The following reflections were written over several years and first published together in 2015. The dates have been reset to coincide with 2021.
Tuesday, February 16
Icons and Ashes
When the appliance repair man pulled a small lump of debris out of the washing machine filter, I sorted through it and found that it was mostly just lint, along with a nickel, a penny, and a piece of corroded metal about the size of a quarter. The latter had a four-leaf shape and seemed to be etched with images, so I got my photographer’s loupe and gave it a closer look. Sure enough, each of the leaves bore an image: Jesus, Mary, Saint Joseph and Saint Christopher. In the middle was a dove.
What I found was one of the many religious medals that my late wife Debra carried in her pocket during her lifetime as a devout Catholic. Finding it brought reminders of a faith that was stronger than most, and it raised thoughts about icons and spiritual practices.
Growing up in the Baptist church, I didn’t have much exposure to religious symbolism. Historically, Baptists have shied away from visual symbols in our worship spaces. We don’t want anything to come between us and God – or to become an object of worship in itself, as is the common misconception.
I learned from Debra that these symbols and icons are not objects of worship. Seeing them and touching them helps focus our thoughts on Father, Son and Holy Spirit. I know the medal I found was lost during the height of Debra’s illness. And I know it was a touchstone that led to prayer and trust, and not a lucky charm to ward off death.
Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, and I appreciate how Wilshire is among Baptist churches that have embraced the practice of rubbing ashes on the forehead. There is no magic or medicine in the doing; there is only reflection and remembrance. The ashes represent the dust from which we come and the dust to which we return. And etched on our forehead in the shape of a cross, the ashes remind us of Christ’s sacrifice that turned dust into life.
If you have not participated in this tradition, consider letting go of your inhibitions to be marked with this wearable icon. Feel the cross being etched on your skin, touch the mark as it becomes dry and rough, see the cross when you look at yourself in the mirror. Every time you become aware of that presence, focus on what Christ’s sacrifice means to you.
As for the little medal I found, the more I held it the more it crumbled. Like ashes, it reminded me of the brevity of this life and the faith that there is more to come. Rather than toss it into a wastebasket, I buried it at the base of the new camellia bushes we are nursing through the winter. There’s no spiritual magic in that – I’m not expecting huge blossoms next winter – but I’m thinking the iron in the medal might provide some welcome fertilizer as the plant grows. And that is what ashes and icons can do: nurture our spiritual growth.
Wednesday, February 17
The Sign of the Cross
Today is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the Lenten season that culminates with Easter. Many Christians will stand in line to receive ashes on their foreheads, acknowledging the truth of what we are told in that moment: we have come from dust, and we will return to dust.
It’s a sobering statement, and for many people the observance is discomforting, awkward, even creepy – so much so that they will avoid the ritual altogether. That reaction may be a symptom of what poet, essayist and, yes, funeral director Thomas Lynch calls “the estrangement between the living and the dead.”
In an excerpt from his book, The Good Funeral, published in “Aeon” magazine, Lynch writes: “For many bereaved Americans, the funeral has become instead a ‘celebration of life’. It has a guest list open to everyone except the actual corpse, which is often dismissed, disappeared without rubric or witness, buried or burned, out of sight, out of mind, by paid functionaries such as me — the undertaker.”
He continues: “The bodiless obsequy, which has become a staple of available options for bereaved families in the past half century, has created an estrangement between the living and the dead that is unique in human history. Furthermore, this estrangement, this disconnect, this refusal to deal with our dead (their corpses), could be reasonably expected to handicap our ability to deal with death (the concept, the idea of it). And a failure to deal authentically with death might have something to do with an inability to deal authentically with life.”
There is a similar tendency to disconnect during the weeks leading up to Easter; to celebrate the glowing Christ of the resurrection and hide the bloodied body of the crucifixion. By doing so, we ignore the fact that we can’t put on our heavenly garments until our earthen body dies. As Lynch puts it: “Ours is the species bound to the dirt, fashioned from it according to the Book of Genesis. Thus human and humus occupy the same page of our dictionaries because we are beings ‘of the soil’, of the earth.”
Instead of facing the gritty, earthy reality of the crucifixion, and with it, our own death, our nod to the earth and soil is store shelves stocked with baskets full of bright green plastic grass, pastel pink eggs, yellow chicks made of marshmallows and brown bunnies made of milk chocolate. All of that is mostly the modern, day-glow version of ancient spring celebrations that centuries ago were grafted to the holy days of Easter.
True enough, Easter Sunday is and should be a grand, bright celebration of God’s love through the resurrected Christ and the promise of eternal life. But while Easter tells us that death has no ultimate sting, neither does death have any consequence for the present if we don’t acknowledge it. Only then can we face life – and our brief opportunity to love, share and minister to others – with any authenticity and urgency.
That is why we stand in line for ashes. It’s grim and sober, yes, but if you use all of your senses, you can feel the ashes etched onto your skin in the sign of the cross. It’s a good feeling – a feeling of life that has purpose now and forever.
Thursday, February 18
Don’t Give Up; Give In
What are you giving up for Lent? It’s a common question for many Christians during this season leading to Easter, and the answers can range from the superficial, such as candy and burgers, to the more meaningful, such as wasted time, vanity, and truly harmful habits. The purpose of this giving up is to turn away from distractions and turn toward God. It is a form of fasting.
It seems easy enough, but giving things up can be difficult. We’re prone to clutch things so tightly that even if we do give them up for a while, we find ourselves gathering them up again once the season is over. If we don’t do it intentionally, we do it by gradually slipping back into our old habits.
Maybe there’s a better way. Instead of giving up something, what about giving in – to the full in-dwelling of the Holy Spirit. Instead of depending on our wavering will power to let go of the things that come between us and God, how about inviting the Holy Spirit to fill us so completely that there is no room for the clutter that pollutes our lives.
How we get to that in-dwelling and filling up is a whole other matter. It doesn’t just happen. It requires some preparation, some house cleaning of sorts with prayer, quiet meditation, perhaps the singing of a favorite hymn. Often a hymn and prayer are one in the same, and none is better for opening our doors to the spirit than “Spirit of the Living God” with its plea to “break me, melt me, mold me, fill me.”
If we ask that honestly, we’ll surely be filled with far more than we can ever hope to gain by just giving up a favorite pleasure or a bad habit.
Friday, February 19
Keeping an Eye on the Cross
In March 2011 when I was having some repairs made at my house in preparation for putting it on the market, I groaned when I came home one evening and found that the painters had cleared a corner of the kitchen where a dozen or more crosses had been hanging. They needed to repair a crack high on the wall and they moved the crosses so they wouldn’t get spattered with texture and paint. They also pulled out all the little nails so they could feather and blend the new paint. I appreciated all of that, but unfortunately I didn’t have a photograph to remind me of how I had the crosses arranged.
I didn’t have a mental picture either, and that was sad because that means the crosses had become just another decoration that I rushed by on my way to seemingly more important things – eating, sleeping, watching TV. I missed the opportunity to make that corner a place to meditate, perhaps sitting at the kitchen table with an open Bible and a cup of coffee. Had I done that, I probably would have developed a pretty good mental image of the crosses and their arrangement. More important, I also would have thought more about what they represent.
During this season of Lent we’re encouraged to deliberately consider the cross of Christ. And what we’re asked to consider is that it’s not just a decorative symbol to hang on a wall, dangle from a chain, or inscribe with ink into our skin. Instead, it’s the fulcrum of our faith – the pivot point on which God focused all his love and mercy to lift us out of the despair of sin and death.
So I decided that when the painters were finished and time came to put everything back in its place, I wouldn’t recreate the cross corner in the kitchen. We could do it in a new way at a new house if we wanted to. Instead, during those days leading to Easter, I tried to slow myself down and spend more time contemplating the real cross rather than just rushing past the decorative ones. Although I did select a favorite one from the kitchen on which to focus my attention.
Saturday, February 20
Praying with St. Francis
Backing down the driveway, I glanced to the right across the corner of the yard and saw a squirrel sitting squarely on top of the head of St. Francis.
The 18-inch concrete statue of St. Francis of Assisi has been standing beside the pecan tree for years. I’ve seen him visited by squirrels, birds, even a football-sized turtle that crawled up from the creek. But a squirrel perched on his noggin? That’s a first. From a distance, all that brown fur wrapped around his scalp made him look less like a 13th century holy man and more like Davy Crockett. It was a ridiculous sight, and I put my foot on the brake long enough to take a fuzzy photo with my phone.
Back home later, the picture of that squirrel had me reaching up on the shelf and pulling down a decorative book made of hinged wood. Opening it up, there’s an illustration of St. Francis feeding the birds on one side, and on the other side are the words of the prayer attributed to him. I was struck by this dual personality we’ve given him: lover of all God’s creatures, and saint who some say was most Christ-like in the way he lived. The fact that we’ve frozen him into yard art seems to indicate we focus more on the former. But stop a moment and read his words again:
Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.
O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
Amen.
I don’t think those words were written to remind us to be kind to the birds and the squirrels. But, it took a squirrel to remind me of our higher calling.
Sunday, February 21
Focus on the Fundamentals
A few years ago while visiting the Baylor University journalism department where I earned my degree, I learned that while their new name – Journalism, Public Relations and New Media – is a nod to all the new forms of communication that exist, the focus is still on the fundamentals of strong reporting and writing. For that reason, The Baylor Lariat – the daily newspaper that I worked on 30 years ago – is still the centerpiece of the program. That’s remarkable given that the paper’s primary readership has grown up with texts and tweets.
“Focus on the fundamentals” and “stick with the basics.” We hear coaches talk about that all the time as the key to success. It’s trite, it’s cliché, but it’s true. Whether you’re talking about education, parenting, medicine, sports, banking, politics, whatever, there are always some foundational principles or disciplines that shouldn’t be overlooked.
