Tens of thousands have been killed and more injured in last week’s Haitian earthquake. We all have followed the heart breaking stories framed by this 7.0-magnitude earthquake and the literal collapse that resulted from it.
Church & Community
Conflicted
I like words in general I guess. As a youngster, I spent a good deal of time perusing the dictionary. In fact I made it a practice, whenever I searched for the definition of one word in particular, I would read all the definitions on that page. Now that I use online resources, I miss doing that.
I like the word “conflicted.” It describes my feelings when I see and appreciate both sides of a complex issue and find myself hesitant to assert an opinion. A friend of mine pointed me to a recent article in the NY Times concerning “Three Clergymen, Three Faiths, One Friendship.” It sounds like the opening line of a joke—but it really serves as a good model for us all when it comes to conflict and diversity.
I’m conflicted, for example, about many issues politically—war/peace, taxes and health care reform (just to name a few), conflicted about some forms of corporate worship, conflicted about diet and exercise (but that’s another thing entirely!). On even days, I can argue “for,” on odd days “against” most any topic. I’m conflicted, you see! I imagine we all find ourselves conflicted at times about one thing or many.
I come from a Christian background where it seemed that one should never be or at least admit being conflicted on certain matters of doctrine or ethical persuasion or almost anything else for that matter. We were taught rather to “take a stand,” not to compromise. But sometimes that smells like arrogance and bull-headedness to me.
I am an older man now, and I often see many sides to once-simple questions. The things about which I am sure certainly have shrunk in number. “On Christ the solid rock I stand” is a line in an old hymn that I still love to sing. It speaks to me. All the rest? Well, I guess you could say that I am sometimes, but not always, conflicted.
When I am conflicted I become quieter, perhaps a bit more humbled. It means that I try to listen before I speak; consult before I act. Being conflicted means I pray and meditate more, search the Scriptures, read more broadly, and broaden my circle of friends and associates.
This past Sunday night in Cross Plains we gathered with neighbors from sister churches in our community for a Thanksgiving Service. We sat at table with one another and enjoyed good food and fellowship. We then worshiped the same Lord in a service of thanksgiving and praise. We came to the same Table and participated in Holy Communion. What made this night so special is that we gathered in one place from different churches, different backgrounds, and with different perspectives on many issues. But we gathered as one with grateful hearts. It was a good night. I am thankful!
I hope this spirit of fellowship will grow in our fair community. I personally would like to see all churches gather as neighbors with grateful hearts. That’s my prayer.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Weak Knees
Have you ever felt “weak in the knees?” I have. Not to get too personal, but the last year or so has been a bit like that for me. Maybe it has something to do with my age—midlife being what it is. Anyway, whatever the stage of life there are times when one comes face-to-face with himself. You begin to consider how, almost unconsciously, things are broken-down in this or that area of life. You even start noticing it in the lives of others. It’s a kind of meltdown, a weakness so to speak.
Our community is feeling something like this right now. You might argue that it’s more like a punch in the stomach, such has been our pain. Private prayer and public conversation center on the physical well being of a little boy, named Ethan, in our circle of concern. Our collective heart breaks for a young life and dear family who find themselves in crisis. There are others too in our hearts for whom we love and pray.
Wherever you may be, the story is repeated. There’s plenty of struggle and pain to go around. On a national and global scale, inevitable questions about economic conditions prevail. You cannot turn on CNN without hearing about the mortgage crisis, the closing or buying out of some financial institution, the bailout plan, or some layered approach by the new administration. It’s more than I can understand. It makes me weak in the knees.
Maybe that is a blessing—this weakness I mean. In some ways for me this past year has been a really good thing. Sometimes it is only when we come to a place of weakness or “humility” that we find renewed strength or ability. Do you know what I mean? Sometimes crisis offers new opportunity—for growth, healing, and such. Despair can drive one to prayer.
