Feeding the Blackbirds

Okay, I am man enough to admit it: My wife has me hooked on feeding the birds. Though I cannot believe it happened to me, I have found myself stopping mid-stride just to watch the birds eat the feeders and listen to them in the neighboring trees as they gossip about what the weather is doing. All of which makes it twice as hard to know that as I make sure the bird-feeders are full of grain for the songbirds so, too, will the blackbirds be fed.

I thought about sitting at the dining room window with a BB gun and scaring the blackbirds off so the songbirds could eat, but I'm fairly sure it is neither legal, nor very kosher. So, if I want to feed the cardinals, the blackbirds have to be allowed in as well. If I want to feed the wrens, the blackbirds have to be allowed in as well. It is not like I can wave a magical wand and they will go away. They are the bullies on the block, the loud-squawking, claw-swinging, wing-batting bullies who will chase any bird away from the food they are seeking. They act like they personally own the place . . . which just steams me as they boldly sit on the cardinal feeder and strike out with their beak at any other bird that even gets close. It is all so unfair.

But then, it is a lot like the Table that Jesus sets for us all and, who knows, maybe we are the blackbirds there. Lord only knows that there is a fair amount of preening and squawking which goes on as the birds come in to feed on Sunday mornings, and there is the occasional 'chasing out of my pew' that goes along with it, which makes me wonder how Jesus takes it. Does He ever just stand beyond our sight and watch how we treat each other? Has He ever been tempted to take the food away, rather than feed the pretentious bullies?

I think that may have been one of the reasons He told us the story about the sower and the sowing of the seed on the various soils: to remind us that His choice is to continue to put the food out. How we choose to treat each other and grow in the faith as we come to the feeder of His holy Table is our answer as to what kind of soil His words have found in our hearts. Hmmmmmm. It all kind of makes me want to rethink some of the 'traditional' behaviors we practice as 'sacramental', for a whole lot of the exclusionary stuff seems pretty bullying of those who are weaker or different, especially in light of Jesus feeding all of the disciples at His Table.

So, I guess I will continue to feed the blackbirds, hoping all the while the songbirds will be persistent enough to overcome the objections of the blackbirds and share a song or two along the way . . . and I will do it giving thanks to God that Jesus feeds even me. I can't even begin to imagine what He must think of my behavior once in a while, but I am grateful He hasn't picked up His BB gun and took a seat at the window to scare off the interlopers along the way. Something tells me, I might have been one of the first ones shooed away. What about you?

Here's to feeding the blackbirds . . . while giving thanks that, in Christ, God continues to feed us all, even when least we deserve it.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

The Smell of Rain

This might be a reach for some people to understand, but as the rain fell yesterday, it smelled like a Spring rain. Maybe it is the lightning and thunder which somehow charges the raindrops, maybe it is what is beginning to bud as those first drops began to fall, or maybe it was where this particular rain originated, but the rain which fell yesterday smelled of Spring . . . and, God, it smelled good!

Last week's multiple days of rain did not smell this way, which is probably what caught my attention: This rain smelled of budding flowers and robin's songs; This rain smelled of thawing ground and crocuses emerging; This rain smelled of tree sap rushing up the trunk and garden seeds getting ready for planting.

We are told that the sense of smell is one of the most powerful senses a person has, with the power to conjure up memories and events long forgotten, with the capacity to transform communal behavior, even with the potential to change personality . . . all with a smell which is connected to the database of our brain. As I stood and enjoyed the smell of the first real rain of Spring, it got me to thinking:

What would happen in Iraq if the smell of Grandma's homemade crumb coffee cake was sent drifting over the combatants?

What would be the response of competing Christian traditions if the smell of communion wine and freshly baked unleavened bread filled the rooms where 'conversations' were taking place?

What would building contractors do if the cabs of the bulldozers and earth movers which were ripping the top soil off productive land were filled with the aroma of freshly made biscuits which were baked from the wheat once grown on the site?

What would the presidential candidates do if, in the midst of their jousting, the site of the political debate was filled with the smell of freshly sliced watermelon and warm apple pies? (That is putting a lot of weight on the capacity of apple pie and watermelon to transform behaviors, isn't it?)

Well, you get the picture. There is nothing like the smell of that first Spring rain, for in this farmer's heart, it means the smell of freshly opened soil for Spring planting can't be far away . . . and that, my friends, is truly a gift of Heaven!

Go out and smell the rain! God is hard at work filling our senses with wonder that our lives would be lived in joy. Receive the gift and thank the Giver.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Real Easter

“Pastor Don! And you know what I got this morning? The Easter Bunny left me a real egg!”

Those words came rushing out of one particularly excited child’s mouth as they rushed to show me all their treasures from the Sunday School Easter Egg Hunt . . . which, of course, featured a wide variety of ‘surprises’ in plastic eggs. After recovering from the initial shock of what was spoken and trying hard not to split a gut in laughter, it occurred to me that there was a very deep truth being spoken by this child: Real is giving way to plastic in more ways than one . . . and Easter is just one of the latest examples.
Real Easter is the Risen Christ. Real Easter is an empty tomb. Real Easter is women at the tomb long before the men would ever venture out. Real Easter is soldiers lying as dead men beside the stone which was rolled away. Real Easter is men who see and don’t know what to believe. Real Easter is the vast majority of folk never knowing what happened until long after it happened. Real Easter is a dose of skepticism, even among the closest of Jesus’ disciples, coming face to face with a new reality. Real Easter is brooding grief being forced out by unrelenting joy. Real Easter is Jesus meeting with those who ran away from Him and loving them anyway. Real Easter is God’s answer of ‘Life!’ to Jesus’ intercession for our deadly sinfulness. Real Easter is God’s revelation of Heavenly Wisdom in response to earthly exercises in death. Real Easter is our hope in Christ for the resurrection of our souls, when the most we deserve for our behaviors is the pointed pain of Hades. Real Easter is the stuff of real eggs.
Yet, we coat Real Easter with the plastic of earth, make it into a movie, and sell it for profit. We package Real Easter with bonnets, dresses, spring shoes, cute suits, and trendy baskets. We substitute attendance in worship once or twice a year for the faith of Real Easter living every day. We promote ‘Christian’ coffee clubs, book clubs, fraternities, and sororities, all designed to study the things that make for a successful witness in growing a church or a business, in place of Real Easter behaviors which requires of our time, our labors and our resources to feed the hungry, give a drink to the thirsty, clothe the naked, visit the imprisoned, care for the sick or welcome the stranger. We look to self-help authors to guide our daily choices and give homage to cultic media stars that demand our attention, rather than subscribe to the Real Easter ethos of daily Bible study and praying for the Spirit to direct our steps in responsiveness to God’s Gift of Grace in Christ. Then, to top it off, we buy into the notion that filling and ‘hiding’ hundreds of plastic Easter eggs conveys the same meaning as taking the time to personally dye and hide a couple of dozen real eggs, which actually have the potential of feeding the seeker a nutritious meal, rather than loading them up with the processed energy of a sugar high.

