
"What are you talking about?"
"Do you remember when they found the tomb empty?"
"Yes. Everyone was talking about it."
"It changes everything. Doesn't it."
"What does?"
"Love."

The husband stands and raises his cup high above his head. A hush falls over the room. Every cup is lifted.

"To love," he says.
"To love," we answer, celebrating the promise and tasting the wine.

Amen.

Respiration

2010-02-07T14:17:00.001-06:00

The Church breathes in
Filling herself with new life
An exchange of Spirit takes place
A gathering of rhythm, a quickening pulse
A change of heart freely offered / Letting go of sin and self

The Church breathes out / Filling the world with new life
An exchange of Spirit takes place / A sharing
of song and seed, salt and light / A
changed heart, fruit that abides
Taking up the cross
In Love

The Church breathes in…

Ad infinitum

"The Day's Beginning"

2010-01-31T15:34:00.010-06:00

from Dietrich Bonhoeffer's Life Together

"The Old Testament day begins at evening and ends with the going down of the sun. It is the time of expectation. The day of the New Testament church begins with the break of day and ends with the dawning light of the next morning. It is the time of fulfillment, the resurrection of the Lord."

I was called to a stranger's bedside early one morning in a hospital room with east-facing windows. This person had done things the hard way - in many ways - and now all the pain and all the loss and all the darkness of the night before were eclipsing even the hope for healing (Malachi 4:2) or the promise of joy (Psalm 30:5). But, as I listened and as we spoke, a strange and wonderful thing began to happen. The sun came up over the Lehigh Valley, bringing with it all that we were needing to hear and to say - so we stopped talking. After awhile, in the light, I turned and said, "You know, the sun also rises."

"Yeah," this kind soul smiled and we laughed together at my cheesy plagiarism. "It does."

It felt a little like Easter.

Quotient

2010-01-21T22:26:00.007-06:00

“He must increase, but I must decrease.” ~John 3:30

When the Baptizer spoke these words… When we hear them…
This call to a lessened, shrinking Self
Divided by
Subtracted from
Given to the sorrows and grief of the world

Was he prepared? How could he have been?
Are we? How could we be?
For the countless reductions
The thousand cuts
Each loss,

Which leaves us longing for the fullness
And fulfillment of that promise.

Habakkuk 3:19

2010-01-15T12:57:00.003-06:00

Matthew 6:26

2010-01-08T06:33:00.007-06:00

Matthew 5:14a

2010-01-01T21:21:00.005-06:00

"When I Survey..."

2009-12-23T16:22:00.002-06:00

Catch

2009-12-02T10:06:00.003-06:00

As Leela took the trash out for her brother one night, a star fell and landed at her feet. Her teacher said falling stars were just burning chunks of metal that never reached the ground, but Leela hadn’t believed that for a second. Even so, she couldn’t tell what was rolling toward her. She stopped it with a foot and moved back a few steps. It felt rubbery beneath her shoe, almost bouncy. Walking around it carefully, Leela thought that this fallen star looked more like a playground ball than anything else – a playground ball made of solid gold and sunbeams and the warm glow of every birthday candle ever lit. She looked up at the sky, studying the brightness of some distant and eternal dawn shining through countless pinholes in the night. She looked down at the small piece of it all that had unexpectedly come bouncing into her life. Leela kept the star in her room for a few days wondering what to do with it; eventually making up her mind to put it back in the sky.

She took it to the playground, all the way up the monkey bars, and held it high over her head. Nothing happened. Well, not nothing, because her friends saw Leela’s new ball (they didn’t know it was a fallen star) and called out, “Hey! Leela, throw it here.” She heard them, but didn’t answer. Putting a fallen star back in the sky was busy work and Leela didn’t have time to stop and play with her friends.

Years later, Leela was a young woman still trying to put that fallen star back in the sky.

She brought it to work, all the way out onto the observation deck of her office building. From up there she could see the old playground far below. She held the fallen star above her head, and nothing happened. Well, not nothing, because her co-workers saw her holding that cool ball (they didn’t know it was a fallen star) and said, “Hey, Leela! Can we give you a hand with that?” She heard them, but didn’t answer. Putting a fallen star back in the sky was important work and Leela didn’t trust it to her co-workers.

Years later, Leela was an old woman still trying to put that fallen star back in the sky.

She no longer worked and it had been years since she could even remember playing. But, Leela still brought that fallen star everywhere she went. Which, to be honest, wasn’t many places. She lifted it and held it to the sky, but nothing happened. Well, not nothing, because her nurses saw her straining to lift that shiny ball (they didn’t know it was a fallen star) and said, “Oh, Ms. Leela. Put that down before you hurt yourself.” She heard them, but didn’t answer. Putting a fallen star back in the sky was hard work and Leela no longer had the strength for it.

One day Leela breathed her last, closed her eyes and opened them again to find herself face-to-face with God. All the beauty and brightness and blessing of heaven paled next to the splendor and radiance and deep affection Leela felt as the Lord looked at her and smiled. Much to Leela’s surprise, she noticed that the fallen star was still tucked safely under her arm. She laughed a little to herself, blushed and stepped forward meekly. Holding it out to the Lord, Leela said, “I’ve been trying all my life to put this back in the sky. I’m sorry. I believe it’s yours’ and think you should take it.” Leela was crying.

Can you hear thunder booming across a clear, blue sky beneath a smiling sun? Listen for the ceaseless song of silver surf dancing over sands of gold. These are good places to start to imagine what God’s gentle laughter sounded like to Leela.

“My dear and precious Leela,” said the Lord as he wiped away her tears. “Do not let your heart be troubled. You are here with me, now. And, I have always been with you.”

“But, what about this?” Leela asked, holding up the fallen star. “I tried so hard and for so long to put it back in the sky, where it belonged.”

“Yes, you did,” said God. “You tried very hard and were faithful in what you attempted. But, there was one thing you missed, something important.”

“What did I miss?”

“You missed sharing. You missed learning to trust. You missed the joy and the encouragement and the strength I provided for you through these experiences. Leela, my beloved, what you hold in your hands is not a fallen star and it did not belong in the sky.”

“What is it, Lord?”

“It is my love for you. It is my pledge to you. And, it is an invitation.”

“An invitation? To what?”

“To play catch.”

It took Leela a long time to take this all in. She looked from God to the ball in her hands and back to God. She held the ball out in front of her, let go, and it bounced. It bounced and she caught it and bounced it again. Now it was Leela’s laughter that rang through heaven and it blessed the Lord to hear it. She bounced it and dribbled it and threw it up into the air and caught it. As she did this and as she laughed, the years rolled back and Leela felt like she was being made anew, refreshed, restored, born again into the great and everlasting love of God.

All of a sudden, almost catching God by surprise (if such a thing were possible), Leela shouted, “Think fast!” and quickly tossed the ball into the Lord’s sure and ready hands.

Now, But Not Yet

2009-11-01T19:07:00.007-06:00

There’s a way that being with, being together, being present is good.

As opposed to doing without, going it alone, not being there;

Because being there can be a reminder, an experience in-and-of-itself of the Risen Lord, the Servant Body, the Living Christ.

Call it Incarnation, embodied theology, sacramental living, being the Church…

Where two or more gather together in Jesus’ name
Where the “least of these” and Jesus, their brother, wait in need
Where friendship, hospitality, the spirit of adoption and eternal homecoming meet

And, I think it’s why we are called out, gathered in and sent forth: to be and to bear the experience and the expression of Emmanuel, God with us.

That said,

What are we to make of God-at-a-distance? Those experiences of exile and separation and the wilderness in-between? The waiting times and the watching times, when no one’s there, when no one answers?

How do we relate these seasons of the human spirit to the activity of God’s Holy Spirit…

When humble prayer is bold accompaniment
When a cloud we neither touch nor see bears witness
When we are called to remember what we are not sure we know

"Let the Wild Rumpus Start!"

2009-10-18T19:58:00.004-05:00

Somewhere between the story and pictures by Maurice Sendak and the feature film by Spike Jonze; softly and savagely and sweetly enfolded by:

“The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind…”

and

“…and it was still hot.”

Is the kind of story we forget that children have to tell.

When I first read Where the Wild Things Are it was almost fifteen-years-old. I must have been about five. And, when I saw the movie I was nearly forty – but not forty, yet. To my thinking, the story Sendak has given us aged well. It has grown up and filled out; gotten taller and stronger. Watching Jonze’s (and Dave Eggers’) retelling of Wild Things, I was surprised as the pain and fear and rage and powerlessness my parents’ divorce made me feel as a child came welling up. These things surprised me in the same way a sunset surprises you. It’s no surprise that the sun actually sets, just that you notice it, appreciate it, maybe even have it to share with someone else. Taking all this in with my wife and children and a theatre-full of people had this effect.

The other surprising thing about the movie was how powerful a reminder it is that Max’s story is a story about Love – quite possibly the wildest wild thing that we foolishly either try to run from, chase away or domesticate. By the closing credits, I found myself glad to have accompanied Max, once again, on his fantastic voyage into the heart of darkness, away from the lightness of being, and back again home, “…where someone loved him best of all.”

The Garden on Eden St.

2009-10-12T08:25:00.006-05:00

“A book must be the ax for the frozen sea within us.”
~Franz Kafka

“Where we going, Dad?”

“Someplace better, son.” Warren could tell there was truth in his father’s words and there was. His father really believed that where they were going was someplace better. Having lived in the same apartment on the same block of the same city for all of his seven years, Warren was anxious about moving to a house in the suburbs. Who would their neighbors be? What about his friends? Where would he go trick-or-treating? He did his best to weigh everything comfortable and familiar against all the uncertainty; what he knew against what he might learn.

The night before moving-day, as he lay in bed pretending to be asleep, Warren overheard his parents. “Baby, I’m scared. Are you sure we can afford this?”

“It’s settled. We’ve saved every dime for the last eight years. This is our chance. This is our dream. Not just owning our own home, but moving out of the city, too. Giving Warren opportunities we never had.” All the mystery and hidden meaning of his mother’s fear and father’s hope swirled in dizzying patterns through Warren’s head. It was a lot for a seven-year-old to figure out on his own. Thank you Lord for grownups, Warren prayed, and for the cool side of the pillow. That night he dreamt of someplace better.

A couple months later, they were just about finished moving in. There were only a few boxes left to unpack, so Warren’s mother made a welcomed suggestion, “Warren, why don’t you go outside and make some friends? You’ve been so helpful unpacking. Momma can put the rest of these things away by herself.” She didn’t have to tell him twice. Warren was out the door and down the street before his mother turned around to see if he had heard her.

Warren had never seen so much grass all in one place. His family, and every family on his street, had big, green lawns. Warren’s dad was going to teach him to use a mower and maybe he could earn a little money helping out with the neighbors’ yards. Some homes had sprinklers tik-tik-tiking away in front of them, with rainbows floating in the fine, cool spray. Warren dashed past them, not wanting to get wet, not wanting to stay dry.

He soon reached the end of the street, and it was there that Warren discovered the garden. His new neighborhood didn’t have a playground, which worried him at first. Where was the chalked-up blacktop, shimmering in the late summer heat? Where were the swing sets and the tennis court with no net where they played kickball? No, what Warren found himself looking out over was something different. Something better.

As he climbed over the guardrail and entered the garden, Warren gasped at the glory of it all. There were trees of all kinds, shapes and sizes; blossoms sweetly fragrant and bitterly sharp. The sunlight fell in a patchwork quilt of colors over everything. A gentle breeze stirred the willows that leaned in over a stream. Its water was clear and bright and there was laughter in its voice. Birds sang from every corner of the garden. Butterflies and dragonflies danced and darted from branch to flower and back again. Warren lost all track of time; too busy climbing trees, hop-scotching along stones in the stream and chasing bugs to worry about such a thing as time. He had all the time in the world. And, there were worlds within worlds for Warren in every leaf, petal and rock on the other side of the guardrail.

That night at dinner Warren could not stop talking about his discovery. “Will you slow down for a minute and eat your dinner?”

“But, Dad, you’ve got to see it. There’s trees and grass and birds and flowers. It’s even got a creek running through it!”

“You stay out of that creek.”

“Mom.”

“I mean it. And, don’t go climbing up in those trees. The last thing I need is for you to mess around and break your leg.”

“But, Mom.”

“You mind your mother now. You hear? She just wants you to be careful.” Warren nodded to show that he understood, but he really did not. How can they not be excited? Was he explaining it well enough? Maybe they would just have to see it for themselves. He finished his dinner quietly and started upstairs to get ready for bed.

“You going to bed?” asked his father.

“Yeah. I'm tired.”

“Sleep well.”

“Come give Momma a kiss.” Warren complied. “I’ll come up in a little bit and make sure you’re all tucked in. G’night.”

“G’night.”

The next morning Warren was up bright and early, before his father left for work. His parents were in the kitchen having breakfast. His father put the paper down and asked, “Well, good morning early bird. What’s got you up so early?”

“I’m gonna go play.”

“You’re gonna sit your butt down and have some breakfast first.” His mother got up and fixed him a plate. They finished breakfast together. Warren’s father kissed his mother on the cheek and patted him on the head on the way out. “Here, let me take those. You go on back upstairs and get ready.”

“Thanks Momma.” As he dressed, Warren wondered whether or not there were other kids in the neighborhood. If there were, did they know about the garden? Yesterday had been fun, but he hoped that today he would have someone to play with. He kissed his mother at the door and ran down the street as fast as his little legs would carry him.

He played for hours becoming a king, a pirate, an explorer, a wild thing. His imagination and enthusiasm were inexhaustible.

“Can I play?” Warren nearly jumped out of his skin. He whirled around and standing there was another little boy. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Warren. What’s yours?”

“Chris. What are you playing?”

“I’ve been shipwrecked and marooned here on this island. I was just gathering some coconuts. You want to help me?”

“Sure.” They scrambled up a nearby peach tree together, shaking coconuts from its branches. They then climbed down and made a pile. “Let’s have a war,” suggested Chris.

“Okay.”

They took up positions, one on either side of the stream. Each took as many peaches as he could carry. Warren piled them up behind a willow tree. Chris ducked down behind a knoll. When Warren peeked out from behind his fort Chris fired first. Smack! It crashed against the side of the tree spraying bits of peach into Warren’s face. He wiped his eyes and ran quickly to another tree, closer to the stream, while Chris reloaded. He had two peaches with him. Stepping out from his hiding place, Warren side-stepped Chris’ shot and threw a peach high over his head. Chris only looked up for a second, but Warren threw the second peach and struck him squarely in the face. Chris fell to the ground. The first peach came crashing harmlessly down beside him.

“Chris!” There was no answer. “Chris! Are you OK?” Warren leapt over the stream and ran to his side. “Chris, are you --,” Chris tackled Warren, knocking him off of his feet. They wrestled back-and-forth, laughing. “I thought you were dead.”

“Nope. But I’m gonna get you!” Chris tried to roll Warren into the stream.

“Oh no you don’t!” They struggled against each other, edging closer to the water. This was, in part, due to Chris’ efforts, but mostly to the hill they were rolling down. Before either of them knew what was happening, they were both in the drink.

“Aw man. I’m all wet. I’d better go home and change.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Do you wanna meet here tomorrow?”

“Sure!”

“OK. I live right there across the street. That’s my dad. Just stop by and get me if I’m not here yet.”

The next morning Warren came to the garden early. Chris wasn’t there, so he sat down and waited. The sun rose above the trees, bringing with it the heat. Warren started to worry. Maybe Chris got into trouble for coming home all wet. His mother had certainly given him a hard time about it. Maybe he’s hurt from getting hit with that peach. Warren ran across the street to Chris’ house and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He rang the doorbell once... twice... a thir --, the door opened and Chris stood there, the right side of his face black-and-blue.

“Hey!” Warren exclaimed. “Did I do that? Are you okay?”

