Sabbath Morning

There is a place in Northern Indiana where heaven touches earth at that space where crystal clear waters meet the sky. There is a time in all of God’s creation when the singing of angels is echoed in the lapping of waves upon the beach and gull cries are the envoys of praise before the throne of our God. There is a measure of goodwill and peace in that moment where sunshine sparkle presents the cry of the loon in velvety whispers of joy lifted to God. There is in the heart of creation a momentary hush of adoration as the singing of the Wren finds its harmony in the distant honking of Canadian Geese whose course of flight carries them above the unfolding spectrum of God’s holy visage below. There is a sanctuary, a place of holy offering before the Lord our God, whose name is Lake Maxinkuckee, whose spring fed waters flow with crystal clear assurance of forgiveness and grace and whose depths cool the troubled soul.
Though I am fairly certain there are other places on earth where God makes such visions manifest for other eyes to behold, I am not in those other places, in fact, I cannot imagine my soul being capable of taking in more than God opens before me this day – and I am humbled before God. In the quiet of these moments, in the sunshine sparkles across miles of tree-lined shore, in the lapping horizon where water’s edge meets wave’s journey inward and outward, and in the rising steam of earth cooled waters lifting their song of joy to the blueness of skies above, there in hallowed tones of wonder God is blessing the Sabbath, not to be a burden of obligation but, to be an opportunity for reverential dance before the ark of God moving over the face of the earth.
Receive my prayers of thanksgiving and joy, O God, and make me keenly aware of every morning’s gifts, the bounty of which You never hide, yet we but seldom stop to view.
Your servant in Christ,
Pastor Don

Innocence

From the patio of our rented condo on the beach of Lake Maxinkuckee in Northern Indiana, I watched a girl about the age of 5 or 6 playing in the sand about 40 feet away. Suddenly, the door of an adjoining condo opened and closed and another young girl shyly walked out towards the beach. The face of the first girl simply glowed when she spotted the second girl walking out towards the beach and, without a thought about who was watching or what the ramifications might be, she jumped up and went running toward the second girl, nearly hollering at her in her eagerness, "Would you come play with me?" The face of the second girl became like a beam of light from a lighthouse in the recognition that anyone would want her company and, nodding her head, her laughter fairly danced across the waves of the lake as she took the hand of her new found playmate and they raced toward the toys at the edge of the water.

Seem like an idyllic scene out of some sort of play? It was real life this morning as I drank my coffee in the cool, slightly foggy morning skies of Culver, Indiana, and what made the moment all the more poignant was the fact that, quite apparently, while both of the girls were strangers to each other, there on the beach with no-one to tell them differently, they were both wayfarers sharing a common journey. That one was Caucasian and one African-American mattered nothing to either, for there on the beach they were both just two little girls seeking companionship on the beach with toys to share and stories to build. There on the beach, there was no history, no political correctness, no barriers to overcome, no prejudices to deal with, no economic differences to overcome, and no-one around to tell them 'yes' or 'no'. There on the beach, if even for only one moment in time, there was only two little girls who saw in each other a companion with which to celebrate time on the beach in the middle of the world's busy-ness and preoccupation with success. There on the beach I watched the world painted with a different hue and texture and, in the lives and wonder of two little girls, was allowed the sacred privilege of observing with God's eyes the way humanity was designed to be from the very beginning: As one.

I do believe in my deepest heart of hearts that prejudice is a learned behavior, that hatred towards others who happen in some way to be different from ourselves is a deeply held loathing of something in ourselves, and that the capacity to see 'color' in others is the inability to see God in anyone. I have grown up in a world deeply divided over issues of color and have observed the pain felt by those against whom discrimination's work is propagated. I have listened to vile racial epithets rolling off the lips of people of all colors against others whose lives they do not know and whose journey they have never shared. I have watched as, with impunity, one brother stepped up the ladder of cultural achievement over another brother, never offering a hand of assistance or showing any remorse at having stepped on the other's hands to get there, all because 'color', in whatever circumstance, allowed for some sort entitlement and 'race' was the trump card of permission. I have stepped into those inequities calling for justice and bear still the scars of those battles, while at the same time gaining friends whose names and lives I can call upon, not because I am owed anything, but because in the shared journey we have drank deeply of our oneness and are moving beyond the teachers of differentiation.

There on the beach of Lake Maxinkuckee in the early morning light of this day, I have been given a gift from a very loving God, for I have been allowed the holy mercy of hope in the vision of what God intends in our birthright from the beginning of time. If only this new lesson can be taught by two little girls who are the most unlikely of teachers, and if only that lesson might be learned by a world overly certain there is nothing new to learn. Only God knows and only God can tell, but maybe, just maybe, a new day's dawning has much more to do with children's innocence in play than it has to do with adult arrogance at work.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Broken Toes

I missed the last step on the stairs to our basement yesterday morning and took a tumble, managing somehow to break two toes on my right foot. It was one of those moments when, though not intending to, I found myself 'speaking in tongues' as I slowly found a way to stand back up. Trying hard not to over bend them, yet wanting to find out how badly they were broken, I tried flexing all of the toes on my foot, finding that these two particular toes simply stayed straight and hurt all the more as I applied pressure to them. So, knowing there is really nothing that can be done about broken toes other than taping them to an adjoining toe for support, I slipped into my most comfortable flip-flops and continued my work, figuring the pain would ease as the day wore on, which it did.