I believe it’s true for what we do on Sunday mornings too, and for me the chief fundamental of good worship is reverence. Without reverence, I believe worship drifts into the realm of entertainment, and what’s the point of that? Do we really need more entertainment? We spend the week bombarded with images and sounds that push, prod and provoke us, and every source of this input tries to be louder than the next. Can’t we set that aside and give God an hour of our reverent attention and devotion? Or more time than that if we break away during the week for quiet worship on our own?
Call me old fashioned but I prefer serious pulpit preaching to casual coffee talk, hymns and anthems to praise songs and choruses, reverent head-bowing to hand-raised hallelujahs. That’s just me. At least for one hour on Sunday mornings.
Monday, February 22
False Spring
Looking out the window one morning I saw brilliant blue, yellow and white pansies, fresh purple clusters of new hyacinths, bright green shoots of daffodils and tulips. The sight was made all the more beautiful as the bright colors were accentuated against the backdrop of a thick sheet of clean white sleet.
The spring bloomers were drawn up out of the dark black soil and into the light by a wave of warm weather. The bright sunshine and shirtsleeve temperatures – and all the promise and potential they herald – were too much to resist. But it was a false spring, and the tender shoots and petals would need to stand still and strong against the cold. They would have to wait for winter to finish its run before they could claim their springtime glory.
We, too, must wait.
Tuesday, February 23
Mountains and Valleys
Laying on a cot on a Sunday morning at the church’s periodic blood drive, I looked up and found that I was resting between two large paintings. One depicts a sunny garden wedding celebration and the other a gray deathbed scene. As I looked at the two paintings, the portable stereo brought by the technicians from the blood bank was playing “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.”
The song is a love anthem from 1970 with Diana Ross belting out the chorus with its less-than-poetic grammar:
Ain’t no mountain high enough,
Ain’t no valley low enough,
Ain’t no river wide enough,
To keep me from you.
Pop lyrics for sure, and if there wasn’t a tube hanging out of my arm, I might have raised my hands and swayed. But as I listened to the song about mountains and valleys, while viewing those scenes of joy and sorrow, I was reminded of Paul’s more poetic words from the Book of Romans: “For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
In the past ten years I’ve lived in both those painted scenes. I’ve hung my head in the sorrowful valley, and I’ve stood on the mountaintop hand-in-hand with new love. In fact, when LeAnn and I had our wedding rehearsal luncheon a few years ago, it was in that room with those paintings as the backdrop.
It’s been valleys and mountains, demons and angels, death and life. But the truth is that most of us spend most of our days on the slopes and terraces between the mountains and valleys, the celebrations and the sorrow. We’re on our way up or on our way down.
Or, we’re resting on a ledge trying to map out the next part of the journey with the mountaintop our preferred destination. These places of rest and preparation are also depicted in paintings in that same room: a family dedication, a baptism. But the largest painting encompasses both pop song lyrics and Paul’s letter of hope. It is a scene of a Lord’s Supper table, with people of all ages gathered before the bread and the cup representing God’s gift through Christ’s sacrifice.
That scene is God’s love song to us – God’s assurance that nothing can separate us from his love. It is our resting place between the mountains and valleys, the angels and demons. It is where we stand between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday, and if we’re willing, every day of our life.
Wednesday, February 24
All Kidding Aside
It was just a dumb joke, emailed to my longtime friend Paul, a lifelong parishioner at St. Thomas Aquinas Catholic Church down the street from Wilshire. It was late February, 2013, Pope Benedict had just resigned, and I couldn’t resist: “So . . . the Catholic Church is giving up the Pope for Lent, huh?!”
You can almost hear the moans and the symbol crash. Paul didn’t respond, but he has a wonderful sense of humor so I know he took no offense. And I followed the joke with, “But all kidding aside, this is an amazing time for the church. I’ll be praying that the cardinals are wise in their deliberations.” And I meant that, because it was an amazing time, and the Catholic Church did need a great leader. In fact, I believe the whole world benefits from the Catholic Church having a great, Godly leader. And I believe they, and we, have benefited greatly in the selection of Pope Francis in March 2013.
But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I wonder if there’s not something beneficial to this idea of giving up a pope for lent. Not just a Catholic pope, but any person or thing that we’ve put on a pedestal in the name of religious leadership or spiritual advice. It could be a pastor, a teacher, a coach, a friend, a book, a philosophy, a lifestyle. It’s good to have mentors and role models, guidelines and principles, but if we get lazy and let someone else do our thinking or some system dictate our decisions, then we’ve lost the point of the spiritual life. Which is: It is my spiritual life and your spiritual life.
Christ’s ministry illuminated the value of our individual, spiritual life aside from the religious order and structure of the day. What’s more, the Holy Spirit came at Pentecost to imbue each individual with a spiritual flame that is shaped by our unique personalities, talents and gifts.
While we can mingle our flame with others in community and worship, we should never hand our lamp over to someone else for keeping. A pope can help adjust the wick, but we are the lamp, and Christ is always the flame.
Thursday, February 25
Preparing Rooms
A few years ago when LeAnn and I were building a new house together, we came to a stage in the process that we found very tedious: painting. Earlier stages were exciting as the structure grew out of the ground and took shape with ever-changing layers of concrete and wood, wallboard and windows, roof deck and shingles, woodwork and cabinets. But then, everything was covered with plastic and tape as the interior was painted. We no longer could see the wood floors and granite countertops. We could barely see anything at all because we couldn’t stay inside long with the heavy fumes that burned the eyes and nostrils.
At that stage it felt like the house would never be finished and we’d never move in. In fact, I had a persistent fantasy that the house wasn’t even actually ours. We started it and we’d see it completed, but then someone else would swoop in at the last moment, take ownership, and lock us out. It’s just one of the games the mind plays when you’ve been involved with something for a long time and can’t imagine the long-hoped-for conclusion.
There’s something of Easter in all of that as we see Jesus’ ministry growing and rising, bringing such promise and hope for a new kingdom on earth. But then comes Gethsemane, arrest, and the cross. The tomb is sealed shut, and it feels like the kingdom will never come.
Then, Jesus does as he promised and breaks out of the tomb. What’s more, he says, “My Father’s house has many rooms . . . and if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me.”
That’s the great news of Easter: The doors of the kingdom are open and there’s room for all to enter. And with patience and trust, we finally got to move into our new home and have enjoyed opening it to others.
Friday, February 26
Magnificent Desolation
“Magnificent desolation.” Those were the other famous words spoken from the surface of the moon on July 21, 1969. It was Buzz Aldrin’s description of the gray-white lunar landscape.
I had those words in my mind on a late winter morning a couple of years ago as we sat at the kitchen table and watched the falling snow cover the dead brown grass and trees with a clean white coating. And then as we watched the snow grow deeper and deeper, LeAnn read aloud from an article about tall, flowering hedges that would make good borders for a fenceless back yard such as ours.
You see . . . the false spring we were experiencing that year had us dreaming and planning for warmer days, and the late winter storm that blew in with its ice and snow couldn’t knock us back. We were moving forward, even just in our minds, because we knew that spring always follows winter. Always.
That fits well with Aldrin’s full quote, which was, “Beautiful, beautiful. Magnificent desolation.” It says that there is beauty in emptiness, beauty in nothingness. And at this time of year, there is beauty in waiting and trusting that the desolation will be transformed into something beautiful.
Saturday, February 27
Doors
Every spring the Wilshire Youth Choir has its annual spaghetti lunch and silent auction, which is always a great event, and it always takes me back a few years to when LeAnn and I bid on a mahogany house door. We were months away from getting married and had decided to build a new house together. So when we saw the door at the auction, we thought, “Why not? Every house has a door. A front door is a great place to start.”
Life is full of doors and windows. Sometimes they open wide and invite us in, and sometimes they slam shut in our face. God does a lot of the opening and closing, but sometimes we can miss that if we’re not paying attention. We can stubbornly push through a closed door and end up somewhere we don’t belong. Or, we can spend our entire life huddled in one room and never know what lies just beyond the open threshold – new opportunities, relationships, adventures, memories.
Jesus said, “In my Father’s house are many rooms . . . I am going there to prepare a place for you.” Metaphorically or not, those rooms have doors, and we have to be ready and willing to walk through them when we see them open. We have to be attentive and trusting too.
Even so, sometimes, all we get is the door. We walk through it and find an empty lot on the other side. Instead of backing out of it, we have to roll up our sleeves and do the hard work of building the home or life that it will ultimately lead to. But Jesus was a carpenter, so we have pretty good help if we’ll let him.
By the way, we didn’t get the door that year at the auction. Someone out-bid us. That means the youth got more money, and that’s a good thing. Meanwhile, there have been many more doors to choose from. God is good with doors.
Sunday, February 28
Laughing Out Loud
Huh? What?!
I did a double take as we were singing in church. We were on the first verse of a hymn I don’t know when my eyes dropped down a line to the second verse and I saw “lol,” as in the digital-age texting acronym for, “laughing out loud.”
The hymn is “In the Cross of Christ I Glory,” an old one with text penned in 1825 and the music in 1849. I don’t recall ever singing it before, so there was room for my unfamiliar mind to play tricks on me.
And then we sang the second verse: “When the woes of life o’er-take me, hopes deceive and fears annoy, never shall the cross forsake me: lo! it glows with peace and joy.”
Aha, the word was “lo!” and definitely not “lol.”
But as we sang on, I realized that “lol” works just fine there. Because in the cross of Christ we not only can glory but we can laugh out loud at the woes of life. True, they hurt and pain us and cause us grief and tears – oh my, yes they do – but in God’s grand plan these things are fleeting. God has the last word. And we, through Christ, have the last laugh.
Monday, March 1
Who Do You Follow?
It began with a single, soft note . . . a brief pause . . . and then a perfectly formed chord of four, six or even eight notes. And from that single chord a perfectly lovely melody was built, ebbing and flowing, rising and falling, drifting through the symphony hall and into the ears and down into the souls of all who were listening. It was moving and stirring. And it all began with a single, soft note.