“I’m not allowed to...” Chris spoke softly, as if he was afraid of being overheard.

“You’re not allowed to what? Did you get in trouble?”

“I’m not allowed to play with you anymore.”

“What!?”

“Shhh. It’s my dad. He says I can’t play with you because you’re--”

“CHRIS! You Get Back In This House Right Now! I won’t have you running around out there with no nigger!” Chris jerked back as if he had been struck.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, and closed the door in Warren’s face.

Warren turned away and looked one last time at the garden. Its beauty had already begun to fade and he never wanted to play there again.

--to be continued--

“…and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubim, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to guard the way of the tree of life.” ~Genesis 3:24 KJV

Something Important

2009-10-06T08:35:00.002-05:00

There was once Something Very Important
Someone wanted to say to us
And, it was:

Loudly proclaimed for all to hear
Gently whispered into the recesses of our hearts
Sung by many voices / Shouted from rooftops
Cried out in the streets
Carefully worded and written down
But, we forgot to listen.

There was once Something Very Important
Someone wanted to show us
And, it was:

Lifted up for a clearer view
Brought low for a closer look
Prominently displayed
On exhibit / Up for inspection
Carefully arranged and set apart
But, we didn’t know how to see.

There was once Something Very Important
Someone wanted to give us
And, it was:

Placed in our hands
Entrusted to our keeping
Offered to us to hold
Released into our grasp
Surrendered / Turned over
But, our arms were so tightly wrapped
Around ourselves…

…leaving us to build a faith
On faded echoes
Dressing room mirrors
And, the memory of dreams.

“Do you have eyes, and fail to see? Do you have ears, and fail to hear? And do you not remember?” Mark 8:18

Light a Candle

2009-09-22T09:01:00.007-05:00

Warm thoughts, best wishes and prayers
Frozen in wax.

Waiting to thaw. Watching for spring.
Wanting to melt and run free.

What does it mean to you to be thought of? To be wondered about. Remembered. Looked forward to seeing again. It seems to me, that of all the things we have to give and to share; of all the ways we have of being with and for one another, there is something about the real estate of heart and mind…

Wick and wood have their spans
Only one flame is eternal
Ite, Missa est.

The Apostle Paul never forgot all God’s beloved in Rome when he prayed. He gave thanks without ceasing for the saints in Ephesus as he remembered them. He prayed constantly with joy in every one of his prayers for all the holy ones in Christ Jesus in Philippi, along with the overseers and helpers… Thanksgiving. Prayer. Remembrance. Constant and without ceasing. Like the seasons. Like the sea. Waves of mercy and grace.

“Smoke from this altar” *
Bright images in dark glass beheld
Light reflected and radiant and magnified…

…as we carry it with us into the world. Into the night. Illuminating paths we travel together. Awakening the dawn. Brightening the day. In consideration. In appreciation. In loving and living memory of one another and the One who remembers us all.

Thinking of you. Hope all is well. Until next time.

~Brian

* Smoke From This Altar is a book by L'Amour and the title of a poem in it. I borrow these words here, more for their sense of: Exodus 30:1-10; Psalm 141:2 or Proverbs 27:9 "Ointment and perfume delight the heart: so doth the sweetness of a man's friend by counsel of the soul." KJV

Sleeping in Sunday Morning

2009-09-15T08:36:00.003-05:00

At my church,
The perfect church,
They never sing too loud.

The hymn’s are all my favorite
No one ever sits in my seat
And, everyone knows
My name.

At this church,
The perfect church,
The preacher stays on point.

The message doesn’t veer too close
No one expects anything of me
And, I don’t ask much
In return.

At church,
The perfect church,
The Good News is for tomorrow.

Heaven is someplace far, far away
No one tries to tell me different
And, I wouldn’t believe it
If they did.

At my church,
The perfect church,
I know each line by heart.

Because it’s my church,
The perfect church.
It’s not ours.
Not His.
Mine.

And, I worship there alone.

Said & Done

2009-09-07T00:44:00.002-05:00

When all is said and done –
I wonder whether or not it will be.
Said and done, that is.
Will it be done
Well and faithfully?
Will what’s been spoken
Have been truth?
And, will that truth fill our love
In the same way water fills a cup
Or sunrise fills the sky?
When the fight is fought
And the race is run,
Will there be Peace?
May there be Peace.
Can there be Peace?
Let there be Peace.

What the Hell?

2009-08-25T14:41:00.006-05:00

If I were to make a study of hell based only on what can be read from church signs… Or, more to the point, if I were travelling through life “outside” the Church – unconfirmed; unconvinced of a loving God who seeks to save us from ourselves and enjoy relationship with us forever; uncommitted to any intentional expression of faith – does anyone think a pithy one-liner about eternal damnation, unending torment, irrevocable condemnation, etc. would somehow draw me nearer to the Lord? Is this the faithful witness to the love of God in Christ Jesus that the Holy Spirit comes to empower? Please don’t get me wrong. I believe there is a hell. I believe the evil we ask to be delivered from in the Lord’s Prayer is all-too-real. I believe “the thief cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy…” John 10:10 KJV

I guess I also believe that such things should be dealt with soberly, with the Master’s rebuke ringing in our ears, “Ye know not what manner of spirit ye are of. For the Son of man is not come to destroy men’s lives, but to save them.” Luke 9:55, 56 KJV

What saddens me about these signs, is that they often read like an inside joke – a knowing wink – that leaves the uninitiated, the uninformed, the unwilling or the unable alone to fend for themselves. Another thing, and this may just be me, I have never found the terrors of hell to be more compelling than the fear (awe, wonder, reverence, gravitas, etc.) of the Lord or the healing touch of grace, mercy and peace.

I love Francis Xavier (c. 1546) for these words: My God, I love you not because I hope for heav’n thereby; / nor yet because if I love not, I must forever die. / But, O my Jesus, you did me upon the cross embrace; / for me you bore the nails and spear and manifold disgrace. / Then why, O blessed Jesus Christ, should I not love you well; / not for the sake of winning heav’n or of escaping hell? / E’en so I love you and will love, and in your praise will sing, / solely because you are my God and my eternal King.

What he said.

Souvenir

2009-08-17T23:26:00.003-05:00

Wayde had already spent too much time looking for that perfect gift – gifts to be exact – one each for his wife and two children. It had been a busy week, running over with important conversations and meetings and thinking and being and doing many things. It was now a busy layover in a busy airport in a busy city with a connecting flight in forty-five minutes.

It would have been difficult to say exactly what Wayde was hoping to find. Something nice. Something fun. Something to remind… Well, who? And, of what? What remembrance could a tee shirt or baseball cap convey? What message could a mug or a snow globe bear that he could not? Wayde considered upping the ante. Perhaps he should check one of the specialty boutiques lining the terminal? Gourmet sweets. A designer handbag. Stuffed animals or a good book –

His phone started ringing. At a glance Wayde could see that it was his wife Sharon and that his flight would leave in half-an-hour.

Out of respect for this young couple's privacy, we will leave the details of their conversation to them. But, there was one thing Wayde’s wife said that I do not think she would mind our sharing. Wayde went on for some time – wasting time, in fact – trying to fetch subtle hints from Sharon; clues to put him on the trail of the gifts he was seeking. Presents that could only be received with bright-eyed laughter and a, “Oh! It’s just what I’ve always wanted!”

But, Mrs. Mortgenson was one step ahead of him. And, she meant what she said when she said, “Just get on that plane, Wayde, and come home. We miss you.”

That evening, as he walked in the front door of his house and set his bags down, Wayde, Sharon, their children and even the family dog all got what any of us really want; to be reminded that we belong together.

Myrtle B(each)log II: Small Wonder

2009-07-30T21:54:00.002-05:00

There are many approaches to collecting seashells which, as I see it, all fit into two categories. Whether you’re Indiana Jones or more of a Steve Irwin, you generally look to either make the Big Find or are overjoyed at even the slightest tell. But, those big finds (a giant conch, winged scallops, sand dollars, fossilized shark teeth, etc.) are few and far between. Wind and wave, surf and shore are nigh irresistible forces and even the most durable seashell is a fragile beauty. If stumbling across one of these every now and again has convinced you that such things are the only things worth seeking …

Look closer
Think smaller
Beneath your feet
Wonder even at grains of sand

I once noticed and have since learned to scan for little seashells. And by “little” I mean Lilliputian, miniscule, itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny. Shells that are almost always pristine, picture perfect little miracles. While these small wonders are actually more numerous, they can also be harder to find – or, maybe just more difficult to notice, easier to overlook…

Things like family and friendship
Acts of kindness and encouraging words
Timely assurances that we are firmly anchored and free to sail

Twice in the Gospels, the angelic message is basically, “What’cha lookin’ at?” Luke puts it more eloquently, “Why do you seek the living among the dead?” and later, in Acts, “Why do you stand gazing up into heaven?” But, I think the point is that maybe we should pay more attention to what’s going on – how it is – what’s happening – all around us. In each case, the Risen Christ and Ascended Lord is found as we go, on the way, in the telling and sharing of his love, in the breaking of bread…

In all the small things. The details. Little wonders.

Myrtle B(each)log

2009-07-21T06:02:00.006-05:00

First morning at the beach yesterday. Up early. Down by the seaside with my daughter. The sun had been up for some time by the time we got there. But, the sky was a skim milk shade of pale-blue-gray that changed little from dawn to dusk. We were beachcombing, looking for seashells, seaglass and such. I kept wondering if we were focusing too narrowly on the stretch of shore immediately at our feet; too intent on laying claim to some small treasure, when I noticed a jogger pointing out to sea. I looked up and there were several dolphins swimming along beyond the breakers. They were as close to the beach as I'd ever seen them and we even got to see one leap almost completely out of the water! Spending time near the ocean always makes appreciate how familiar it is: familiar sights, and sounds and smells. And, how utterly unsearchable it is at the same time: in depth, span and all the life hidden within it. I'm thinking there are a lot of things in life like this: childhood, friendship, religion... Perhaps even God? - Well, up-and-at-'em early again this morning, sitting out on the balcony 18 stories up, watching the world and the Atlantic and Myrtle Beach wake up.

Moravian Youth Convo 2009

2009-07-13T00:33:00.005-05:00

A great wit once said, “Youth is wasted on the young.” I couldn't disagree more. Some may hear this saying and nod or smile knowingly; supposing themselves the fortunate beneficiaries of time. I guess to even think such a thing – to find this humorous and accept it as true – one would have to believe they were somehow in a better position to steward the birthright of all who dream and those who dare. Or, one might simply not have had the privilege of sharing a week with remarkable young people from Moravian Churches in Canada, Minnesota, North Carolina, North Dakota, New Jersey, New York and Pennsylvania at Youth Convo 2009 in Northfield MN. I went as a chaperone, a guide and a leader. I return convinced that these faith-filled, grace-full young apostles have many things to teach us: about reaching into culture, beyond the context of yesteryear; about conversation being as important as conversion; and about the high and holy calling of building up authentic community. I'm tired. I'm sore. Been staying up too late and getting up too early all week. I'm wondering how long it'll take me to recover from Convo... and hoping, in some ways, that I never do.

Everywhere & Anywhen

2009-07-01T17:20:00.003-05:00

How can it be that everywhere -- any place you choose, each x-marked spot and precise location -- is the exact center of Infinity? And, this moment... And, now the next -- stretching forward and back without measure or end -- is the very mid-point of Eternity.

Praying with Paul (An Apology)

2009-06-25T00:18:00.006-05:00

I think it'd be cool to speak in the tongues of men and angels.
You gave me no water for my feet…
O Lord of the long and winding road; the high places; the narrow path and the valley of the shadow of death, have mercy on me. May the great and wondrous gifts I seek be found in humble acts that refresh the weary and heavy-laden.

I want the gift of prophecy and to be able to fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and have a faith that can move mountains.
You gave me no kiss…
O Holy One of sorrows; despised and acquainted with grief, I am sorry. May all the wisdom I need be gained through a loving embrace of the lonely, the lost and the least.

I may consider giving all I possess to the poor but can’t even imagine surrendering my body to the flames.
You did not anoint my head with oil…
O Child of the Manger and God of the Cross, please forgive. May the sacrifice of wealth and works in which we trust never displace the obedience and intimacy you desire. May my tithes and offerings ever be the first and best of justice, mercy and faithfulness.

Emmanuel, God with Us, Living Word in our midst…
Grant that we may:
Seek your Kingdom before all else
Honor you above all else
Love more than all else

Amen.

What's in a Name?

2009-06-14T00:24:00.003-05:00

What if “Christian” were less of a brand,
And more of an accusation or indictment?

What if “Christian” weren’t just how we see ourselves,
Or speak to one another about each other;
But, the How we live and the Who we love,
And the Way we give ourselves
For others?

What if it’s not what we call ourselves
(Or, everyone else) that matters?

What if it’s the One on whom we call?
The One who calls us? To be holy.
To be loving and to forgive. Who names us:
Beloved, Light and Salt.

Maybe we shouldn’t presume the privilege
Of naming good intentions and firmly-held beliefs
That have yet to take hold of another’s burden?

When we are most aptly named
Most intimately known
As “Christians”
By our love.

~John 13:35

Opening Presence

2009-06-02T00:30:00.004-05:00

If faith is the substance of things hoped for (Hebrews 11:1)
I wonder, then, if presence could be the substance of faith…

What it’s made of. Where wishful thinking and high hopes
Come in for a landing. Where good intentions and all-the-right-words
Take on flesh and bone, move in with us, and go to work.

Our endlessly inventive catalogue of pros and cons
Compasses that only point left or right
One-word ideologies and bumper-sticker theology

Leave me wondering about the nature:
Of looking up
Standing by
Waiting for
Leaning on
Being with
Coming to

To have to choose
Between HD black-and-white
And high-resolution shades-of-gray

Often leaves me wondering
If perhaps we aren’t coloring with all the crayons in the box.

In Memoriam

2009-05-25T17:36:00.005-05:00

Seashells, scattered like seed by the tireless hand of the deep
Upon the good soil of childhood memories
And into the long hope of golden years.

Brass casings, fallen to rest upon the well-tended lawns,
Quiet stones and hallowed ground of our homes
of perpetual care and restless vigilance.

Treasures yielded to the tides and currents of fate, fortune
or the searching hands of all who find and keep…

Faith
Covenant
Living Dreams
Home Fires Burning

…for those who fought and with all who survive.

In such shells I hear the pounding of the surf,
The roar of blood in my ears,
And the silent echo of
A house divided,
A heart torn

From hearth and from home

Where childlike faith
And sacrificial love walk
Side-by-side as a Lion and a Lamb.

"Our House"

2009-05-20T20:06:00.005-05:00

There once was a man who felt that the world was not paying attention to God. So, he laid a foundation, raised walls and put up a roof over hallowed ground. The world took notice of this house the man had built and people began to gather there together in reverence. The man felt that he had served God well and everyone agreed that it was, indeed, a very fine house. Over time it became necessary to expand the foundation, raise the walls even higher and put up a much bigger roof as more and more of the world was welcomed into the house and made itself at home. However; the man began to feel that people were paying more attention to the house than they were to God. So, he moved out. He decided that what God really wanted was to be worshipped quietly and in peace, without all the fuss. On the edge of town, far away from the house, he sat himself down and began to do just that. Or, at least he tried. He found the wind’s whispering through the tall grass distracting and had to keep mowing it down. He grew annoyed by the birds’ twittering and was always chasing them away. He soon discovered others, like him, who had also left and they quickly put up fences to keep each other out. This poor man ended up working so hard that he never had time to worship God. So, he began to wander. He found himself back on the streets of town, all mixed up again with the world among the heartless and hopeless and helpless. He could now see that they were without a home in this world, and he began to build them one out of kindness and mercy and peace. Imagine his surprise when many of them moved into this space with him and they found, together, that they were reverencing God! In this way, they started to build homes and to make homes of their lives for others. And, the world took notice. Over time, the man began to wonder about all those fences he had left out on the edge of town and all the people he had left behind them. He said, “I’ll be right back.” Some answered, “We’ll come with you.” Others prepared lunches for them to bring and to share. When they got to the outskirts, the people there were suspicious of newcomers; the fences where high, far apart and jealously guarded. Imagine their surprise when the man, whom they recognized, went and took down his old fence, inviting everyone to sit down and have a meal with him. Imagine the man’s surprise when they did! So, they all ate together and it felt like home. Even the birds and the breeze and the blossoms on the trees laughed for joy. That night, as the man knelt by his bedside, he thanked God for paying attention to the world, all the people in it and for the Great Gift of Peace. As he put out the light and pulled the covers up to his chin, he thought he heard God thank him for the lovely home we are building.

