When I Have An Extra Moment

I have a nagging suspicion that, when my days on this earth are over, the headstone my wife and children will place where I am laid to rest will simply read,

Rev. Dr. Donald C. Wagner

"Finally, an extra moment to . . ."

An extra moment to read the books lined up on my shelves; An extra moment to do the writing I've always imagined I could do; An extra moment to play golf with those folks who have been persistent in inviting me; An extra moment to go hunting with my friends who know my passion; An extra moment to get caught up on the correspondence with family; An extra moment to get the Wagner family cousins together for a reunion; An extra moment to see the plays and musicals I have always wanted to see; An extra moment to see the world through Ross Brewer's eyes as I listen to all of his wonderful travel stories; An extra moment to work on the garden I always knew I could grow; An extra moment to landscape our home; An extra moment to build the home of my dreams, in the place of my dreams; An extra moment to listen to Christine Brewer sing; An extra moment to do mission trips; An extra moment to work at disaster relief; An extra moment to plant flowers; An extra moment to savor the music of jazz greats like Miles Davis, John Coltrane, and Sadao Watanabe; An extra moment to visit with my Dad, Melvin, and his wife, Dorothy; An extra moment to visit with my brothers and their families; An extra moment to visit with my wife's family; An extra moment (or two or three) to work on the farm; An extra moment to cherish our children, Matthew (Bethany), Raymond (Kara) and Ched, and our beautiful granddaughters, Mary Cailin, Ava & Norah; and, especially, An extra moment to delight in the love of my life, Nancy.

Notably missing on such a list are: An extra moment to write another liturgy; An extra moment to preach another sermon; An extra moment to attend another meeting; An extra moment to raise money for another worthy project; An extra moment to get caught up on paperwork; and, An extra moment to make sure my calendar is up to date.

Not missing on my first list are: An extra moment with God; An extra moment with Jesus; An extra moment with the Spirit; or, An extra moment in the Body of Christ, the Church. All my moments, regardless of activity, are rooted in such holy relationships: They were before I was born and will be after I am long gone. Thanks be to God!

I have observed with great interest folks around me who seem always to have the time to do whatever it is they want to do. It seems their pace is slower, their countenance more relaxed, their demeanor more intentional AND I am forever bumping into them with smiles on their faces and laughter on their lips. They are so disgusting!

Maybe, when I have an extra moment I can be like them . . . but then, will I be able to be who I am called to be? Gifted to be? Led to be?

Does my life still have meaning if I am not getting everything done? If I'm not toiling 24/7/365? If I am not meeting everyone's expectations? If, even for only a moment, I don't give a thought to making sure everyone else is happy (which I don't always do anyway!)?

I am quite capable of preaching a pretty good sermon about taking Sabbath rest, about caring for the soul as well as the heart, and about putting the important things in life first. Yet, listening to that sermon . . . well, maybe I will give that some time when I have an extra moment . . .

Let's just pray I find it before I have eternity to ponder what that extra moment might have been!

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Lessons to Learn on Memorial Day

May 30, 2011 is Memorial Day in the United States of America, a day established by law as a time to remember those who have made the supreme sacrifice of life to defend and preserve the freedoms and liberty enjoyed by the citizens of our nation. Too, this particular Memorial Day is one I pray I will never forget.

As is our family custom, we gathered at the Marissa Cemetery, Marissa, Illinois, near the Veterans Memorial where the Memorial Day Service is held at 11:00 a.m. each Memorial Day. My wife's father, William Norton, Sr., arrived just a few minutes prior to the service, parking his car as close as he could to where the service was to be held. Bill has a hard time 'getting his air' these days and long walks are no longer a part of his regimen, so he was especially grateful for the lawn chair we brought so that he could closely observe the events of the day.

An Army Air Corps veteran of WWII, trained as a tail-gunner in the B-17, Bill has attended and participated in these services for 60 years, never missing one, and he was not about to miss this one, though today he wouldn't be participating as in year's past. His health just wouldn't allow it.

Still, when the colors were advanced to the area, with assistance Bill stood, saluting. Near the end of the service, when the colors were presented, the riflemen volleyed their salute, and the bugler played Taps, Bill stood, saluting, his left arm firmly held by his oldest grandson, our son, Matt, who had his hand over his heart. Bill's health couldn't hold him back from that. Love of country, commitment to defense of our liberties and freedoms, respect for others who have given so much, and understanding of citizenship, all combined in that one moment, that one tin-type picture of grandfather and grandson, saluting the flag as they honored the memory of so many fallen in service to country . . . and I wept. I couldn't help it.

In an age of instantaneous communication and 4G equipment, one man spoke volumes to our nation about patriotism in simply standing when the flag approached, never touching a cell phone or computer. In the midst of rampant cultural concern for political correctness, one man stood saluting what makes such conversations possible. In the milieu of backyard grilling, holiday camping trips, shopping center sales pitches, and relief at having a 'paid day off work', one man stood at attention, supported by a grandson and surrounded by his family, honoring the dead while reminding the living of the cost for such freedoms.

Some accost the American Public Education System for not teaching enough of what children today really need. Yet, after viewing today's events, I would suggest that what children in the United States of America really need begins, not in the classroom, but in the home; not at a computer or cell phone, but with their parents; not in expecting entitlements, but in accepting responsibility; not in claiming the rights of freedom, but in participating in the works of liberty; and not in wearing the stars, bars, and colors of our flag as a fashion statement, but in giving of self as a citizen of the nation to what those things mean, both in our history and to our future as a country.