Most of the selections performed that night by the magnificent choir from St. Olaf College were sung a cappella, and I found myself watching each time for a young man on the second row to render that single, soft note from a pitch pipe before each piece. At first I thought two things: Either he’s the most trusted member of the college choir, or he’s a freshman and this is some kind of initiation ritual. Later it was revealed by the choir’s director that the young man is a gifted composer and arranger – the choir sang one of his compositions – so it’s likely that playing the pitch pipe is a role of high honor and trust.
It’s a simple task, really, but a critical one. Without that first perfect note, the choristers might start in different places and fill the hall with dissonance. Even if they have perfect pitch (and many surely do), some might start a half step high or low of the intended mark. They might eventually find their way to harmony, but there’d be a moment of bent notes, swooping and searching before they all got in tune. Or they might have wandered aimlessly until the director silenced them to start again. And if not trustworthy or serious, the young man with the pitch pipe might have blown the wrong note and started them off equally lost.
To get it right, the person with the pitch pipe must play the right note, and the choristers fanned out around him must listen intently, draw that sound into their mind, place their own first note alongside what they’ve just heard, and then voice it as precisely as they imagined it. It’s actually a very complex process.
I’m not a singer and you may not be either, but we all listen to others at different times and in different ways in search of the perfect pitch for our lives. We key off others as we seek harmony in our relationships, careers, vocations, daily movement through this world.
None of us are solo performers; we interact with others all the time. So . . . who are we listening to, and how well are we listening? Are we being led to harmony, or to dissonance? And, who is listening to us?
Tuesday, March 2
Beware of Formulas
In recent years I’ve submitted some of my short fiction and essays to journals that have periodic competitions and claim to have the eyes and ears of agents and publishers. I’ve not won any prizes, not gained any contacts, but I’ve received a blizzard of emails offering seminars on how to whip my writing into shape.
Some of the offerings are rather broad – “Sixty Days to a Bestseller” and “Fundamentals of Fiction” – while others are very specific: “Creating Memorable Characters,” “Plot Perfect Boot Camp” and “Conflict and Suspense.” Some seem to offer tried-and-true formulas, such as “Build Your Novel Scene by Scene” and “Story Mapping and Pacing.” There are even courses on specific genres: paranormal, mystery, science fiction, fantasy, thriller. And even “Essentials of Romance Writing.” It must be good because the instructor’s last name is Valentine. Seriously.
I also receive email blogs about writing, and every now and then there is something helpful – if not something new, then something that confirms a belief. Under the heading of “How long should novel chapters be?” I read this advice: “There are no hard-and-fast rules on how long or short a chapter needs to be. It could be three pages. It could be 22. It could be 40. You shouldn’t set manuscript guidelines for yourself on chapter length.” And there it is: The formula for chapters is that there is no formula.
Formulas are critical in many areas of life. Coca-Cola and Pfizer have made fortunes based on strict chemical formulas. The relative safety of modern flight is governed by aerodynamic formulas. Formulas are fine if you want consistency and look-alike products – whether they be soft drinks, drugs, movies or, yes, books.
I’m skeptical about formulas for writing, and even more so about formulas for life, love and faith. (And don’t get me started on formulaic books that provide formulas on life, love and faith.) The variables are too many and the desired results are equally so. None of us are the same, and none of us want the same thing.
Perhaps that is why Jesus didn’t come on the scene with formulas for better living. He didn’t prescribe what to sacrifice, how many candles to light, what scriptures to read or hymns to sing, who to congregate with. He simply said, “Love one another.” He didn’t say what that love was to look like; he just said, “Love one another.”
And that, like a good book, leaves plenty of room for conflict and suspense, laughter and romance, interesting characters and wild plot twists.
Wednesday, March 3
Change of plans
I was called to the dentist office for a consultation. You see, my dentist and my periodontist – yes, I have two people living in my mouth – are concerned because a long-time gap in my bite has led to wobbly teeth. The two doctors have talked among themselves and I went to the appointment thinking I was going to be given a plan to shore up my mouth and I would learn how long it would take and how much it would cost and we’d schedule it out. But that didn’t happen.
I learned the doctors wanted to take a different approach that required more information. So for an hour I endured impressions and bite and clinching tests and various facial measurements. I don’t understand it all but one gadget apparently maps the symmetry of my face – or the asymmetry as it might be. The reasoning behind it all is to not make a quick, short-term fix but instead implement a long-term solution that will keep me smiling and chewing with my own teeth for 30 years or more.
The ultimate goal, they said, is “occlusal harmony.” It sounded like something they made up, so I looked it up in an on-line medical dictionary and it’s a real thing. It’s basically about teeth, jawbone, joints, muscles and nerves all working properly together.
Change of plans, slowing down, working toward harmony – isn’t that the Easter story? God’s people wanted a messiah to come make the world right and put their lives in harmony, but the messiah that came was not what they expected. Instead of coming with a quick fix to remove all the bad and bring in the good, his was a quieter, more thoughtful approach. He came to work with us, bring us along, help us know the right way to live over the long haul. He came to show us the way to harmony – between God and us, and between each other.
We don’t know if God changed his mind and took a second look at what was happening with his creation, or if his people simply misinterpreted the plans spoken through the prophets for generations. But the final plan was different. It requires patience, endurance, communication, obedience, faith, hope and especially love.
I have not yet learned the new plan for my teeth, but I trust the doctors who are making the plans. May I also be as trusting with the Christ of Easter.
Thursday, March 4
In Whatever Season
It’s interesting the way we’ve boxed Advent and Christmas into wintertime and Lent and Easter into spring. It seems we want our Jesus to be born on a dark cold night and to rise on a bright warm day; to come into this world under the harshest of human conditions, and to return in an explosion of heavenly glory.
But the weather doesn’t always cooperate, especially here in North Texas. A few years ago it was relatively mild during Advent; not once did it dip below freezing, and we enjoyed many days in the 60s. And then one day in the middle of Lent, it was 25 degrees with four inches of snow and ice on the ground. We were supposed to be walking through the quiet, thoughtful, prayerful days of Lent, but instead we took an invigorating trudge to the city park, ankle deep in snow, where families were sledding under a clear, sunny sky. We came home and LeAnn made a snowman.
Sometimes it’s all mixed up, and that’s OK, because Christmas and Easter don’t belong to a season. They belong to the heart – in whatever season the heart is in.
Friday, March 5
Elephants in the Room
In case you hadn’t noticed, Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus folded its tent in May 2017 after 146 years. It was sad news for circus lovers, but the writing was on the wall a year earlier when the circus retired its elephants. The elephants were the greatest attraction for “the Greatest Show on Earth,” and without them, already-falling ticket sales fell even further.
The reason for retiring the elephants depends on who you listen to. PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) said it applied pressure long enough and hard enough to shake the family-owned business into doing the right thing for its herd of Asian elephants. The family said PETA wasn’t a factor. They said they just resolved what has been years of internal discussions. Apparently the “elephant in the room” has been the elephants in the room.
I won’t get into the arguments about whether the elephants were mistreated as performers, except that I’ve read about the sharp bull hooks used to prod them into action, which sounds pretty rough. Some say the elephants don’t like the crowd noise, bright lights and music, but it’s a known fact that elephants are extremely social animals.
When I worked in downtown Fort Worth, it was an annual tradition to stand at our high-rise windows and watch the Ringling Bros. elephants walk from the circus train to the convention center. We do the same thing on Saturday mornings in the fall as our college football teams walk from the bus to the stadium. It’s all good fun, right?
Harmful or not, the circus retired the elephants to the company’s 200-acre Center for Elephant Conservation in Florida, and the remaining performers will look for new work when the farewell tour ends in May.
So, here is the question for Lent. (Really? Yes, really): What elephants are we keeping, acceptable or not, that we need to retire – because they are hurting us (or we are hurting them?), or they are taking up space in our lives and our schedules. It might be an addiction that is hurting our health and harming our family, or an otherwise innocuous habit that has become an obsession and is absorbing our time or resources. Or it might just be holding on to something from the past that we don’t really need any longer.
Lent is often thought of as a time for giving up things, primarily for the purpose of clearing the mind and heart for the spiritual journey to Easter. But some use the time to make a commitment to long-term letting go, and in doing so creating room and energy for new things – better things.
Retiring to the conservation center is a great move for the elephants. The human performers will have to find new ways to share their talents, but sometimes a difficult change makes room for new opportunities. What might we eliminate or change that would clear the way for something new and fresh?
Saturday, March 6
Little Free Graces
I’ve been intrigued by Little Free Libraries: pole-mounted boxes that look like dollhouses holding books that are free for the taking, reading and returning. They’re springing up all over the world, and the current estimate is more than 50,000 in 70 countries.
I first learned about them at the North Texas Book Festival, and then on a Sunday morning before church I was running an errand and found one in the neighborhood. This one is white with a blue roof, and the sides are decorated with colorful kid-friendly images. As is the case with all of these libraries, the door has a glass window so you can see the books inside. Below it are the words, “Take a Book, Return a Book.”
Each Little Free Library has a steward – the homeowner or neighborhood where it is located – that chooses the design, pays for the installation and also curates the contents. That means the books inside reflect the tastes and interests of the local community. The one I saw has a wide variety, from “The Poky Little Puppy” to “Jon Stewart’s America.”
The program has a web site, littlefreelibrary.org, where you can learn more about locations and stewards. As it turns out, the Little Free Library that I visited is curated by an elementary school student. She loves to read, and with the help of her grandmother, she’s sharing her passion with her friends and neighbors.
Which got me to thinking: What if we had a glass panel on our soul that revealed our interests, tastes, passions and beliefs. And what if we allowed people to reach in and experience a part of who we are – like characters in a book, only we are real?
We actually do that all the time because our words and deeds speak volumes about who we are. Like the stewards of the Little Free Libraries, we have to monitor that closely because we may tend toward bad habits or examples that can be picked up and shared with others. And, as with the library stewards, we have to be careful what people drop into us. The libraries promote sharing, and some things just really shouldn’t be shared.