Keeping it Real

2009-05-15T10:06:00.004-05:00

What do you suppose Pinocchio is really about? Thinking back on Disney’s version of the Old Italian fairy tale, what stood out for me was the fear that my nose would grow whenever I lied. Well, somewhere around ‘93 songwriter Tanya Donelly and her band, Belly, infected me with the phrases: “hey Gepetto” and “just like Gepetto.” And, their song Gepetto suggested that there may be more to this old woodcarver than meets the eye. I guess I never got over that. I suppose I see in Geppetto (Italian spelling) something of a father-figure; a loving creator who wants nothing more than for his little woodenhead to become a real child. One that can dance and sing and laugh and play. One that can be loved by him and love him back. No strings attached. Here’s an image of our relationship with God that works for me.

There’s also an interesting exchange between the Blue Fairy and Pinocchio on the workbench. She gives him life – but this does not make him real. “There is no magic that can make us real.” She says, “I have given you life—the rest is up to you.” What do you make of that? I wonder if “real” means here the same as: authentic, sincere, genuine or bona fide? I wonder if there’s something of Job 33:4; John 6:63; Acts 2:1-12; or 2 Corinthians 3:6 in the gift of life as opportunity, not guarantee. Maybe Pinocchio’s Big Adventure (and our own) is discovering what it means to be authentic, sincere, genuine, bona fide, real boys and girls – sons and daughters of a loving, Heavenly Father?

Along the way, Pinocchio runs into some pretty shady characters: a fire-eating showman and puppet master; a coachman to Pleasure Island; a sly old fox and a stupid cat. He gets into some hairy situations and almost makes a complete ass (literally) of himself. Sound like anybody you know? But, let’s not forget good old Jiminy Cricket (who seems to have made up his mind to never leave or forsake Pinocchio)! And, let’s not fail to appreciate the depth (to the very bottom of the sea) of this little wooden boy’s repentance; the humility of his confession, “What does life mean to me without my father?” Or, the rejoicing over his conversion: “Geppetto stared unbelievingly. Once more he picked Pinocchio up in his arms and hugged him, and cried—this time for joy. Again a miracle had been performed; this was truly the answer to his wish—the [child] he had always wanted!”

Sounds bona fide (Latin for “in good faith”) to me.

Another Year Older...

2009-05-11T19:31:00.004-05:00

I’m not sure we should call it a Birthday or an Anniversary – either way, I’m Happy to say Patience of a Seed has had a part and place in our travels together for one whole year! Along the way, I really do hope you’ve found here “a bit of breath and light for the journey.” As we share – posts and comments – readings and writings – ideas and inspiration – I believe (and pray) that something of the heart and soul of faith is touched: creative expression (God as Creator); the re-valued currency of dreams and visions (Redeemer); an open invitation to experience loving community (and Sustainer). Great expectations for a blog, I know. But, Patience of a Seed has only ever been meant as a gathering of reflections and a reflecting back to one another of the awe, joy and wonder we find in the world and works of a God from whom we could never, ever expect enough. Thanks for making the trip!

Cheers!
~Brian

Between Christianity & Christ: A Religious Dialogue

2009-04-27T11:33:00.002-05:00

“I want to live a good life. A purpose filled life. Maybe even a life worth dying for.”
I Am the Resurrection and the Life

“I can tell right from wrong, and I always try to do the right thing.”
Apart from me you can do nothing. I Am your Righteousness

“I see myself as a decent person. A person of character and integrity.”
I Am Holy

“I consider myself strong-willed and determined. But, I wish I could be stronger.”
My strength is made perfect in weakness. I Am all Strength

“I would like to be more loving; and to be more loved. I want to know what love is.”
I Am Love

“I cherish my Bible; God’s Word.”
I Am the Living Word; the Word Made Flesh

“I can’t forget the past. I can’t stop worrying about the future.”
Before Abraham was, I Am

“I long for peace of mind, peace on earth, peace like a river.”
I Am your Peace

“I believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God…”
I Am gazing upon your face through the eyes of a child
I Am calling out your name with a Shepherd’s voice
I Am reaching out to you in a stranger’s need
I Am standing at your door and knocking
I Am jealous for you like a lover
I Am waiting for you
I Am with you

Abide in me

Amen

Show of Hands*

2009-04-16T22:09:00.005-05:00

Worship is a show of hands:
folded, upturned, raised, offered
Subtle and open gestures of Grace.
Liturgy is a show of hands: waving, shaking, holding, turning, taking, serving, passing, placing, blessing, breaking, binding, loosing
Mercy in motion. A language, in sign,
Of invitation, reception and commitment.
All our services, gatherings and sacred assemblies
Are a show of hands
In loving favor
Of Peace.

* in humble acknowledgement & appreciation of Victor Wooten for the inspiration

To See or Not to See: A Kōan

2009-04-06T08:17:00.003-05:00

There once were two brothers with a common complaint against the world.

“Brother,” said the one. “Hardly can a man close his eyes and open them again without all things having shifted before him.”

“I have noticed this as well, my brother,” said the other. “With each drawing down and raising up again of these fragile shutters there is much of life that we miss.”

They sat together, quietly pondering.

“What should one do?” asked the first.

“What can one do?” answered the second.

Travelers waved leisurely from the road. A plowman busied himself and his animals in a muddy paddy field. Shadows stretched themselves along the ground, reaching hungrily toward the gathering dusk.

“I will close my eyes and never open them again.” And, that is what the first brother did.

Admiring his brother’s resolve, but questioning its wisdom, the second brother vowed to hold his eyes open forever. And, that is what the second brother did.

A humble sage came to visit the two brothers one day. They had aged greatly and many sorrows rested heavily upon them. He listened thoughtfully to their complaint and agreed that change comes swift and certain to all things and everyone. After each brother told of his own struggle against this truth, the sage asked, “And, what have you learned?”

“I do not dream. There is no longer anything I have to imagine or hope for. Nothing escapes my notice, but I am no longer able to see with my heart,” replied the second brother.

“All I have are dreams,” said the first brother. “My imagination has fed upon itself to starvation. Nothing moves in the darkness behind my eyes where there are neither blossoms nor fruit.”

It has now been many years since the two brothers passed away. Travelers take little notice anymore of a small shrine in the trees off the road. The plowman’s great-grandson sold his field, built a new house for his family, and drives to work in the city. Even the sage has long since been forgotten. Only the hungry shadows remember, endlessly fleeing the face of the sun.

Spring Bloom & First Fruits

2009-03-31T22:33:00.005-05:00

a reflection on the flood effort in N. Dakota & Minnesota

There are many ways we live our lives
Apart from what gives us Life:

Belief in something more
A vision of something better
Knowing there is someone who cares

That our memories are short and selective
That we pride ourselves on ourselves
That we tend to take for granted

Often cuts us off from Faith, Hope and Love
Which, require remembrance, humility and gratitude
In order to take root, grow strong and bear fruit in our lives

I may feel overwhelmed by rising waters and falling snow
But, I am overcome by the love of my neighbor
And a living witness to Emmanuel
God with us.

Speaking in Tongues

2009-03-29T07:59:00.003-05:00

5th Sunday in Lent
a reflection on John 12:20-33

Lent has become a forgotten language; a native tongue from which we are estranged. It is a story we cannot, for the life of us, remember. All of its mystery and much of its passion escape us, leaving us ill-prepared for the events of the Week to come.

Unless…

Do you wish to see? / Are you willing to hear? / Would you be set free and would you be led? / Beyond yourself / From all you knew / Into the wilderness / Through death to enter life

a grain of wheat…

Yesterday’s harvest / The seed and secret of our tomorrows / Filled with the promise of abundance / Trusting in its purpose / Waiting patiently on the Son and the Reign

falls into the earth and dies…

It is not the end that we fear / It is the beginning of something new / It is not the death of a grain of wheat that Jesus finds tragic / It is the grain of wheat that does not fall into the earth / Forever unchanged, unfailing and unfruitful

it remains just a single grain.

“But if it dies…” These are the sounds of repentance. This is the song of our long journey home. O Great Mystery! Wash over us, Passiontide and flood. Open the city gates and unbar your hearts! Make straight the paths of the Lord and He shall meet you upon the Way.

Becoming Sin

2009-03-22T16:58:00.004-05:00

4th Sunday in Lent
a reflection on John 3:14-21

Karl had been walking fields all day. It was a good stand of wheat, high and full. No change from yesterday, or the day before. No reason to keep fussing over it. If you praised Karl’s farming, he would brag on his great-grandfather’s good fortune and practical wisdom. Ask him how things were at home, and Karl would answer, “Well, I better go see how the crop’s coming.”

Along the back forty east of his farm Karl found some blighted wheat. It was plain to see what needed to be done, which was a comfort. Karl was looking for problems he could solve, difficulties he could manage easily. A breach of trust, on the other hand; broken promises, the blight on Karl’s relationship with his family, these were not like the seeds or the soil that he was used to working.

Karl kicked at a clod of dirt and swore. He cursed his luck, cursed his circumstances, cursed everyone and everything weighing him down. I’m a good man, he thought. I made a mistake. He wondered if it would be best to just leave, but Karl heard the lie for what it was. Turning from the field, and the failure, and the feelings he did not want to face, Karl spotted a snake on a rock in the ditch. It sat up, alert to Karl’s presence, unblinking, unflinching, without sympathy or remorse. In an instant, Karl saw the lie – and his own sin – for what it was.

He found his wife busy at her sewing. “Mathilda,” she looked up. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Please forgive me.”

“So Moses made a serpent of bronze, and put it upon a pole; and whenever a serpent bit someone, that person would look at the serpent of bronze and live.” ~Numbers 21:9

Man On the Street

2009-03-15T07:32:00.002-05:00

3rd Sunday in Lent
a reflection on John 2:13-22

“There’s this guy I keep running into that creeps me out, which is a funny way to put it. You ‘run into’ people you haven’t seen awhile, people you’re glad to see: old friends, distant relatives, former co-workers. You stop and talk. Maybe you pull out a picture, exchange business cards or whatever, and you’re on your way. But, this guy, I don’t know from Adam.”

It is for your sake that I have borne reproach, that shame has covered my face. I have become a stranger to my kindred, an alien to my mother’s children…

“He must be homeless. I mean, he’s everywhere and nowhere: on the streets, in the park, uptown, downtown. I’ve even seen him come out of that little church on the corner and go into the bar across the street. I’m not sure what kind of church wants someone like him, but I knew if I tossed that bum a nickel, it’d go up in smoke or worse.”

It is zeal for your house that has consumed me; the insults of those who insult you have fallen on me. When I humbled my soul with fasting, they insulted me for doing so. When I made sackcloth my clothing, I became a byword to them…

“What’s his story? I wonder. Is he an immigrant? Can he speak English? Does he have some horrible disease? Where’s his family? Why doesn’t someone help these disabled veterans? Maybe I’m imagining this guy. Maybe if I keep ignoring him, he’ll go away.”

I am the subject of gossip for those who sit in the gate, and the drunkards make songs about me. ~Psalm 69:7-11

“What’s his story, though? I really wish someone would tell me. Maybe the next time I run into him, I’ll stop and ask.”

Then He Began to Teach Them

2009-03-08T07:45:00.003-05:00

2nd Sunday in Lent
a reflection on Mark 8:31-38

Jiao Li could not believe what she was hearing. Over on the park swings, a father pushed his little girl as she laughed and kicked her feet into the sky. Tears stung in Jiao Li’s eyes. Through the phone at her ear, her daughter was still trying to explain herself.

“If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me…”

“How can you do this?” Jiao Li interrupted. “No! I’m not listening. You listen to me.” Jiao Li forcefully outlined the expectations her daughter was to live up to; the many sacrifices and generations of hopes she must honor; the years of hard work and careful plans she was failing to appreciate.

“For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it…”

“What do you mean you have to? Don’t give me that! We are Christians. That doesn’t mean you turn your back on everything to do what you think God wants you to do! Where do you get this stuff?”

“For what will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life? Indeed, what can they give in return for their life?” ~Mark 8:31-38

Jiao Li’s heart had never known such sorrow. The Jesus she thought she knew so well – this Savior she had raised her daughter to pray to, sing about, hold in her heart and wait to see one day in heaven – how could He ask so much of her? Not so much of her daughter, who wanted to go back to China as a missionary, but of Jiao Li, who Jesus was asking to let her.

Into the Wilderness

2009-03-01T06:51:00.003-06:00

1st Sunday in Lent
a reflection on Mark 1:9-14

Desmond had grown unaccustomed to traveling light. But, neither was he prepared to be called away so soon. He only stepped out for a minute, and the answering machine counted off three missed calls. Each from the same person, bearing the same message, in the same words: “My son, come home.”

“Yet even now, says the LORD, return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing…”

Making this trip on such an impulse, with no time to pack, no time to make plans or lay provision, Desmond felt vulnerable and exposed. He was not comfortable entrusting to others what he ought to determine for himself. How long will I be gone? What am I going to eat? Where can I stay?

“Who knows whether he will not turn and relent, and leave a blessing behind him, a grain offering and a drink offering for the LORD, your God? Blow the trumpet in Zion; sanctify a fast; call a solemn assembly; gather the people…”

Having left so many distractions behind, Desmond became more aware of himself and of what he had brought with him: hunger, loneliness and fear; all those frightful, familiar things beckoning him to turn around, turn away, turn back to the broad and well-worn paths leading nowhere.

“Between the vestibule and the altar let the priests, the ministers of the LORD, weep. Let them say, ‘Spare your people, O LORD, and do not make your heritage a mockery, a byword among the nations. Why should it be said among the peoples, ‘Where is their God?’” ~Joel 2:12-17

Desmond also found that he had hope. He had heard his father’s voice. Unexpected. Long-awaited. A dream remembered. A way in the wilderness, leading home.

Breather*

2009-02-14T20:51:00.002-06:00

(Busy? Take a minute, anyway, to pray the following words aloud.)

Be still and know that I am God

(A deep breath in. A slow breath out. Keep reading.)

Be still and know that I am

(There will be time, God’s time, for you today.)

Be still and know

(Another breath. Another moment.)

Be still

(Be held. Be loved.)

Be

(Breathe.)

Be still

(Wait. Watch. Listen.)

Be still and know

(Life and motion and being in Him.)

Be still and know that I am

(Love that won’t quit, all that’s fair and right.)

Be still and know that I am God

Amen.