Now, lest you think that I am against plastic eggs, marshmallow rabbits, chocolate bunnies, candied eggs, and the light green artificial grass which fills nearly every Easter basket, let me unequivocally state for the record, such things are part and parcel of the season and are all a part of the joy I share with my children, grandchildren and my extended church family. These are the accruements of Easter much in the same way that the decorated tree, tinsel, stockings, and holly are a part of Christmas. Yet, what this solitary child caused me to do was to stop and separate what is holy/real of Easter and what is secular/plastic. Though there are ways that all are important in the tradition, what is central to our identity as Christians is the love of God for humanity expressed in the resurrection of Jesus. That is what is real. Everything else is a vain attempt to articulate the heart of our faith in the Risen Christ.
Is it a wonder that a child would be amazed at the concept of finding and enjoying a real Easter egg? In our current time-pressed, commercialized religious culture, finding or receiving a real Easter egg is roughly the equivalent of finding the stone rolled away from the tomb and the grave clothes folded neatly away. This young child, wildly excited by the novelty of what they received, calls all of Christendom to a higher plain of reverential Easter living and to an authentic witness of what is of real and lasting value in the Christian Story . . . and what is not.

Art Linkletter always said, “Kids say the darnest things”, and he was right. They also have a knack of saying the most truthful things, if we but have ears to listen. Real Easter is in the hearts of those who hear.

Your servant in Christ,
Pastor Don

Easter Wonderments

In the Christian tradition, Sunday worship is a continual living reminder that the Christian community is birthed and called to be an Easter people. Every Sunday . . . . and every day in between Sundays. In our gathering, regardless of the day, we are remembering the astonishing Good News of an empty tomb, we are celebrating here on earth what we anticipate in heaven as we sit at Table and partake of Holy Communion, and we are blending our voices with those of angelic choirs as we praise God's Holy Name. As disciples of the Risen Christ, ours is the ministry of living between Sundays what we proclaim as the Truth on Sundays: Christ is Risen! In Him there is hope for the hopeless, peace for the embattled, justice for the oppressed, mercy for the struggling, food for the hungry, drink for the thirsty, clothes for the naked, shelter for the homeless, care for the sick, and companions for those imprisoned. In Christ, the Christian community serves as it is served, tends as it is tended to, is gracious as grace is given, and shares as God's abundance is shared. All this because of Easter.

So, for the baptized believers in Jesus Christ, Easter isn't one day, it is every day, with each Sunday serving as our touchstone of identity and revelation in gathered community. Sunday is the 'Alleluia! And, Amen!' of God's people as, together, they affirm before God and each other that, in the empty tomb, there is no reason to fear, only every reason to live - and live faithfully, for God is doing a marvelous thing before our eyes, still. God is our reason to gather, not our obligation. God is our opportunity to love, not our requirement. God is our basis of service, not our law. God is our chance to be evangels of Good News, not our requisite.

As Easter opens the door for transformational living, in Christ God swings wide the creative imagination of the Spirit, knocking down the guards of this worlds old rulers and springing forth wonder in folded grave clothes. God is choosing to act in this manner. God is choosing to speak with such eloquence. God is choosing - to reveal to you and me . . . and we are invited to see and respond. So, tell me . . .

Do we short-change the power of Easter when we give it our attention only once a year? Do we forfeit the Gospel in claiming every other Sunday as our own personal possession? Do we ever fully receive the Gift of an empty tomb when nearly every Sunday other than Easter we are found running away from it? Are we found jumping out of the waters of the Jordan, betraying our own baptism, for the time on Sunday morning that we need to catch up on our coffee and papers? At what point does the wonder of Easter transect the ordinariness of daily life and make it new for you?

These are some of the wonderments this small town pastor has when Easter Sunday morning is most likely the only Sunday morning folks come running to worship, even if sometimes pulled by an insistent parent or grandparent. How magnificent will the 'show' have to be at the door of the tomb, how deeply will their finger have go in His wounds, how captivating must the news be, before the Good News hits home and, like Mary, we all are found on our knees, holding onto His feet, saying, "Rabbouni!" What will it take for Easter to live beyond the tomb of the annual event in most people's lives?

I am reminded of the story of the rich man and Lazarus in the Gospel according to Luke. There, in the 16th chapter, is recorded Abraham's response to the rich man's request from Hades that Lazarus be sent to his brothers that they might repent from their ways upon seeing someone from the dead. Abraham says, "If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead." And, maybe, that is the answer to all my wonderments. Still, it does not prevent me from Easter living where I am.

So, I choose to live Easter: to celebrate Easter with my baptismal family on Sundays and to embody Easter in my discipleship in the days between Sundays. I pray for you Easter, as well. Not just for the sake of a day, but for the Good News to exist in the soul of your being. Some say you don't have to go to church every Sunday to be a Christian . . . and the way some every Sunday Christians behave, it is hard to argue . . . yet, I am a Christian because of Christ, not because of them. I choose to celebrate Easter every Sunday and to live it every day because of Him, not because of them. I choose to allow God's Good News to shape my living in Christ, not the choices others make along the way.

Easter living is not the way of the self-righteous, but the holy, humble way of the ones still striving to walk in His steps the way of this world. May His Easter Wonderment claim you always.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Good Friday

On this Maundy Thursday, as Jesus gathers with His disciples in an upper room, washes their feet, breaks bread and pours wine that is blessed to become new in His presence, I wonder: What does the face of betrayal look like? Is the face of betrayal dark and foreboding? Is it pock-marked with dis-ease and struggle? Does the face of betrayal glint like steel or is it gray like rock and cold with calculation? Does the face of betrayal catch the shimmering rays of candlelight and dull them, even deaden them, with dread? What does the face of betrayal look like?