But in the best situations, we offer those around us a little free glimpse of God’s love, mercy and grace, and we should welcome the sharing of that. There should be a sign below our glass window that says, “Take Some Grace, Return Some Grace.”
Sunday, March 7
Tabernacle People
One Sunday morning a few years ago, pastoral resident Britt Carlson challenged us to be “tabernacle people” rather than “temple people” – to carry God with us into the world and not just keep God housed in the church.
Sitting in the Wilshire Wind Symphony, below the chancel with my back to the pulpit, I heard the message with my eyes looking at the congregation. From that position, it wasn’t hard to look past the church people and let my mind wander up the aisles and out the back doors into the city where there is so much need. It was a helpful perspective.
It also was helpful to have my back to the pulpit and the worship leaders. Because to be tabernacle people, you have to believe that you are equally called to bear witness in the world.
Monday, March 8
Getting Out of the Gym
One winter my employer gave me a free health club membership, and I gladly took full advantage of it. I went regularly and hit the weight machines, walked the treadmills, rode the stationary bikes, even entered a racquetball tournament with a coworker. It was great on cold, damp winter days, but as soon as the first warm day came along, I ached to be out in the sunshine working in the yard or riding a real bike and going somewhere. So I quit the club and was immediately more content and probably more healthy because my exercise and work had purpose.
The spiritual life is much the same. It’s fine to spend time in study and prayer, working our spiritual muscles and building our faith, but if that is all we do, then what is the point? If we’re not building up anyone but ourselves, are we building the Kingdom of God at all?
Much like a stationary bike can help build endurance for a cross-country trek, time spent in prayer and study can give us the emotional strength we need to step outside of ourselves and help deliver faith, hope and love to those in need. The key is to “step outside” of the gym.
As usual, I am preaching to myself as I write this and get ready to hit the send button. I have a friend who needs a helping hand, and while I do pray for him regularly, prayer is not enough. What he needs requires me to leave the warmth and safety of the gym, both figuratively and literally, and go see him. His need is genuine, and he deserves a genuine response. And since I profess to be a follower of Christ, the response should be Christ-like. Isn’t that what I’ve been training for?
Tuesday, March 9
True Colors
One late winter day while getting ready to go to the Big 12 Basketball Tournament, I had to make a fashion decision: Wear an official green or gold Baylor T-shirt, wear a regular green shirt but unmarked, or just wear one of my usual shirts, most of which are some shade of blue. I chose to wear an unmarked green shirt because it was comfortable and warm. And I reasoned that with much of the crowd wearing burnt orange, people would know by my plain green shirt who I represent.
Years ago I wrote a memoir for the founder of a large Dallas business and was intrigued that he did not want his company to be known as a “Christian business.” He was a devout man and had surrounded himself with colleagues of similar character and beliefs, but when some in the business wanted to make an official statement of Christian values, he said no. There were practical reasons: He didn’t want to be labeled a hypocrite if someone made a mistake, or if the company had to make an honest but tough decision. He also didn’t want to use Christ as a marketing ploy as some businesses have done. But more than anything else, he just wanted his company’s actions to speak for them rather than some official banner.
Our friend Bill O’Brien says that while doing mission work among Muslims in Indonesia, he learned to describe himself as a “Christ follower” and not a Christian. The Muslims understand who Christ is and they respect him as a great prophet. But Christians? Well, they hear us say that America is a “Christian nation” and then they see our television shows and movies laden with violence, greed and immorality and they draw understandably negative conclusions.
Which all goes to say that having the official colors, logos and mottos doesn’t say as much as how you live and how you treat people – whether doing business with them, ministering to them, or just being their neighbor. In fact, you can learn more about someone – who they are, what they need, how you can be better neighbors – by listening to them than you can by telling them who you are or waving your colorful flag in their face.
Wednesday, March 10
Living Water, Bread of Life
Did you know that every year there is a day known as World Water Day? The day was first designated by the United Nations in 1993 to bring attention to the importance of protecting water resources and meeting the needs of so much of the global population that doesn’t have water enough for irrigation or for safe drinking and cooking.
I don’t know if it is just a coincidence that World Water Day falls during Lent, but I like the placement. In the Gospel of John, Jesus is quoted, “Whoever believes in me, as Scripture has said, rivers of living water will flow from within them.” Jesus came to the world as living water and to share that living water. On one level that water is his sacrifice on the cross that bought for us a way to eternal life. But on another level, it speaks to how Jesus came to show us a better way to live with each other on this side of eternity – to establish God’s kingdom “on earth as it is in heaven.” And bringing pure, clean, life-sustaining water to impoverished people is a wonderful way to share Christ’s living water both literally and spiritually.
Likewise, we often refer to Jesus as “the bread of life,” as again in John, he said, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never go hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.” Just as with World Water Day, that implies more than just offering a soul-lifting slice of spiritual bread on Sunday morning.
I was sitting at a fast food restaurant one day and watched as a bedraggled man walked down off the highway, asked for a cup of water at the counter, and sat at a table. He soon was joined by two young men who opened their Bibles and began talking to him. I strained to listen and heard the usual phrases of Christian witnessing. The man did not say anything but eventually got up and walked back out to the highway. I don’t know his story, but my guess is he would have benefitted more in that moment from some real bread – a burger and fries, perhaps – and not just spiritual bread.
By the way, I didn’t offer to feed the man either. My eavesdropping was of even less help than an open Bible, but it did convict me and I’ve tried ever since then to do more than just watch or preach.
Yes, Jesus saves us spiritually, but he also calls us to help save our flesh and blood brothers and sisters with real food and water – and shelter, education, medicine, and the list goes on. He asks us to share out of our abundance and not just try to pray or preach people into health and prosperity.
As we use this time of Lent to examine ourselves and what Christ has done for us, we’d be failing if we didn’t also take a hard look at what Christ wants to do for others through us.
Thursday, March 11
No Holy Whack-a-Mole
“Here’s my definition of life: You face a bunch of problems and you have to deal with them one after the other. So just go take care of it!”
We were sitting at a restaurant eating dinner and that is what the young man told the young girl in the next booth. She was dealing with some kind of relationship issue, and he was telling her to stop stalling, confront it, and deal with it. He was adamant. He raised his voice. He used foul language. “Don’t worry about the pain because when you are finished with that problem there will be another and then another. Don’t let them stack up. Just knock’em down.”
Okay, I’m paraphrasing and embellishing, but that was the spirit of what he was saying. There was some wisdom in his general advice – to not let things get out of hand but go and face them and deal with them. And it is true that when this problem is resolved, there will be others. But there was some youthful naivety too. You can’t just bull your way through life. You can’t play whack-a-mole with every problem that pops up. Especially not with people. There are so many nuances, so many variables, so many repercussions. The best thing you can do is at least start a conversation.
I’m glad God doesn’t play whack-a-mole with us. I’m glad God wants to have a conversation instead. God is always listening. We have to put down our mallet, be quiet, and start the conversation. And then we have to be quiet and listen, too.
Friday, March 12
Mowing in the Rain
I worked inside all morning, looking out occasionally at the latest wave of rain. I would have enjoyed the sound of raindrops on the roof and windows except that someone was mowing – in the rain. At first the sound came from the church across the way; they always mow on Friday, rain or shine. And then in the late morning it was a neighbor nearby.
Hearing the groan of lawn mowers put me a little on edge because I needed to get out there and do the same. The winter weeds had gone crazy with all the recent moisture and the yard was looking shaggy, and I’m not a shaggy yard guy. And I was anxious to get out and crank up the mower and make sure it was running and ready for the long months ahead. On top of that, I could definitely use the exercise. I don’t do the gym – I just don’t.
But I also don’t mow when it’s raining or even just when the grass is wet. The wet grass comes out of the side of the mower in clumps and it gets caked under the housing and all over the blade. The mower wheels push down ruts of grass that don’t get cut and that later pop up in long lines like punk haircuts. The wheels get muddy and that creates muddy trails on the sidewalk, and whatever grass hits the pavement can’t be swept up. There’s just nothing good about mowing when it is wet.
Our spiritual lives are much the same. We all have opinions and preferences on how to go about it. Some of us are sticklers for practices and schedules and we won’t be thrown off by changes in the weather. Some of us hold back and wait for optimal conditions. Some of us are in need of “spiritual exercise” and just need to get out there and do it regardless of the results.
There’s no right or wrong way to approach the spiritual life, as long as you do approach it in some way. Lent is a good time to set aside some time to be quiet, reflect, pray, listen. You can do that sitting in a warm corner of the house, or you can even do it out in the rain.
Saturday, March 13
Writer’s Block
When people ask what I do for a living and I say “I’m a writer,” their follow-up question often is, “Do you ever get writer’s block?” Apparently it’s a well-known malady, and my answer is “Yes, I do.” And perhaps my follow-up comment should be, “And don’t you?”
Writer’s block is a real ailment that’s best described as a total vacuum of any creative thought. You sit down to work on something and you find that your thoughts are empty. And like a bad stutter or stammer, the more you try to break through it and gain control, the worse it gets until you find yourself losing hours or even days just staring at a piece of paper or a computer screen.
However, I’m pretty sure that anyone who sets out to create something – and that’s more of you than you may think – experiences a similar block at some point. And if we don’t go through it in our work, we go through it in our lives; we go through a time when we’re not feeling creative, expressive, motivated or inspired. It can occur in all aspects of life, including our spiritual life. We can get stuck, going through the motions of worship and prayer but not feeling anything.
I don’t know what causes writer’s block, but I’ve found the best way to break through it is to get as far away from writing as I can. For me that means taking a long walk or bike ride at the lake, working in the yard, cleaning house, running errands I’ve been putting off, taking a drive somewhere, getting out and being around people. I find that when I put my hands and my mind to doing other tasks, the ordinary things that I see and hear begin to connect in new ways and creative thoughts come tumbling back to me. Before long I can’t wait to get back to my desk and write them down.