Thus says the LORD: Do not let the wise boast in their wisdom, do not let the mighty boast in their might, do not let the wealthy boast in their wealth; but let those who boast boast in this, that they understand and know me, that I am the LORD; I act with steadfast love, justice and righteousness in the earth, for in these things I delight, says the LORD. ~Jeremiah 9:23-24

* A breath prayer based on Psalm 46:10

Pastel Sugar Hearts*

2009-02-02T19:03:00.007-06:00

As you read this, many school children will be preparing to take part in the time-honored tradition of exchanging Valentine’s Day cards. What strikes me most as I help my kids pick out cards, is neither the dizzying variety to choose from nor my nostalgia for the “good old” cartoons of yesterday. No, what really impresses me is that whichever we choose, there have to be enough cards in the box for everyone in class. There has to be a card for your best friend and one for the kid who keeps checking out the library book you want. There has to be a card for the boy or girl you talk to everyday after school and there has to be one for the kid whose name you have to look up. Simply put, there has to be one for everyone. When did we grow up and stop loving like this? When did we start thinking love was a feeling and not a promise? When did we start believing that love was a reward instead of a gift? And, when did Christians decide that the new commandment given by Jesus was a suggestion? The Gospel According to John, chapter 13, verse 34 reads, “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” God loves each one of us every minute of everyday. And, while we do not have to first change who we are to receive the promise of God’s love; God’s love is the gift of new life, a changed life, life lived in light of who God created and calls us to be. It is a Valentine’s Day card. And, there is one for everyone!

* first published as a Pastor's Corner column in the Cass County Reporter

"Waiting On A Friend" *

2009-01-26T09:16:00.006-06:00

“I just can’t figure you out.” She says casually. Perhaps not meaning to make a big statement; not realizing that she has pretty well summed things up. He wipes a hand slowly down his face, stretching it out at the chin.

“Figure me out?” He finally manages.

“Yeah. I’m not sure I get you. I don’t know where to put you – in my life.” She pauses.

He clears his throat. “Don’t you think we’re kind of ‘in’ each other’s lives whether we’re ‘put’ anywhere or not? Why do I have to fit somewhere instead of just being part of it? And, what happens once you get me all figured out?”

The waiter stops and stands in front of me. I turn my attention to him; smile back, and place my order.

“How do you want your egg?”
“Sunny side up, please. A little runny.”
“White or wheat?”
“Do you have rye?”
“I think. Let me check –”
“No. No, wheat’s fine.”
“Meat?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Bacon, Canadian bacon, ham, sausage patty, sausage links…”
“Ham, please.”
“Coffee?”
“No. Just a small orange juice.”
“Got it.”
“Oh, wait. And a cinnamon roll.”
“And a cinnamon roll.”
“Yep. Thanks.”
“Be right back with your juice.”

Checking my watch, I have plenty of time before my appointment, and it is just a few blocks away. Someone has left an unfinished crossword behind. A couple guys eating at the counter are discussing politics – or sports – hard to tell.

Everything finally makes it out to the table and I get to thinking. At Lydia’s the other night they were talking about Abraham and Sarah. Quite a pair, those two. I like them. Especially Sarah, who laughed! Of all the ways people in the bible respond to God, Abraham and Sarah seem the most accessible to me. The most humble. The most real. But, then someone started in on this “Abraham as friend of God” thing. What it means and what it does not. Taking a point of contact and turning it into a roadblock. I think when the bible says Abraham was a “friend of God,” it means just that.

* * *

While making rounds with the coffee pot, the waiter notices that the man at table fourteen has left. He finds enough money on the table to cover the bill as well as an extremely generous tip. He also finds the following prayer, carefully handwritten on a napkin:

“Forgive me, Old Friend, for all the times I make a puzzle of you. Playing our relationship like a game with letters, lines and boxes. Pieces fit to my way of thinking. Forms patterned according to my wanting to win or just not wanting to lose. Excuse me, Dear Neighbor, for approaching as though you were a problem rather than welcoming you as an honored guest. I am truly sorry, Wonderful Counselor, to find how often I hold my own positions dearer than your confidence and trust. Here is my heart. Here is my hand. Would you take them, please? And, might we walk together? Amen.”

“Excuse me!” The young couple who have been arguing over in booth five wave to get the waiter’s attention. “Check, please.” They seem anxious to leave. Without missing a beat, he puts the napkin-prayer quietly away and turns to them.

“You’re good.” He smiles. “The guy that was sitting here bought you breakfast.”

“I do not call you servants any longer, because the servant does not know what the master is doing; but I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything that I have heard from my Father.” ~John 15:15

* With apologies and appreciation to M. Jagger & K. Richards!

Fireflies & Snowflakes

2009-01-15T21:03:00.003-06:00

Grace
Is just a word.

Until you find yourself
Groping for meaning, sense and purpose
Where there is only darkness, pain and fear.

But, there and then it becomes an ember.
Softly glowing
Tightly grasped
Fiercely felt

Burning through the numbness
Awakening hope.

Fireflies at dusk
On a hillside
Across the street from the emergency room.

Snowflakes
Perfect and unbroken
Resting against the dark wool of a mourner’s scarf.

I have borrowed faith from such simple things
And, found peace in such terrible beauty.

Freely offered.
Dearly bought.

In a word,
Grace.

3... 2... 1

2008-12-31T18:35:00.003-06:00

Every good story
Is a promise.

Of truth,
Of meaning,
Of something more,
And further, and deeper
Than just the words on the page.

My prayer
My Christmas wish
And, New Year’s resolution

Is that we might find together
A living claim upon the promise of our story
Within the pages of “the old, old story”
Of Jesus and his love.

As you look back over the last
And, forward to the next

May you see further and deeper,
Something more,
The meaning
And truth

Of God’s great longing
For us all.

Judgment Call

2008-12-17T22:24:00.006-06:00

A hush fell over the courtroom as the judge took his seat.

Witnesses had been called. Closing arguments made. The verdict was in and there was nothing more for anyone to say. Guilt and innocence were in his hands. Justice and mercy were his alone to pronounce.

The honorable & righteous judge

His word will mean life or death.
His word will separate darkness and light, truth from lies.
His word will show us – and it will be for us – the way.

Law & Gospel

The gavel is struck:
From the manger, from the cross, from the empty tomb
From his chambers, his court, and from his church today…

The verdict and the appeal
The charge and the sentence
The judgment
Is, “Love.”

“That Love is all there is,
Is all we know of Love;
It is enough, the freight should be
Proportioned to the groove.”
~Emily Dickinson

Seven Pilgrims

2008-12-12T08:57:00.007-06:00

We set out one evening to find you, Jesus,
And weren’t sure where to look.

While brightly-lit steeples pointed to unseen things above, our eyes were on vacant lots and under bridges. Our thoughts and prayers were with you, Radiant Lord, as we walked past each dark alley and shadowed doorway. Christmas lights, neon signs, and scenes of the nativity glowed warmly from street corners, parking garages, storefronts, and yards; but we wondered how long the seven of us could stand the cold. We wondered who out here tonight may not have a choice. We came bearing gifts. We were burdened with care. Maybe we brought with us much of what we hoped to find. And, we did. Find you, that is. In the one woman who allowed us to share our hope, our care, and our gifts with her. In the bewilderment of a few drive-thru patrons surprised to find that their meals had been paid for. In hot cocoa and in the fellowship of seven pilgrims wandering and wondering and wanting to be a blessing.

We set out one evening to find you, Jesus,
And that’s where you found us.

For Elise, Kaylyn, Kat, Clemens, Chealsey, and Isabella

Refugee Thoughts

2008-12-05T11:03:00.002-06:00

The prayer for wisdom is understandable.
But, there is much wisdom in the prayer for understanding.

Many streams and strong currents there are
At work and at play
Within us all.

Fierce winds and towering waves
Of fear and of hope
Displacing one another in turn.

Life-giving. Storm-bringing. Great forces
Drawing and driving us steadily after their virtues
Or, sadly before their whims.

While the philosopher and the theologian
Seek, with words, to unravel the mysteries
Of Movement, Life and Being…
(The sad and comic figure of a microscope gazing at itself)
…God knows the secrets of the heart. ~Psalm 44:21

“Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my thoughts. See if there is any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.” ~Psalm 139:23, 24

Kasimir (room to think)

2008-11-24T06:01:00.007-06:00

The road beneath his feet and the sweet, green scent of evergreens carried Kasimir from one world to another. He walked without thinking, following landmarks hidden like stones beneath the surface of a swiftly flowing stream. To the northwest, far from the sea, Kasimir had found a place where he could be alone with his thoughts. Trying to concentrate while standing on the beach does not work. The waters have a way of flooding your mind and drawing you into their depths. This was often exactly what Kasimir wanted, but not what he needed just then.

From the crossroads, Kasimir followed a westward path cut neatly into the trees. After travelling a rough stone’s throw, he turned abruptly from the road and off into the dense underbrush. He kept low. He kept moving; always seeming to gain ground where the way was most in doubt. The thorns and thickets suddenly gave way before Kasimir into a large and open clearing. There, canopied beneath an inland sea of stars, Kasimir stretched himself out on the grass and listened closely to the silence.

The Picky, Little Goat

2008-11-17T06:54:00.003-06:00

Once upon a time there was a picky, little goat.

Try as she might, this kid’s mother could not get him to try anything new. She prepared meals that any little goat would like. She bargained with him and even tried bribery. But, nothing worked. He seldom ate much of anything, worrying his mother and leaving her to wonder how he would ever grow up healthy and strong.

One day, as the goat family sat down to dinner, the picky, little goat’s mother decided to try something different. “Little goat,” she announced. “The next time you say you don’t like something you haven’t even tried, an ogre will snatch you up and cook you for supper!”

This seemed to work, because he didn’t breathe a word as she set a big, black pot down on the table. Perhaps mother should have known better than to push her luck, but she could not help asking, “Do you want to know what we’re having?”

“I don’t like it! I won’t like it! And, I’m not going to try any!” shouted the picky, little goat.

No sooner had the words left his mouth, than there was a low rumble like thunder that rattled the silverware and shook the whole house. Before the picky, little goat knew what was happening, an ogre raised one side of the roof like a giant picnic basket and plucked the picky, little goat right out of his seat.

“Mother!” he cried. But, the ogre had already carried the picky, little goat too far away.

At the ogre’s lair, a great, big soup kettle hung over a neatly stacked pile of wood. The ogre tossed the picky, little goat into the kettle and called down to him, “Don’t you go anywhere. I’ll be right back and we’ll make some delicious soup.” If you have never seen a hungry ogre lick its lips and wink at you, you can call yourself lucky. But, this is not “The Lucky, Little Goat” and our hero was in a real pinch.

The ogre returned with two fistfuls of broccoli, which he dropped into the kettle. “Now, let me see.” He scratched his head and wondered aloud. “What now?” As everyone knows, ogres are not very bright and too much hard thinking quickly tires them out. This gave the picky, little goat an idea.

“Cheese!” the little goat shouted. “Don’t forget the cheese!”

“Hey, thanks!” the ogre grinned and lumbered off. As soon as he was gone, the picky, little goat ate every last piece of broccoli in the kettle. When the ogre came back and threw in two handfuls of cheese, he seemed confused. “Huh? I thought…”

“Broccoli!” the little goat yelled. “You can’t make cheese and goat and broccoli soup without broccoli!”

“Yeah, you’re right! Thanks, little goat. This will be the best soup ever.” Once the ogre was out-of-sight, the picky, little goat hurried and finished up all the cheese. When the hungry ogre arrived with the broccoli, he spread it around evenly and stood back looking puzzled.

“You’re almost done!” said the little goat. “All you need now is some cheese!”

“Boy, making soup is hard work!” the ogre sighed, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “I’ll be right back.” The ogre’s loud stomping became more of a tired shuffle. And, you guessed it, the little goat quickly gobbled up every last piece of broccoli. By time he got back, the ogre was all sweaty and out-of-breath. Instead of spacing the cheese out carefully, he set it all down in a big stack against one side of the kettle. The picky, little goat saw his chance.

“Way to go!” he cheered the ogre. “This really is going to be the best soup ever! Don’t forget the broccoli!”

The ogre just smiled weakly and nodded. As soon as he turned his back, the picky, little goat started climbing the stack of cheese. The ogre was nowhere to be seen when the little goat poked his head out of the kettle. He jumped down onto the woodpile and slid quietly to the floor. Somewhere in another room he could hear the ogre snoring loudly.

The picky, little goat was welcomed home as a hero and goats came from miles around to hear his story. As a matter of fact, the picky, little goat’s adventure helped many other goats escape the ogre, who eventually gave up and became a vegetarian.

As for our hero, these days he will gladly eat just about anything that mother sets in front of him.

Except broccoli and cheese soup.

White Birch Sky

2008-11-10T00:06:00.002-06:00

Teach me, Father
To be a son.

White birch window on the morning sky

I’ve grown up too fast
Judged your failures more harshly than my own
Turned my back and ran from you
When I’d only just learned to stand.

A frost-etched pane canopied beneath a tree that saves itself

Show me, Father
How to serve and care for others
How to bind and loose and tend
To the needful thing and the better part.

Unchanging glory framed by an endless procession of seasons…

Help me, Father
To rest in your strength, delight in your joy
To be at peace and unafraid
Knowing I am yours…

Seen darkly through a glass.

A risen sun.

Stay Tuned

2008-10-20T16:35:00.007-05:00

Dear Reader,

In the spirit of "breath and light" for the journey, I will be taking a short break from weekly postings.

Shabbat Shalom,
~Brian

"If the good Lord's willing and the creek don't rise,
we'll see you before long."

"The Measure of All Things"

2008-10-13T10:30:00.003-05:00

It’s said by some that there are
Many paths leading to God
Many names to which God will answer
Many faces upon which we may fix our adoration

Who am I to say there are not?
Even the psalmist proclaims a living God
From whom no path leads away!*

What I will say
And, what I do confess

Is that I do not always find within me
the faith to walk these paths to God.
I do not always hold onto
the hope that God would respond to my voice.
I do not always look with love upon the faces of Beauty and Truth.

This also,
Is my confession

There is One
Who walks the path to us
Who knows and calls us by name
Who smiles and laughs and weeps for love of us

Perhaps the surest path for us to reach God
Is the one that God would take to reach us?

*Psalm 139

Try This at Home

2008-10-06T08:21:00.004-05:00

Hold your hands out and tightly ball up your fists. Tightly. What things are you holding onto that hurt you or those around you? What things are you holding onto that grieve your Savior's heart? Anger, Fear, Resentment, Failure, Control, Anxiety, Embarassment, Painful Memories, Grief... Tighten your grip, hold these things out in front you, and pray:

Lord Jesus Christ
I hold out to you all that I can't let go

Now, open your hands and hold them out, palms down. Concentrate on the feeling of relaxation in your hands. Notice the color flowing back into your knuckles and your fingernails. Continue:

Releasing it into your care

Turn your hands over and hold them out, palms up.

That I may freely accept your grace, mercy, and peace

Cross your arms over your chest, placing your hands on your shoulders.

Receive these gifts unto myself

Hold your hands back out in front of you, palms up, one on top of the other.

Share them freely with others

Raise your hands as high as you can.

Praise your holy name

Stretch your arms out wide to either side.

And welcome my neighbor with open arms

Amen

Repeat

Psalm 23 in the Rearview Mirror

2008-09-29T08:48:00.003-05:00

1 I am my own shepherd. In other words, I’m a stray. 2 This withered plain is my pasture, where even tears are claimed by drought. 3 My soul is bruised; a wound that won't heal, leaving me all the emptiness I find on this crooked path for no good reason at all.

4 Even though I currently reside in the valley of the shadow of death, I’m afraid of my neighbors because they know I live alone. The rod is broken and my staff leaves me comfortless.

5 So I prepare a table and invite all my enemies; hoping they have previous engagements. I bury my head in my hands as a broken cup falls in pieces to the ground. 6 Surely fearfulness and judgment shall pursue me all the days of my life, and I may never find my way home again.

“Yeah, I know what love is and, it just don’t stop.
But, I can explain it better when I say what love’s not.” ~Mars Ill

Chrysanthemums

2008-09-22T07:10:00.003-05:00

We thought our mums were goners.

Around this time last year, they were incredible; big, bright, bushy bundles of burgundy, purple and gold. I’m no gardener or horticulturalist, but those flowers made me smile. I took a great deal of pleasure and pride in them (even though I knew they got along perfectly well without me). And, then winter came.

The mums ran their course, withered and withdrew to sleep and dream of – well, whatever it is dormant flowers dream about.