And what of the face of denial? Is it the face of innocence that will simply never understand? Is it the face of the well-meaning, good-intentioned companion who, like the seed scattered upon the rocks is there one moment and gone the next? Is denial the ill-timed nervous laughter in the corner escaping at the precise moment the Master tries to explain why He is washing their feet? Is it the blank stare the never sees or the muted ears that never hear? Is the face of denial the one first to cry out allegiance, so anxious to be found worthy, yet so unprepared to stand? Is the face of denial the one that seems always to be looking around to see who is watching, worried who might notice their presence, figuring the distance to the doors? Is the face of denial in the one who encourages you to do everything the way they would do it, if ever in fact they ever did it? What does the face of denial look like?

As Jesus looks around the room on this night watching His disciples eat, listening to their stories, hearing their laughter, feeling their hands upon His shoulders in brotherly love . . . As the surreal nature of the moment deepens in His heart, He teaches us that the face of betrayal, as with the face of denial, most often is the very face of those most near to us. Can someone who knows us not at all really betray us? Can someone who has never shared a moment with us ever really deny us? No. It is only those who are closest to our souls who have the power to claim or betray, to stay or deny. It is only those who are closest to our lives who have the capacity to tear out our heart without ever making an incision. It is only those who are closest to our being who have the opportunity to make the decision: stand with or stand against; protect or betray. That is why it is betrayal; That is why it is denial: Because it comes not from someone outside, it comes from within. The face of betrayal, as the face of denial, is the face of a friend who shatters the bonds of trust with the kiss of death.

He sees their faces, even as He sees our own, yet in His face will be seen neither betrayal, nor denial. He is our Brother, He is our Friend, He is our Lord, He is our Master, He is our Savior, He is the Christ. To betray us would be to betray His own soul, to deny us would be to deny His own Being. So He leads us to the garden and as He prays for us we dissolve into the night, the burden of our faces etched into His mind, the weight of our choices upon His shoulders . . . and He turned not away from those who would smite Him, for He would not turn away from us.

Whose face does He see in you this night?

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

The Night Before

It is the night before the day of the Last Supper and, as I walk through the darkened sanctuary after making final preparations for Maundy Thursday Service, I pause before the cross.

What was it that Jesus was thinking that night before? Knowing what was going to happen, knowing who He would have prepare the upper room, knowing that He would celebrate the Passover feast a night before anyone else? What was Jesus pondering as He recalled that first Passover and the lamb which was slaughtered for every household, as He recited the passages about the blood of the lamb being placed on the doorposts of every Jewish home, as He pictured them sitting down as a family to eat the roasted lamb, being careful not to leave anything that was not consumed or burned? What sort of images crossed the mind of the Living Word as He lamented the death of the firstborn in every non-Israelites household and the depth of the cost of Israels freedom?

What was Jesus thinking as He wandered among His sleeping disciples, their laughter and certainty about life and ministry quieted by the stillness of the moment? How long did He look into each of their faces, remembering their questions, feeling their handshakes, lingering on their innocence? What thoughts paraded through His mind that night as He remembered the Palm Sunday revelers, His disciples among them, welcoming Him with joy . . . knowing that many of them would call for His death? What did Jesus ponder as He paused to look into Judas' face and considered the coming betrayal? Where did His mind wander as He stopped by Peter, laughing to Himself about Peter's boldness and aware of his impending denials?

What was He thinking about His mother and her life and all that she had seen and pondered in her heart? How could He protect her? Who would stand with her? Who would take care of her? And what of Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James and Joseph, and Salome? Who would dry their tears and calm their grief as they waited?

How deep was Jesus' conversation with God that night before the day He was betrayed? How long did He pray for you and me, that it would all make a difference? That maybe, somehow, we would 'get it' and be willing to follow? What was it that Jesus was thinking that night before?

Standing below the cross in a darkened sanctuary the night before Maundy Thursday is fraught with unanswered questions but, of this one thing I am sure: However hard the journey before Him, however deeply connected to the joy of the ministry He had shared, however intimately tied His heart with those who called Him 'friend', the Lamb did not turn away from the Passover Feast.

The night before, He looked deeply into our souls and moved forward in faithfulness and love. I pray the courage and faith for us all to walk with Him into the tomorrow of God's Passion for all creation.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Lightning In the Dark

Have you ever just laid in bed and watched the lightning flash in the windows? As the late Winter rain poured down upon the roof just over our heads last night, the lightning flashed through the windows, edging into the darkness of our room along the sides of the pulled shades. First the lightning, then the rolling thunder. Ahhhhhhhhhh! What a delightful combination! I laid there watching and listening as long as my eyes would allow, timing the sound of the thunder after the flash of the lightning to track the approaching storm. Ten seconds, two miles. Five seconds, a mile. Two seconds, less than a quarter mile. I think the next one hit the parking lot next to our home . . . and the thunder rolled.
It reminds me of the Disney movie, "Fantasia", but rather than Mickey Mouse as the conductor of the orchestra I imagine God on the rostrum. God's baton is lifted and all creation waits in breathless silence, then on the first down stroke of the baton, the lightning flashes as the trumpets sound, and the booming bass drum rolls. The sky is lit from the charge emanating through the Conductor's baton, a light show swirling in measured array. The angels and archangels raise their voices as the cherubim and seraphim sing 'Holy, Holy, Holy!' The clouds swirl ever higher and tighter, forcing a deeper darkness upon the land whose only hope and relief is in the music of the light which flashes above and whose answer rumbles through the valley. Then the Conductor smiles as the flutes and piccolo's enter as cued, prompting the moonlight to filter through, first one ray, then two, then the night gives way to brilliant light as the storm is forced beyond the horizon by the sweetness of violin melodies cascading from above.
Maybe that is why I love to watch a band or orchestra perform. Whether presenting a concert on a stage or putting on a show on a field or marching on a street, I am led to think of God at work, even at play, directing all of the players through the interpretive expression of God's imaginative conducting. Lightning flashes as the cymbals crash and thunder rolls in the sound of stringed bass instruments growling their reply. All creation is God's composition and we are invited, not only to spectate, but to participate: to be awake when darkness would close our eyes; to listen when all else would turn away; to receive the gift when others have folded up their lawn chairs and left the sweetest candy on the road beside the curb, because they were either too lazy, or too preoccupied with whatever else there was to do, to even notice.
God gives the the most generous gifts in the simplicity and splendor of a late Winter's night thunderstorm. I don't know if you heard it, but I did and I am already looking forward to the next time the Conductor brings the symphony to town. Especially in these days of Holy Week, I do love the sound of God's music ringing out through the streets of our living.
Your servant in Christ,
Pastor Don

Grateful to Godspell for Worship

The Lebanon High School Drama Department produced the musical, "Godspell" over this last weekend. Our youngest son, Ched, played the parts of John the Baptist/Judas, which in the original movie and musical is cast as one part. It was, and continues to be, a dicodomy of casting and characters that starts all sorts of conversations going in the mind of a pastor, but didn't really seem to phase the characters.