Some of the things I do for writer’s block can break the spiritual block too. Sometimes the best solution is to get out of the pew and into the community – whether that’s the immediate church community, the neighborhood or the world. Manual labor is a great way to clear the head and gain new perspective, especially if it is directed toward helping someone in need. Habitat for Humanity is a well-known avenue for doing that; most towns have their own version of programs that have people helping each other. Out in the country, it may just be neighbors helping neighbors.
The point is that wherever you take the body, the spirit is sure to follow. And if it is a new, meaningful experience, the spirit will be refreshed.
Sunday, March 14
Turning Inward
Sitting on the chancel on a Sunday morning with the assignment of extinguishing a candle for Lent, the view across the sanctuary was dim, flat, without shadows. That, of course, was because the shutters were closed. We do that at Lent to symbolically wait in darkness for the light of Easter.
I’ve sat on the chancel before when the shutters are open. In that state there is a lightness and airiness – in the physical environment but also the perceived mood. Sitting in that position, you see the faces of the people bathed in light. Looking out the windows, you can see the sky, the trees and even the birds flitting around. There’s a sense of the world outside the church mingling with the world inside.
When the shutters are closed, however, there is a feeling that the church has turned inward on itself, and that is an appropriate feeling to have during Lent. As we sit in the symbolic darkness awaiting the brightness that comes on Easter morning when the shutters are thrown open, the darkness turns our focus and attention inward.
It’s a feeling that reflects the Gospel stories, when Christ begins to prepare his disciples for what will happen in Jerusalem. There’s a lot of confusion and questions in the growing darkness. There’s less outreach – the miracles and spectacles fade from view – as the talk turns to what is coming and what roles the disciples will play in the coming days and in God’s new kingdom. It’s a somber and unsettled time, no more so than in the upper room and later in the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus bows his head and turns inward in prayer.
But this darkness is more than symbolic; it has a very real physical effect. In the dimming light we lose our depth perception. Distances, divisions, even colors become flat. In that environment we are less bold, less sure-footed. We take steps more carefully, deliberately, even tenuously. Our instincts are to look around and see if we are alone, and if needed, to look for someone to lean on or at least walk with us.
And isn’t that the point of this season?
Monday, March 15
Abide with Me
As I left the house to run an errand, I plugged my iPhone into the car and as usual I heard the first notes of “Abide With Me.” That’s because the device always begins playing my 600 stored songs in alphabetical order. I usually skip over “Abide With Me,” but this time I let it play.
“Abide With Me” hasn’t always been the first song in my iPhone. I added it on purpose to avoid the embarrassment of having “The Acid Queen” pop up first. That song is from the rock opera “Tommy,” and I have most of that album on my iPhone. It’s a relic of the ’70s that I happen to like, in part because it has a hint of a messianic story line. I’d delete that song, but I’m a hoarder of music. Still, I couldn’t abide the name of that song popping up on my dashboard every time I plug in my phone, so I downloaded a vocal arrangement of “Abide With Me” by Irish singer Hayley Westenra.
This version of “Abide With Me” has its own irritation: The first over-long vocal note sounds like a siren. Once with a friend in the car, I plugged in my phone and he jerked his head around and asked, “Where’s the ambulance?!”
Most of the time when I hear that sound I skip past “Abide With Me” to find something more current and trendy, or something that has been rattling around inside my head. Sometimes I just touch the Random button on my dashboard and take whatever comes. But this time, as I turned a corner and faced the sunset for the first time in more than a week, I decided to let Hayley have her say:
Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide;
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me.
It was good to abide in that song for a change. And in listening to it, to abide for a moment in the presence of the Lord.
Tuesday, March 16
Enough Already
The picture on Facebook was gaudy and enticing: A hand gripping a large roll of cash and an urgent plea to forward the photo with the message: “In the next 24 hours God will bless you with plenty of money.”
Oh, where do we begin with all the wrong-headed assumptions here?
“Plenty of money” is enough. – Sorry, but plenty is never enough. When you have some, you want more. And when you have more, you want much more. Yes, I know from experience that getting your head above water is a good thing, and we should strive to help others reach that level of comfort and security. But waving the carrot of wealth feeds nothing but our worst inner longings.
Money is a blessing. – I’ve fantasized about what I would do if I had more money. I’ve thought about how I might feel blessed by having more, and how I could bless others by sharing “the much more” that I might have. But to be honest, I haven’t always had a good attitude about sharing, so it’s good for God to continue to work with me on sharing what I have at a manageable level.
God wants to bless you with money. – This idea is as old as civilization, and there’s just no proof that God wants us to be wealthy. People who say God wants to bless us with wealth are as wrong about the nature of God as the people who kill in the name of God. God has the power to kill the wicked and to financially reward the righteous, and the fact that God doesn’t do either one with any consistency tells me that retribution and wealth aren’t the goals of this life or of God’s kingdom.
The only currency God cares about is relationships, which we can have and have abundantly whether we are rich or poor. There is no entry fee to love one another and to live abundantly in relationship with each other and with God. And there isn’t any financial reward for that lifestyle either. There’s only the grace and peace of knowing that we have loved and that we are loved.
Instead of a picture of a hand holding a wad of cash, how about a picture of a hand holding another hand with the message: “God will bless you always for loving each other.”
Wednesday, March 17
March Traditions
March brings an interesting confluence of heritage and tradition that I could claim loudly and boldly if I wanted to, but most of it just doesn’t quite fit.
There’s St. Patrick’s Day, and with all of my ancestry coming from the British Isles, including the Wallace clan, I could claim an authentic Irish birthright and celebrate with the best of them. But I never have. As a kid going to school I would always wear green on St. Patrick’s Day to keep from getting pinched, but there wasn’t enough green in my veins for my mother to kneel in front of me at the door and say, “OK laddie, if someone gives you any trouble you just give them a big Irish punch in the nose.” We never had special days when we ate Irish food (thank goodness); most of the cooking in our house and in my grandmothers’ kitchens was of the Southern/Texas variety, with some Cajun influence from the swamps of Southeast Texas.
And then of course we have March Madness when people claim allegiance to a school and a team with all their colors and traditions. As a third-generation Baylor grad (and a fourth that followed me), I certainly can claim my heritage there. But we Bears don’t have a long tradition of winning so most of us older alums don’t go crazy like they do at other schools. I don’t wear green and gold day in and day out, and I don’t have a green car with a horn that plays the Baylor fight song. I enjoy it when we win, but in-your-face fandom doesn’t fit me.
But another heritage that comes to the forefront this time of year requires no birthrights or diplomas. It also has no signature colors, fight songs or mascots. If there is a meal that identifies it, it is a pinch of bread and a swallow of wine or grape juice. There are no pep rallies, only reverent worship. The annual parade commemorates a lowly donkey ride to a trial and torture. There is no banner or flag, just an empty cross. The hero is not a little man of myth or a 7-foot center, but God himself who came down to live with us and die for us.
As with the other traditions, I don’t quite fit in. None of us ever could, but that’s okay because belonging is a gift and not something to be claimed or earned.
Thursday, March 18
In the Transition
March Madness is roaring to a close, and if you’ve spent any time at all imbibing in it then you’ve been exposed to a maddening collection of sports cliché and jargon. Analysts, coaches, even players talk endlessly about what happens “in the paint,” “on the perimeters,” “from the top of the key” and “from way downtown.”
I ignore a lot of it, but there’s one phrase that intrigues me: “in the transition.” There’s a lot of commentary about what a team does “in the transition” between defense and offense. The good teams apparently do more than just amble to the other end of the court. They use those brief seconds to assess their competition and set up the next play. If they’re paying attention, they may see an opportunity to eliminate the transition completely with a “half-court lob” and a “rim-rattling dunk.” When that happens, the broadcasters say “they’re winning in the transitions.”
As important as transitions are in basketball, they’re even more so in life. The long stable periods of life can become times of routine, complacency, lethargy, laziness. Transitions are times when we can make adjustments, get ourselves back on track, maybe choose a new track. Transitions are when the real action takes place.
In my own life there have been long spans of time when, in retrospect, I didn’t accomplish much. Separating those periods have been times of transition brought by job changes, health crises, other life events. Some transitions have been exciting, some have been tragic. Some I instigated myself, and some were forced on me. I didn’t know it at the time, but all have been opportunities for new direction and energy.
Some people go so far as to say we’re living in one big transition. Perhaps that is what John Lennon was expressing when he sang, “life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” But plans for what? Heaven?
Maybe so, but there’s still much to do now. We’ve not been created to dribble in place and run out the clock. If that’s what we’re doing – or if that’s what it feels like we’re doing – then it’s time for a change. It’s time for a transition that will put us in position for a rim-rattling dunk.
Friday, March 19
God on the Move
“Frieda appeared today! She was out walking along the fence in our backyard!” That was the brief email message I got from my mother under the subject line “A Springtime Report.”
Frieda is a large box turtle with a distinctive white lower jaw that has been living in my parents’ backyard for almost 50 years. As best we can recall, we found her in 1970 on a Sunday morning on our way to or from church. She was crossing Greenville Avenue near Campbell Road when it still was just a two-lane blacktop. We originally named her Fred because, well, we didn’t know anything about turtle gender. We didn’t discover that he was a she until other turtles were found and put in the yard with her.
Frieda is now the queen of a herd of turtles that has surpassed 30 and shrunk down to as few as five depending on the weather, scavenging raccoons and escapes under the fence. A lot of the loss is due to youth and inexperience. The turtles dig down into the ground and hibernate in the winter, but the younger ones may venture out too early and risk getting zapped by a late freeze. Not Frieda. She knows when it’s time to come up and walk the fence line.