A broken toe has an amazing way of bringing into perspective all that a person does, for there is very little which is not affected and given a wince of pain the more mobile one becomes. Up and down the stairs, walking in the garden, kneeling in prayer, even just pulling your feet up under your chair as you sit and read the Bible or the daily papers, all combine to remind a person just how incredibly careless it is to miss the final step on the staircase . . . and how long they will have to pay for their carelessness. Purple toes and ongoing pain have the unique capacity of reminding one just how much we take all that we are able to do for granted.

By the grace of God, each of us are remarkable creations, each a distinctive expression of God's goodness and imagination, however gifted or challenged. Each of us, too, have the capacity to reflect that goodness and live into God's will for our lives or simply consider life itself to be the gift and go on our own merry way without regard for the One who made us. In that context, my broken toes spoke to my soul, for they called me to value each step taken in a whole new way - remembering to be more careful about the things which cause me to stumble and fall and to be more attentive about where it is that I place my feet in the course of the daily journey. That one is able to walk at all is a privilege, so that carefully walking with the Creator becomes a sacred trust. In those moments when we so take for granted the capacity to walk that we stop looking where we are going, the fall will be great and if all that is broken is our toes, then we are very, very lucky.

Such are the lessons Israel and Judah learned in the faith journey with God in the years of the kingdom. Such are the lessons the Jewish nation learned as Jesus walked the earth and brought into perspective all that was being practiced in the name of faith. And, such are the lessons of which the Christian community is reminded in this day and age. Our God does not take our steps in faith for granted, so why should we.

Through my bi-focal lens I have been looking down a bit more carefully as I ascended and descended the many steps in our home, hopefully ensuring I will not re-injure what has already been broken and, after some mulling on the events of the day, so will I try to be more careful in how I walk in each moment with God. A couple of broken toes is pain enough to bear, if only for a few weeks. I cannot imagine the ongoing pain in God's foot when we fail to watch what we are doing and break covenant with God as though it were not our own to tend. It is certainly something of which to be aware as we walk the walk in the Spirit of God's presence, seeking in our own lives to avoid the pain of broken toes . . . and bruised souls.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

The Smell of Corn Pollenating

It is said that one of the human bodies strongest senses is that of smell - and that the sense of smell is intimately tied to our capacity to remember. All it takes for me to think of Grandma Wagner is to smell bread or coffee cake baking and all it takes for me to think of summers past is the smell of corn pollinating.

Driving along our Southwestern Illinois highways last evening, the air was ripe with the smell of corn pollen. Many of the fields have tasseled and the dark green company of stalks are nearly all sporting two immature ears of corn, the silks of which are pushed out to receive of the tassel's gifts. Now, for many, this time of the year is reason to stay inside near the air conditioner breathing air which has been filtered many times over, recognizing that such natural events do have the possibility of being brutal on those with allergies. Yet, for those of us who thrive in such conditions, this is the time of year that, not only can you hear the corn growing, so abundant the soil moisture and summertime heat, but you can also smell the corn doing what corn does so well, 'producing', and outside is the place to be.

The smell of corn pollinating, in my memory, is the smell of mid-summer joy: It is the smell of long summer days and humid evenings play; It is the smell of farm chores being completed and summer spare time spent in the pond; It is the smell of long walks with Dad along the field roads of our farm, checking the progress of the crops and listening to the stories of the development of our family farm; It is the smell of homemade ice cream being churned with the hand-cranked ice-cream maker on the front steps of our home, being made with cream skimmed from the top of our milk tank after milking was done; It is the smell of bicycles racing along the country roads of our neighborhood as my buddies and I raced each other around the country block; It is the smell of hay being ready to bale and straw already put away in the barn; It is the smell of cow feed and the nearing Winter's challenge to prepare months in advance; It is the smell of humidity and heat mixed with an invigorating splash of faith and hope to produce anticipation of what God has yet to reveal of God's own abundance; It is the smell of sitting on the front porch of our home listening to Mom and Dad sing to each other in the dark evening's coolness while gliding together in their love; It is the smell of brother's and friends playing hide and go-seek in the lengthening shadows of our farms many barns and nearby fields; It is the smell of contentment, the likes of which I continue to yearn for today, but find only completely embodied in the memories of my boyhood. For me, corn pollinating still remains the smell of sensuous rural living, accented by the hand of God brushing over the canvas of my life in strokes and hues of laughter, music, good food, hard work, family, faith, and friends.