All that aside, the cast of Lebanon's version of "Godspell" was outstanding and brought the crowd to their feet both nights in a well deserved ovation as the curtain dropped. Pastorally, the timing of the play, the weekend before Holy Week, in and of itself was incredibly powerful. Personally, though, the musical came to mean far more.

There is nothing quite like watching a musical you really like. Add to that notion the fact that the musical is based on one of your very favorite stories (the life of Jesus from Matthew). Then, add to that, that the musical includes timeless selections of music as the foundation of telling the story, selections which are intimately wound into the persona of the individual characters with incredible care and intention. Then, add to that, that the musical itself was, in its day, one of the most controversial productions of the Christ story to hit the Christian community in the early 70's. Then, add to all of that, that your own son plays the part of John the Baptist, who calls all of the 'disciples' to Jesus, baptizes them, somehow mysteriously becomes Judas and goes the full length and breath of the journey with Jesus, including betrayal, tying His hands to the 'fence', and helping to take His body down after death and carry Him away, only to come running back with all of the other disciples into the chaotic activity of the world with the 'Good News' to share. It was, in the humble opinion of this one parent, one of the most holy moments I have had in a long, long time. I am so proud of Ched for how he carried himself throughout the tryouts, rehearsals, and production . . . balancing academics, band, Boy Scouts, soccer, track practices, bell choir, Senior High Youth, and his love of reading, with all that it takes to make such a personal commitment work. Yet, as proud as I am of our own son, I am equally proud of the whole cast, because I know every one of them, every single one of them along with their stage crews, directors, and band, made the same commitments - all to put on a production of "Godspell". Even writing this makes tears come to my eyes, which happened often over the weekend.

Nancy was the first to understand it, the tears that is, because she had sat next to me through the productions and had seen what had transpired. The music, the story, the context, all rushing together and being delivered on the lips of children . . . not adults, children. That thought never failed to move me. "And a little child shall lead them . . ." is what the scriptures say. These young thespians were not trying to do anything more than their level best in bringing to life this wonderful musical, and that is exactly what they did. But, what they did for me had nothing to do with them, personally, and yet had everything to do with them corporately: they ministered to me.

The weekend before Holy Week, the cast of "Godspell" allowed me to worship without having to be in charge. They told the story without me having to read it. They invited me to pray without me having to say the words. They opened the door for my heart to react without having to worry how others might perceive my actions. They graciously enveloped me in the songs of God's salvation through Jesus Christ, in His life, His ministry, His death, and (dare I say it?) His resurrection as, in their lives, as they took New Joy into the world. The tears which rolled down my cheeks were a gift of the Spirit as the lips of children proclaimed the Gospel in a profound way. T.J. Younger, who played the part of Jesus with joyous and spiritual abandon that few adults could ever dare match, poured himself out for those he most loved and for those he never knew, and I was blessed to be there to receive of his . . . and all of their gifts.

Blessed art thou . . . when the voices of children call you to worship. Blessed art thou . . . when your ears are open to hear even before your heart knows that you are ready. Blessed art thou . . . when your son becomes one of your most treasured and beloved teachers, for the kingdom of God is being birthed in your soul.

For those who were so privileged as myself to attend the Lebanon High School Drama Department's production of "Godspell" this weekend: Blessed are you for having taken the time to receive a gift of grace from the very hands of God.

For those who poured themselves out for their friends, strangers, and enemies, alike, that the musical be faithful to the original Script and the production be true to the Author of the Word: Thank you, for blessed are you to be the servants of God through whom others are led to worship. In this day and age of separation of church and state, you respected both by being simply and sincerely who you are in the integrity of a musical production. Yet, for folks like me, you did far more than practice could have ever allowed and, in this holiest of weeks, I am indebted for the mercy you shared with me. God's richest blessings keep each of you as you live into the reality "Godspell" articulates, Day by Day.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Interviewing Is Hard Work

How do you describe what happens daily in a Church Office to someone who has rarely spent any time in one? We have a job description for the Office Manager we are seeking, but there is oft-times a great deal of disparity between what the job is perceived to be and what it actually is. Communicating the disparity in an interview, without scaring the candidates away, is hard work . . . kind of like describing to the disciples what it means to be the Savior without them having a context to understand it.

How hard was it for Jesus to explain the disparity between what people wanted the Savior to be and what He knew it meant? How many times did Jesus sweat blood over them (and us?) getting it right, or at least coming to some sort of understanding? Maybe that is exactly why He had to show us in terms of steadfast faithfulness to God in the midst of chaotic human expectations. His choice to walk in faithfulness, even unto death, is the visual bridging of the disparity between what we want a Savior to be and what the Savior must be. We wanted a political deliverer who would do the work for us - and then allow us to share the glory without having to bear the pain, and He became a Deliverer who endured the pain that we might have faith to continue the work through Him for all time.

Embodying the disparity between expectation and reality is hard work, yet it is in this week which is before us, Holy Week, that we come face to face with what the job description says . . . and what God intends the ministry to be in being the Savior of humankind. I am grateful that Jesus takes the time with me to explain in Body and Blood what it means to be Savior and I will strive in the days ahead to allow His call in my life to guide my steps in following His example. I only pray it carries over in the ordinariness of the everyday life, in the things of which I am a part, like hiring an Office Manager. The standard He sets is the faith we claim: Now, to live it with the integrity He teaches, as well.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

A Life of Prayer

To quote Thich Nhat Hanh from the film, The Power of Forgiveness, by Martin Doblmeier, "A life of meditation is a life lived deeply." For those of the faith family who have so chosen, our shared Lenten journey has been to ponder 'forgiveness'. Drawing from Thich Nhat Hanh's observation, and remembering that he also calls us to consider that a prerequisite to being able to forgive is becoming compassionate, our Lenten conversation mulled the notion of moving towards compassion by living deeply a life of prayer.