When I read my mother’s email, I immediately thought of C.S. Lewis’ The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, where the clarion call for the coming of a better day is, “Aslan is on the move.” The Pevensie children hear it long before they know who Aslan is, but the other creatures and characters know that Aslan is the great lion who rules all and will change everything. And readers of the book come to understand that Aslan is Lewis’ representation of Christ.
So, a report that “Frieda is on the move” is a sure sign that spring is finally here and better days are coming. But more than that, it’s a reminder that nature continues to cycle in the glorious, refreshing manner that God planned from the beginning.
Here’s wishing you a springtime in which you feel the spirit of God on the move!
Saturday, March 20
Already Home
I almost jumped out of my chair when I typed our address into Google Maps and there we were, finally. The satellite image of a vacant lot had been replaced with the image of a house with sidewalks and trees and the beginning of landscaping. On the driveway you could even see the truckload of decomposed granite that was sitting there while we put down flagstone.
When I saw that image I felt like we finally had arrived. No matter that family and friends had visited us, or that we had already received five months of utility bills and our tax assessments. In the Google age, you don’t quite feel like you belong until the “eye in the sky” documents your presence.
As I looked at the image, I also fantasized that this is a God’s-eye view of us based on the ancient belief that God is “up there somewhere” in the cosmos; like in the song from a few years back, “God is watching us . . . from a distance.”
Honestly, it often can feel that way when the storms of life are howling – whether through the chaos and destruction of a hurricane, or the cold winds of heartache that come when we watch helplessly as someone we love is taken away by illness. In those times it seems that while God may be looking down on our house, there’s no interest or care about what is happening beneath our roof.
The truth is that God is not way up there somewhere, looking down on us. He’s not just under our roof, he’s under our skin. He’s in our heart, and from there he sees us and knows us from the inside out. He’s there when we’re awake and when we sleep, when we succeed and when we fail, when we are joyous and when we are overwhelmed with sorrow.
We know this through his son, Jesus, who in the Gospel of John described God’s presence in the context of “home”:
“Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.”
Jesus wasn’t just talking about the future; he was talking about now. Through the Holy Spirit, God already resides with us. We don’t have to wait for him to take us home; his home is within us.
Sunday, March 21
Singing by Heart
As the bright, familiar guitar intro to Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” came across the speakers at Einstein Bros Bagels, I looked up from my sandwich to see two men bobbing their heads. One was sitting at a table with his teenage daughter, and the other was waiting for a to-go order. As Morrison began to sing, so did they: “Hey where did we go, days when the rains came . . .”
I was asking myself that same question – “hey where did we go?” – the previous night at a football game when the halftime announcer said the marching band would be playing Billboard Top 40 hits of the past decade. I didn’t know the songs at all, and when one was introduced as a “smash hit,” I grumbled aloud that I’d never heard of the song or the artist. LeAnn explained: “That’s because we’re old.”
No wonder that I felt redeemed at Einstein’s the next day. I felt I belonged because I knew the song.
Popular culture and politics divide us by age, gender, race, size, education, geography – every imaginable division. Sometimes it can turn groups against each other, and at the least it can leave us asking ourselves, “Hey where did we go?”
Our faith, on the other hand, can erase the lines that divide us. It can draw us together to a common God and a shared future in Christ. I experienced a piece of that on a Sunday morning as I sat on the floor with three year olds to listen to a teacher read a picture book with snippets from the Biblical stories of Adam, Noah, Moses, Samson, Joseph, Ruth, John and Jesus. Already, the children were raising their hands as they recognized pieces of stories that I’ve known for years. It’s like we knew the same song, just at different levels of understanding.
In a larger way, our churches sing in unison with churches around the world. While my church is Baptist and has the freedom to shape its own worship experience, we often follow the lectionary of the church universal. That puts us in tune with millions of Christians around the world. Imagine that: On any given Sunday, more of us are tuned into the same scripture than the number of people watching the all-time highest rated television programs: Super Bowls, Oscars, royal weddings, World Cup championships. In other words, we are never more united – and we never belong together more – than we do when we worship the same Lord.
Sadly, we’re never more divided than when we fight over the same Lord, creating divisions that are more dangerous than any created by popular or secular culture. Christians, Jews and Muslims should be singing the praises of the one true God instead of bludgeoning each other with intolerance fueled by pride, greed, ignorance and fear. We Christians might lead the way, but even we are on different pages of the hymnal sometimes.
I’d settle for a head-bobbing rendition of another Van Morrison tune:
“These are the days by the sparkling river
His timely grace and our treasured find
This is the love of the one great magician
Turned the water into wine.”
Monday, March 22
Breathless
Staggered breathing. That’s what musicians in a section who are playing or singing the same part do when they need to take a breath but don’t want to create a gap in the music by everyone inhaling at the same time. By alternating their breaths, they create a seamless note or phrase.
The technique took a profound turn one evening at the conclusion of a Wilshire Winds rehearsal. We ended the hour as we always do by sharing concerns, and then someone was asked to pray. But a few sentences into the prayer, the person praying was overcome by emotion and gently nudged the adjacent player in that section. That person continued the prayer immediately and carried it all the way to the “amen.” The result was a continuous, seamless prayer.
We’ll call it staggered praying, and that’s what we can do when we pray with each other. Instead of letting someone get fatigued or distracted or overcome, we can continue a thought and even expand on it to create a continuous flow of petition, thanksgiving, blessing, or whatever the focus of the prayer time is.
There come times in most of our lives when we’ve prayed about something so long and so hard that we’ve run out of words and we’re prayed out. That’s a good time to have someone close by who we can nudge to continue the prayer on our behalf. In that way, we can help each other “pray without ceasing,” as Paul said.
With staggered breathing, the more people playing in a section, the less winded they become and the better they are able to perform. The flutes, clarinets and trumpets often benefit the most because those are the biggest sections. Playing the baritone saxophone, I’ve rarely had a section mate, but I often have the same melody or harmony lines as the euphoniums, trombones or tubas, so I try to stagger my breathing with them. Since we don’t sit together, I do it without them knowing it. Similarly, we can stagger our prayers with those in need without them ever knowing it. That’s what prayer lists are all about.
Immediately after the final “amen” of the staggered prayer I described, someone in the band said, “Now that’s a section!” When we pray together in the same way as a church or as neighbors or as colleagues at the office, it might be said, “Now that’s a community!”
Tuesday, March 23
Twists and Turns
On a sunny spring morning a few years ago I had a cup of coffee with Cleo Holden, a wonderful new friend of ours and the executive director of Friends of Olde Downtown Garland. We shared our mutual interest in historic preservation, but also the life events that brought her to Garland from Oak Cliff, and me from Dallas. She especially wanted to know how LeAnn and I met, and as I shared our story, I found myself marveling again at the twists and turns that brought us together.
I finished with Cleo just in time to drive the 11 miles to Wilshire for the noon Holy Week service, sitting in the pew with LeAnn of course. And then I was going to rush back to the home office to do some work, but instead I found myself drawn into the quiet of the Columbarium Garden to walk the labyrinth.
In the meditation guide that was thoughtfully placed on the wall next to the path, I read: “As you walk (the labyrinth) today, put your mind and heart in touch with the mysteries of life and faith . . . the wonder of birth . . . the inscrutability of death . . . the unexpected twists and turns of your path. Ponder the paradox of accepting death in order to live life to its fullest . . . the way suffering and trouble are sometimes a path to joy and meaning . . . how life is a strange mixture of light and shadow.”
It’s difficult to accept – because it’s difficult to understand – that the contentment and joy I’m living now were made possible by excruciating loss. The path I was on was wonderful, but then it took a horrible, jarring turn, and the path I now walk is equally wonderful but in totally new and different ways.
As I walked the labyrinth, I couldn’t escape the sounds of children squealing in the playground down the way. There I was, contemplating the dark mysteries of life, and they were just romping in the bright, crisp sunshine.
When I finished my meditation, I walked to where I was parked, next to that same playground, and saw a little girl crying as a teacher rubbed her forehead. My prayer for her is that a bump on the playground is the only pain she will know for a long time. And, when the real twists and turns of life come, I pray she’ll learn to live the prayer that I read at the labyrinth, and that I’m still learning to live myself:
“Lord of mystery, paradox and shadowy light, teach me to walk in your ways and embrace the fullness of life.”
Wednesday, March 24
Humbled
I was at the church late one weekday afternoon and saw something interesting: A woman leaving the lobby pressed the blue automatic door opener button and made the sign of the cross on her forehead, heart and shoulders as she walked out. I was amused at first by what looked like an act of mistaken church identity because she did what Catholics do as they dip their fingers in holy water and leave the church. But the more I think about it, the more I see it as her silent testimony.
First, this woman was obviously a person of faith because there’s no reason a non-believer would make the sign of the cross. Even if it was just a habit from the past – because the door button is just about where a font of holy water would be – we usually don’t do something out of habit unless there is a seed of connection planted deep inside us. In this case, that seed is faith.
Second, the sign of the cross is a symbol of blessing, and perhaps in some way this woman experienced a blessing while inside. Before leaving she commented to the office staff that she hoped she didn’t miss her bus, so perhaps the blessing was simply a pause from the heat, a cool drink of water, or just a chance to sit and rest for a while.
Third, the sign of the cross is a gesture of reverence, and she may have been acknowledging that she had been inside a church – one that doesn’t have holy water but nonetheless where the Holy Spirit dwells and where people of the Spirit congregate.
Finally, the woman was dressed as someone who might be homeless or of very limited means, and yet her expression of faith was strong as she walked out of the church and back out into a challenging and uncertain world.
Maybe it was all just a clumsy mistake, but it witnessed to me just the same.
Thursday, March 25
Random Beauty
Sitting in the chapel on a Sunday afternoon before an ordination service, I found myself continuing a study I began during another service there: looking for a pattern in the stained glass windows. (It’s an odd habit of mine, along with counting things.)