I know that’s true right now in our community of faith. There is a renewed spirit of prayer and mission, initiated by our love and concern for a little boy. One of our deacons approached me following last Sunday’s sermon inquiring about the nuances of prayer and fasting. Stirring within him was a clear reminder that we all are totally dependent upon God. It’s the first time in 27 years at this church that anyone has asked me about how to fast. As a community right now, our knees are weak. That can be a good thing.
Abraham Lincoln once wrote—“I have been driven many times to my knees by the overwhelming conviction that I had nowhere else to go. My own wisdom and that of those about me seemed insufficient for the day.” Jesus understood the wisdom of prayer, and fasting for that matter. He understood that his relationship with the Father was the wellspring, the source of his life—his perspective, his power. That’s why he combined the two during his 40 days in the desert right at the head of his ministry. The early church practiced the same. And for those of us who think only the Roman Catholics have continued the practice—don’t forget that Luther, Calvin, Wesley and Edwards prayed and fasted (good ol’ Protestants).
If I may—here’s why one should fast and pray. In a more tangible, visceral way than any other spiritual practice—they both remind us of our truest need. They reveal our excessive attachment to the material, to self. Food is necessary of course. For that matter, self-autonomy is as well. But we have made food (the material) and self more necessary than God. How often have we neglected to remember God—his presence and provision—when we would never forget to eat or to fend for self?!
Prayer and fasting bring us face to face with how we so often put everything else ahead of the one true Source of all of life. For this, I am thankful to be “weak in the knees.”
Easter Eggs
Easter, though it didn’t stack up very well to Christmas, had its own kind of magic when I was a child. Easter eggs and the bunny brought their own surprises. I know I grew to love them more as they transitioned from painted to plastic–filled with assorted confections and chocolates and money. As a parent that joy turned to Easter afternoon egg hunts and photographs of our little ones in colorful outfits. As I look back now from the empty nest, those years were full of life.
Easter eggs are a longtime symbol for life—waiting for just the right time to spring. ‘Tis the season for new beginnings, new growth. The miracle is that it comes whatever the stage of life.
The older I get the more I appreciate such—the more I depend on the renewal of life. Enthusiasm for the things of God companies spiritual springtime. Desire for more of God breaks forth in beautiful ways all along life’s hunt. Be it summer, autumn or the winter of life—Easter comes in the nick of time.
If I may—here’s a new practice I’ve discovered. It’s not a new one by any means, but I’ve just happened upon it. It’s known by many as “the examen.” Don’t let the name intimidate you.
Through the years people have discovered direction for their lives, as we know, through prayer and reflection. One particular practice is known as the “examination of consciousness.” The examen, as its called, provides a way of noticing where God shows up in our lives on a daily basis. It’s a practice that attends to what we might otherwise miss. This spiritual conversation opens us up to how God is moving in our story, our comings and goings.
It’s nothing more than a basket of questions, designed to help us listen to the data of our lives. They help us pay attention to things that bring us death and life. Once known, they become part of our ongoing journey with God and others. They open us up to what God is saying to us through the stuff of everyday life.
Questions like—for what today am I most grateful? Least grateful? When did I give and receive love today? What gave me life today? Stole life from me? When did I feel most connected to God? To others? Such conversation with God invites attention to the lows and highs of life. Perspective and direction for the future happen through listening to where and how God shows up in your day. Such awareness puts you in touch with the kind of person God created you to be.
You can make your own list. They are as numerous as a field full of Easter eggs—each one specially marked just for you.
People Talk
I’ve learned to accomplish a fair amount when people all around are doing just that. I don’t know when it happened exactly, but somewhere along the way I developed the ability to read, think and write smack in the middle of a crowded room. Bookstores have evolved into coffee houses and talk shops you know. It may be both the caffeine and the external stimulation that energizes me. Fridays often find me there.
I enjoy listening to people talk, whether it’s eavesdropping at Borders, bouncing from “wall to wall’ on Facebook, or “tweeting” on Twitter. People are going to talk. We all do, even when our attention should be on the road and the wheel, not the cell phone. People talk.