Though my prayers are with those who suffer greatly in this time due to the high pollen counts in the air, my fervent hope is that the smell of corn pollinating lingers for a long time to come. It quiets my soul and strengthens my heart, while taking me back to where I want to go in God's own good time for me. May you be so blessed to smell and remember with such joy.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Garage Door Trials

For the last couple of weeks one of our garage doors has been working 'cock-eyed' (another form of the word, 'crooked'): One side seems always to hang up as the door raises and the other side won't settle as it closes. Yesterday one of the long springs on the opener broke, releasing cable and door to settle in a fashion that would not allow movement until I took the time to replace it. Today, I replaced both long springs and found the original problem which I had not been able to identify before: The other spring (the one which did not break) had shifted enough on the eye bolt attaching it to the mounting that it was not completely stretching out, thus causing the garage door to work in a 'cock-eyed' fashion . . . which is also what probably caused the other spring to break. And, I thought as sweat poured out through every fiber of my clothing while working in the hot, humid garage, isn't this a lot like the faith community.

As long as everything and everyone is contributing to the success of the whole, the mission and ministries work smoothly and without a glitch. Yet, let one of the workers or one of the ministries start slowing up in their work while others about them continue at the pace set for completion and, all of a sudden, things become very 'cock-eyed'. The edges begin dragging, complaints like squeeking garage door wheels start resounding at every opportunity, outsiders start commenting on the strange sounds that emminate from the gathered community as the very fabric of the faith family begins to stretch and tear, then, finally, a cable breaks, a family leaves, a ministry folds, and mission abruptly stops. Nothing is to going to be accomplished until time is taken to strip the works down and the offending issues are dealt with, even if it means completely replacing the old and beginning anew. In my mind, it has something to do with the unwise practice of placing new wine in old wineskins: Sometimes you just have to say, 'No more.'

Well, the springs are replaced, the main rail is realigned and attached with new anchors, and the door works like new. That everything is working quietly and efficiently appeases the old German ethos in my heart, but that everything is working together gives me hope that God, in Christ, is at work doing the same with all that is squeeking and balking in the way the Christian community struggles to work together.

I pray a spring doesn't have to bust and the whole thing be thrown out by the Master Carpenter before we get the message, but then, maybe that is the best thing which could happen. Sometimes we have to be completely out of order before we are able to allow God's Spirit to fix what needs to be addressed. Sometimes we need to remember it is not, "My will be done", but "Thy will be done". Praying for 'on earth as it is in heaven' for us all as I go from one project to the next, I remain,

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

The Squirrels Ate My Sweet Corn

Nancy and I came home last night only to discover, by way of a corn husk lying in the driveway, that the squirrels in our neighborhood had raided our sweet corn patch. Nearly every ear in the patch was partially opened and the kernels of corn eaten as far as it could be easily accessed. I was distraught and angry. "How could they? They waited until the very day the sweet corn was ready to be harvested and then raided the patch before it could be enjoyed by the ones who planted and tended it. How could they?" If I had a gun in my hands in that moment I think I might have started squirrel season a bit early this year. Nancy was a bit more philosophical about the whole thing and suggested to me that the sound of a shotgun going off in town might disturb the neighbors and probably wouldn't be satisfying enough to justify the end result - and reminded me that the squirrels were only doing what squirrels do . . . . to which I thought, 'Well, if I disposed of the squirrels wouldn't I only be doing what people do with pests?'

The initial shock departed and reality set in as, at 8:30 in the evening, we began to harvest what remained of the sweet corn crop. We put everything into paper sacks and brought it into the kitchen for processing, finishing our work around 10:00 p.m. It wasn't exactly the way we imagined our weekend ending, but then again, it wasn't exactly the way we imagined enjoying the fruits of our labors either. Still, the process gave me more than a few moments to ponder what had transpired in light of our relationship with God . . . and I think I will have to give the squirrels a break.

Isn't God's grace much like the sweet corn in our garden? We haven't labored over it. We haven't planted it and tended to it. We haven't sweated over the pounding it has taken from the many storms of life. We haven't brought it to the sweetness of its maturity. Yet, just when it is the most ready and we are the most hungry, there we are, standing at the end of the row with our fork and knife in hand, the butter bib tied around our neck, and our mouths salivating, ready to be first in line to get 'what we want and deserve.' What must God think of us? How tempted is God to be angry with us for our deceptive and less than honorable ways of getting what we want without ever having to make any of the sacrifices necessary? How easy would it be for God to 'lock and load' when we show up begging for the delectable nature of God's grace? And, how full of mercy and wisdom is God in receiving us anyway and understanding our weaknesses and foibles?

When I think upon Jesus as the sweet corn of God's planting among us, when I think upon my deepest need for His forgiveness and care, and when I think about the many ways I have yearned to receive of that for which I did not labor, I am incredibly humbled and repentant of my ways. I may not agree with what the squirrels did to our sweet corn patch, but I am glad they made me think upon my own dependency upon God's abundant nature. Maybe I just need to find a way to put the squirrels to work in the garden so that what they eat will seem more 'earned' than 'stolen', but if I do that, what will God require of me?!

It's something to ponder upon as I pick pieces of sweet corn out from between my own teeth.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

The Cattle On A Thousand Hills

Psalm 50, verse 10, records the words of God in this Psalm of Asaph: " . . . . for every animal of the forest is mine, and the cattle on a thousand hills." Driving through several hundred miles of Southern Missouri hills, I had a lot of time to ponder these words, for Southern Missouri hills are filled with trees and pasture lands.