The first task was to determine how many colors there are, and there are six: soft shades of pink, orange, green, white, blue and yellow. With that resolved, I looked at a green pane in one window and a green pane in another to see if the colors touching them match. They don’t. I did this several times on several windows and found there is no pattern at all. The six colors are set into the lead frames in a beautifully random fashion.
I saw the same random beauty as I watched the line of well wishers quietly moving down the aisle to lay hands on the new minister: people of different ages, sizes, colors, backgrounds, interests. Ours is not a cookie-cutter faith, so it makes sense that we’re not a cookie-cutter church. We fit together, not because we look or sound alike, but because we complement each other. Side-by-side, we bring out the best qualities in each other like the panes of glass in the chapel windows.
The older I get the more I appreciate these differences. When we’re younger we tend to seek out those who look and act like us, or who we want to look and act like. We’re Dr. Seuss’s “Sneetches,” wanting a star on our belly that looks just like the stars on all the other bellies. But beauty is more than skin deep, and our ideas are beautifully different as well. This comes to light every Sunday in our Bible study class when we share our diverse views on whatever scripture we’re studying. I never leave feeling alienated or disillusioned. Rather, I’m provoked and challenged.
I believe that’s exactly where God wants us to be: Thinking, pondering and questioning; not passive, submissive or ambivalent. Just as a car steers more easily the faster the wheels are turning, it’s easier to steer our hearts toward the truth when our minds are engaged and active. It also takes friction to gain traction, and sometimes the best friction comes from those who rub us in a different way – even the wrong way.
Consider the one little pane of glass in a window on the north wall of the chapel that is a much deeper shade than any of the others. I don’t know if it is a replacement pane or one that was set in the window from the start, but it catches my attention every time I’m there. In fact, it was that unique pane of glass that provoked me to look for patterns and discover the random beauty.
Friday, March 26
Going Up
The first time I showed books at a book festival a man went from author to author asking, “Do you have an elevator speech?” I was puzzled at first but he explained: “How would you describe your book during a one-minute elevator ride with a stranger?” He was running a contest and the person with the best elevator speech would get whatever prize he was offering.
It seemed like a simple exercise, but my inclination was to start talking about the plot with some description of the main character, and I quickly found myself mired in minutia. And with the pressure of the ticking clock, my instinct was to cram in more and more details, and that just created more confusion for both the listener and me. What was missing in the telling, and what people ultimately want to know, is the essence of the story – those qualities that create an emotional connection rather than just an intellectual understanding.
This season of Lent and Easter might be described in an over-long way with all the main events found in the Gospels: Jesus’ birth, childhood visit to the temple, the missing years, baptism, calling the disciples, preaching, miracles, and finally, betrayal, trial, crucifixion, death, resurrection. An elevator speech for the Easter story might be simply to quote John 3:16, which gives the essence of the story. Or, we could simplify further with a few choice words: love, grace, mercy, hope. That is what Easter is about.
In our never-ending struggle to be Godly and Christ-like, perhaps it is good to focus on a few choice words like love, grace, mercy and hope rather than memorize long passages of scripture for street-corner preaching. If we can keep those few words – those qualities – in mind, maybe we can live as God intended and as Christ taught and modeled. And maybe some day our own lives can be described in those simple but elegant terms.
I did finally hone an elevator speech for my book. In fact, I got it down to a few words: citizenship, respect, obedience, redemption. I pray there is some love, grace, mercy and hope in the pages as well.
Saturday, March 27
Oh, Hosanna
A few years ago we learned a new song to sing during the church’s annual Palm Sunday procession. It was introduced by a child in the kindergarten Sunday School class in the following way:
Boy: “I know a song about Hosanna!”
LeAnn: “Okay, why don’t you sing it for us.”
Boy: “Oh, Hosanna, oh won’t you marry me, ‘cause I come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee!”
LeAnn was able to get out, “Well . . . that’s VERY interesting,” without bursting into laughter, and I turned my face to keep from doing the same.
The ditty was on my mind the rest of the morning as I pictured the traditional scene of Jesus riding a donkey into Jerusalem, with palm fronds falling before him and the air full of the sound of plucked banjos. But then it wormed into my mind in a more serious way – and on several different levels – as the words of children often do.
First, the scene that is painted enhances the sense of just how chaotically triumphant that ride into Jerusalem may have been. People waving and shouting, clapping their hands, making noise with whatever they could find – including a banjo if such an instrument had existed back then. Heightening the excitement of the moment helps to intensify the rejection, anger and torture that came later. Have any of us ever experienced a turnabout that dramatic and horrific? I certainly haven’t. People will grow cold or indifferent, but it’s rare for adulation to turn 180 degrees to total disgust and hate.
Then looking at the song as a whole, it almost has the ring of a Psalm to it – like the ones where David implores the Lord with lyre and lute to come to him and be with him, and using “marriage” as a metaphor for the most intimate and infinite of relationships. And isn’t that what God wants with us: A marriage of our souls?
And then there’s just the sweet innocence of a child who hears a big word like “hosanna” and mistakenly injects it into another phrase or song that he’s heard. I somehow think that our adult faith would benefit from making those types of haphazard connections – putting Christ into places where we don’t usually expect him to be.
So, thanks to the boy for giving us a Palm Sunday smile. And thanks, too, for reminding us that God indeed wants to be close – so close that he sent his son down a street ringing with “Hosannas” (with or without banjos) to a death on a cross that marries us to his love forever.
Sunday, March 28
From Moriah to Calvary
Once in a Bible study class we wondered what Abraham and Isaac talked about on their three-day journey to Mount Moriah, where Abraham was instructed by God to take his son Isaac to be sacrificed.
We imagined they might have talked about everyday things the way we do when we take a trip with family or friends. Surely Abraham didn’t spend the time talking about what was going to happen, because the scriptures tell us that when they arrived at the site, Isaac asked his father, “Where is the lamb for the burnt offering?” Isaac still didn’t know what was happening. A member of the class suggested that while Abraham trusted God’s will, he probably spent that entire three-day walk poking in the brush and looking over his shoulder for a lamb to sacrifice. He still had hope for a different way.
Anyone who has walked alongside someone who is seriously ill knows something about this walk to Moriah. Often you talk about everything except for what is actually happening. For some that act of changing the subject might be denial or just plain fear. But for believers, it should be an act of faith. With the outcome out of your control but in God’s hands, you talk about other things, everyday things, things where you still have decisions and choices: what to eat, what to wear, what to do with your time. Yet even with faith, you still keep an eye out for that lamb in the thicket; the pill or the procedure that will change the outcome when you get to Moriah.
Today begins Holy Week and the final leg on our walk toward another mountain. The good news is that just as God provided Abraham with a lamb in the thicket, we too are spared the ultimate sacrifice. We still have trouble and trials, but we don’t have to poke in the brush or look over our shoulder for resolution. We know that Christ is the lamb in the thicket, and his mountain is not Moriah but is Calvary.
Monday, March 29
What Do We Do Now?
I often feel a heaviness during Holy Week that is tied explicitly to this week, but not in the way you might think. I’m not pondering the suffering and death of Jesus, but instead I’m recalling the death of my sister Martha.
It was Easter week, 1971. We were making the annual drive to spend the week with my grandparents in Orange, Texas, when another vehicle tried to cross the highway in front of us. Martha suffered internal injuries that couldn’t be repaired. The rest of us had minor cuts and bruises, but our hearts were broken in a way we never anticipated.
Until then, life was great. I had a loving mother and father, a brother and sister, four doting grandparents. We had a nice house in a new neighborhood with good schools and plenty of playmates. It was all so perfect. And then all of that was shattered and the life we thought was going to stretch out before us was gone forever. There would be life, but it would be different: sad, empty and far less than perfect.
I believe what we felt at that time is not unlike what Jesus’ disciples and close followers felt when they saw him die on the cross. I imagine that as they huddled in a room together, the waves of sorrow and disbelief washed over them time and time again, much like it did that first night and the nights that followed Martha’s death. Not only was their relationship severed, but their vision of God’s glorious kingdom on earth was shattered. Nothing would be the way they thought it would be. How could they possibly go on? Why would they even try?
They did, and we did, because there’s a second half to this story that I’ll share on Saturday. But right now, like the disciples, we must wait in the dark for Easter.
Tuesday, March 30
Pictures of Real Life
On a recent clear night the crescent Moon and Venus were absolutely brilliant, leading a friend on Facebook to say, “It is beautiful but my Nikon said ‘Too dark. Stop trying.’” To which I would add: Just enjoy the beauty that you see and burn it into your memory – the one that is in your soul and not on your computer drive.
There was a time in my life when I looked at the world through a camera lens. It started in college where my degree in journalism required several photography courses. I bought a good all-around camera – remember the Canon AE1? – and I spent much of the next decade with my eyeball glued to the viewfinder.
I loved taking pictures, but I began to notice some creeping anxiety in the process. I would go on a trip and become distracted about “getting the shot.” I’d look at a building or a garden or a landscape and think about framing it in the viewfinder rather than just experiencing it and enjoying it. And back in the day when we still used film, I worried not only about getting the shot but about having enough film on hand to get the next shot. And that, of course, had me looking for the familiar yellow and red Kodak logo in shop windows wherever I was.
That all changed when my camera was stolen and I didn’t replace it. I started using my eyes, and I quickly found that vacations and events were more enjoyable, more restful, more memorable. I began capturing moments and experiencing life with my heart and my head and not just my camera.
Photography has changed since then. It has become easier “to capture the moment” with digital technology and then relive it immediately and share it or even edit it or reshoot it on the spot. For me, snapshots are still OK for capturing quick moments with people, but I’m done with trying to capture and freeze the infinite grandeur and beauty of nature for viewing at another time.
But even a snapshot can’t adequately capture a taste, a smell, a sound, a touch. I can look at a picture and recall that I was there, but it is the heart that remembers what being there meant. A case in point: My parents recently gave me a little black-and-white photo of me and my siblings sitting on the sofa with my grandparents. LeAnn asked if I remember that day. I don’t, but I remember what it felt like. I remember the fun of going to see my grandparents, I remember their voices, I remember their love. The photo will fade, but those feelings will last forever.