When my wife and I got around to cleaning up the yard this spring, it didn’t look like they’d made it. They froze. Hard. A few nights of minus-thirty will do that. And, we kicked ourselves. Hard. We hadn’t insulated them well enough. We’d cut them back too late, or too low, or … They were gone.

No green blush. No tender shoots broadening into leaves. No tiny buds as summer stretched itself across the Peace Garden State. We dug a few up that got just too sad to look at anymore.

I went to the flowerbed the other day – much like the women to the tomb – to care for the dead. When I arrived – much like the women at the tomb – it was my turn to be shocked by the new life, the unexpected life, the impossible life, the life-from-death that I found there waiting for me.

I’ve tried to capture and share this experience in a few lines inspired by the poetry of Bashō, Buson, and Issa. I think the formal beauty of haiku is its call to us to pay close and honest attention to the world around us, to one another, and to the deep currents of Spirit within ourselves. Enjoy!

Golden autumn blossoms
as leaves fall and trace God’s name—
Hope’s eternal spring*

*With apologies to Alexander Pope

Esau's Lament

2008-09-15T08:08:00.002-05:00

What did you get for it?
Hopefully, more than a serving of stew!
What’s a birthright go for, anyway?
These days.

Who wants to walk and wrestle with God?
When we can stay right where we are,
Pat ourselves on the back
And, not have to limp.

Who wants to cry out and call on the name of the Lord?
Who wants to look and listen for the Living Word?
When the sound of our own voices is so pleasant
And, only tells us what we want to hear.

Was it fifteen minutes of fame?
Was it clean hands and a clear conscience?
Was it more? Was it now? Was it everything –
And only the things – you thought it would be?

“Of what use?”
Was Esau’s frustrated complaint.
“If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace!”
Jesus cried as he wept for the Holy City.

Kasimir (enter Bigby)

2008-09-08T01:17:00.003-05:00

Bigby sat by a window, cleaning his pipe while a kettle whistled from the kitchen. A few moments later, the sound of footsteps, and a tea service was set on the table before him. “Thank you, Samantha.” She smiled and turned to check on the other guests. Bigby poured himself a cup and held it close to his face. He breathed in deeply and imagined that the steam was smoothing out his weathered features. Bigby chuckled at his own foolishness and set the tea down. It was still too hot. Over the noise of the dinner crowd, Bigby could make out the tireless whisper of the sea.

Bigby had once been a soldier; for years waging war on the murderers and thieves that prey upon the sea. Some say his family had been slain by pirates. Others will tell you that Bigby had been one himself. The point on which all agree: no one had ever witnessed a more singular and reckless commitment to the destruction of sea-faring villainy. Bigby had personally cut-down three-score and twelve men. His ship and crew destroyed eleven outlaw vessels without ever taking a prisoner. If a bounty were to be paid on delivery alive, Bigby contented himself with notoriety.

But, all that was long ago. He was now an old, blind man making a living from the sea. A father, with a beautiful, young daughter named Anna whom he raised on his own. A widower, whose wife had been taken from him by the grandson of a man he forgot having killed.

Bigby now lived under a deep sense of indebtedness to life itself and to the sea. Each night, having made sure that Anna was sleeping soundly, Bigby’s sightless eyes would fill with tears of gratitude for another day of living he didn’t feel he deserved.

Sola Affinitas

2008-09-01T18:59:00.003-05:00

When I was younger, my father served in the U.S. Navy and I'd receive letters from him while he was out to sea. I remember them vividly. Each one a reminder that I was on my father’s mind; that he missed me and looked forward to seeing me again. Many came with an illustration showing off my father’s creativity, his sense of humor, and how well he knew his son. These letters come to mind as I think about the Bible.

In a similar (but, not the same) way that those letters connected me with my dad, I see the Bible as a vital link between our heavenly Father and his beloved children. The books of the Bible are correspondence. They are letters reminding us that we are on our Father’s mind; that He misses us and looks forward to seeing us again. Each book from Genesis through Revelation bears witness to our Father’s creativity, his sense of humor (and irony), illustrating how well He knows and cares for his daughters and his sons.

Now, as much as I treasured those letters from my dad, they were no substitute for the real thing. They never took me fishing, cheered for my soccer team, or sat through Star Wars four times with me. What those letters did do, was reveal my father’s heart to me. Those letters remind me of important truths. And, they nurtured and strengthened our relationship.

It’s this last one that’s really got me thinking.

Jesus says that the Old Testament (the law and the prophets) is all about relationship (Matthew 7:12; Matthew 22:34-40). Jesus also claims to be the fulfillment of Hebrew Scripture (Matthew 5:17; Luke 24:25-27). It would seem that the whole Bible – both Testaments – is about Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ, Son of the Living God. And, that Jesus is the expression, the personification – the Incarnation – of God’s desire to live in loving relationship with us, and to have us live in loving relationship with one another.

I am not sure how you'll be struck by the following question: Can we get any closer to Jesus than the Bible? But, to my thinking, this question moves us from doctrinal positions on the authority of Scripture to the biblical focus on relationship. If Jesus Christ (Emmanuel) is God drawing near to us, shouldn't our lives be rooted and grounded in drawing near to Him?

The Good News, I believe, is that the answer to both questions is, “Yes!” Where two or three gather in his name (Matthew 18:20); as we minister to the “least of these” (Matthew 25:31-46); and as often as we come to the Lord’s Table in remembrance of him (Luke 22:14-20).

In the Bible, Jesus tells his followers that he is not only to be found within the pages and margins and binding of Holy Scripture, but also freshly written upon our hearts and on the pages of our life together. May the Living Christ – Author and Finisher of our faith – always find us ready to learn from him on the road, and may he ever be made known to us in the breaking of the bread (Luke 24:13-35)!

An Open Book,
~Pastor Brian

A Perfect Circle?

2008-08-25T07:03:00.002-05:00

...Service Rendered in Obedience
Obedience Given in Trust
Trust Kept in Faith
Faith Offered in Love
Love Lived in Service...

The Shadow of a Doubt

2008-08-18T10:06:00.006-05:00

I could tell you I wasn’t jealous. But, you’d see right through me. The truth is I would give anything to walk, like you, in the light. Try living your life as a faded copy or silent echo of someone else’s.

You know those things at playgrounds – one of you gets hoisted into the air while the other plants their feet on the ground? What are they called? Teeter totters! That’s it; or seesaws. Funny thing about seesaws. The heavier person, the more substantial one, whoever has the most mass; well, they kind of get to drive the bus, don’t they? That, my well-lit friend, would be you. Every time. All the time. ‘Till the end of time.

You see, I’m a shadow.

There’s a scene from the 1953 animated feature Peter Pan that touches the heart of every shadow. You know the one. And, you probably remember it as the part where Peter sneaks into the children’s bedroom, finds his shadow, and teaches everyone to fly. Well, it’s not! It’s where one, brave shadow tries to become something – someone – more.

Sadly, he gets sewn back onto Peter’s feet and ends up spending the rest of the story back on the seesaw with Peter. Perhaps worse off than before for having looked, with his own eyes, upon the face of brightness. Escape, it would seem, is not the way.

What’s a shadow to do?

You may have heard of a man named Saul, and what happened to him on the road to Damascus? This man, who was more shadow than man, wasn’t just blinded by the light. He dissolved into it! Everything in him that was not light got burned away. The dark and empty space that walked like Saul and spoke like him was filled and made real. Dissolving into the light made Saul something – someone – more.

There’s a whole world out there beyond the forms and shadows that are my life. All I ask is the strength – or the weakness – needed to let go of one so that I might embrace and receive the other.

Just like you have.

What Are We Waiting For?

2008-08-11T11:56:00.002-05:00

Eternity isn’t really everything on the other side of Point B, any more than Salvation is just what I want to have happen when I’m gone. Is eternity a quantity of time? Or, is it a quality of time? If the free gift of God is eternal life: never ending life, always life, ever life, abundant life – I would take this to mean now as well as then, before as well as after, life immediate and ultimate.

What we speak of as a straight line, or the narrow path; what if it’s also a series of “widening rings” as Rainer Maria Rilke describes? “Which spread over earth and sky.” Encircling God and radiating outward into God. From glory to glory. What if it’s a long and winding road from fear to hope? A wandering in the wilderness from the tyranny of self to a new kind of freedom?

Could it be that we are immersed in eternity instead of striving madly to gain on it? That eternal, never ending, always, ever, and abundant have more to do with quality than quantity? Much more. Infinitely more.

Moebius

2008-07-28T23:17:00.004-05:00

"I would trust you more
If I did not have to trust you so much."

A Doubter's Prayer. Confession of Unbelief.

Sometimes the Question
Answers Itself.

Encarnações

2008-07-21T08:32:00.005-05:00

His wristwatch said 9:47, an ever-present reminder that he needed a new battery. Looking at the clock on the wall, Manoel knew he was going to be home late for dinner.

It had now been forty minutes since he clocked out. Delores’ husband was on disability. Her kids were in trouble at school. And – well, she just didn’t have her head in the game these days. Manoel stayed and offered to help her catch up. Delores was glad for the help and really appreciated the company.

“Thanks for listening, Manny. Say ‘Hi’ to that little angel of yours for me.”

“I will. You take care, Delores. See you in the morning.”

As much as he hated to do it, Manoel decided not to change out of his work clothes. The 5:30 train back into the city would be long gone, but the 5:45 was still a possibility. He made it in record time. The station was quiet. His farecard went through on the second try. Life was good.

Manoel sank into an empty seat and observed with a smile that he was swimming upstream. Just like one of those fish, he thought. What are they? Salmon. That’s it, salmon. The other night, he and his daughter were watching the Fish Channel (or, whatever it was), and Manoel felt compassion for those single-minded creatures. That was often how he felt; morning and evening, making his way in and out against a living current of people who worked where he lived and lived where he worked. Am I going the wrong way? He sometimes wondered.

He was tired. He would have to pay the babysitter extra. And, all he wanted to do was get home.

“Would you look at that!” Someone exclaimed over Manoel’s shoulder. A natural boundary between the city and outlying suburbs was the river. The trains ran aboveground before plunging beneath it into a vast network of tunnels, stops and transfer centers. Down on the water, the setting sun dissolved into fluid banners of magenta, peach and violet reaching out to break the fall of night. Seagulls chased their angled shadows across the decks of fishing boats.

Then, darkness.

It takes your eyes awhile to adjust to the flicker and the clatter and the velocity of travelling underground. Manoel turned to thank the passenger who had called attention to the beautiful scene outside, but found the man asleep. Rough day, huh? He pulled on his headphones and took some rest himself.

“Szccchnxtshtp Szchhouldlzy Scchhparchhh!”

Manoel knew that the toneless burst of white noise from the PA system was another marker on the journey home. Gathering his backpack and raising himself to his feet, Manoel gently shook the sleeping man’s shoulder.

“Don’t miss your stop.” As the doors closed behind Manoel, the risen sleeper was still yawning and rubbing his eyes.

The station emptied out onto the street through a vast opening lined with lights, escalators and an almost vertical flight of stairs. There was often some goofball who would make a show out of trying to go up the escalators down. And, Manoel would smile. Then there were those who felt things weren’t moving fast enough and shoved past rudely on the left. Maybe they will get where they're going a little sooner. Who knows? Maybe they're just that much more lost.

What struck Manoel as he waited at the crosswalk was the new billboard; one of those big digital signs that could flip through a half-dozen ads twice in under a minute. Proof in thousand watt living color that his teeth weren’t white enough, the car he couldn’t afford to fill up with gas was unsafe, and fermented beverages would somehow make him more attractive to – everybody. Manoel wondered what happens to the guys whose job it was to change the old signs. The light turned and Manoel headed east. Ten blocks to go.

“Hey buddy. You got five dollars?” At first, Manoel couldn’t make out who said this. A hollow man stood silhouetted against the brightly lit entrance to a liquor store. He noticed Manoel reach into his front pocket and lurched forward.

“Five dollars? What do you need five dollars for?” Manoel asked.

“A ticket.”

“Where you going?” Manoel pulled out a five, but held onto it.

“Where do you think I’m going? Look, you going to give me some money, or not?”

“Yeah, I’ve got you. But, let me buy you something to eat with it.” There was a take-out several doors down. “They’ve got really good spring rolls. What do you say?”

“I say, ‘If I can’t do with it what I want, then you ain’t really giving it to me.’ Are you?”

Ten minutes, six blocks, and a few steps later, Manoel balanced a carryout order on his hip while digging for the keys to his apartment. The plan was to give the babysitter an extra five, some vegetable lo mein, and a couple spring rolls. They were really good spring rolls.

“Daddy!” His daughter’s voice rang out as she threw her arms around him. “You’re home!”

“Hey, Gabriela.” Manoel set the food down inside the door and picked her up. “Yes, I am. Say, are you ladies hungry?”

“Look for the Messiah where you will, but you’ll find him where you live.”
~Ann Weems

Interlude

2008-07-14T07:33:00.003-05:00

Rather than a literary piece this week, I want to offer a few thoughts on what The Patience of a Seed means to me, and why I’m glad you’re here.

There’s a photograph on this page of a bright-eyed little boy holding a book. I hope you can see it, because this picture says a lot. The boy is me. But, I can’t tell (and don’t remember) if I’m about to read to someone or am asking someone to come read with me. Either way, that photo is – all by itself – a story about relationship. It’s a snapshot of a conversation; a conversation that you are welcome to be part of.

If you dig into Patience of a Seed a little, you may find that I’m a Christian pastor, serving in the Moravian tradition. One of my favorite stories about this particular Protestant tradition happens at an ecumenical conference where someone asked: Why is it that when Moravians are asked to assert a doctrinal position or explain their theology, they invite you to share a meal, to sing with them, or listen to a story?

I love this. I love such an approach to a life of faith. I love the One who breaks bread with us and gives us psalms to sing. My hope is that Patience of a Seed will serve as a reminder that we’re called together into the matchless story of God’s Christ and his undying love for each one of us. My prayer is that you find this story to already be part of your own.

A Friend & Fellow Reader,
~Pastor Brian

Empty Promise (Sin)

2008-07-07T01:06:00.004-05:00

Like the shadow of a sinking ship upon the ocean floor,
Vivid memories of faded dreams that leave you wanting more.

Half-truths and indiscretions,
Guilty pleasure, harmless vice,
How light a thing we make of darkness
Testifying on the Accuser’s behalf,
Babysitting for the Father of Lies.

When the Apostle speaks of slavery –
Does he mean we are not our own?
When Paul says we are at war –
Are we combatants, prisoners, or refugees?
And, in asking, “Who will rescue me from this body of death” –
Does this contradict our endless self-justification?

One word for rebellion and the turning of our hearts.
A word when “trespasses” or “debts”
Seem gentrified iniquity.

The good I want to do and the very thing you hate.
That which dwells within us and is always close at hand.
The Wayward, the False, and the Lifeless

“Wretched man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!” ~Romans 7:24, 25

Parable of the Busy Little Girl (The Law, Grace & Truth)

2008-06-30T08:39:00.005-05:00

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Ginny. She was a busy little girl; a child who could not sit still for even a moment. One sunny afternoon Ginny’s mother was finishing a quilt, which Ginny had no interest in at all. “Why don’t you go outside and play?” Her mother suggested. As Ginny ran for the door, her mother called out, “Just stay where I can see you!”

Finally, I can get some work done. But, no sooner had Ginny’s mother thought this than she heard Ginny yell, “Can You See Me Now?”

Leaning forward to look out of the window, Ginny’s mother could see that her daughter was standing in the meadow just on the other side of the fence. “Yes, honey. I can see you.” She replied. “Why don’t you pick some nice flowers for us?”

Now, where was I? Ginny’s mother said to herself sitting back in her chair. Several minutes went by before she started making progress again on the quilt.