At first, though incredibly beautiful and breath-taking, the hills disoriented me for the lack of 'life' as I know it. I kept looking for fields of corn or fields of beans. I craned my neck searching for alfalfa fields or evidence of wheat stubble, but regardless of the direction I turned, none was to be found. Southern Missouri is not like the Southwestern portion of Illinois where we reside. There are thousands of hills and ten thousands of cattle and horses. There are goats and chickens of every imaginable breed. There are dusty towns with gravelled roads and gossamer lakes teaming with fishes of all kinds . . . but it is not like the land from whence I hailed, nor is it the land I imagined it to be. So what is it?

It is God's land and these are God's people. Graced with an abundant and verdant beauty the likes of which the plains of Illinois could never comprehend, Southern Missouri is surrounded by the lush vistas of rolling forests and spring-fed streams, the kind of which are the plumb-line photographers seek for magazine and calendar photos.

It is God's land and these are God's people. They are like me in that they breathe the air that I breathe and walk the earth that I walk, yet their experience of life is so remarkably different that, in the traversing of only a couple of hundred miles, the earth they walk is hardened stone under foot and, what is shadow of crop lines in this area becomes shadow of tree lines and creek banks in theirs.

It is God's land and these are God's people . . . . and, together, we make compose a subliminal symphony of extraordinary power proclaiming the wonder and majesty of God's Name. The cattle on a thousand hills, like the corn over a thousand acres, is God's - and we are the sheep of God's pasture, provided for out of the generosity of God's own holdings.

As the miles wore on and the landscape captured my heart I found myself no longer seeking the familiar in unfamiliar places, but eagerly anticipating the opportunity to embrace the joy, God's Joy, which presents itself in so many different ways and so many different expressions. I pray the journey makes me a better observer, aware of the wonder - and less intent on the mundane. I pray to see the cattle on a thousand hills . . . and there rejoice in God my Savior.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

What Is Being Sold?

Nancy and I took a short respite in Branson, Missouri, and attended a few of the many shows which are constantly available. It is the first time I have ever been to Branson and both the beauty of the region and the commercialism of the area absolutely astounded me. Seldom have I seen an entire region so committed to 'family entertainment' - and so skilled at affording every person there the opportunity to part with every dollar they brought - and, seldom have I been in a place so overtly patriotic. Flags are everywhere and of the shows we attended, all celebrated 'being American' and the sacrifices of our country's many active and veteran soldiers and families.

The patriotic emphasis so prevalent in this area took me a while to ponder, though I am not sure why. Maybe it was because everywhere you go in Branson everything you see is for sale . . . so is patriotic pride being 'sold' to the consuming public? Is the mere appearance of being patriotic being marketed in such a way as to offer legitimation to a very public offering which seeks as many consumer dollars as possible? Or does it run deeper?

It got me to thinking about the Church and what it is that happens between 8:00 a.m. and Noon every Sunday, not including all of the other worship and fellowship hours and times. It got me to pondering about the many ways some local, but nearly all mega-churches are becoming 'one stop shopping places for the soul', with speciality coffees, bookstores, personalized Christian identity and self-help classes, educational classes for every age, one-on-one prayer groups complete with prayer warrior partners to see you through every crisis, and pastoral services of every ilk and persuasion to walk the battle-wearied warrior through the dark night of their soul to the Joy of the morning. It got me to thinking about what is for sale - and what is being sold.

The love of God in Christ is free, but how is it that, not only do we expect the local congregation to package it all up in palatable and affordable ways for every circumstance within the faith family, but many expect it to be marketed in a way which brings in greater numbers to the pews, reducing the fiduciary responsibility of the particular individual by the many who support the ministries together. Have we forgotten proclaiming the Gospel for the sake of the Gospel or has that, too, become collateral damage in pursuit of grandeur and success?

Whatever happened to entertainment for entertainment's sake and evangelism for evangelism's sake? Some would say it takes a bit of both, rolled up together and, maybe, they are right. The crowds waiting to be seated and entertained in Branson are beyond my wildest comprehension, making it difficult to believe there is any kind of financial crunch in our country and, concurrently, the number of growing televangelist ministries continues to grow and thrive, with the airwaves becoming saturated with each of their perspectives on the Truth they market. Can it be that, in the same way patriotism both sells and inspires, religiosity also sells and saves?

I'm not sure that I am ready to open my wallet to buy the picture of the cross superimposed over a picture of a waving flag, but I am proud to be a citizen in a country that has a rich religious heritage and deep commitment to freedom, for such are the basic tenants which allow the Gospel to be proclaimed and questions to be continually asked of all that we do.

I suppose Branson will have to seek the answers to the questions of motivation that are before them in the same way the Church will have to seek the answers to the questions of motivation that are before it, for God demands answers to all our behaviors. The key, always, is why do I do what I do, for in God's eyes, that is the crucial answer. I pray I and the Church together live for the love of God through Christ Jesus our Lord and offer the same to all we meet. Anything less is just another sales pitch.