I don’t enjoy it so much when it is careless. There’s so much talk—we tend to underestimate its effect. Words are treated so casually, diminished to simple texts on a Blackberry, electronically reduced to formless email, or scrolled across the bottom of a television monitor as if they were all of equal value.
Talk is not cheap. Not at all. It matters. What we say and when we say it really count. When friends surround one another during times of crisis, quiet words of comfort and concern give timely strength and peace. Talk is priceless when—someone tells the truth to one who has asked for it, one ends a quarrel with words of forgiveness, an adult bends to encourage a little one. But it can sure be devastating. I’ve seen families, friends, even churches torn apart by foul language. People talk—for good or bad.
The gospels themselves—Matthew, Mark, Luke and John—all began as talk. These first writing evangelists stood in a long line of communicators, stringing together stories told and re-told, heard and recounted. They gathered these gems, writing them down, so parents could recite them to their children, and teachers to their students, and neighbors to neighbors. Before long friends of strangers from remote places were talking of the same Jesus who once had walked on Galilean soil. Those who had been near him had gotten word to those now far off. Everyone had now heard of him. People talk.
It is true, isn’t it? If you think about it, not one of us would have ever come to faith apart from someone having said something to us. Words as simple as, “Hey, why don’t you come to church with me?” Maybe it was nothing more than, “I’ll pray for you,” or “God bless.” Whatever it may have been, the fact is someone at one time or another said something that touched us, “spoke” to us, or maybe challenged or even angered us. It whetted your appetite or made you curious enough to take a step toward God or home or someone we love.
That is how it’s been working for two millennia now. That is how a carpenter’s son from Nazareth has become known all over the world. It’s all because people talk. People talk and word travels. People talk and lives are transformed. People talk and people are made whole. People talk and churches are established. People talk and the poor, the sick, and the broken are mended.
Just think what we could accomplish if we would talk more like that.
Like Medicine
Just this week I stood in a hospital room crowded with loving family members of one who, without a single word, had summoned them all together. She was ready, after almost 94 years, to leave this life for one that is promised to be more. So that is exactly what she did. She took the corridor that leads from here to there. She left a hushed silence hardly able to muffle the emotion of time spent, joys remembered, and sorrows borne.
Hospitals are places of healing. For those who work there it must be wonderful to take part in someone’s healing and, I’m sure, equally devastating when healing does not occur. Sometimes I wish I were a physician—or at least, had a more practical job. Sometimes I think that if I could do something more productive, I’d be better off. After all, I’m a preacher. I talk. I craft and deliver sermons on a weekly basis. Sometimes I wonder about what possible difference words can make. To be truthful, I can hardly remember myself what I preached a couple of weeks ago.
But I was reminded this week about this gospel that I proclaim. We know Jesus as the Great Physician, one who healed the sick, made the lame to walk, and gave sight to the blind. He was a doer, no doubt. I remembered though that his ministry with the poor, the prisoners, the broken and ill was first a ministry of words. Jesus had been anointed to preach, to proclaim the good news of release and recovery. His were words of healing and wholeness.
Did I say how quiet the room was? Not a sound. Until one by one, from young to old, stories were sounded and applied straight to our hearts. It was like medicine. Straight to the soul, soothing salve.
The heaviness in the room began to lift. Don’t get me wrong, there were still tears, but it was different somehow—a smile, a fresh remembrance, and a twinkle in our eyes. Where once we were standing stiff, now we began to relax and touch one another. A hand, a shoulder, then an embrace. Our bodies began to speak with lighter inflection. You could feel it.
Before I left I offered a word. I knew this family. I understood. I recited the 23rd Psalm and we prayed together. Those words—theirs, mine, and the psalmist’s—were good news to every one of us that day even in the face of death.
That’s the wonderful thing about the work I do. For that matter, the work we do. The gospel “medicine” works straight away; no sooner than it is said, it is done. The good news accomplishes what it proclaims, no matter how things may turn out.