“Can you see me now?” Ginny’s voice trailed in softly through the window. Setting the quilt down and rolling her eyes a little, Ginny’s mother looked and saw that Ginny was now at the far edge of the meadow. A few more steps and she would be completely out of sight.

“Ginny! Come And Play Closer To The House!” Ginny’s mother said loudly. Ginny came running back through the meadow and hopped up on the fence. “Ginny, I’ve told you not to sit on the fence.” Her mother reminded her, and Ginny hopped back down.

For goodness’ sake, Ginny’s mother sighed. When will I ever get this quilt done? After awhile, she slipped back into a comfortable rhythm and was feeling pleased with her work. It did not take her long to stop worrying about Ginny. But, as soon as she noticed this, she started worrying about Ginny. It’s awfully quiet out there, she thought, I’d better take a look.

“Ginny!” She yelled. Ginny was walking along the top of the fence like a tightrope. “Get down from there! I thought I told you to stay off the fence!” Ginny executed an awkward dismount, but stuck the landing.

“Mom! You said not to sit on the fence. I wasn’t sitting on it.”

Ginny’s mother took a deep breath before answering. “Ginny, will you please just play quietly in the yard while I finish this quilt?”

“Okay.” Ginny said, as she began looking around for something else to do. Ginny and her mother must have noticed all the apples on the ground at the same time.

“And, don’t let me catch you throwing those apples!” Ginny’s mother quickly added.

This time, it took Ginny’s mother several minutes to find her place and get back to work. When, all of a sudden, there was a loud “thwack” against the side of the house. Ginny’s mother leapt to her feet and moved quickly toward the window. She had drawn a deep breath and was already forming a shout on her lips. But, what she saw in the yard took the wind right out of her sails.

Ginny had not thrown that apple. What she had done was to lay a plank board over a good-sized rock and then used it to catapult the apple over her head against the side of the house. “Ginny!” Her mother managed to boom out as Ginny was reloading.

The look that Ginny gave her mother and the incredulous shrug of her shoulders were too much. Ginny’s mother did the only thing left to do that made any sense to her. She set her quilting down and went outside to play with her daughter.

“And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.” ~John 1:14

Covenant

2008-06-23T07:34:00.004-05:00

What is it, really, for which we hunger most?
How well do we understand our own need—
To get and to have and to hold onto
The many needless things we want?

We are hungry!
Take, eat.

How deep of a well, truly, will end the drought in our hearts?

We are thirsty!
Drink from this, all of you.
We are restless!
Come to me all you who are weary and heavy-laden.

What can we honestly say we are waiting for—
To make up our minds
And our hearts
To live?

Give us a sign!
None but that of Jonah.
Give us a king!
Above all worldly kingdoms.
Give us love!
No greater love has anyone than this.

Old wineskins and earth-bound treasure,
One needful thing and the better part.

Losing
And finding,
As we give ourselves to you,
That you have given yourself to us.

Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which does not satisfy? Listen carefeully to me, and eat what is good, and delight yourselves in rich food. Incline your ear, and come to me; listen, so that you may live. I will make with you an everlasting covenant, my steadfast love for David. ~Isaiah 55:2, 3

Crying Wolf

2008-06-16T08:33:00.007-05:00

Once upon a time there lived a little boy who would be named Crying Wolf. His skin was the color of sunset and his hair was as dark and as soft as the night. He loved to race the wind through the grass and listen to the music of the stars as they danced out of reach of the morning. There was much joy in his heart, and his soul was honest and kind. This is the story of how he became a man and earned his name.

It happened long ago, when trees could still speak. They didn’t whisper, as you sometimes hear them do now when the wind is high. They could really speak, just like you and me. Mostly they talked about the things they had seen, which was everything from morning dew to the great dancing lights of the North.

One day, the little boy who would be named Crying Wolf lay quietly on his back beneath a great willow tree on a hill when he heard something strange and wonderful. “Did you know, little man, that there is a wolf on the hills?” The little boy didn’t bother to answer. The trees could speak in those days, but they did not listen. “I saw her myself last night. She came and slept beneath me, laying right where you are now. Her fur was as dark and as soft as the night. Tears fell from her eyes like stars and she could not speak.” The little boy had heard of wolves, but never seen one. There were many dogs and coyotes around, but no wolves.

“How do you know she could not speak?” The little boy asked the Willow, forgetting that it would not listen.

“I offered her a comfortable place to rest her head,” the Willow continued, “shelter from the wind, and the pleasure of my company for as long as she liked. I could tell she was not from around here, so I started to tell her about our lands and all the trees and people and animals that share this place. I had only just begun when the morning arrived. She yawned, as if waking up from a deep sleep, stretched her legs and left.”

All the way home, the Willow’s story ran through the little boy’s head like a twister. Where did she come from? Why was she crying? Where did she go? As he ate his supper that evening, he asked his mother about it. “Mother. Have you ever seen a wolf?”

“No, son, I have not.”

“Do you know what they look like?

“Yes. They are like a great dog or coyote.” The little boy’s mother placed some wood on the fire that burned in the center of their teepee. Sweet cornmeal bubbled in the kettle hanging over the flames. The little boy considered this thoughtfully.

“How do you know what they look like, if you’ve never seen one?” He took a small bite of dried bison.

“Son. Haven’t you ever seen a wolf hide?”

“Yes.”

“Haven’t you seen the wolf skull atop the Shaman’s staff?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember when your father showed you the wolf tracks on the riverbank?”

“Yes.”

“And I know that you have seen dogs and coyotes. Why then, surely you can imagine what a wolf must look like?” The little boy was not convinced. His mother served him a bowl of the cornmeal, which was now very hot. He had to blow on it and stir for several minutes before he could eat.

“Mother, I have seen all of these things, but none of them is a wolf.”

“Tell me son. Why are you so interested in wolves all of a sudden?”

“The Old Willow told me that there is a wolf on the hills. She was crying and it gave her shelter.”

“A crying wolf!”

“Yes, mother. That’s what it said. Her hair was like the night and stars fell from her eyes.”

“My dear, silly boy. Wolves don’t cry.”

As he lay by the fire that night and tried to go to sleep, the little boy could not stop thinking about the wolf. He was a good boy and loved his mother very much, but he did not think that the Old Willow would lie. His father would be gone for at least one more moon, and the little boy was pretty sure that he wouldn’t think wolves could cry either. If only I could find her, he thought to himself, find her and catch one of her tears. Then they would believe me. Then they would have to. Smiling, the little boy who would be named Crying Wolf pulled his blanket tight around his shoulders and fell fast asleep.

The next morning, he woke up before the sun and got ready to go hunting. His mother heard him trying to be quiet and asked him, “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to hunt the wolf on the hills and bring back one of her tears.” His mother smiled at this, but warned him,

“You be very careful. If there is a wolf on the hills, crying or not, I don’t want you going near it.”

“But, mother. How will I catch one of her tears?”

“You’re a clever boy. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

It was the middle of summer, and the days were long as the sun lazily made its way across the sky. The little boy traced the stream back to the Old Willow to look for tracks.

“Good Morning!” Said the willow. “Looks like it’s going to be another hot day.” The little boy patted the willow’s trunk and smiled. Even though trees did not listen, they could feel, and a friendly pat always made them feel happy. “Do you remember that wolf I told you about? Well, last night she came back. You had just given me a hug and left when she came up over that hill.” The little boy could not believe it.

"What? Did she speak? Where did she go?”

“She was crying again,” the willow said. “Even harder than before. The first night, tears fell from her eyes like stars. Last night they fell like rain. I gathered my branches around her to comfort her and whispered a song that I learned from a sparrow.”

“Where did she go?” The boy demanded.

“As I started to whisper the song for the hundredth time, the sun came up and she left. I do hope she’s going to be alright.” The little boy bent down to look more closely at the grass beneath the Old Willow. He could find no wolf tracks, but noticed that the ground was soft and squishy, as if there had been a heavy rain. This was strange, because there had been none for some time now. In fact, he had heard his mother speaking with another woman about how badly the rain was needed.

By time the sun stood directly overhead, the little boy had searched far and wide for some sign of the wolf. Discouraged and hot, he decided to go home. As he walked along the stream, the little boy noticed that there was not much water left in it. Many of the stones that he had once thrown in were now drying in the sun. When he got home, the little boy was surprised to find his father there.

“Father!” He shouted, and ran to him.

“My little man!” His father knelt and squeezed him tightly. “How I’ve missed you. “Your mother tells me you’ve been a great help to her. I’m very proud of you.”

“I didn’t think you’d be back so soon." The little boy said. “Did the hunt go well?” His father suddenly looked troubled.

"No, son. It did not.” He stood and removed his quiver. “Of these twenty arrows, not one has flown. The grass is burning. The fowl have left and the bison are sick and dying.”

“Is it because there is no water?”

“Yes. Many moons have passed and the sky remains silent. If she does not speak to us soon, we must go and find a place where she will.”

Each day the heat grew worse, until the very air shimmered and danced like prairie fire. The Elders decided to wait for the sun to come and go twice more, before agreeing to move. Although he was very young, the little boy understood how serious this was. There were many mothers with infants and also many elderly in his tribe. The drought had already taken its toll on them and many would not survive the journey.

That night, the little boy quietly got out of bed and made his way to the Old Willow. “There you are.” The willow greeted him. “I see that your people are suffering greatly and many of the animals have already left. I suppose that you will leave too if the sky does not soon speak.” The little boy sat down at the foot of the willow and sighed. The Old Willow’s branches stirred and gently brushed the side of his face. “You’ve already missed her.” The willow softly whispered. Strangely, this didn’t seem to matter to the little boy. The suffering of his tribe saddened him and the future held its secrets safely out of reach. “She asked me to tell you something.” At first, the little boy was not sure he had heard correctly.

“What did you say?”

“I said that she asked me to tell you something.” The little boy stood up and placed both hands against the willow. His heart beat in his chest like a drum and his mouth went dry.

"What did she say?” He whispered in awe.

“She told me why she was crying and what you must do to save your people.”

* * *

“Father! Father, wake up!” The morning sky was blushing and sunlight streamed into the teepee.

“What? What is it my son? The little boy’s father slowly rose to his feet.

“I know where there is water; enough for us all!”

“What? Where?”

“I do not know, but I’ll find it with this!” The little boy held up a forked willow branch. The little boy’s father walked over and gently took the willow branch in his hands. There was nothing remarkable about it. He carefully handed it back. The little boy’s father was a good man, and trusted that he had raised his son to always speak the truth. Many would doubt that there was water to be found, but he would believe in his son.

“Then we must go and see the Elders.”

* * *

“Of course you and your son may search for water, if you like. But, if the sky does not speak to us before the sun goes down, we have no choice but to move the tribe.” It was agreed that two of the Elders would accompany the little boy and his father. The little boy held the willow branch by the forked ends and pointed it straight out in front of him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“We will find it.” His father said and placed a hand on his shoulder. They started walking.

For many hours they carried on in silence. They searched the plains. They searched the hills. They walked along the dried stream and still there was no sign of water. The little boy, his father, and the Elders were nearly exhausted. “I am starting to think the buzzards will find us before we find water.” One of them remarked.

“Concentrate.” The little boy’s father urged them. The sun was now slowly falling into the west. The little boy’s arms ached from holding the willow branch out in front of him. His hands were cramped and sore. Sweat ran into his eyes and stung, but he dared not let go of the branch.

Without noticing, they had wandered to the foot of the very hill where the Old Willow rested. The little boy looked up and wondered for a moment if the Willow had misled him. He had listened very carefully to all that it had told him and the Crying Wolf had been very clear on what he must do. No, he thought to himself. The Willow has been faithful and honest. If I have been misled, it is because I have not followed my heart.

Just then, the willow branch quivered in his hands and bent toward the ground. His father and the Elders stared wildly. “What does this mean?” One of the Elders managed to speak.

“We must dig.” Said the little boy.

It wasn’t long before many men were gathered and began digging into the earth. “Come look! I’ve found something!” Someone soon shouted. It was an entrance to a cavern at the base of the hill. Torches were brought as the men worked their way deep beneath the ground. The entrance that had been uncovered quickly opened onto a path that spiraled out of sight.

“Who will follow it?” The Elders asked.

“I will.” Everyone turned to see the little boy standing there. The path wound deep into the earth through jagged arches and clutching roots. The men’s torches cast playful shadows across their anxious faces.

“Do you hear that?” One of them whispered. They all stopped.

“Can it be the wind?” Another asked.

“It is water.” The little boy turned and smiled. “It is the water that will save our people.” They proceeded once more down the path. Though now their hearts were light and their steps were sure. It was water. Even before they could see it, they could taste it, clean and fresh in the air. The path turned a final time and opened onto the shore of a vast underground lake.

“How? How did you know this would be here?” Someone stammered at the little boy.

“The Crying Wolf told the Old Willow that she’d put it here for me to find.”

Nine men followed the little boy down the path to the lake. Ten returned from its shore, bringing hope to their people. The tenth man was Crying Wolf.

* * *

Many years later, Crying Wolf and his son would lay beneath the Old Willow and listen to what it had to say. In the summer, when it was very hot, he took his little boy to the lake in the cavern, where he could swim and play with the other children. There was much joy in the heart of Crying Wolf’s son, and his soul was honest and kind. He loved to race the wind through the grass and listen to the music of the stars as they danced out of reach of the morning. One day he would earn the name "Falling Rock" for himself. But, that is another story.

Ellipsis

2008-06-09T08:06:00.004-05:00

Some say God has placed commas,
Others know periods were meant.
Me, I’m not so sure

If God were a grammarian
Or copyeditor—
Who enforced “perfect” English;

Why not an ellipsis?

…

Three points and the spaces in-between
Creator – Redeemer – Sustainer
Assurance that our perspective is limited
To the Author’s trusting heart

An invitation to wonder …
A call to faith …

And, what if the heavens really are higher than the earth?
What if God’s ways and thoughts
Are higher than ours?

How do you punctuate the Good News?
How would you diagram the Living Word?

When what we are all welcome to do
Is to trust and receive / to be and to bear
The Light, and the Love, and the Life of Christ
To a world in need …

“But there are also many other things that Jesus did; if every one of them were written down, I suppose that the world itself could not contain the books that would be written.” ~John 21:25

Kasimir (A Fragment)

2008-06-02T12:07:00.004-05:00

The long rays of an afternoon sun poured into the room like the Word of God, separating the darkness from the light. Kasimir sat at a small table by the window. The drapes billowed softly, and he could smell sand and salt on the breeze. Crumpled bits and scraps of paper were strewn about the room. Writing utensils and several clean sheets of paper lie spread out before him. He had been up all morning trying to write – something, anything. Images streamed wildly from his consciousness and gathered in swirling pools of thought. But, the words that went with them darted swiftly from his grasp. Kasimir sighed and turned to look out the window. There was the ocean. There were all the beautiful things he wanted to say. There were the words with which to say them. He smiled, dipped his pen into the inkwell and wrote.

My soul is restless
Like the sea.

Kasimir set the quill down and blew gently across the paper. He read the words aloud, feeling them against the roof of his mouth. This is a good start, he thought, and his restless soul found peace.

“Kasimir!” his mother yelled from the kitchen.

“Yes, mother?”

“You’d better get down to the pier and help your father!” He put away his writing and straightened up the room. Kasimir’s father was a fisherman. His grandfather was a fisherman. And, he was pretty sure that his great-grandfather had been a fisherman, too. Kasimir did not want to be a fisherman. For that matter, he did not want to be a carpenter, a blacksmith, a miller, or even a shepherd like his friend, Caleb. Kasimir was a writer living in the village of Fairhaven, where books and the ideas that filled them were not worth the catch-of-the-day.

Kasimir soon found himself standing on the beach. The sun hung angrily in the sky and the wind had picked up considerably. A storm was coming.