It is something to ponder in a culture where so much is for sale.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Unexpected Surprise

The other day I had the great joy and fearsome responsibility of applying anhydrous ammonia (a nitrogen fertilizer) to standing corn, a process which requires a great deal of attention to detail and orientation in the field, so I spent very little time looking around at the scenery: the acres I had to cover, the machinery I was operating, and the task at hand was quite enough to keep me occupied. Yet, as the day neared evening and the creatures of the woods began to poke their heads out of their hiding places, there appeared, near the end of a field I was working in, a deer, a big, tawny, deep-bodied deer, eating in the tall grass near the woods.

At about 200 yards, the deer appeared to be a big doe, "Probably has a fawn hiding nearby while she checks out the commotion", I thought as I neared at about a 30 degree angle from where the deer stood. Then, when I was about 50 yards out, the 'doe' raised its head from feeding and there in front of me stood a handsome 10 point buck, calmly chewing and watching me as I neared with tractor, applicator and nurse tank at a speed of around 7 to 8 miles an hour. He never moved from where he stood. He just kept chewing on what he was eating and watched me as I neared the headland, shifted down, lifted the applicator, made the turn, dropped the applicator, and shifted back up for the long drive up the field again. I was within about 50 feet of him and he never moved, his majestic, growing, 10 point, velvet covered rack, taunting me the entire time I passed by with a wonderful side-view of his deep-bodied frame and, conservatively guessing, somewhere around 200 pound field-dressed proportions. I was salivating and he could care less. He knew he was safe and he knew I wasn't stopping with that rig to watch him.

The next time down the field he had moved about 25 feet or so to a small watering hole in a ditch and was taking a drink. This time, as I shifted down, lifted up, and began my turn, I throttled down and stopped to 'count points' and watch him. He lifted up his head, looked at me, drank a bit more, then slowly began to walk to the other side of the ditch, pausing to take a bite or two of grass as he moved. It was an absolutely breathtaking and thrilling sight, and there I was, with not a bit of Mossy Oak camouflage on me, wondering where he would be on opening day when I would be ready to hunt for him. Chances are, he won't be anywhere near that ditch or that bit of woods but, then, he might. Hmmmmmmm.

As I throttled the tractor back up and eased into the next pass of applying anhydrous, I thanked God for that beautiful sight, that unexpected surprise and delight at the end of a long and tedious day, a day which was leaving every muscle in my body aching with tension and my eyes bleary from counting rows and focusing on staying straight with my rig. There, in the midst of all the strain and toil of daily cares; there, in the heart of 'getting everything done quickly and efficiently'; there, in the press to reach the goal and claim the prize: There stood God's natural commentary on all that humanity deems important - a gorgeous buck eating grass at the edge of a woods and taking a drink from a waterway. "Do I not provide for all of the beasts of the field?" I heard God ask, "So, too, will I provide for you."

I am not sure where the tears came from, but I was glad no one else was there in the tractor with me. So many times we allow ourselves to be owned, even consumed, by our need to get everything done in a particular way, on a particular schedule, and in a particular manner that no-one else can duplicate, that we miss the wonder and joy of the world around us. We are so easily lured into believing the world cannot get along without our efforts that we make the lives of those around us a living hell in building the kingdom in our own image. In this one, humble, quiet gesture, God reminded me that I am a part of God's universal vision, not the culmination of it. We are called to contribute our gifts and talents to the care and proclamation of God's Good News to all the world, not be the ultimate definition of it. That job is already taken and Jesus is quite capable of being Savior for all, thank you very much.

Pushing the extra hours to get everything done in a rain-delayed Spring planting season may make exceptionally good sense to nearly every farmer you talk to and, I am reasonably certain, God's care and rewards for those folks and their efforts is expressed in unwavering steadfast love all the days of their lives, but I do have to wonder if the end justifies the means when, in the push to get everything done, little time is taken in the heart of the farmer, God's peculiar steward of the earth, to savor the call, the vocation, to which God has called them, regardless of the weather or the conditions. It is something to ponder as the tawny colored buck of immense frame and beauty walks across the neighboring bean field disappearing from sight as he goes, again, into the woods. It is something to ponder as I push the throttle forward and focus my eyes once more on the acres which still need to be covered. Maybe that is why the tears began to fall.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Lessons on the Road

Has it ever happened to you when you were driving along, minding your own business, cruise control set, your window open, the music playing just the right song at just the right volume, that some 'lunatic' pulls out onto the road right in front of you, seemingly waiting until you were just close enough to know there wasn't enough room to safely make it, but choosing that time to pull out anyway? Then, as though putting your heart into cardiac arrest wasn't enough, and giving your reflexes a chance to prove whether or not they still work wasn't enough, and testing the drive-ability of your car with brakes fully locked wasn't enough, the person who caused all of this, seemingly, chooses to drive about ten miles an hour below the speed limit, with oncoming traffic eliminating any chance of passing for miles to come? Then, when an opportunity to pass finally makes itself available, you put on the blinker, pull out to pass, hit the gas, and begin to overtake the lunatic, only to, again . . . seemingly . . . wake them up out of their fog and have them also 'step on it' to keep you from passing, forcing you to either really get on the gas or back off and fall behind them again?