In the Evangelical Catechism of my youth, the definition of prayer is, "Prayer is the conversation of the heart with God . . . " (No. 101) If one understands conversation as both speaking and listening, and if prayer is such a conversation of the heart with God, then living deeply a life of prayer is to participate in a conversation of the heart with God on an ongoing basis. Life so lived, as Thich Nhat Hanh so aptly and quietly speaks, is a deeply compassionate life. It is at this juncture that we can begin to understand Hanh's assertion that other people are not our enemies, but misunderstanding, discrimination, violence, hate, and anger are our enemies. A life lived deeply in prayer is a life moving toward understanding, toward acceptance, toward peace, toward love, and toward joy. Such a life, by its very nature, has the capacity to forgive precisely because it is a life lived at the crossroads of compassion and prayer.

Dare we to live in such a manner so completely, what would become the shape and scope of our world? How would farmers farm differently? How would pastors pastor differently? How would bankers bank differently? How would teachers teach differently? How would the members of government govern differently? How would merchants sell differently? How would courts execute justice differently? How would stock brokers transact differently? How would petroleum companies refine differently? How would administrators administrate differently?

The life lived deeply in prayer, the life lived deeply in conversation with God, is the life Jesus modeled as He walked the earth . . . and we crucify Him still for so living. For such a life is a life lived in the Light of God, a Light which shines upon all that it encounters. In the face of such a Light our unholiness is unbearable to observe, even by our own eyes. In the face of such a Light our unwillingness to be in prayer is made public and we are humiliated by our own choices. In the face of such a Light we draw ourselves into the darkness of the shadows and that which we will not change becomes the tomb of our dying souls.

And Jesus prays from the cross, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." Forgive us for not walking deeply in prayer. Forgive us for not listening to You. Forgive us for striking out at your extended hand of Love. Forgive us for not meeting You at the crossroads of compassion and prayer, because the way we choose to live makes us too tired to stay up with You in prayer. How many times do we leave You in the garden alone in prayer because a life of prayer is, perhaps, the most demanding life to live? And, how many times are we left despising our denials of You because we don't want anyone to demand anything of us that we don't want to give?

Such notions give a whole new meaning to the disciples request of Jesus, "Lord, teach us how to pray." What Jesus teaches is more than a rote prayer, He teaches a conversation of the heart with God, even unto death on the cross. The empty tomb is God's answer for us to hear.

May we so live, today and always.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Two More Services to Go

I counted them up last night, the texts and services to be completed for Holy Week, and they total eight. Two services on Palm Sunday, one service on Maundy Thursday, two services on Good Friday, Easter Vigil Service on Holy Saturday, and two services on Easter Sunday. Of the eight, six are fully ready, liturgies completely written and all technology in place. The two Easter Sunday services await my time and attention. It will have to be tomorrow, tonight we are interviewing for an Office Manager.

Odd how that so often happens, the functional side of the church needing the most attention in the holiest of seasons, when the least amount of pastoral time is available. Projects, weddings, funerals, hospital visitations, home visitations, counseling, meetings, you name it . . . if at no other time of the year these things can be guaranteed to happen, it will be during Advent, Lent, Christmas, or Holy Week. Don't believe me? Ask your Pastor.

In the middle of writing liturgies that, I am sure, will transform the world and in walks that person whose first words are, "Do you have a minute? If you don't I'll leave and come back." and an hour later they walk out just as the next one walks in. After Church Council last night, one of our Council members very caringly inquired, "Pastor, I have been by the church several times late at night the last couple of weeks and see your light on in the office. Is everything all right? Is there are reason you have to be here at night?" How do you answer such questions without sounding like you are whining, or without making your vocation sound any more difficult than anyone else's?

In so many ways, it is just like farming. Things can seem to go by swimmingly for weeks, then, just as it is time to pull the tractors and equipment out of the shed to begin Spring work in earnest, just when the bags of seed corn are most ready to be loaded on the truck to head to the field, just when the sprayer tank reaches capacity and the chemicals are on the brink of being added . . . that is when the crop insurance guy drives in, the equipment rep stops by, the Pastor drops in to check on you, or the cattle take down a fence at the farthest corner of the farm. That is when the telephone rings and the chemical rep tells you that what you wanted for tomorrow won't be delivered until next Tuesday, as the tractor which is to pull the disc is discovered with a flat inside dual, while the field cultivator is being unfolded to be greased and the wing catches on the wide open shed door ripping the tin and bending the wing, and . . . well, you get the idea. "Do you have a minute?"

Yet, Jesus takes a minute with every one of us every day. When most we need it, He stops and listens. He for whom every day is truly a Holy Day, takes our journey as seriously as His own, for truly the two are one. When most we are certain that the tasks which are demanded will not be completed, He reminds us that what is required is our soul. When most we are convinced that we will be made a fool of by those who love to taunt and deride us for what we do, He brings to mind that if what we do is for His glory, all else will pass away.

Holy Days and Planting Season are much alike in so many ways, if only we . . . I . . . can remember that it is God that gives the moisture to the soil and growth to the seed. It is God that gives the sun and the rain in due season. It is God that gives us the time to prepare for worship and God who gives worship the words for expression. It is God that makes our seasons holy, not what it is we do. Eight services are only a few moments from completion, when all is said and done. God's work of redemptive love and sacrifice are forever, through Christ and the Holy Spirit.

Sometimes I need to be reminded of that . . . and I am glad that God chose today. At the turn on the headland of this Lenten journey, God has given me hope and confidence for what lies ahead. Truly, the next passes in the field will not be to get my work done, rather, it will to be to participate in what God is already doing. Thanks be to God, who give us the time to share the journey.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Blessed Times Two

I write this after waiting for the birth of our granddaughter, Ava, born yesterday. There is something powerfully humbling about holding six and a half pounds of hope in your arms, as there is something deeply empowering to have her blue eyes look intently back into yours. It is as if the very voice of God is saying, "Here, look at Me and see my creation in this bundle you are holding!" It takes me back to a similar story of swaddling cloths and the birth of One whose tiny hands once shaped the world now stretched to curl around a mother's finger.

The name, Ava, depending on the source from which you draw, is either Germanic or Latin in origin and means, 'bird'. Ava, one who flies, who soars in the heavens on the breath of the God from whose Life she is drawn. Ava, one who sees beyond the plains of the earth to the horizons of living which is beyond landbound eyesight. Ava, one whose song is lilting through the skies to the heavens above and the earth beneath, a gift of praise on the ears of the God in whose image she is created. Ava, washed in the birthwaters of humanity and blessed in the birthwaters of Divinity to rise on the wings of eagles. Ava, the grace of God in the flight of life born to us this day.