It is not cliche to stand at attention when the flag passes, nor is it inappropriate to sing the words of the National Anthem as they are played: It is what the flag means and what the words evoke in us that causes us, as those before us, to willingly give the last measure . . . or risk losing it to those of other nations who will.

One 86 year old veteran taught our Nation a lesson today and I am humbled to have been there to witness it. Thank you, Bill, for your continuing service to the United States of America. This Memorial Day, we remember and we will not forget.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Writing Is a Luxury

Sometimes it seems writing is a luxury -

and I am a poor man standing at the showroom window looking in.

For a person who grew up not liking to sit at a desk and do his homework, in my middle years I find myself strangely, even ironically drawn to the miraculous turning of the English language and time spent crafting story and image. It's not a easy craft, either to learn or practice, nor is it an art to be splashed upon the waiting canvas of convention. Rather, at least for me, writing is a gift to be opened slowly, savoring the design of the wrapping, the intricate tying of the bow, and pondering the intention of the giver. To spend a moment of my life allowing my mind to wander, my heart to ponder, and my soul to express faith, is to dive deeply into my origins for, indeed, the God who created me, created me in God's own image. So, to express something of that image is to utter a word of God's own activities through me and that notion alone gives me pause. The fingers of a poor man handle the luxury and sacredness of the word - and I dare not drop it.

Nor can I turn away from it.

Long before the advent of the printing press, before the time of monkish labors over copied text, before scrolls bore the perspiration of those who made them from papyrus, or stones reflected the articulation of chiseled idea, the word existed. Story shaped experience, even as experience found life in the telling, and in the hearing of the word new perspectives found their genesis, and narrative formed community. Cultures chronicled the best places to fish and the right times to plant. Yarns around the fire became legends shared with the young - and the word established the parameters of race and ethnicity, poverty and power, wholeness and despair, triumph and failure, even life and death.

The authority of the word was not in and of itself, but in the reverence it commanded as a gift of the Word from whom all things come. Thus, even today, to misuse a word is to abuse the Word and to render the gift as little more than a tool of manipulation. Similarly, to ignore the word is to deny one's own existence and to forfeit the luxury set in our hands.

Thus, I find myself once again moving from showroom window to cluttered desk, endeavoring with trembling lips to articulate that which is yearning to be known, that which is emerging to be seen, the One who is Word before all words. I pray for the Word in you, as well.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Psalm 30 & Auschwitz-Birkenau

"You have turned my mourning into dancing: you have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, so that my soul may praise you and not be silent. O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you forever." Psalm 30:11-12 NRSV

Recently, in doing research for worship, I came across a YouTube video that instantly stopped all other work. The video is of modern day snow covered railroad tracks leading into the Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp in Oswiecim, Poland, with the voice of Alex Jacobowitz reading Psalm 30 in the original Hebrew. The paradox is stunning and the dichotomy haunting.
Only those who survived such horrors can speak with legitimate and poignant understanding of Hebrew scriptures being recited in places of such deep darkness. Yet, as the words, "O Lord God, forever will I give you thanks" linger on the screen against the background of the train tracks, Auschwitz-Birkenau and Jacobwitz's own footsteps slowly fading away in the snow, even a person such as I am bowed in utter disbelief and disdain, heart scored by the searing hot knife of guilt and horror.
How could such a thing happen? How could our 'civilized' world allow it to happen? And, happen not once, not twice, but millions of times? How is it that brick on brick could be laid knowing that human flesh would fuel the fires of the furnaces being built? How could rail be placed against rail knowing that the trains traveling these same tracks would carry a cargo of sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers, neighbors and friends? How could poisonous gas be offered instead of a drink of water? Or the glut of human greed transform race into a curse, rifling a dead man's pockets to be sure no treasure is lost? How does moldy, worm infested bread and lice ridden rags become the acceptable standard of hospitality? Or the demands of slave labor in abhorrent conditions the acceptable practice?
My mind cannot comprehend it. My heart cannot condone it. My spirit cannot fathom it. Still, someone's mind did comprehend it. Someone's heart did condone it. Someone's spirit did fathom it . . . and the collusion of the three tried to silence the voice of God's people. Like nails through hands and feet, power and arrogant self-righteousness propelled hatred and prejudice through the soft-tissues of God's defenseless children, burning those one who could not be controlled, yoking those would not otherwise submit, and piercing with derision those who would not die.
Still God's Word echoes in Auschwitz-Birkenau. Generation after generation rises up from the ashes of this world's conceit and announces praise of the One true Master. Generation after generation speaks for the silenced, releases the enslaved, and brings hope to the forgotten. Generation after generation tears up the tracks, even as they tear down the ovens and dismantle the camps. Generation after generation announces the praise of God, whose Word is final and whose Life is complete.
"O Lord God, forever will I give you thanks" is both Doxology and Benediction in the liturgy of a people who believe that God, indeed, will turn mourning into dancing and remove from their backs the sackcloth of grieving that they might be clothed with joy. If such a faith can be lived, can be claimed, can be spoken to the powers that be in the name of 'I AM', then who are we in this age to live less prophetically, less faithfully, less fully? "Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning." Ps. 30.5b May the Word of God keep you into every morning.