It has happened to me more than once, but it happened most recently last evening on my way back home from the farm. It was only as I finally got around the 'driver' (and I use that term very, very loosely) going about 75 miles an hour, after following them at 45 miles an hour for several miles, that I realized that the person had a cell phone to their head and was in deep conversation and driving, not with intention, but by instinct. My passing him, and it was a 'him', reminded him that he wasn't going fast enough, but it was clear in my passing him that he wasn't paying attention to his own speed either: he was talking on the phone, deeply engaged in life somewhere beyond the wheel of his own vehicle.

Once around him, he backed off his speed in direct proportion to mine and, gradually, fell farther behind as the miles clicked under our tires. At first, I was angry, then resentful, then, finally, just appalled, especially when I began to think of this encounter in terms of the church: How often is it that a person or congregation goes about the mundane nature of their living in the same old way, in the same old patterns, day after day, daring anyone to try to change them, even pulling out in front of others to make sure everyone else stayed in line behind them, regardless of how out of touch with the rest of the world they are? And, how many times have or will those same people suddenly pick up the pace when someone tired of following them pulls out to pass, putting them in a position to either go twice as fast and twice as hard or fall back in line and accept the inevitability of their own mundane place in life?

It is a paradigm which gets played out far too often in far too many places of worship over far too many things which, in the scheme of all things heavenly, really have very little affect in all things earthly. It was a part of Jesus' ministry as the various scribes, Pharisees, lawyers, Sadducee's, and political hacks, took their shots at the building momentum of Jesus' ministry as it passed through the local country side. It was a part of Jesus' teaching as He taught the thousands in the text which is commonly known as the Sermon on the Mount in' the Gospel of Matthew. It was a part of the betrayal, trial, beating, and crucifixion of Jesus recorded in all of the Gospels. And, finally, it was a part of the resurrection story recorded in all of the Gospels, as well. It took Jesus' death to gain enough momentum to pass the lethargy of power, pomp and circumstances imposed on humanity by those determined to make themselves into gods. It took a rolling stone theology to crush the self-centered, self-serving ideology of 'me-first' at everyone elses expense. It took 'Peace be with you' Christology to break down the barriers of fear which shackled even the best intentioned of disciples to 'fall in line' behaviors.

Now, I am not extolling a 'step on it no matter what the consequences' response to every 'lunatic' who pulls out in front of you, but I would suggest that you and I are not the first ones to whom it has happened, nor will we be the last. So, the essential question before each of us on the road and all of us in the church is this: Before God and all of humankind, what is to be gained by not letting up? At 75 miles an hour last night, I should have backed down and didn't . . . proving exactly what, I'm not sure. But at the speed of life, Jesus couldn't back down and didn't . . . proving we have nothing to fear in proclaiming the nearness of God's Kingdom, regardless of the 'lunatics' which pull out in front of us along the way.

Jesus makes a much better point than I do, He always does. I just hope I learn from it - and the guy on the cell phone gets the message.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

David, Jonathan, and Saul

Human relationships are often difficult, but add into the mix of human relationships the dynamic of power and all bets are off as to the eventual outcome. Here the old saying holds dizzily true, "Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely."

Spend time in I Samuel with the stories of King Saul, Jonathan (the heir apparent in Saul's eyes), and David (the anointed of God to become King), and you will spend time in a study of power: Perceived power and real power. Saul had power he perceived allowed him to do nearly anything he deigned to do since he was King and David was coming into power that called him to do whatever God wanted him to do with God's blessing. Jonathan, Saul's son, is a man caught in-between, for he is born for ascension to the throne and wants it not - and is best friends with the man who is anointed for the throne and is being kept from it. Although there is a great deal of intrigue and shadowing of the language which occurs in the telling of the stories throughout the years, what cannot be written out of the recorded memory of Israel is the essential truth that real power belongs not in the hands of humanity, but in the wisdom of God. Saul, Jonathan, and David live that out, even unto death in each of their lives. None of them are able, in the end, to fully claim power of their own outside of that which God allows them to exercise. To pursue power for power's sake sacrifices the very life with which they seek it and the end result is loss, not gain. "Those who seek their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake and the sake of the gospel will gain it", says Jesus. He understood.

We are reminded by the lives of our ancestors in faith that life in God is life spent in service of God's will. Power in proper proportion will be granted to those whom God chooses that God's people be delivered and led.

Many will claim power, more will die for it, some will even have it at the expense of thousands, even hundreds of thousands of others, but none will ever possess it fully for human life cannot ever hold it eternally. We can only be momentarily touched by Power and do what we are called to do with that Power before our candle dims in the winds of time. To believe otherwise is to sell our soul on the chopping block of sadness and despair in the vain hopes that revisionist history will somehow hide our folly.