Like Cailin, her older sister, Ava arrives in our family to transform it as only new life is able. In her hunger cries, she will call us to remember the hungry. In her thirsting, she will cry out for those whose lives are parched. In her tears of anger, she will remind us of those seeking justice. In her cooing, she will hearken us to be peacemakers. In her laughter, she will lead in embracing the Child in us all. In her wakening, she will open our eyes to the wonders of God's new day before us. In her sleeping, she will invite us to rejuvenation of life and soul in God's care. And in her reaching out to us in trust as she lies curled in our arms, she will embrace our lives in God's trust that reaches out to us in love.

We are blessed to receive this gift of God among us, twice blessed as Ava joins her big sister Cailin in prospering our lives.

A Grandfather's prayer for this newly born granddaughter: Ava, may you rise on the wings of God's Spirit, may you dwell in the heart of God's Love through Christ, and may you ever reflect the fullness of faith in the One from Whom you come and to Whom you go. Blessed are you, Ava, and those into whose lives you have journeyed. Blessed are your parents who birthed and love you, and blessed is your sister who adores you. May your blessings ever surround and keep you, Ava Isabel, child of God, disciple of Christ, member of the Church. ~ from your Papa

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Chicken Dinner

The Sunday before Palm Sunday is Chicken Dinner Sunday. No, you won't find it listed on any calendar you might have from Cracker Barrel or Office Max, but on the annual calendar of the congregation I serve, two Sundays are sacred in faith family life: Wurstmart (a pork sausage dinner) which is held on the third Sunday of October and Chicken Dinner which is held on the Sunday before Palm Sunday. On those Sundays, and those Sundays only, our faith family has only one service of worship at 9:00 a.m., no Christian Education classes, and serving begins at 11:00 a.m., going through at least 3:00 p.m. It is not unusual that, between 'Dine-In' customers and 'Drive Through' (and Carry-Outs) we will serve in the neighborhood of 700 people in four hours. "All You Care To Eat" is how the dinners are advertised . . . and that is exactly what people come to test: How much do I care to eat . . . before I explode? Believe me, we have had some pretty near misses in terms of near explosions, if the number of times back for extra helpings is any indication. With real mashed potatoes, green beans cooked with bacon, fresh cole slaw with a sweet vinegar dressing, and homemade pies and sweets, folks have a tendency to stay as long as there are loops in the belt or elastic in the waistline of the dress. My, oh my! In the vernacular of my people, "It's quite a feed!"

More than the people fed or the money made, these dinners have had an profound effect upon the congregation: Over the fifteen or so years these dinners have been held, those of the congregation who have volunteered of their time and leadership for the dinners have become the core group for welcoming new people into the congregation. These dinners are not only excellent evangelism opportunities (We are known as the congregation that loves to eat!), but they are also wonderful moments for internal integration of folks new to our congregation and/or the Christian faith. These dinners give all of us the opportunity to practice radical hospitality: Everybody has both a place at the table and a job to do in welcoming others in setting the table. The long term members, who could be territorial, have become the welcoming committee for those who want to offer their gifts. The new members, who tend to be somewhat overwhelmed by the event, open the eyes of others as to what might be possible with the 'new eyes and ears' that they bring to every gathering.

This is a course in congregational formation that was never taught in seminary . . . and yet was taught every time we came to the Table. Though I doubt that Jesus was at a Chicken Dinner the Sunday before Palm Sunday, at least it is not recorded in the Bible that He was, were He to have walked in on this one, I think His smile might have been the very sunshine which brightened the room. Everyone welcome, everyone working side by side, everyone visiting and sharing the load with each other, and most staying until the last dish is dried and put away: now that is Christian hospitality at its best . . . and its very root is at the Table where Jesus said, "My Body . . . My Blood . . . . do this in remembrance of me."

Anymore, making a few dollars for missions and projects is a nice side benefit, but, as the Apostle Paul puts it in the 13th chapter of I Corinthians, " . . . the greatest of these is love." Chicken Dinner Christianity: don't wrinkle your face at it unless you've tried it. Feeding the soul is a great deal easier if the belly isn't hungry, so why not do both at the same time? I am forever humbled by what this congregation continues to teach me of the faith . . . and I pray you have the chance to dine at this table as well. He set it for us all.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

My Spit Is Your Spit

It was one of the unexpected telephone calls that completely changes the kind of day you are having. A person who was once a member of the congregation where I serve and, after moving to a nearby town, had transferred her membership, was calling to share a very special conversation with me. It was a conversation with God.

As the story was told to me: It has been a long time since she has heard the voice of God speaking in her ears and, pray as she might and be open as should could, still the dry valley of silence was long and hard. The Sunday before she had been in church with her granddaughter and, as often happens in church services, a variety of things were being passed out to various people, including hard candies to the ladies of the congregation. Well, her little granddaughter wanted one but was too young to be sucking on a whole hard candy, so grandmother began biting the hard candy into very small pieces, taking the small pieces out of her mouth with her fingers and placing them into her granddaughter's mouth. As she said, "If anybody who didn't know us would have seen us, they would have thought, 'What in God's name is that woman doing putting that spitty candy into that child's mouth?!' But, "Pastor Don," she said, "I am her grandmother and if there is anybody in the world I would swap spit with, it would be my granddaughter, after all, my spit is her spit and her spit is my spit."

It happened the next day when she was reflecting on what had happened in church with her granddaughter, that God spoke to her and her life filled with joy and understanding. As clearly as my voice sounds in your ears or your voice sounds in mine, God's voice filled this grandmother's ears with the words, "My spit is your spit." and all the barrenness, hardness and silence of the time before melted away. God reminded this daughter of God's that, "My spit is your spit." and who better to understand the power of those very words than a grandmother who mouth had broken a hard candy into bits for the child she so loved.

"As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world.""When Jesus had said this, he spat on the ground and made mud with the saliva and spread the mud on the man's eyes, saying to him, "Go, wash in the pool of Siloam" (which means Sent)." (John 9.5-6)

It is a powerful truth that lays bare the presumptuousness of our cultured society: "My spit is your spit." The One who breathed into lifeless dust and brought forth humanity, the One whose creative Spirit births new life into the death of humanity, the One who spits on the ground and gives sight to the blind man, it is this One whose spit is our spit.