“Kasimir!” his father called from the boat. “Take hold of this and tie her up!” Kasimir ran out onto the pier and did as he was told, pulling the small craft alongside. “Here. Careful now, its heavy.” Kasimir steadied the net-full of fish as his father hoisted it over the side.

“How’d it go?” Kasimir asked.

Before answering, his father reached for a hand up as he lifted himself out of the boat. “Not half as well as it would’ve if you’d gotten up this morning and helped.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I shouldn’t have to. You’re plenty old enough now to know what needs doing and to do it.” Kasimir decided that the rest of the conversation was not going to be worth having. They walked to the market in silence.

After the Flood

2008-05-28T07:45:00.004-05:00

“…on that day all the fountains of the great deep burst forth,
and the windows of the heavens were opened.” ~Genesis 7:11

For forty nights the rushing waters sang them all to sleep.
One-hundred-fifty days of surge and swell
Before the deep fountains and windows of heaven were shut.

The rains were restrained, the waters receded,
Creation was reborn.

The story of Noah and his family.
A story of second chances and new beginnings.
Prelude to another flood,

Flowing from the Jordan, turning hearts away from sin
Pouring from heavy jars of Cana vintage, to sweeten every joy
Running from the Pool of Siloam, washing away our blindness
Springing to life in the hearts of those who believe.

A flood of living water,
In his eyes, over our feet, and from the side they pierced,
The Wellspring, the Headwaters, the Source.

The story of God and all his children.
A story of second chances and new beginnings.
Prelude to our own rebirth.

On the last day of the festival, the great day, while Jesus was standing there, he cried out, “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me, and let the one who believes in me drink. As the scripture has said, ‘Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.’” ~John 7:37, 38

Maundy Thursday

2008-05-21T22:48:00.004-05:00

Once the Israelites were all passed over
When the world heard Egypt’s cry,
The Lamb of God would have yet more to give.
A New Commandment.

They are inseparable, you know.
The giving of the Ten and the giving of the New.

A wilderness mountain shrouded in smoke and wrapped in flame.
A borrowed guestroom prepared for sacred remembrance,
Loving example and solemn institution.

The threat of deadly force and fatal judgment.
The promise of a Comforter and Advocate.

Unapproachable Light
Irresistible Grace

Holy Ground and dirty feet.

One fulfilling the other,
Satisfying its demands,
Embodying its purposes,
Revealing Love as the Heart and Living Spirit of the Law.

The Ten and the New.
The Passover and the Lamb of God.

Woefully and wonderfully,
Beautifully bound by the ancient creed,
Shema Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu Adonai Echad
“Hear O Israel! The LORD is our God! The LORD is One!”

Please and Thank You

2008-05-13T18:03:00.003-05:00

Four individuals standing together. They do not interact. Jesus enters and approaches one of them, holding out a beautifully wrapped present.

INCREDULOUS: (shocked, unhappy to see Jesus). What are you giving me this for? I don't even believe in you! (Storms out.)

Jesus sadly watches this person leave. He turns to the next person and enthusiastically offers his gift with both hands.

INACCESSIBLE: (surprised, annoyed at having been interrupted by Jesus). What are you giving me this for? Can't you see I'm busy? (Hurries out.)

Jesus sadly watches this person leave. He turns to the next person and enthusiastically offers his gift with both hands.

INSECURE: (startled, afraid of what Jesus is offering). What are you giving me this for? I might drop it? (Scurries out.)

Jesus sadly watches this person leave. He turns to the last remaining person (a child) and enthusiastically offers his gift with both hands.

CHILD: (delighted, excited to be receiving such a beautiful gift). Thank you!

Jesus gets down on one knee and gently places a hand on the child's shoulder.

(Reading from offstage.)

INCREDULOUS: "Let the little children come to me, and do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs." ~Matthew 19:14

INACCESSIBLE: "Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world." ~Matthew 25:34

INSECURE: "Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom." ~Luke 12:32

Curtain

Princes in Exile

2008-05-13T12:00:00.004-05:00

Once, long ago, a King ordered his two sons to leave the Kingdom. This caused a great commotion among his subjects for the Princes were beloved by all. Furthermore, the King offered no explanation for their banishment, saying only, “The Princes, my sons, are hereby exiled from my Kingdom. Any who wish to follow them into banishment, may freely choose.”

The King’s elder son was furious. What angered him most about his father’s decree was that he had planned to usurp the throne from within. Seeing that he would now have to storm the Kingdom as an enemy, he resolved to bring as many with him into exile as he could. He was strikingly handsome and cunning of speech. His secrets and lies soon stirred the hearts of many against the King, and so it was that the elder Prince left the Kingdom as commanded, taking many with him.

The younger Prince was endowed with all the power and presence of his father; though he did not often reveal this. He was saddened by his father’s pronouncement, but left the Kingdom in humble obedience. Those that did not leave with the elder Prince remained loyal to the King and trusted in the wisdom of his actions, and so it was that the younger Prince went forth from the Kingdom alone.

As soon as the elder Prince and his followers came upon the lands and the people beyond the walls of the Kingdom, they met many there who knew only rumors of the King and could hardly believe that there was any land other than that on which they lived. “Surely,” they said. “No King rules over us!”

“Listen to me!” the elder Prince spoke up. “From the rising of the sun to the place of its setting, there is a King that rules over us all. But, ask yourselves: why must we toil endlessly, trying to provide for our families to have barely enough to survive? Why should the King’s riches be withheld from us, while we break our backs in fruitless effort and worthless labor to improve our own condition? People! You cannot imagine the riches and splendor of the Kingdom. Each of you would be a king with but a share. No, I say the King is unkind and unjust to keep them from you!” He spoke on, late into the night. Torches were lit and the people stayed to hear him tell of all that the King owed them and how he had conspired to deceive them. They swiftly raised the elder Prince up as their leader and swore allegiance to him.

This happened everywhere the elder Prince and his ever-increasing band of followers went. His beautiful and impassioned pleas continued to turn many against the King. Before long he had assembled a formidable army with which he intended to seize his father’s throne for himself. When the younger Prince came upon the lands and the people beyond the walls of the Kingdom, all he heard were the echoes of his brother’s lies. This saddened him greatly, and he also began to speak to them of the Kingdom.

“My father’s land is, as you have heard, full of riches and splendor beyond compare. The wealthiest among you may come to him only as beggars. But, come you may. And, if you will give your love to the King in trusting obedience, if you will humble yourselves to live this love in service to one another for His sake, then you become his sons and daughters – heirs one and all to the most glorious Kingdom that ever was or ever shall be.”

Many who heard the younger Prince speak thought him a fool. He was, after all, not much to look at. He did not even seem to understand his own predicament, let alone theirs. They were blinded by their lust for the riches of the King and trusted only in themselves. Instead of listening to him, they put their faith in the seeming strength and worldly wisdom of the elder Prince. A few there were who heard the younger Prince’s words and were moved by his loyalty to his father. They came to him quietly and in small numbers, asking him to tell them more about the King.

It was not long before the elder Prince and his army were ready to storm the Kingdom. They marched for many days before coming within sight of the coveted land. When they at last reached a summit from which they could look down upon the King’s domain, they found to their surprise and amusement that the younger Prince stood with a pitiful little band on the plain below.

“Well, brother? Have you come with your followers to add to the might of my forces? Or, has father taken you back into the fold and so you stand before me now as an enemy?”

“No, I am not here to support your lawless pursuit of power well beyond your grasp or understanding. And, no, our father has not taken me back into his Kingdom. But, for once you speak the truth. I do stand before you now as an enemy and will defend the Kingdom against any assault.”

“You are indeed a greater fool than the people say you are! The only thing you can hope to gain by standing between me and the Kingdom is to die.” The elder Prince turned to his followers and cried out, “Charge! Take what the King has selfishly kept from you! Slay every last one of these fools and traitors before us! Tear down the walls of the Kingdom and make kings of yourselves!” A glittering wave of steel rushed down the hill toward the younger Prince and his army. It crashed upon them with terrible force.

The battle raged for hours, days and weeks. It rages on today. Often it seems that the younger Prince and his followers will be overrun, when suddenly they rally and drive back the attack. Never once has the younger Prince despaired, for the outcome is certain. Nonetheless, there are always a few among his followers who turn in fear and doubt to fight beside the elder Prince’s forces. This only strengthens the faithful and each one fights with the strength of ten.

Many have given their lives for the King and the Kingdom they have never seen. The greater then is their honor and glory when they find themselves raised up and brought before the throne. The young Prince was also slain in defense of his father’s Kingdom. His love for his father touched the hearts of many as he died. His trust and obedience convinced others besides as he left the empty tomb. Some, even of his brother’s followers, finally saw the truth and beauty of his words and actions. Many were ashamed and turned fiercely on the elder Prince, trying to cast him down. But, his numbers are still great and the battle wears on.

But, take heart and keep faith. The outcome is certain and victory is assured!

These Holy Days

2008-05-11T15:56:00.005-05:00

What exactly is meant by “a day?” To be spent, saved, or given in one way and not another. Better days. Days gone by. "Days of our Lives." A long, sad look over your shoulder. These Holy days. Moments we have been given. One at a time. The always here and the ever now. To find God, the Divine and the Holy, rooted in space and in time. Christ, rooted in your life. Rooted in the people and in the world around you. Flowing through. Branching out. Encompassing. Embracing. The Source, Aim, and End of your life. This question of time. The numbering of days and counting grains of sand. When one moment; when this grain of sand, is what we hold. The distance between “I and Thou.” How is it spanned? How can two, reaching out to one another, fail to embrace? Easy… Tragic. A question of fate and of timing. “Ruins of the day.” Why this feeling of effort? Why this sense of burden? Why this fear? You are seeking God? He's looking for you. You say you want a revelation? God has opened His life to you. You want to hear God’s voice? He is calling you by name. “God is drawing nigh.” He is before you, beside you, and within you. God is Here. God is Now. Forever and Ever. Amen.

Sabbath

2008-05-11T15:52:00.003-05:00

The work of Sabbath is Remembering.

Not merely an idleness
As though human enterprise and effort
Were to be feared by God.

Not just an observance
As though God were to be contented
With our benumbing thoughtlessness.

Not even a refraining
As though the Shekhinah
Were to dwell only in that which we avoid.

Our faith is in a Presence
and not an absence
In the Light
and not darkness
In Life
and not death.

Who God is
And, who we are,
The work of Sabbath is to Remember.

And, the fruit of Sabbath
A Holiness that keeps us forever.

Good Friday

2008-05-11T15:44:00.004-05:00

They Call it "Good"
This funeral of a Friday.

When shadows have the final word
And Silence gives the benediction.

Yes, we know the sun will come out,
That bluebirds sing,
And, what happens when you wish upon a star.

Tomorrow...
Somewhere...
When...

But, not today.
Not here.
Not now
On Good Friday.

For in these shadows and in this silence
We find that God can die.

Taking our brightest hopes
Our sweetest dreams
And great expectations with Him
"From the cross to the grave."

Just ask Nicodemus, or Peter, or Mary.

And, before we come to the empty tomb
We must find
We must feel
We must face
The sting of death, and the victory of the grave

On Good Friday.

Palm Sunday (Benediction)

2008-05-10T20:34:00.002-05:00

It was not the branches waving wildly before him,
Or the humble beast burdened with Eternity.

No,
It was his hands.

Those palms,
Upon which are inscribed the name of his beloved.
Those palms,
That bless and break the Bread of Life,
Offering the Cup of Covenant
For all to receive.

“Were you there?”
Dried leaves and rags ground into dust,
The sad echo of “Hosanna”
Like ash on your tongue.

And, still
There are his hands.

Those palms,
Covering all our sin and shame.
Those palms,
Securing us in faith and in hope,
Freeing us
To live
And move
And have our being
In Love.

A Different Drummer

2008-05-10T20:33:00.003-05:00

It does not seem that thirty years have passed. I can still remember that silent, holy night. One shining star set the dead of winter afire and a child was born. To look upon the scene through earthly eyes, you would not have thought much of it. A poor, unfortunate couple, unable to find lodging for the evening; and she very much with child, offered a dusty stable in which to lie alongside unclean beasts of burden. And yet, that one burning star watched over them like the eye of God.

The shepherds came running over the hills, crying aloud that this babe in a manger was the Messiah come to bring peace on earth and goodwill to all. I stood just outside. Joseph and Mary held each other close and trembled. I shouldered my way into his presence and gazed all at once upon the beginning and the end of the world. Here was the great I AM, come as a child. Having sought only to see him, I met his gaze and he smiled at me. I could see in his eyes that he knew me and claimed me as his own. I would have made a gift of the world to him, but it was already his.

A tattered drum hung from a roughened leather strip around my shoulders. I had learned the whirling dance of the marketplace and the steady march of Roman soldiers up-and-down the city streets. These songs were my only gifts; the only things in this world that belonged to me. Slowly, quietly, I played my drum for him. At first I was afraid and my hands shook. But I found strength in the joy of my Lord and laid my life at his feet.

And now, thirty years later, we are grown. I stand in the crowd watching Jesus of Nazareth bear his cross toward the Hill of Skulls. This is what you see now, as then, if you look only through earthly eyes. The master has taught me better and I see what is truly happening. The infant king, now a man – the Lamb of God – is taking away the sins of the world. Truly God has given us His only begotten Son. His love has met his laws demand.

I press forward, closer to the street. What will people think, I wonder, to see a man play his drum before such a somber procession? Forgetting them, forgetting myself, I play only for him. Unlike the child that played timidly before, my hand is steady. He slows as he passes. I can barely see his face through the tears that fill my eyes, yet I know that he sees me and smiles. Were I blind I would see his smile. It fills and comforts me. Jesus turns and marches on. Yes, he is afraid and his heart is heavy. But, the joy of the Lord is his strength also and his Father is well pleased.

Message in a Bottle

2008-05-10T20:30:00.004-05:00

Even the tiniest pebble cast into the deepest ocean leaves a trace. So it was with the startling discovery of an otherwise unremarkable piece of rock bearing the marks of time, the elements, and man.

Scientists from around the world, experts from every field gathered to measure it, weigh it, irradiate it, drill it, sniff it, shave it, immerse it, and even taste it. Their examinations continued for years on end while an endless debate raged throughout the academic community. While no one could agree on what exactly it was or where it came from, everyone agreed that it was undoubtedly the oldest existing piece of writing on the face of the earth.

You could not see them with the naked eye and you could only barely feel them with the tips of your fingers, but there were characters etched into the face of the stone. Authorities on everything from Braille to Hieroglyphics; Celtic runes to 21st Century computer encryption; Aboriginal Dreamtime paintings to the pre-historic literature of the Indus River Valley; all took their best shot at deciphering the “Water Stone” as it came to be called. Researches would shrug their shoulders and jokingly claim that the rock was “older than water.” They were not far from the truth.

Many years passed by with little progress on the mystery of the stone. It was still subjected to the same vigorous scrutiny as before and contested with the same fervor among archaeologists and anthropologists. It just no longer seemed newsworthy to the general public. It would have remained so if not for the eventual unlocking of the Water Stone late one evening and the sobering message recorded there.

There must have been nearly two-hundred people crammed around that little table as the world’s leading authority on cultural linguistics began to read from the stone. After years of electron microscopes and centrifuges, lasers and isotopes, priceless scrolls and antiquated tablets, it all came down to a breathless whisper that shattered the silence of the ages.

“Well, what does it say?” Someone spoke up and everyone crowded in.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the scholar stalled for time. He was trying to make sense of what he had just read. “As near as we are able to ascertain, the words inscribed on the face of this rock read as follows: ‘Noah was right.’”

Just as it was in the days of Noah, so too it will be in the days of the Son of Man. –Luke 17:26

The Patience of a Seed

2008-05-10T20:26:00.002-05:00

Brent was thirteen when he found the package his father had left. He had come to the attic looking for something, but the sunlight pouring in through the blades of the gable fan blinded him and the dust falling softly through the light like snow clouded his mind. All the sights and sounds and smells of that lonely, sun-filled attic made Brent forget why he had come there in the first place. No longer sure of what he had hoped to find, he began looking through a pile of odds and ends. No sooner had his search begun than it was finished.