There is something of this in the Easter story. God wasn’t content to view his creation second hand, like digging through a box of snapshots or scrolling through endless digital files. God wanted to live life for real, as we do. God wanted to experience our joys and sorrows for real, as we do. God wanted to suffer the fear and pain of death for real, as we do. And in the end – or is it just the beginning? – God wanted to keep us with him forever. Not just in a picture, but in real life.
Wednesday, March 31
Solitude
It was a gorgeous Sunday morning in the Garden of the Gods. In Colorado Springs on business, I decided to attend God’s “church.” The sky was brilliant blue, the red sandstone monoliths blazed in the sun, the junipers were green and fragrant, and Pike’s Peak glimmered cool purple in the distance.
I sat quietly on a rock, drifting between prayer and just being, when my worship was interrupted by a sound. At first it was as distant as a bee’s buzz, but too quickly it wound its way on the hiking trail and was upon me. It was a human, on a cell phone, talking business, on Sunday morning, in the Garden of the Gods . . . for God’s sake!
Solitude. For those who seek it and are fortunate enough to find it, it’s hard to hold onto. And for those who don’t understand it and don’t desire it, well, they’re missing the joy of an intimate relationship with God.
God wants our attention, and not just in church. God doesn’t want us to be like Jesus just in our actions; he wants us to be like Jesus in our innermost spirit. He wants to share with us his true nature so we can understand our own true nature. That can’t happen when we spend every waking moment chasing worldly goals.
We need to turn our backs on our physical beings and tend to our spiritual beings by engaging in solitude. When Jesus had something important to teach his disciples, he took them away from the crowds and the ruckus of life. “When he was alone with his own disciples, he explained everything” (Mark 4:34).
Likewise, Jesus wants to be alone with us. “Jesus cannot teach us anything until we quiet all our intellectual questions and get alone with him,” said writer and theologian Oswald Chambers.
Some people are afraid to be alone, or it makes them uncomfortable. Some won’t let themselves be still or quiet because they’ve bought the notion that being busy is virtuous. If there is a reason to fear solitude, it is that we may discover that separated from all our “stuff,” we are empty and without purpose. But until we are emptied of the trivial, we can’t be filled with the meaningful. Solitude allows this to happen.
This week especially, seek some time alone.
Thursday, April 1
Dirty Feet and All
“A new command I give you: Love one another.” That is the maundy – the commandment – that Jesus gave his disciples in the upper room on that last night together. It seems so simple, so logical, so natural, and yet it is perhaps the hardest commandment to keep. For me, anyway.
It’s easy to like someone, to put up with, to endure, to tolerate, to accept even if just grudgingly. But to love unconditionally, unwaveringly, unhindered, unbridled? Without qualifiers, without conditions, without “yes, but . . .”? That is truly difficult; perhaps even impossible.
My thought process often is, “Yes, I love that person, but I do expect him to shape up and be who I think he should be. I will put up with him until then. My love can carry me through this uncomfortable, difficult transition period until he becomes the person that I find more acceptable.”
But Jesus had no such qualifiers or stipulations. In fact, he gave the commandment and added, “As I have loved you, so you must love one another,” and he said all of that right after washing his disciples’ feet. This is usually explained as an act of generosity and hospitality, but what I see and hear Jesus saying is, “Love one another – dirty feet and all.” Replace “dirty feet” with whatever it is about someone that keeps you from loving them unconditionally and you get the idea.
For me, the darkness of Maundy Thursday is not the fading of the light in the church, the snuffing of the candles, the exit into the symbolic silence before Easter. Rather, it is the hardness in my heart that keeps me from loving people with dirty feet.
Friday, April 2
Just in Time
A few years ago during Easter week a wise friend leaned across the pews after a noontime service and said, “Easter always comes just in time.” I didn’t ask him what he meant, but I knew that he knew that I had been through a rough time. And the sly smile on his face showed that he also knew that there were hints of better times in the air.
I’ve come to an age where few people I know can say their life has played out exactly the way they planned or hoped. They were traveling along just fine and then something happened to knock them off course: they lost a job or a loved one; health issues threatened their lives and their resources; relationships changed; the storms of life blew away their dreams and aspirations. In some cases good things have happened that none-the-less changed the direction they were headed: an unexpected love, an unexpected child, an exciting career opportunity, a transfer to a new city.
I know my wise friend was talking about easter with a little “e” – a metaphor for the deaths and resurrections we experience on this journey of life and not the resurrection of Jesus that we celebrate this season. But these personal easters are connected to the big Easter, because if God so loved the world that he gave us new life through the death and resurrection of his son, then surely we can trust His presence during these lesser deaths and rebirths.
Saturday, April 3
He is Risen. She is Too.
There was no sunny joy on Easter Sunday, 1971. Instead of going to my grandparents’ church and then hunting Easter eggs under the East Texas pines, we were at our home church for the first time that I could remember. A car wreck on the road to our annual Easter celebration had ended my sister Martha’s life and changed our lives forever.
As we sat in church that Sunday morning, the congregation around us celebrated Christ’s resurrection and the promise of eternal life. I’m sure that someone said to me, “She’s alive with Jesus, and that’s the joy of Easter.” At age 12, I knew that was the center of our faith, but I felt cheated. While the tomb in Jerusalem was empty, the grave at Restland was full.
From my perspective, we couldn’t have been farther away from Martha on that resurrection day, but the miracle of Easter is that she was and is as close as a breath of air. Like the disciples, I needed help understanding that. For them, it came at Pentecost. As Jesus promised them in the Gospel of John, “The Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you all things and will remind you of everything I have said to you.”
For me, that truth didn’t come in a mighty wind or in tongues of fire but in the gentle love of those around me. In that regard, being “the hands and feet of Christ” is not just a nice idea; it is very real and should be taken seriously.
And the truth came in simple moments that helped point the way for the future. On that Monday after Easter when I went back to school, a fellow sixth grader named Ricky walked up to my desk, said, “I’m sorry,” and then sat down. Class began as usual and I knew that while life was changed, it wasn’t over.
Indeed, that was decades ago and there’s been plenty of living. In those years I haven’t been to Restland more than a dozen times. I know the grave is as empty as the tomb in Jerusalem. I don’t have physical proof of that – that’s why we call it “faith” – but I know that Martha’s spirit lives because I’ve felt the Holy Spirit inside of me, and I’ve seen it at work through you.
Sunday, April 4
Forever
In the cars of my youth how I tore through those sand dunes, and cut up my tires on those oyster shell roads . . .
It’s a slice of personal history from Texas singer/songwriter Guy Clark in his song, “The South Coast of Texas.” I didn’t grow up on the Texas Gulf coast like Clark, but I’ve spent enough time there to know something about oyster shell roads. And in my mind those roads always lead me to Easter.
My grandparents lived in Orange near where the Sabine River empties into the Gulf of Mexico, and we always were there for the Easter holiday and a week or two in the summer. They lived in a modest house with a back driveway and alley paved with crushed oyster shells. It was hot and dusty and the shells were sharp enough to cut up the soles of our bare feet if we weren’t wearing our Keds. We’d play out there with a red wagon on the driveway and the wheels would get bogged down in the shells and we’d have to gang up and help push or pull depending on what we were hauling.
Those memories have come back around in recent days as I’ve watched our neighbors’ grandchildren playing on their gravel driveway. They come rolling down the sidewalk on their little bicycles with training wheels and then come to a grinding, crunching halt as soon as they hit the gravel. Like us, they get stuck and they try to pedal their way out or they get off and push. Then eventually they abandon the bikes in the driveway and move on to something else.
I watch them and think about Easter in Orange, and in my mind I hear the end of Guy Clark’s verse:
But nothing is forever say the old men in the shipyards, turning trees into shrimp boats well I guess they ought to know.
It’s true that the sunlit days of pulling red wagons down oyster shell drives didn’t last forever, nor the innocence and endless possibilities they held. As I’ve written previously, my sister left this life on one of those Easter weeks. And a year ago in May both Guy Clark and the grandmother of those children next door passed on. But gone forever? Not hardly. Even the trees Clark sang about were turned into shrimp boats. That’s not an ending; that’s a transformation toward the next phase of forever.
We spend a lot of time on the way to Easter talking about new beginnings and fresh starts, but sometimes we get dangerously close to turning Easter into nothing more than a springtime celebration of new life – from the gorgeous blooms at the Arboretum to the new baby giraffe at the zoo. Certainly there is a symbolic connection to Easter, but that is just a trick of the calendar. Easter is not a springtime festival. Easter is about new life that is ours for all seasons and all times. Today, tomorrow, forever.
We also come close in our theology to downplaying the key message of Easter. We acknowledge that God became human in the person of Jesus and showed us a better way to live and then suffered and died for our sins and was resurrected and now is one with God in heaven. But we have trouble putting ourselves into the rest of the story: we too will live forever with God and Jesus in heaven.
Perhaps we downplay the “forever” factor because it is too fantastic to truly accept; something in us sort of doubts it. Or maybe we take it for granted, especially those of us who enjoy comfortable lives. We can have it so good in this life that we don’t give much thought to what comes next.
But “forever” is the real news of Easter and why this day is so important – more important than any other day. Through the unfathomable love of a God we can neither see nor comprehend, we have eternal life. Not just a life that continues in someone else’s memory of us, or in the children we bring into the world to carry on what we’ve taught them, or the legacies we leave behind through our careers and our vocations. No, we’re talking about real life that we will experience with God and with each other forever.
That means that someday I will once again see my grandparents and sister and others I have loved and have not seen in a long, long time. And the children next door will see their grandmother. And I may even finally get to meet Guy Clark in person and tell him how much I enjoy his music. And maybe we’ll talk about his song and he’ll say, “I was wrong. Some things are forever.”
Copyright © 2021 Jeff Hampton