It was an incredible telephone call to receive and one that transformed my day and the Lenten journey I am walking. As my friend said, "There really is no more the story than that. I just wanted you to know I heard God's voice in those words. I just wanted to share that good news with you." And so, I pass this grandmother's story on to all of you. God's spit is your spit. For those not bound up in the properness of it all, these words are the makings of a deeply held identity in those who would be God's people. "God's spit is my spit" just about says it all in coming to understand the Christ of God whose love is poured out on the cross for us all. It is certainly a notion that will walk with me the rest of the way to Jerusalem.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Winter Snows & Subsoil Moisture

In November, after all the harvest was done on the farm and as much Fall tillage had been completed as was appropriate, my brother, Larry, his son, Kenny, and Dad spent a few days digging up and working on field drain tiles. I had the good fortune to be in the area on one of the days they were working on the deep lines, 7 or 8 feet deep. They had excavated the soil with a backhoe and were replacing T-joints, which is usually a job guaranteed to get a person muddy and wet, but not this year. Between early June and September 5, the area our farm is in received one inch of rain. It was dry. The crops did pretty fair, all things considered, and we are grateful for what we received, yet our concern was not so much for what had happened in 2007, but for what was going to happen in 2008. The hole they had dug to work on the T-joint was dry, dry at 7 to 8 feet of depth. Dry. Crops can root down deeply, but as we stood there looking at dry soil 8 feet deep, our worry for next year was, 'Where will the subsoil moisture come from to feed the next crop?' Farmers prayers are, often, a type of subsoil prayer: deep and far-reaching.

Today, the temperature is in the mid-40's and the snow and ice received in the last days is slowly melting, the water patiently seeping into the soil. In a way that rain cannot hope to achieve, snow and ice melt seeps into the soil and trickles down giving life in the depths of the earth, offering hope for the coming days with an intentionality that only a farmer or gardener can truly appreciate. The very weather which has frustrated the building industry in the last few weeks, the very weather which allowed the building industry to boom in our area last Summer, is also the weather which acts in deliberate fashion on behalf of those who feed the world. It is not always what is on the surface which will make the greatest difference, sometimes it is precisely what we cannot observe that will, in fact, save our very lives. Subsoil prayers are powerful, meaningful prayers on the lips of those who understand the totality of life's cycle. The farmer working the surface of the field prays for the entire earth, understanding that what lies beneath is what energizes the life at the surface.

There are 19 days till Easter. Before you start getting all giddy about what is to happen on the surface at Easter, take time to stand still at Gethsemane and pray a subsoil prayer with the farmers of the world. Who knows what God will do to meet the needs of God's people when they pray? Don't let your life dry out for lack of prayer for what happens beyond what you can perceive.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

The Sound of 'Dad'

The ringtone of my cell phone is Santana's "Smooth", and nearly every time it starts playing, I choose to let it play for a bit so I can dance to the tune. I am grateful that the people calling me are unable to see what happens when my phone rings, because "Smooth" takes me into this kind of 'funky' dance that, when seen by our sons, causes them to say (in that low disapproving, "God, I hope none of my friends can see this." voice), "Dad." At which point, I answer the phone and walk away from them, somehow certain that they are secretly proud their father is still 'with it', yet knowing they would never admit it in public. Please, allow me my delusion. Thank you.

Still, even as I relate to you what they say as they see me react to Santana's "Smooth", it is hard to articulate to you the sound of 'Dad' in their voices. On the Child-Approval-Meter, the sound of 'Dad' across my children's lips at that moment would have to rate in the nearly negative numbers, as opposed to the sound of 'Dad' on their lips when they really want something that only 'Dad' can get them. Hmmmmmm.

Which makes me think of how I call on God. "Oh, God!" "Oooohhhhh, God?" "God!" "Dear, God" and a whole host of other ways I call on God's name, some of which I would rather not put into print, if you know what I mean. And here I pause, because I realize it is not all in how my children say 'Dad', some of it is in how I hear, 'Dad.'

How do you hear your Name on my lips, God? Do You hear approval and trust? Do You hear delight and laughter? Do You hear a desire that what You think matters to me? Do You hear the voice of a loving child or a willful brat? When your Name slips across my lips, in whatever form I speak it in the moment, does it make you cringe and walk away? Do I leave You hoping that someday I will be as proud of You as I am of myself? Do I speak your Name as I would call upon a friend . . . or do I speak to You as I sometimes do to those I do not know? How many times have You felt 'dismissed' by the sound of your Name on my lips . . . and how many times have I called upon You and left You wondering why I couldn't say your Name that way all the time? How do you hear your Name on my lips, God?

It is something I will ponder when next my cell phone rings and the dancing starts, and my sons say, 'Dad' . . . partly because I will wonder what You hear from me, God . . . and partly because I know that every time You get a call from one of your children, You dance, too. Your ringtone is set to the 'Smooth' sound of a stone being rolled away from an empty tomb and the 'Alleluias!' that angels sing to an extended Santana guitar riff. Hmmmmmm. I wonder where I could get that ringtone? I wonder if my cell phone carrier has it listed under, "Easter Sunday Worship Tones"? I'll check it out, God . . . and I say that with total admiration.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Sometimes, You Just Have To Keep Trying

I just completed a new blog about Casimir Pulaski which you will never read. It was lost 'in cyber space'. Just disappeared. An hour of deep thought about this Polish Count, Kazimierz Pulaski, killed in the Siege of Savannah on October 9, 1779, and why the Illinois educational system observes the first Monday of March as a holiday in his memory . . . gone. Poof. Kablooie. And I still have a blog article to write with a blank screen facing me.

Somehow, it makes me think of how Jesus must have felt nearly every time He talked with His disciples and the crowds. He took the time to tell a story, then explained the story, often having then to defend what He was teaching, only to go about 10 minutes and have one of the disciples look at Him and ask if He would tell them just one more time what He mean. Oi!

How many times do we nail Jesus to the cross all over again, just because what He taught us, what He showed us, the way He heals us, is lost in the cyber space of our souls? Is lost to our need to be in control of the answers and outcomes? How much of Jesus' time and energy has to be utilized in the redundancy of showing us the way Home time and time and time again? How many times does God look at us the way I looked at my blank screen, wondering where everything so carefully composed had gone, and trying to decide whether to walk away in disgust or sit back down and go at it one more time? Just one more time?!