King David is hailed as the greatest of Israel's Kings, but only as he prayerfully served Power, not claimed it. Jesus is named as the King of the Jews by Pilate, not because He claimed a position of power, but because He served the Power which raised Him above all others. In the chronicles of life and life's choices, I wonder how others will view my living. As I pray to serve the One who is all Power Eternal, I pray my service is found to be in the name of the One who gives Life Eternal.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

July 4

In our morning walk Nancy and I talked about our July 4 memories. In our 'growing up years', July 4 for Nancy had much to do with activities at the Marissa Rec Area, including fishing, swimming, family gatherings, neighborhood brunches, golf, and fireworks on the lake dam. For me the Fourth of July had much to do with baling straw and hay, cultivating crops, milking cows, taking care of chores, watching fireworks at the Marissa Rec Area, and, sometimes, the treat of an ice cream cone at the local Creme Freeze. Both of us recalled the joy and wonder of fireworks shows that, by today's standards, were fairly tame, yet for us were simply breathtaking, and both of us also reminiscenced about the patriotism which abounded around us.

Folks always seemed to 'know' the reason for the day of celebration and understood, even revered, its significance. There always seemed to be a 'passing on of the legacy', even among immigrant families such as my own who came to this country nearly a hundred years after the signing of the Declaration of Independence. We were raised with a deep honoring in our bones of those whose stories were passionately tied to the act of, not only claiming independence, but putting one's life on the line to stake that claim. No-one had ever to say to us, 'Take your hat off!' or 'Put your hand over your heart!' as the flag passed by, whether in a parade or in a civil gathering: Everyone did it out of pride for country and respect for those whose blood mingled with the very soil under our feet that we might freely gather in this time. There was also a deep abiding respect for those present on the land before any immigrant arrived, those who paid the price of 'being settled' by forfeiting both their rights and their lives as others pushed for the expansion of freedom. It is the paradox of this nation's history which can never be adequately explained, but should never be forgotten for, in the words of my parents, 'What goes around, comes around' and one must wonder if we are just a declaration away from such settling happening all over again and ourselves and our rights being herded away to obscure reservations over trails of tears which are our own.

Patriotism is not an inherited characteristic, it is taught by example. Many a teacher has taught many a history class which was shaped in the terms of patriotism, but no history class in any school's curriculum was ever as capable of conveying a message as that which is articulated by the actions of the very people themselves. We remembered the parade routes in which we marched in the band and the people along those routes whose hands were over their hearts and, often, had tears streaming down their faces, as the local V.F.W. or American Legion 'band of brothers' marched with prided stride, carrying 'Old Glory' before them. We remembered the basketball games and the band playing the National Anthem before the Varsity Game, when every person in the gymnasium stopped talking and every eye sought out the flag, and nearly every mouth sang the words which shaped a national identity. We remembered when the Fourth of July was, indeed, a National Holiday, when everyone had the day off and plans had to be put in place in advance for the provisions of food and refreshments for the day, because no grocery store was open, few if any filling stations were open, and no department stores were open. We remember when the words, "Red, White and Blue" automatically made folks think of the flag and the meaning of those particular colors, the stars and bars, and the purpose for their arrangement on our nation's flag. We remember when our parents talked about patriotic pride on days other than the Fourth, not because they agreed with everything that was going on in our nation or the world, but because they understood such discussions to be an important part of citizenship and exercising their freedoms. We remember when patriotism wasn't a thing of fashion, but was the stuff of conviction.

Maybe Nancy and I are just getting older and lamenting 'the way things used to be' is a part of that journey, yet, our conversation and our remembrances got me to thinking about what it is we teach our children and why it is we teach them those things. We may not be able to change the social or political behaviors of a nation of people so that we are 'comfortable' with how others perceive patriotism, but we can raise our family to hold fast to those national ideals which are the bedrock of our country. Just as such things are not inherited characteristics, neither are they entitlements to claim. Like those before us, our very lives are required in the investment of continued exercise of freedom in this country - or we risk forfeiting our freedom in pursuit of a life which is no life at all. "Choose this day . . .", said Joshua, and we would do well to remember those words.

Fireworks may never be able to tell the story of freedoms journey in this land, but they are a persistent reminder of its cost: Freedom is not cheap, nor is patriotism a given. Nancy and I were blessed that our parents understood such lessons and passed them on as a humble legacy to immigrant children in a land of immigrant dreams. Lest we so fall in love with having our own needs met that we forget our own root we, too, must teach our children and their children after them, that their memories of July Fourths past might be as vivid and joyful as ours and their hopes for the future as bright.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

First Tomatoes

Okay now, sit back and close your eyes. Imagine you are resting in a hammock under a couple of well proportioned maple trees. The robins are chirping and a cardinal is singing just a few trees away. The distinct calling of a covey of quail drifts past in the breeze, even as the pungent smell of sweet corn pollen falling from the tassels fills your senses. Clouds drift through the sky, creating alternating moments of shade and light, which are punctuated with the unrelenting feel of solar energy warming your skin. Then, add to the moment, the quixotic ambiance of children's laughter mingled with the sounds of splashing in the pool, and you have something which resembles an articulation of that first bite of the season's first ripe tomato: It is the nearness of heaven touching earth - and that you are blessed to be among the first in the area to have such an experience only heightens the wonder.