On the very top of the pile sat a small, brown-paper package. Written on it in an even, steady hand were the words, “To Brent. From Your Father.” It was several moments before Brent remembered to breathe. He sat himself down and considered the package thoughtfully. How long had this been sitting up here? Why hadn’t anyone told him about it? His thoughts were racing. Brent had seen pictures of his father and heard people speak of him. But, this package was a direct link between father and son. To Brent. From Your Father. He carefully untied it and folded back the wrapping. Inside he found a neatly folded letter and an acorn. The letter read:

My Dear Son,
I know there’s nothing I can say to make up for all the years we’ve lost. I know it’s been tough growing-up without me. You’ve had to take care of things on your own and be the man of the house. I hope you believe me when I tell you that this has been tough for me too. Brent, I want you to know that I have always loved you and always will. I’m proud of the man you’re becoming. Like I said, I know things haven’t always been easy. They may never be. But the acorn you found with this letter is very special. If things ever get to be too much for you to bear alone, you just plant it and I’ll be there! I love you son.
Always,
Your Father

Brent choked back a sob and wiped the tears from his eyes before they could fall. He was too young to give voice to the deep sorrow that pierced his heart and he had no words for the anger that burned his soul. Brent tore the letter to pieces and threw the acorn into the darkness. As he slammed the attic door behind him, it came rolling back into the light.

* * *

Eighty-three years later, a man named Brent sat in a wheelchair looking out the window of his room at the nursing home. His wife had long since passed away and his children seemed to have forgotten where they left him. There were no pictures in the room. When he first arrived there had been a few cards and some flowers. Now the room was empty and bare. Brent had insisted that the television and phone be removed. He had a roommate at one time who loved to listen to the radio, but that did not last long.

“Sir, it’s time for your medicine.”

Brent turned abruptly and hollered. “I Don’t Need Any Damn Medicine! You keep that poison away from me!”

The young nurse was still new and was taken aback by his outburst. “Sir. It’s for your pain. Hasn’t your arthritis been bothering you?” She spoke in a condescending tone that further enraged him.

“Get The Hell Out Of My Room! You Don’t Know A Damn Thing About My Pain!”

“I’ll just leave them here, alright? And, you can take them whenever you want. Okay?” She set a little paper cup down on the nightstand and left. Brent sighed. He slumped into the wheelchair and reflected a moment before wheeling across the room to fetch the aspirin. Two little pills for all this pain? Brent flung them across the room and covered his face with his hand. With his other hand he reached into his breast pocket. He withdrew a letter that had been taped together like a jigsaw puzzle. He balled it up in his fist and threw it in the direction of the wastebasket.

* * *

“Hello Brent.” The receptionist at the front desk called out warmly as he wheeled by.

“Hi Mary.” Brent’s mood had brightened a little and he had a determined look on his face.

“Where are you off to?”

“Just out for a stroll. Don’t wait up.”

“Make sure you’re back by midnight or that wheelchair turns into a pumpkin!”

For the first time in a long while, Brent smiled as he wheeled out the front door. It was a warm spring morning with the promise of summer on the breeze. The sun smiled down on brightly colored birds that danced and sang from tree to tree. Brent rolled down the access ramp and onto the grass. Wheeling across the lawn proved to be more than his aching joints could bear, so he lowered himself out of the chair and started crawling slowly forward. A tear ran down his cheek.

Brent’s eyes stung and he could no longer see where he was headed. As he made his way forward his hands searched frantically for a soft spot of turf. His body shook from exertion and the tears he had held back all his life now streamed down his face. Brent dug a hole in the lawn with his bare hands. He reached once more into his breast pocket and pulled out a small piece of wood, worn smooth and stained dark by years of handling. It was an acorn. Brent could no longer see it, but he knew it by heart. Many times since that day, when he had returned to the attic to find it, he held it close and dreamed of this day. He kissed it gently and placed it into the earth. His strength was quickly failing, but he managed to push the soil back over the acorn and pat it down. The shock of pain that ran down the left side of his body was no longer significant to him.

The young nurse returned to Brent’s room to see whether or not he had taken his aspirin. Surprised at not finding him, she walked over to the window and stood there with her hands on her hips. Just as she was wondering where he had gotten to, she saw him lying out on the lawn clutching his chest.

“Oh My God!” She dashed outside, calling for help as she ran. She knelt at Brent’s side. “Everything’s going to be alright. You just hold on now, okay?” She felt for a pulse as she tenderly smoothed the hair back from his face. Brent looked into her eyes and smiled.

“No.” He spoke softly. “Everything is alright, now.” The nurse looked at him, startled by the change in his countenance. “My father’s here. And, he’s going to take care of me.” Brent found her hand, squeezed it, and let go.

Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. –John 12:24

Painted Smiles

2008-05-10T20:24:00.004-05:00

The circus was once a great source of joy for me. It was one of those places where everyone could be a kid. You could recklessly abandon all your fears and anxieties, exchanging them for wonder and amazement. You could trade in your worries for a bag of popcorn, a corndog and cotton candy without having to worry about ruining your appetite. All the sights and sounds and smells of the circus seemed alive: the warmth of soft dirt, hay and funnel cakes; the pacing tigers, shuffling elephants and tightrope walkers. I can still hear the ringmaster’s deep voice and hum the music of the circus band under my breath. I can also remember the darkness under the big tent, into which we poured out all the light of our collectable flashlights like hundreds of beacons of joy.

My favorite part of the circus was, without a doubt, the clowns. Anyone could put their head into a lion’s mouth. But, could twenty lion-tamers squeeze themselves into an automobile the size of a baby carriage? Only clowns could do that. They would burst out of that little car and run around like their pants were on fire. I would laugh until my sides hurt and tears streamed from my eyes. They always did the same things and I would laugh every time. We all would. Our hearts skipped a beat as the pretty young girl somersaulted on the trapeze. We would hush and gasp as bloodthirsty tigers leapt through flaming hoops. We covered our eyes when a second dirt bike entered the spinning “Wheel of Death.” But, when the clowns came out we chuckled and snorted and laughed ourselves silly. When the clowns came out, the world around us became a much simpler and far funnier place.

The circus would come to an end with all of the performers parading around the rings, smiling and waving to the crowd. The trapezes hung motionless. The tigers were all caged away safely. Only the clowns could continue their act. They skipped along tripping each other, popping balloons and squirting seltzer bottles at themselves and at us. When they passed directly in front of me I would stand up and wave my little flashlight. I could not have been any more noticeable than any of the other kids, but I was certain that they waved back at me. They all kept walking, waving and would soon pass out of the tent, red noses, big shoes, painted smiles and all. The ringmaster would run back into the center ring where a dozen bright spotlights converged.

“Thank you all! Goodnight!” He removed his sequined top hat and bowed low. The lights went out. When they came back on, the ring was empty. Everyone got up and started to file toward the exits. I was not paying attention and soon found myself alone on the outside of the main tent. There were several smaller tents pitched all around, but I did not see any other people. I could hear the sounds of people getting into cars and driving away. I started to panic. The fear of being left behind led me up to the nearest of the smaller tents. I timidly stuck my head inside and noticed a clown sitting there with his back to me. He was shaking and it made me smile to think that he could still be laughing. Then, like a thousand broken promises, I noticed he was crying. He sat there with his head in his hands. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat on the dresser before him. In his reflection in the dressing mirror, I watched a tear run down his face. It cut through his painted smile like a scar.

I slowly withdrew my head from the tent; afraid to breathe, no longer worried about being left behind. I walked away from that crying clown wondering if I really understood what it meant to be lost.

Sea Glass and Driftwood

2008-05-10T20:20:00.003-05:00

Shattered or splintered
Shaken and stirred

Torn and tossed
By the unfeeling hands
Of sand and sea and time,
Yet held by the same strong current.

Sharp edges worn smooth,
Broken lines made subtle contours,
Old beauty restored,
New hope brought forth
By water and wind
Sand and light.

Learning to trust,
Gaining patience,
Finding faith.

Treasures waiting to be discovered
Never having left the Master’s hand

The Hardest Part (Based on a True Story)

2008-05-10T20:18:00.006-05:00

You see a lot of interesting things working at a bowling alley like I have for thirty years. I’m not talking about perfect games and picking up seven-ten splits. You actually see these more than you think. No, I’m talking about really interesting things like deep-fried chicken feet, or a clear ball with a scorpion in it, or one of those little pencils driven into a telephone pole by a tornado. These are the kinds of things you just don’t see everyday. At least I don’t. But of all the amazing things I’ve seen, that little girl with her hand stuck in the gumball machine takes the cake.

Lord knows how long she sat there before anybody realized she was in a pickle. This child couldn’t have been more than four-years-old and there she was, with half her arm up inside that thing. Her mom came running over and started trying to pull it out, but her hand wouldn’t budge. A few other people leaned in to see if they couldn’t wiggle and tug on it a bit. This just got her all upset and she started to cry.

Before you knew it, about half the bowling alley was there trying to help. They smiled and made funny faces for her. They brought pop and sweets. And, they tried and tried to get her unstuck. It wasn’t long before someone called the fire department. Minutes later a big, red truck rolled up, honking and flashing. Three burly firefighters came in wanting to know what was going on. I guess I wasn’t clear enough, because they went over and spent twenty minutes doing everything that everyone else had already tried.

Things seemed to get a little more serious after that. They brought in a heavy blanket, laid it over that little girl, and busted open the machine spilling gumballs and broken glass everywhere. I suppose they hoped to be able to see her fingers or maybe take the machine apart from the top down. When this didn’t work they put the blanket back on her and poured five gallons of cooking oil into the machine. This didn’t help, either. By now the newspaper was on the scene and the whole thing was turning into quite a story.

They got a hold of someone from the vending company who thought that one of her fingers must be caught in a gear that only moved forward. To free her, he explained, you would have to put in a quarter and turn the crank. The problem with this was that she would most likely lose that finger.

When the little girl overheard this being explained to her terrified mother, she let go of the gumball she was holding onto and quickly pulled her hand right out of that machine!

A Sure Thing

2008-05-10T20:16:00.004-05:00

If you listened closely to the deafening roar of people exercising their right to lose, you could also hear the quiet murmur of people working for a living. The lights were dimmed over most of the tables, but the roulette wheel was always open and last call would never come.

A man stood before a five-dollar slot machine with a one-dollar token in his hand. On this particular morning, as at four o’clock every morning for the past two weeks, Thom found that he had squandered hundreds of thousands of dollars on the superficial attention that self-destructive recklessness commands. He had recently come into an apparently limitless inheritance that only served to elevate his lack of faith to the level of agonizing disbelief.

“Can you see the future?”

Thom flinched at the sudden breach of his personal space. “What did you say?”

A sweet, little old lady who looked like she had baked every blue-blooded American boy on God’s green earth his very own apple pie stood looking at Thom over rhinestone-encrusted glasses. “It’s not a crystal ball, sweetie. You’ve got to pay to play.”

Thom chuckled. “I know. Maybe I’m just waiting for the planets to align.”

“Well unless five bucks are going to fall from Uranus, I suggest you step aside and let a serious gambler get to work, You Bum!”

Without a word and without the strength to put up a fight, Thom hung his head and walked away. He had barely taken twelve steps before bells and sirens announced to the world that a “serious gambler” had just won $75,000. Without looking back, Thom consoled himself with the thought that $75,000 would not cover his losses over just the past hour. He was sure this qualified him as deadly serious.

Back in his suite, Thom ordered up some breakfast. A few eggs, a couple pieces of toast and a carafe of orange juice later, he decided to see how the dogs were running. A sweaty, sunburned man in seersucker had given Thom a personal guarantee earlier in the week (an elbow and a wink) that Saturday’s 50:1 long shot would finish first in the third. Thom had a few hours to kill before betting was open, so he treated himself to a hot shower, a fresh change of clothes, and an hour-and-a-half of sitting in front of the television watching nothing in particular in high definition. With fifteen minutes to spare and $1,000 in his fist, Thom double-checked the keys in his pocket and left without turning off the lights.

Dogs had never been kind to Thom and the feeling was mutual. But, this was different. This was a greyhound named “Can’t Lose” and everything about betting on her just felt right. It was not so much that Thom needed, or even really wanted, to win $50,000. Money was one thing he would never have to worry about again. No, what Thom wanted and what he was beginning to depend on, was finding the one thing – anything – on which he could stake everything and win.

Standing at the rail waiting for the dogs to burst out of the gate, it occurred to Thom that he was already behind. For some strange reason the very thing he thought would always put him ahead of the pack, seemed to be what weighed him down the most. Thom chased this thought around in his mind until he grew dizzy. Suddenly, in a blinding flash of brown and gray, the dogs erupted onto the track. Can’t Lose took an early lead, while Born Lucky, the favorite to win fell back into fourth. Thom’s dog had increased the lead to a full body length by the first turn. The crowd went wild as Born Lucky dug in deep and swept into second. It was Can’t Lose and Born Lucky shoulder-to-shoulder into the stretch! As the electric bunny whizzed by and those poor dogs came tearing after something they would never catch, Thom caught a glimpse of the truth he had been pursuing. It’s not enough. He whispered to himself. It’s never enough.

Thom let his ticket fall to the ground and started walking back to the hotel. He never found out whether or not Can’t Lose lived up to her name. He just hoped she would make it off the track one day and be taken into a loving family. He remembered an odd comment that his mother used to make. She would say, “You should never gamble if you can’t afford to lose.” But, watching those dogs run, it occurred to Thom that you could always afford to lose if you valued nothing. He came to the conclusion that this was his problem. The gnawing emptiness he had been trying to fill with gambling and self-indulgence of epic proportions had become bottomless.

“Excuse me.”

Thom flinched again. He was a little jumpy. A neatly dressed young woman stood in front of him. He quickly regained his composure and raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

“Can I ask you a question?” She continued.

“You just did.” Thom smiled. Her expression was soft and she seemed a little nervous. Thom got the impression that she wanted to ask him something important. “Just kidding. Ask away.”

“Are you one-hundred percent sure you’ll go to heaven when you die?”

“Uh… Well,” Thom stalled. I am a hundred percent sure that I’ll eventually die, and I’m about fifty percent sure I’ll go somewhere at that point. But, I’d say I’m only about twenty-five percent certain that this would be heaven.”

It was hard to say whether this young woman failed to appreciate Thom’s humor or Thom had botched his delivery. Either way she had a follow-up question.

“Wouldn’t you like to have an assurance that you will?”

Thom studied her face for several moments before answering. She was serious. He asked, “Are you one-hundred percent sure that you’ll go to heaven when you die?”

“Yes.” She answered without hesitation.

Thom was doubtful. “What has this assurance cost you?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?”

“All my heart, all my strength and all my soul.” All her nervousness was gone. She seemed to grow taller and brighter as she spoke.

“What about your money?” Thom asked without thinking.

A profound expression of sadness eclipsed the young woman’s features for a moment. “Is your money all that you have?”

* * *

Hours later Thom’s ears were still ringing. The kindness with which she had asked him that question; the truth that answering her had brought him to face, both pierced him to the very core of his being. His money was all that he had and it meant nothing to him. Thom now saw that he had much more to lay on the table and infinitely more to gain. Walking along the beach, listening to the quiet insistence of the sea toward some greater purpose, Thom considered God the Father and Jesus the Son. A comforting spirit of peace began to fill his heart as he looked out over the waves. The horizon was clear and bright and beautiful. The sun, the sand, the surf; all creation sang of God’s greatness. Thom opened his heart for the first time in his life and God opened his eyes.

For what will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life? Indeed, what can they give in return for their life? -Mark 8:36, 37