I am blessed and eternally grateful that, in Jesus, God sits down just one more time for our souls, for our very lives, and starts all over again telling the Story. I pray that, this time, I get it - and live it with all my heart, my soul, and my might . . . that others might get it, too.

As important as understanding Casimir Pulaski Day might be, thank You, God, for helping me to understand You all the more this day.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Hometown Gatherings

The school system of my hometown was recently recognized as a Bronze Award winner by U.S. News and World Report, one of only eighteen schools in the State of Illinois to be highlighted. Last night, nearly 300 people gathered to celebrate an accomplishment that few in the nation can claim and I left that gathering with a lump in my throat and pride in my heart. Given that Marissa, Illinois, is a town of only 2,600 souls, which reflects a decline in population over the last twenty five years or so, and given that Marissa, Illinois, continues to struggle to recover after losing its primary source of jobs and economic stability in the closing of the coal mines and the loss of family farms in the late 80's, this recognition of the educational system is all the more inspiring.

The town of Marissa in which I grew up was a far different town, with a far different population, than what is present today. I was blessed to attend a school district in a town which existed in a region of reasonable prosperity. The coal mines employed hundreds, if not thousands, of area individuals, and issued paychecks, not only to the people it directly employed, but by default, to all of the area businesses, churches, and schools. Agriculture was still the booming business of the 'family farm' and family farms abounded in the 60's, 70's and early 80's, before the bottom dropped out of the commodity and land markets in the mid 80's. The 'one-two' punch of coal mining and agriculture created an atmosphere of abundance and optimism. Home values steadily increased, the school district grew modestly in most years, and the relative stability of the family and community combined to create an educational environment that most, even today, can only speak of in idealized tones. It was a gift too many of us took for granted, having no idea what the impending economic downturn would do to our beloved community.

As the coal mines closed, either because they 'ran out of reserves' or because newly created limitations on 'high-sulfur coal' forced the coal companies to abandon continued operations in the region as unprofitable, and as the agricultural community declined in the mid-80's and family farms began to disappear from the landscape, casualties of the corporate mentality of 'grow or go-away', so, too, did the community shrink and suffer.

Coal miners could either follow the mine work to other states where openings could be found, even if it meant working in non-union settings, or they could stay and re-tool, going back to school and trying to land a job in a market being rapidly saturated by people just like themselves. Many aspired for jobs that would pay them at a level similar to what they had become accustomed, most settled for hourly wages far removed from the level of pay they had received at the coal mines, just so they could stay in the communities in which they had grown up. For many, they quickly became the working poor, selling nearly everything they had at rock bottom prices just make ends meet, while politicians promised them better years down the road if they could just hang on.

Farmers, dispossessed of their land, hard work and dreams, with no corporate 're-tooling' dollars available for education, sought jobs in the fields they best knew, many of them going to work as hourly factory workers, welders, sales people, and 'agribusiness' advisers. Long before reaching that point, most of those same rural households had become dual-income households in an effort to stave off the inevitable, while providing for the basic necessities of clothes, food and medical care. As the rural landscape changed, so changed the community landscape.

Homes, 'in-town' and rural, became available for sale or rent at low prices. Landlords 'picked up' pieces of property and rented them out to other folks who either, were or were becoming, dispossessed in their own right. As property prices plunged, so did available tax dollars for the school systems. To put it kindly, it was not a pretty picture, pitting band programs against sports programs and foreign language programs against vocational programs. What were considered 'core' educational classes in times of prosperity became collateral damage in times of economic downturn and no-one was unaffected. In some cases, in the darkest of days and hours as the whole picture was becoming alarmingly clear, it pitted neighbor against neighbor in the fight for survival and the whole region suffered an awful loss of identity. The whole region, that is, except for two key groups: the churches and the schools.

While businessmen sifted through the remnants of the 'recession', the mission of both schools and local churches became painfully focused: to provide places and times of prayerful, deliberate hope and support for families whose entire being was turned upside down. In the communities where schools and churches responded intentionally and purposefully on behalf of the very people for which they were called and empowered to care, there hope slowly began to emerge. New leaders stood up in the rubble of past civilization and offered their skills and vision, while those whose stability in the past had made them the bedrock of reliability offered their wisdom and insight in guiding and shaping a community into a new vision. New alliances were formed, new priorities shaped the emerging realities, and, at the heart of it all, were the folks that Marissa gathered to honor last night: its teachers, administrators, and staffs . . . and their students who have become the teachers of a new generation, equipping them for a world radically changed from the one we grew up in.

The religious community has had a tremendous impact on how families recover, and though those same religious communities have had to provide ministries in an atmosphere charged with the words, 'Not enough to go around', they have nonetheless been a rock of faith and shared vision on which the affected communities have leaned upon . . . hard. Yet, in my humble opinion, it has been the teachers, the administrators, and the support staffs of the local schools who have reshaped depression into moments of possibility. It has been the hard work of local Board of Education members, often criticized, seldom recognized, that has striven to adequately compensate and secure educational professionals with a heart for the children and a vision for the world, providing the impetus for stabilizing the one place where children are shaped nearly every day: the schools.

One student at a time, our public school system has conspired to transform an ethos, guiding lives beyond the 'inevitability of being stuck' into the possibility of pursing a dream. One student at a time, our public school system has collaborated to create a learning environment that is established on the foundation of the 'giftedness of each individual'. One student at a time, our public school system has touched the face of God as the potential each child brings to the earth is celebrated and the hope of the world is given new meaning.

I am proud to be a graduate of Marissa Unit District No. 40, not because of what I have and will continue to accomplish, but because of what Marissa Unit District No. 40 continues to exemplify as the heart of its mission in education: Equipping all of the children to discover their potential, to celebrate their gifts, and to become contributing citizens of a global community. Graduates of Marissa Unit District No. 40 now, as maybe never before, emerge ready to make a difference because they have been prepared, not just to dwell in the world, but to make it a better place in which all might pursue their dreams.

My humble congratulations to those whose vocational calling and career paths have led them in becoming educators and leaders in Marissa Unit District No. 40: You are transforming the future by serving as partners in creation with the One who births a bright new tomorrow in the power of Wisdom shared. U.S. News and World Report can highlight your accomplishments, but we who are products of your dedication celebrate your ongoing influence in our lives. Thank you.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don