The lowly tomato is one of God's most sensual gifts for the palate. It has the capacity to both, give health with the various nutrients for which it is noted and sought, and to inspire well-being and goodwill in the hearts of those blessed to enjoy them. Perhaps I overstate the case, since such musing is inordinately associated with the excitement of 'first of the season' fruits of nearly every kind (the 'end of the season' fruits, though no less tasty, are none-the-less 'end of the season'), yet, in somewhat less than an impartial defense, 'Can the first bites of the first tomatoes of the season really be overstated?' I think not.

These first bites of first fruits are our animal connection with the creation story. Whether it be human or animal, how good . . . I mean, how 'really good' were those first bites of God's goodness in whatever fruits were being tasted? I am excited about the taste of the first tomatoes of the season, imagine the pure pleasure of tasting the first fruits of all creation for the first time?! Could it be that therein lies the answer to all of our wondering as to why Adam and Eve and the apple had such disastrous consequences? Could it be that both of them were just so taken with the 'god-likeness' of having the first bite of everything available to them, that in the very sheer joy of having everything taste so orgasmically good, that they were feeling so god-like with the world laid out before them like a banquet table, that the distinction between 'god-like' and 'God' became blurry and their common sense gave way to the pursuit of the 'best' of the first bites? We'll never know.

Yet, with the juices of the first tomatoes of the season dripping off my chin, with the meatiness of tomato flavor still lingering on the taste buds of my tongue, and with the smell of ripened tomato still pungent upon my fingers, it does occur to me that the fall of humanity isn't entirely the fault of humankind. God, who created the tomato and all of those other fruits of sheer delight for which many will sacrifice their souls, God also created the 'taste' for which each of those fruits are known. Though humanity may have absolutely no self-control when it comes to seeking after the things of the flesh, we cannot overlook the things of the flesh which includes the flesh of the first fruits of the season. Is there any way to overestimate their power to seduce even the strongest among us? Their lewd manner of behavior in luring us from strength to irreconcilable weakness must have been seen in the heart of the One who created them. Still, human beings have been given dominion, entrusted with the capacity to know right from wrong, good from evil, acceptable behavior from unacceptable . . . . and, seemingly, as it turns out, an integral part of the test determining if we are really ready to walk in His way is not . . . is not in how we behave towards each other, but how we keep in perspective our enjoyment of the tastes of the first fruits of the season . . . . . . and, my friends, I know I have failed miserably. Those tastes have rendered me helpless to save my soul.

Tonight I will pray, I will confess my weakness, I will pray for forgiveness and strength. Tonight I will promise to make tomorrow a more faithful day towards God and God's ways . . . . but, for the rest of today, I will give thanks to God for the unbelievable taste of the first tomatoes and savor their wonder for the times to come.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Marker Tracks

Planting second crop soybeans into wheat stubble is an art. Unlike planting in conventionally tilled or even no-till fields, planting or drilling into wheat stubble introduces the variable of recently made tracks in the field: combine tracks, truck tracks, tractor and wagon tracks, not to mention the tracks of the sown wheat itself. Tracks run all throughout the field and, if you 'double over' or 'criss-cross' the field as a part of the double-crop planting process, then you also have the most recent tracks of the planter itself adding to the milieu of patterns which make it 'interestingly difficult' to follow the marker tracks and make straight rows as you progress through the field. And, believe me, straight rows, even in double-cropped fields, are important - because Dad is watching.

At 83 years of age, Dad has done more than his share of planting and drilling fields of grain and has become somewhat of a connoisseur of attractive and well-tended fields. As he drives around the countryside, his farmer's eye scans every corner, every headland, every long-running row, quietly assessing the efficiency and accuracy of every planter, drill, and operator in the area. Dad has never regarded farming as a contest, but has long held that any job worth doing is worth doing well. In Dad's eyes, straight rows and consistent stands are marks of care and time taken, energy given to ensure pride of product, and the effort made to reflect the heart of farming, which he believes is intimately tied to putting one's best foot forward in offering a pleasing gift of beauty to the Creator. I cannot tell you how many times, riding with Dad in the truck from field to field, I have heard him say, "They just don't care how it looks." or "With just a little bit of time and effort . . ." or "Isn't that a beautiful field?" or "Someone cares.", all spoken in the humble tones of someone who knows how hard it is to do it well and how great the cost of taking time to follow the marker tracks, regardless of difficulty.

Taking the time to follow the marker tracks in a wheat field is the difference between acceptance of whatever happens in life and aspiring to be a part of the design the Creator intends. Anyone can drive a planter or drill. Anyone. Yet, much like discipleship, choosing to follow the marker tracks in the field - and taking the time to do it well - requires something more than just being 'anyone', it requires focused determination. In the milieu of competing tracks, in the confusion of directions one might choose to go, and in the press to 'just get it done', lies the challenge, even the call, to care about the outcome, to be concerned what Dad thinks and sees.

In my heart of hearts, when Dad drives past a field I planted or drilled, I long to hear him say, 'Now that is a good looking field!' But, more than that, when my days on earth are finished, I long to hear the voice of our Creator say, 'What a beautiful job of following the Marker Track I set before you. What matters to Me has become for you a reason to care. Enter into my Joy.' And that will be enough.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don